Chapter Twenty-One Jenn
Chapter Twenty-One
Jenn
Ten years ago
When the hearing reconvened, I felt the shift immediately—an electric tightness under my ribs at the thought of the looming confrontation.
Lunch had been anything but restful; Ruth and I had spent the entire break tracking down the one thread that might save me.
Now, sitting back at that long white table, I wasn’t sure whether to be terrified or hopeful.
That’s when David Kellogg strode in—three-thousand-dollar suit, hand-tooled shoes—every inch the egoist who expected gravity to shift when he entered a room.
Ignoring his assigned seat, he claimed the head of the table like a king surveying his fiefdom. When our eyes met, the son of a bitch smiled.
That was the moment I knew I stood a chance. People like him tend to overestimate their power and underestimate the advantage they hand you by doing so.
“Dr. Kellogg, thank you for joining us,” said Joyce Danner.
“Of course. It’s crucial that nothing like what happened to Cami Miller ever happens again.”
And there it was—he was coming for me with both barrels.
He spun his version of the night: smooth, confident, completely false. “I was not made aware of the extent of Miss Miller’s despondency. Dr. Flores lacks the judgment to assess vulnerable patients and could endanger others.”
By the time he finished, the panel was nodding along. I was toast if Ruth’s plan didn’t work.
“Thank you, Dr. Kellogg. We appreciate you taking the time—”
Joyce couldn’t get the sentence out before Ruth cut in.
“Oh, no—we’re not done. Unless you’d prefer your counsel present, Dr. Kellogg? To protect your best interests?”
It was a dare. His grin said he’d taken it.
“No need,” he said grandly. “I’ll make sure Dr. Flores understands she won’t be practicing medicine much longer.”
“Excellent,” Ruth said, all honey.
He gave his colleagues a “can you believe this chick?” shrug. If I knew my attorney, he wouldn’t be smiling long.
“Doctor Kellogg,” Ruth began, “is it your testimony that Dr. Flores alone released Cami Miller?”
“Yes.”
“So you never saw her? Never spoke to her or her parents?”
“No, no, and no,” he snapped. “I wouldn’t know them if they walked in here and started a conga line.”
Ouch. That would age badly—especially with three recorders running.
“Perfect,” Ruth said, flipping open a folder. “Are you familiar with the Code of Federal Regulations §415.172?”
He rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”
“It’s the rule about physician billing. You can’t charge for a service if you weren’t present.” She slid a fax down the table. “Recognize this?”
He snatched it up. “An EOB.”
“Which stands for . . . ?”
He sighed. “Explanation of Benefits.”
“And its purpose?”
“To show what was billed and paid.”
“Good. And whose name is listed as provider?”
He hesitated.
“Right,” Ruth said, consulting her copy. “Provider: Dr. David M. Kellogg. Charge: $7,000—of which $1,692 was yours personally. So if you never saw Cami Miller, why bill her parents?”
His color drained. “How did you get this? HIPAA violation, Flores?”
I smiled. “HIPAA doesn’t apply. The Millers gave it to me.”
It hit him then—full force.
“You billed them,” I said quietly. “You sent that girl home after I warned you she was suicidal, and then you billed her parents for treatment.”
“There must be a coding error,” Dr. Kumar, the head of the ER offered weakly.
“Shut up, Nila,” he growled.
Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“I said shut the fuck up!”
Ruth’s eyebrows rose. “Well, that clears that up.”
The room went still. It was over, and everyone knew it but him.
“Good luck getting another residency after this,” he sneered.
Ruth stood, smoothing her jacket. “Dr. Kellogg, are you familiar with the False Claims Act?”
He glared, silent.
“I’ll take that as a no. Once Dr. Flores reports this, she’ll have whistleblower protection—and maybe a tidy percentage of whatever the state recovers. Were I you, I’d stop talking before you end up on the sticky end of a lawsuit. The kind insurance won’t cover.”
She leaned forward, palms flat, voice low and deadly. “You have a lot to lose, Doctor. I suggest you stop lying. Right now.”
His face turned thunderous.
We saw his pride. Then we saw his fall.
And it was glorious.
Friday afternoon
Julian and I are sitting at the small table in Dr. Kellogg’s office when he arrives, and we’re already disagreeing.
“Jenn, I think you need to slow down—” Julian is saying.
Again.
Frustrated, I cut him off.
“Yes, I heard you the first two times you said it. But I don’t agree . . .”
“Now, now, Doctors,” Kellogg chides as he sits down to join us. “No need to get so excited.”
“David,” Julian says, turning to him, “can you please back me up here? I’m not trying to stonewall. I’m saying we should be careful—for Mary’s sake and for the hospital’s. If we rush in half cocked, we risk making a painful situation worse.”
Kellogg leans back in his chair, legs crossed, fingers steepled, and looks at me. “So do you actually believe what Mary told you about Samantha? That she was sexually abused while in the foster care system? Because that’s a pretty serious accusation.”
“Exactly,” Julian says quickly, seizing the opening. “Too serious to jump on without something more solid. Mary is vulnerable right now. If we push her toward a conclusion that isn’t supported by evidence, we could do real harm.”
“I wasn’t asking you, Julian,” Kellogg says, his eyes never leaving mine.
I take a deep breath and begin cautiously, half expecting him to cut me off at the knees before I can get my thought out.
“I believe that Mary believes it happened. She seems totally convinced Sam was telling her the truth.”
Julian exhales through his nose, the sound heavy with disapproval. “You’re assuming she isn’t confused. Grief, trauma—they distort memory. We risk doing more harm than good if we start validating delusions. Or worse, accuse someone who doesn’t exist.”
“It’s not about accusation,” I reply evenly. “It’s about context. If Mary can remember any of the details—the time frame, a place, a name—we could narrow it down and either prove it or disprove it.”
He shakes his head. “Jenn, that was ages ago. The foster system was a disaster back then. Files lost, homes unregulated—no one could track every child. I’m saying we should ask ourselves if this even matters anymore.”
“It matters to her,” I say. “And it should matter to us.”
“Okay, okay. Let’s call a ceasefire here, shall we?” Kellogg suggests, sitting up straight once more. He doesn’t wait for an answer from either of us before moving on. “How’s the patient doing?”
“She’s fragile,” I tell him, forcing my tone steady. “But she’s talking . . . about Sam, anyway. A little bit about her parents. I tried to tease that out a little, but she shut me down pretty quick and changed the subject.”
“Good,” Kellogg says. “Anything about what happened out in the Everglades?”
I shake my head. “Not specifically, but I think she’s starting to trust me. And she agreed to meet with me again tomorrow morning, so that’s a good thing . . .”
Julian’s jaw tightens. “We still have to consider the implications, David. If this gets mishandled, it could damage reputations—”
“Reputations,” Kellogg interrupts quietly, “aren’t our priority. Patients are.” His tone is calm, but there’s a sharpness underneath it. “Dr. Flores is establishing trust, and I don’t want anyone disrupting that because they’re nervous about headlines or liability.”
Julian stiffens. “All I’m saying is, we don’t know if this actually happened. We have one secondhand account filtered through trauma. I could talk to Mary—gently—see what she remembers. Maybe clarify. I’ve known the girl her whole life, after all . . .”
Something in me tightens. “I appreciate the offer,” I say carefully, “but I don’t want to muddy the waters at this point. I promise I’ll ask for your help if I need it.”
When hell freezes over.
Julian gives that patient, placating smile I remember from residency. “Of course. I only meant to help.”
Kellogg closes his folder decisively. “Here’s what we’re going to do.
On Monday, Joyce will request Samantha Kinski’s foster care records.
We’ll bring in CPS and a forensic social worker.
Dr. Flores continues working with Mary. No interviews, no direct questioning, no unsupervised contact.
If anything indicates a criminal act, we escalate.
Until then, we stay clinical and contained. ”
Julian frowns. “And if the records are gone?”
“Then they’re gone. But pretending this didn’t happen isn’t an option,” Kellogg replies, getting to his feet and pushing his chair in. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have a fire to put out over in pediatrics.”
Once he’s gone, Julian turns to me, a pained expression on his face.
“Jenn, I hope you understand, I’m not trying to be difficult about this.
Of course it’s a gravely serious matter.
” He leans forward a little as he speaks, his voice lower and softer.
“It’s just that I saw a colleague—a good friend, really—destroyed over a false allegation.
The child recanted eventually, but the damage was done, and that cloud hung over him.
In the end he took his own life.” He pauses for a moment.
“Of course a child’s safety is our first priority.
Always. But since this occurred, I’ve exercised an abundance of caution when it comes to this type of unfounded speculation. ”
I sigh, pushing aside my irritation in favor of a little empathy. It’s not the first time I’ve heard a story like this one. And I’ve been practicing medicine for a fraction of the time he has. You see and hear a lot of things. Disturbing things.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Dr. Braithwaite. I understand. And I promise you I will handle this as delicately as possible.”
“I-I do appreciate that.” He stands and considers me for another moment. “And good work so far. I knew Mary would trust you.”
As I walk back down the hall to my office, my thoughts turn back to Kellogg—and how deftly he handled the situation. Calm. Commanding. Even handed. Nothing like the self-important egotist I know him to be.
For a fleeting moment, I almost admire him.
Then I remember who he is—and everything he’s done—and the feeling evaporates just as quickly as it came.