Chapter 2
Chapter Two
COLE
I peeled off my scrubs and shuffled into the locker room; it was nearly six o’clock and I’d been on my feet all day, beginning at seven with rounds, then two surgeries, then a tense forty-minute conversation with a family who wanted to know why their father now needed a feeding tube when he was “fine” days ago.
Well, because he wasn’t “fine”. Because he’d had a stroke. Because his swallow reflex was affected, and if we didn’t give him a tube, he’d choke or aspirate food and die of pneumonia.
But what actually came out of my mouth was softer, the way my mother had always taught me to speak when people were afraid, and not like I was offended that someone dared question my brilliance.
“You don’t need to convince people that you’re smart, son,” she used to tell me. “Show them. They’ll see it.”
I changed into gym shorts and pulled a Xavier University t-shirt over my head, then headed down to the hospital’s recreation center, which held a small gym and indoor courts for kickball, racquetball, or tennis.
Tuesday night pick-up games had been a tradition since my first year at Ridgeway, trauma versus whoever showed up.
Usually plastics or ortho, sometimes cardio if they were feeling brave.
The gym was tucked into the basement level of the building. The floor was scuffed, the hoops slightly crooked, but for a Tuesday night pick-up basketball game, it worked. I pushed through the double doors toward the familiar sound of rubber bouncing off hardwood.
“Vaughn!” someone shouted from the far end of the court. “‘Bout time you brought your ass. We been waiting.”
I walked over to where the usual suspects were warming up. Two from trauma—Dr. Banks, a surgeon I’d worked with that morning, and Dr. Kim. Joining them were three from plastics, including their behemoth of a fellow, Jackson, who had to be at least six foot six and two hundred and twenty pounds.
“Traffic was terrible,” I said, grabbing the ball to silence the pounding against the floors. I shot at the hoop, just barely missing the net.
I wasn’t warmed up yet.
“You work right upstairs,” Banks pointed out, appearing confused.
“Still terrible.”
We ran a quick game to fifteen. Trauma took it, with me sinking the final shot while Jackson tried and failed to block me.
“Man, how are you even making these?” he complained, bending over with his hands on his knees. “I’m literally almost a foot taller than you.”
“All height, no skill,” I joked, catching the ball Banks tossed back to me. The gym erupted in laughter and trash talk. We reset, then played another game.
This was my time, the only hour of the day when I wasn’t Dr. Vaughn, trauma surgeon. I could just play.
Trauma won again, 15-13. Kim hit a three-pointer that had plastics calling foul even though everyone knew it was clean. We were about to line up for a third game when my phone rang. I glanced over at the bench, checking the name on the screen.
Dr. Marcus Webb, Surgery Chair. The high of our win evaporated, replaced by a cold knot in my gut.
“Shit, it’s Webb. I’m probably getting my ass chewed about something. Give me a minute,” I said, grabbing the phone and stepping into the hallway, letting the gym door swing shut behind me.
“Vaughn,” I answered as I picked up.
“Evening, Dr. Vaughn. I hope you’re well.”
Webb’s voice always carried a rich tenor, but sometimes it was warm the way a mug is warm right before you burn your hand.
He could sound like your old college roommate or your favorite uncle right up until he told you your grant had been denied, or you were being audited, or whatever the bad news of the week was.
I’d learned not to take his tone as indicative of how the conversation might go, but there was no universe where a call from the Chair after hours meant anything good.
I wedged a shoulder against the cold cinder block, cradling the phone between cheek and collarbone as I watched the game through the small window in the door.
“I’m fine, Dr. Webb. What can I help you with?”
“Sorry to interrupt your evening. I need to give you a heads-up about a case coming through Risk regarding a patient death about six weeks ago, give or take. Elderly male, abdominal aneurysm. You were the surgeon on that one.”
I remembered every death. He’d been bleeding out before he even made it to the OR. We’d tried everything, but there was nothing left to repair.
If Risk Management was looking into it, it meant someone had filed a complaint and the hospital was covering its bases before a lawsuit landed.
“I recall the case,” I said, parsing my words carefully. “Nothing came up in post mortem review. What’s the issue now?”
“Risk wants to do a standard review. You know how these things go. The family is grieving. They need someone to blame.”
“That man was in his eighties, very frail and in ill health. Knowing he was dying when he was brought in, they’re pointing fingers at me?”
“No one’s pointing, Cole,” Webb replied.
“The family are donors to RMC, so we need to be completely sure that we were in process. To that end, you’ve got a meeting scheduled tomorrow morning with Harper Sutton, a director over in Risk.
She will review the case, go over the timeline, ensure we’re airtight.
Standard procedure, straightforward process. ”
A review six weeks after the fact, even though the incident had cleared the post mortem—a session held after every patient death—was proof that this wasn’t standard or straightforward.
“I guess,” I said, instead of voicing my concerns. Even if Webb knew the real story, he wouldn’t share those thoughts with me.
“Thank you for taking the time. And Cole…” He paused, taking so long of a beat that I had to urge him to continue.
“Dr. Webb?”
“Keep your head clear and emotions in check. Be cooperative. Don’t get defensive. This isn’t personal; just dotting i’s and crossing t’s. We just need to answer the family’s questions so this inquiry doesn’t go any further.”
“Don’t make this worse by being myself, then.”
Dr. Webb sighed. “If that’s the way you need to frame it to come out unscathed—”
“Respectfully, Dr. Webb,” I broke in, “I don’t have anything to worry about. The treatment was warranted and appropriate and within policy.”
“I don’t doubt that. Just let them ask their questions, give your answers, and let it go. Don’t turn this into something it doesn’t need to be.”
I wanted to ask what this could turn into, but it was better that I kept my mouth shut.
“Understood,” I bit out.
“A calendar invite will follow shortly.”
Webb hung up. I pressed the button to lock the phone, trying not to let my mind run away with itself. I couldn’t help it, though.
If it were routine, Webb wouldn’t have called me direct.
If this were just checking a box, Risk wouldn’t be involved. I didn’t need anyone to spell it out; I was the last name on the chart. Last hands to touch the patient.
Easy pickings.
I pushed back through the gym doors. A new game had started, with plastics trying to capitalize on trauma being down a man. Banks saw me first and called a timeout.
“Everything good?” Banks called out, jogging over.
“Yeah. Fine.” I grabbed my water bottle, took a long swallow. “Webb had to hit me up about something.”
“OK. So, you coming back in or tapping out?”
I should go home. Review the Greene case. Pull up my notes, refresh my memory on every decision I’d made that day.
I glanced at the court, at Jackson setting up for an easy layup, at Kim already talking trash about how trauma couldn’t win without their ringer.
“And pass up the chance to block Jackson all night? I’m in.”
We played two more games. Trauma won both. By the time we called it, my shirt was soaked through and my legs felt like concrete, but my head was clearer than it had been all day.
We ambled toward the locker room, still talking trash. Banks elbowed me in the ribs as soon as we were out of earshot of everyone else.
“What’s up with you? You didn’t seem right when you came back in from that call.”
I shrugged. “A death about six weeks back. I told you about it—old dude, aneurysm, bled out as soon as I got him open. A no-win situation from jump. Anyway, it’s coming back up through Risk. I have a meeting with them in the morning.”
“Oh, yeah?” Banks cocked an eyebrow, a sly expression crossing her face. “Who over there? I’ve got friends everywhere.”
“Harper Sutton. You know her?”
Banks laughed. “Hell yeah, I know her,” she replied, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Fine as all hell. Smart. Doesn’t take shit from anybody—admin, staff, family, whoever.”
Her words confirmed what I knew of Harper. I’d sat in meetings with her. She had a smile that was disarming until you realized the questions she was asking were designed to trap you. She lived three steps ahead of everyone.
“She’s pretty good,” I said.
“Mmmhmmm,” Banks hummed, putting a purr on it. “Good and fine.”
I paused, then hit her with the slowest, coldest side-eye I could muster. “Why are you such a horndog tonight, Freida? Your girl out of town or something?”
She wrinkled her nose, her top lip curling. “Some conference, and then a girls’ weekend in Miami. Can you tell I miss her?”
“Not at all,” I said, laughing. “You couldn’t go on the girls’ trip? You’re a girl.”
“Nah, it’s her girls from college and we’ve made it a point to not intermingle our friend groups. Her people are her people, mine are mine. But the second she hits that doorway?”
Banks grunted, bucking her hips in a shameless and lewd fashion.
“You are not doing any such thing,” Kim cut in, sliding up behind us. “You respect the fuck outta Kris.”
“You right. It’ll just look like I don’t for a couple minutes.” Her gaze flicked to me, conspiratorial. “At least I get to live out my fantasies. Unlike Vaughn over here.”
I shook my head, pushing through the men’s locker room door. “You need help.”
“Just saying what you’re thinking,” Banks called, ducking into the locker room.