Chapter seven
The Level Boardroom
2nd Jan 2023
Russell
“Happy New Year!” Hunter announces as he steps out of the elevator and into the boardroom.
“What is there to be fucking happy about?” Damon snaps. It’s ten thirty in the morning and he’s nursing his second whiskey of the day.
“Oh, I don’t know, the blue skies, the birds singing.” Hunter gestures to the windows which look out onto the gray London rooftops. “It’s the start of a new three hundred sixty-five-day book. What do you plan to write?”
Harrison, Connor, and I listen to the ridiculous conversation with interest. Hunter knows damn well that Damon is in a bad mood, and he knows why. Damon is also one hundred percent responsible for landing himself in this situation. My sympathy is non-existent.
“My obituary, and it’s the second of January so it's three hundred sixty-four pages now,” Damon mutters grumpily.
“Emma left,” I say by way of pointless explanation. “You were an absolute dickhead, so the woman you were getting a second chance with left. Don’t take your bad attitude out on us.”
“It was a mutual decision.”
“Are you trying to tell me you wanted her to go?” I ask sarcastically.
Earlier, when we all arrived in the boardroom, Connor had distributed coffees like he had been in recent weeks.
His constant good mood has made him more generous.
Each time we meet, he takes it upon himself to ensure everyone has a drink in their hand, whether that be alcoholic or not.
Damon had recounted the argument in his home the previous day that resulted in his nanny leaving her position.
My friend has been struggling to move on from the death of his wife eighteen months ago.
He finally seemed happy, but then his and his new love’s pasts crashed together, sending the whole relationship into turmoil.
“It was best she did,” he replies quietly, his eyes focused on the cold drink between his fingers. He lifts the glass to his lips and drains the final drops. “After the fiasco at the restaurant opening, there was no going back. A relationship with her wasn’t an option.”
“You’re a fucking coward,” I tell him, furious with him for being an obstinate fool. His focus snaps to me, and he narrows his eyes. “Coward,” I repeat the word loudly, emphasizing both syllables.
“Perhaps, but I am better to be a lonely coward than responsible for the death of another woman. Emma is better off without me.”
“And what about her daughter?” I prompt, focusing on the detail that I know will provoke a reaction. Emma was also Damon and his late wife’s surrogate. For months, he’s struggled with the concept of who the child’s mother is. I know guilt when I see it, and my friend is riddled.
“Emma never wanted children,” he states, then turns away. “Can we move the conversation on? If I’d have known today was a debrief on my failed relationships, I would have stayed home.”
“Not an option,” Hunter interjects. “You work for me now; you go where I tell you.”
Damon resigned from the police force yesterday after things became too complicated at a New Year’s Eve event.
Everything collided at once, resulting in the lost and broken man drinking whiskey at the boardroom table before noon this morning.
Harrison clears his throat. He’s sitting beside my brother on the opposite side of the table from Damon and myself.
Hunter walks over and sits on Damon’s other side.
I see him reach over and squeeze our friend’s shoulder in sympathy.
My annoyance wavers a fraction as understanding flits through my mind on his position.
Within two years, he was widowed, became a father, found love again, lost his career, and fought against men determined to break him.
My friend is lost and confused, but he can’t see how lucky he is.
Damon has always had love. From a teenage boy when he met his wife, to finding the same again after her death.
He has what so many of us around this table, most likely all of us, desire: a home with a woman who adores us and small feet at our table.
Although I may never have admitted to wanting such things out loud, deep down, having someone to call mine and a dependent or two to call me “Daddy” is the ultimate dream.
“Perhaps we should give McKinney a break,” Connor suggests, and I roll my eyes. My fucking brother, the mouthpiece of common sense. “It’s been a tough few days. All we need to confirm is that the issues of the other night are terminated.”
“And to congratulate me for not dying,” I say, petulantly. I barely remember falling to the floor after our enemies slipped a sedative into my drink to divert our attention, but the aftereffects weren’t at all fun. “I was the one they drugged.”
“Yes, Russ,” he replies with a sigh. “You’re here. We can all see that the drug they gave you as a distraction didn’t cause your exit from Earth.”
My brother’s dark eyes focus on me, and he smirks.
“I would have preferred it if it had been a longer-lasting sedative.
A few days' peace from your nonsense would have been a good start to 2023.”
“Fuck off. You would be lost without me,” I tell him.
“Yeah, but hell, I’d be a lot less stressed.”
“Anyway,” Harrison interrupts, “if we can get onto actual business, some of us have other places to be.”
His eyes move to the door that leads to the hallway.
My sister will be in their apartment, fully eight months pregnant and no doubt waiting for him.
“I can confirm that the threats to Damon and his family are now incarcerated and awaiting trial.”
“That’s it?” Hunter says.
“On that detail, it’s all that needs to be said.” He looks at Damon sitting quietly and sipping yet another drink. “I’ll update you all as things progress.”
“What else do we need to know?” Connor asks. His expression has changed from his normal calm manner to annoyance. I suspect he’s questioning whether he needed to come here today, probably like the rest of us.
Harrison pours himself a glass of water from the clear, pristine jug beside him.
We all settle in our seats, waiting for the rest of the update.
Casually, I wonder how things have ended with him pretty much being in charge.
Growing up, I was the oldest and always the one leading our group.
But over the last few years, Harrison has become more confident in his ability.
Until my sister reappeared, this was a major issue for me.
I was pathetically jealous of both his success in court and his ability to manage people and situations.
My relationship with the man I considered my best friend other than my brother was in tatters, and it was all due to my pigheadedness.
In recent weeks, we’ve moved forward, and although my failure stings, I’m coming to understand that that’s on me.
I can’t hold my friend accountable for my shortcomings.
“Remember that a few weeks ago,” Harrison begins, “it was brought to my attention that organs were being removed from patients against their wishes. My client, whose mother was a victim of this supposed mistake,
has asked questions but is getting no further explanation beyond what was said previously. He contacted me yesterday to let me know it’s happened again.”
“To the same family?” I ask, doubting whether the same error could happen twice. He shakes his head, then picks up his phone from the table before tapping the screen.
“No, but it is a friend of my client’s family. The error occurred in the same hospital on the same ward. The gentleman passed away, and his organs were removed from his body against the express wishes on his medical documents.”
“When did this happen?”
“Two days after my client’s mother's passing. The families have been associates for decades, and it was a conversation at a New Year’s Eve party that brought the similarities to light. Both are looking to sue for damages.”
“I find it hard to believe that a mistake like this could be made twice. Are you able to give us details of the hospital in question and the doctor involved?”
“It’s a high-end private medical center in Mayfair called Harbridges. Very exclusive membership with eye-watering fees which makes the confusion even more surprising. The man who runs it, Dr. Oliver Winslow, is well-known in inner circles and is a highly sought-after physician,” Harrison says.
“The center is part of a group of private medical establishments in the city.”
“And what was the doctor’s explanation for the confusion?” Connor asks.
“Paperwork irregularities. The doctor provided a document allegedly signed by the patient during their treatment permitting organ donation in the event of their death.”
Harrison hits another button on his phone, and a document appears on the large screen on the wall.
It was a completed organ donation enrolment form.
“What are we looking at?” Damon asks.
“The supposed document that both donors signed before their treatment. This is the evidence presented by the hospital to prove that the removal of the organs was within the client’s wishes. The families are disputing them.
Neither patient ever agreed to be registered on the organ donor list prior to completing this form.”
“So what are we saying?” Hunter interjects. “That paperwork is being forged within the hospital to allow the removal of organs from unsuspecting patients?”
“I’m not convinced they’re forged,” Harrison says. “My client confirmed the signature is similar to his mother's. But I do suspect patients are being forced to complete the paperwork when their health declines to the point where the medical staff believe they won’t survive.”
We sit around the boardroom table, attempting to absorb what this information could possibly mean.
There are so many variables and unconfirmable details.
Documents signed by patients that directly challenge what their families thought they knew are certainly suspicious, but we all know that people keep secrets; they’ll say one thing and do another.
Could it simply be a perverse chance that two people changed their minds in the same hospital and decided to donate their organs to save someone else?
The idea seems unlikely but can’t be discounted.
A lot of the families our law firm works for are large and wealthy.
The members are kept close, and a lot of pressure is exerted to submit to family norms.
If organ donation was something not approved of, it would be unlikely that any family member would be registered.
This would support the idea that members who had the opportunity to register, and wanted to, might take the chance while in a medical setting to change their position.
“We need to find out who completes the organ donation forms in the hospitals and at what point the suggestion is made,” I say.
“There’s a specific team member allocated to the task as far as I’m aware,” Harrison advises.
“It was the same administration staff signature on both documents. Perhaps it would be worth a chat, but I feel we need to understand the extent of the issue first. How many patients are changing their stance in their final days?”
“If we’re aware of two,” Connor adds, “I have no doubt there will be more.”
“That’s something I agree with you on,” Hunter says, pushing himself up to stand. “Is there anything else Damon or I need to know? Because we have some business to attend to.”
“What kind of business?” Damon asks, rising to join him.
“I’m going to knock some fucking sense into you. We’re going to the gym. You can pulverize me, and I’ll kick your ass until you sort this depressive attitude out.”
Damon rolls his eyes. Neither man waits to hear if anything else needs to be discussed before heading to the elevator and leaving. I assume both men need to let off some steam.
Harrison follows their lead, making his own excuses for getting back to our sister.
Christmas in general has been tough. We had dangerous altercations on both Boxing Day and New Year's.
The earlier one was due to Violet’s ex rearing his head again.
Most of our little group is finishing the festive season with extra bruises and a few near misses in our lives. I hope this year will be less eventful.
“Can you imagine?” Connor says randomly before walking over the fridge, collecting two beers and coming back to sit beside me. He passes me one followed by the bottle opener in his hand. I snap the cap, then he does the same and takes a drink.
“You’ll need to give me an idea of what to imagine. Naked woman, booming bank accounts, crushing my opponent in the courtroom? Any of those tend to be of a high priority.”
“No, you fuckwit. Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?”
he mutters, taking another swig. All the fucking time, though he doesn’t know it.
I’ve stepped in the way of danger to protect both him and my sister since we were kids.
He wouldn't believe me if he truly knew how many times a belt had cracked my skin on his behalf.
So I shrug my shoulders and maintain my asshole persona.
“What if it was one of our family who this happened to? Was Mother’s sister not treated at Harbridges?”
“I don’t remember, but she did die in hospital. It could have been there. But she was an organ donor, we all are.”
“I know,” he huffs. “But imagine how we would feel if we weren’t. If someone cut our family open, or us!” His voice rises with anger. “The audacity. The butchery. I’d be furious.”
“Brother, I’d hunt them fucking down and remove their organs one by one with a blunt knife, ensuring they were alive as long as possible to witness it. They better pray not to inflict such evil on someone we care for or it will be the last thing they do.”
Connor leans forward, lifting a hand and squeezing it into a fist.
I copy his actions, and we bump knuckles.
It is something we’ve done since we were kids. “I got you, Bro. Always.”