Doctored Evidence Page 12

  “Harassing? I was disagreeing, I wasn’t harassing.”

  “Don’t split hairs, Karen. Just remember what your job is. If you want to keep it.” Joe turned and walked away quickly.

  In the gray concrete parking structure, Karen tried to hold her briefcase and two file folders in one hand as she unlocked her car door with the other. An overweight man with black, greasy hair and a full beard on his way to an adjacent stall brushed up against her, causing the file folders to slip and drop to the cold, dirty concrete. A sheet of paper from one folder fell out, and the breeze from the folder hitting the concrete blew it under the car. Karen was afraid that if she backed the car out, the document would blow away. Restricted by her stiff neck, there was only one spot where Karen could reach the paper under the car, so she moved to it, got down on one knee, reached under the car, and grabbed the document. As she did so, the engine of a pickup truck in the adjacent stall started up. The engine sounded unmuffled and rough, and an acrid, white cloud of exhaust surrounded her. She got up hurriedly and clumsily, shredding the knees of her pantyhose. She waved her hand in front of her face and coughed. The engine revved, and the cloud of exhaust grew denser. The stench seemed to coat the inside of Karen’s mouth and throat. Her eyes burned. She ran to her car door, opened it, threw in the file folders and her briefcase, and got in. The adjacent vehicle revved its engine again and a visible white cloud entered Karen’s car before she slammed the door. Coughing and choking on the noxious vapor, which hung inside her car like a little patch of fog, she backed out.

  When she stopped her car to shift into forward gear, the rusted-out pickup truck with the unmuffled engine pulled out of its space, backing toward her. When she realized the pickup truck was not slowing down as it approached, she hit the horn. The other driver, the bearded man who had knocked her file folders from her hands, braked, and their bumpers made contact. It was only a slight jolt, but it sent a sharp pang through Karen’s neck. The other driver revved his engine twice, rolled down his window, gave her the finger, and drove away.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Wednesday morning the city of Jefferson plunged into subzero temperatures, the kind of midwestern morning that sapped car batteries and California expatriates of all energy. When Karen arrived at her office, red-cheeked and breathless, she had five voice mail messages waiting for her. Her outside attorney, Emerson Knowles, had called to discuss the complaint in the Conkel lawsuit filed by Ben McCormick. Anne Delaney had called to discuss the results of her investigation into the cath lab cart and who had access to it prior to Larry Conkel’s biopsy. Two salesmen had called, one offering office copiers and the other pushing life insurance. Her mother had called, inviting Karen to lunch.

  Before returning any of the calls, Karen stared out the window of her office for five minutes and tried to sort her priorities. She felt beleaguered. Getting to the bottom of Larry’s death seemed her most urgent piece of business, emotionally, at least. Defending Ben McCormick’s lawsuit was at the top of the list, job-wise. She got mildly panicky thinking about the dilemma of whether to report the clinic billing fraud to the federal authorities without knowing what was in Larry’s missing file. And what to do about Joe’s illegal MRI scam? It all seemed too much at once. She was still rattled by her encounter with the threatening man in the pickup truck the previous evening. She had tried to brush it off, not even bothering to complain about it to Jake. But now it was eating at her. Was the episode somehow connected to one or more of the other matters?

  Karen returned her mother’s call first. The two agreed to meet at the Casa del Sol Restaurant at noon.

  Karen returned Anne’s call next. As usual, Anne wasted no time before getting down to business.

  “I have a complete scenario from the time the cath lab cart was restocked until the cardiologist and the cath lab team arrived to set up for Larry’s biopsy. The head cath lab nurse set up the cart after the last procedure on Saturday. The nurse insists the cart was fully stocked the last time she saw it. She called Security from the floor when she finished, and Max Schumacher came and locked up ten minutes later. The cart was locked in the cath lab until Security unlocked it just after 5:00 A.M. Monday morning.”

  This meant that if anyone other than the head cath lab nurse planted the defective catheter, he or she either did it Monday morning before Larry’s procedure or entered the lab while it was locked.

  “Who has keys to the cath lab?” asked Karen.

  “Only Security. Max has one key and the only other key is in safe deposit.”

  “What about master keys?”

  “There’s one master for external door locks and one for internal locks on offices, storage rooms and maintenance supply closets. The masters don’t open the cath lab.”

  “Who has keys to the safe deposit box where the other key was kept?” asked Karen.

  “Max Schumacher and Joe Grimes.” Anne described the steel door and sophisticated lock on the cath lab and the lack of a window or other means of entrance to the lab. “Nobody entered the lab until Dr. Bernard arrived just before 7:00 A.M. to set up for Larry’s biopsy. The head cath lab nurse arrived at 7:00 A.M., and the other nurses and the techs within a few minutes after.”

  Karen scribbled notes furiously. “How do we know nobody entered the lab between 5:00 and 7:00?”

  “Hey,” Anne gloated, “for once I’m a step ahead of you. Fortunately, the cath lab is at the end of the main hall on the first floor of the new wing. That hall is covered by one of the security cameras. It’s about one hundred and fifty feet away, but anybody coming or going from the cath lab would be picked up. I was up late last night viewing the tape. Max unlocks the cath lab door at 5:05 A.M. Bernard enters at 6:55 A.M. A lot of people walk by in the interim, but nobody goes in the cath lab. I’ve made a chronological list of everyone who walked past the lab during that time period.”

  Karen commended her. “You’re a virtuoso, Annie.” So no one had entered the cath lab after it was unlocked until Dr. Bernard showed up to do Larry’s biopsy. Karen paused from her note-taking and felt the tip of her nose with the back of her hand. Her nose was like ice. The day before it had been so hot in her office she had been sweating. “God,” she said, “we can afford computer upgrades every six months, but the heating system in this place is from the Pleistocene Era.”

  Karen paused again. “Annie, doesn’t it seem odd to you that Bernard was the first to arrive at the cath lab? Usually the nurses and techs get everything ready, then the patient arrives and is kept waiting until he’s ready to give up and go home, and then the cardiologist breezes in and zips through the procedure.”

  “Yeah, it’s unusual, but irrelevant. Couldn’t affect the hospital’s liability.”

  Karen thought for a moment. Anne was intelligent and excellent with details. She would be doing most of the fact-gathering. Most important, she was trustworthy. Karen needed an ally; she decided it was time to share her suspicions. “Anne, I want you to promise not to repeat what I’m about to say.”

  “Oh, I love secrets. Cross my heart. Let’s have it.”

  Karen filled Anne in on the follow-up verbal report from Gilbert Austin, the engineer who had tested the catheter used in Larry’s biopsy, including the fact that the condition of the catheter made it look as if the catheter had been intentionally sabotaged. She told Anne about Carl Gellhorn’s opinion on the mismanagement of the case by the doctors. “So, Annie,” Karen concluded, “I’m considering the possibility that Larry’s death was not accidental.”

  With her free hand, Anne pulled a lock of hair into her mouth and bit down on it so hard a few ends broke off in her mouth. She scraped her tongue with her teeth and spit. “Oh geez, Karen. Why would anybody want to do that to Larry?”

  “I have some theories on that, too.” Karen gave Anne a brief synopsis of Larry’s fraud investigation files. “Just wanted you to be open to the possibility that Larry was mur … that this was intentional, as you do your investigation.”<
br />
  “Thanks, Karen. Thanks a bunch.”

  “For sharing my secret?”

  “No. For scaring the shit out of me.”

  After Anne hung up, Karen returned the call from her outside counsel, Emerson Knowles. Together they went through Ben McCormick’s complaint in Paula Conkel’s lawsuit line by line. Except for the allegation that Shoreview Memorial Hospital was a hospital, Emerson wanted to deny everything. Typical litigator, thought Karen. It came as no surprise to her that outside counsel like Emerson were happy to spend lots of time and their clients’ money contesting every allegation in a complaint. After all, they got paid by the hour. But Karen, as an in-house attorney who was responsible for the legal budget, was willing to concede that the sky was blue and the grass was green and limit the dispute to the points that really mattered. She persuaded Emerson to admit a few allegations, such as the address of the hospital and the fact that Larry Conkel was a patient there “on or about” November 21. They discussed McCormick’s claim that the hospital was negligent in granting Dr. Bernard privileges to perform the biopsy. Karen jokingly suggested arguing as a defense that if the hospital should have known Dr. Bernard was unqualified, Larry, as the hospital’s Chief Financial Officer, should also have known and therefore was negligent in selecting Dr. Bernard as his cardiologist. Emerson thought the idea had some merit, and Karen had to explain she was only joking. She then made a more seriously intended suggestion that Emerson send requests for Larry’s medical records to St. Peter’s Hospital and the other cardiologist who had seen Larry. She knew it was important to have as much information as possible about the health of anyone claiming malpractice, to determine whether other health reasons contributed to the injury. Then she and Knowles discussed the relief requested in the complaint.

  “He’s asking for $5 million for Larry’s estate, another $5 million for Larry’s wife, and $2 million apiece for each of the children. Twelve million dollars total. Plus $12 million in punitive damages.”

  Karen snorted. “If he wins it all, he’ll have fun collecting. That far exceeds the entire liquid net worth of the hospital.”

  Emerson reminded her that State Mutual Insurance Company would pay any damages over $50,000. Karen told him about the notice from State Mutual voiding the hospital’s malpractice insurance because its quality control program did not meet state requirements.

  “Well, if worse comes to worst,” Emerson said unctuously, “remember that Winslow & Shaughnessy has an excellent bankruptcy department.”

  “Emerson,” replied Karen, “you’re such a scream. I think I’ll sit on your next bill for a few months before we pay it.”

  As soon as she put the receiver down, Karen groaned to herself. “Nice going,” she muttered. “Alienate your lawyer at the outset of the most important case of your career.”

  Karen spent two hours doing legal research on the grounds for voiding malpractice insurance policies, but she made little progress. She was having trouble concentrating. She picked up the phone and dialed her home number.

  “Y-y-yello,” said Jake. Karen could hear Muddy Waters playing in the background.

  “I need to talk about something.”

  “Spill.”

  Karen told Jake about the large, bearded man who had knocked the folders out of her hands the night before, then bumped her car with his pickup truck, and given her the finger. Jake used some of his comprehensive vocabulary of street argot to characterize the culprit, and Karen confessed her fears.

  “Do you think he might have been deliberately trying to intimidate me? That somebody at the clinic knows I’ve seen Larry’s files and is trying to send me a message?”

  “Do you?”

  “It definitely spooked me. Yes. I had the distinct feeling the guy was trying to scare me.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes.”

  Jake raised the issue of reporting the incident to the police.

  “But what would I report?” Karen asked. “That someone was rude? Hard to make a police matter out of bumping the car and obscene gestures.”

  “Yeah, I suppose the boys in blue wouldn’t consider it to be anything out of the ordinary,” Jake replied, “but make sure you tell Schumacher in Security all about it. And Karen …”

  “Hmm?”

  “Be careful.”

  PART II

  “You better watch yo’self.”

  —WALTER JACOBS, AKA LITTLE WALTER

  CHAPTER

  17

  Karen drove cautiously over the slick city streets to meet her mother for lunch. The bridge over the Weyawega Flowage was particularly icy and treacherous, as the icicles hanging from the teeth of the concrete lions forewarned. She had to park three blocks away from the Casa del Sol, a formidable walking distance in a subzero windchill. She got to the table at precisely 12:00 noon, her nose running and cheeks bright red. Her mother was waiting at the table, a nearly finished Bloody Mary in front of her.

  Elizabeth Decker was shorter than Karen, more round-shouldered. Her gray hair was dyed auburn and she wore more makeup than Karen, but it failed to conceal the deep creases around her mouth, the sagging skin around her gentle eyes, the crepe-paper wrinkles in her neck and forehead. Karen looked at her mother and saw her own cosmetic destiny.

  The restaurant pickings in Jefferson were slim. The Casa del Sol was a franchise that served mostly American food, with a few Tex-Mex selections and Margaritas on the menu, and serapes and sombreros hanging on the beige stucco walls. Karen ordered refried beans and a taco. Elizabeth Decker ordered a club sandwich and another Bloody Mary.

  Since it was the middle of a workday, Karen drank carbonated water with a twist of lemon, but she would have gladly downed a stiff drink. She felt agitated having lunch at a restaurant with her mother. It was a rare event, even rarer because it was not a birthday or Mother’s Day. The painful conversation on Thanksgiving about Karen’s failure to conceive was still a fresh injury.

  Karen reassured her mother at length that the cervical collar was nothing serious. She was also required to explain that she did not have a cold; her nose was running from the frigid air outside. The two women complained about the weather for a while. Karen endured an update on her sister’s children, including a detailed account of their respective Christmas lists. Pamela and the children were staying with Mrs. Decker for the holiday week.

  “Pammy told me about your big argument with your father on Thanksgiving,” said Mrs. Decker, sipping her second Bloody Mary. “I don’t think children should be exposed to that sort of thing, do you?”

  Karen let the hypocrisy pass. “No, Mom,” she sighed. “I’m sorry, but Dad just puts me right up the wall. His chauvinistic remarks. And the way he’s always putting down Jake.”

  “Karen, your father is neither stupid nor chauvinistic. He respects your career, and he has a lot of regard for Jake, too. He just doesn’t understand the business with the music. And he’s frustrated because you and Jake haven’t had a child.”

  “Yeah, and he uses that against me every chance he gets,” rejoined Karen, gripping her water glass tensely. “Just another item on the long list of ways I’ve disappointed him. Starting with the fact that I wasn’t a boy, and you already had a girl. Now there’s no one to carry on the Decker name.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t be ridiculous. You never disappointed your father. He doesn’t care about the Decker name.” Elizabeth finished the Bloody Mary and stared wistfully across the room. “Actually, I was the one who wanted a boy.” She looked back at Karen. “Daddy was always proud of you. Remember when you won that Science Award in college? That big piece of crystal? He acted like it was the Nobel Prize.”

  “Yeah,” said Karen, “and now it’s holding down a pile of papers on my desk. Has all the value of a brick. Let’s face it, Mom, Pammy was tall and beautiful, the All-American cheerleader, and I was the runt of the litter. Then Pammy comes up with the grandchildren. I don’t blame Dad for favoring her, but that’s no reason to
hate me.”

  The waiter arrived with their entrees and poured a glass of white wine for Mrs. Decker. When the waiter left, she dabbed her lips with a white napkin and smeared lipstick onto her chin, a sure sign the drinks had kicked in. It seemed to Karen that her mother showed intoxication more obviously and more frequently than she used to.

  “I cannot believe a smart girl like you would say such a stupid thing,” proclaimed Karen’s mother. “Now I’m going to end up telling you something no mother should ever tell her child.” She reached a shaky hand toward Karen, then pulled it back. “Sweetie, don’t you know Daddy always loved you more than Pammy? It wasn’t intentional. He couldn’t help it. That’s the way it is with parents sometimes. Pammy was a lovely child, but it was obvious from infancy that you had what Daddy valued.”

  Karen held a forkful of refried beans poised in front of her mouth. “And that would be … ?”

  Her mother took a gulp of wine. “The Decker brain,” she announced, rolling the “r” in “brain” theatrically. “Remember how he used to pontificate about evolution and the primacy of the cerebral cortex, how he said that the hegemony of the human species on the planet proves the advantage of quality of offspring over quantity as a Darwinian strategy? At heart, the old windbag fancies himself a scientist. And you, my dear, are his legacy. That’s why he’s heartbroken about you not having a child.” She took another gulp of wine. “Pammy’s brood, bless their hearts, don’t count. Except maybe to ten.”

  Karen chewed her beans quietly. She was astonished by her mother’s revelation. Was Karen’s interpretation of her family dynamics, the understanding that she had held for years, completely topsy-turvy? It certainly was by her mother’s reckoning.