Doctored Evidence Page 17

  “Which one?”

  “The one they used on Larry. Part of which is in safekeeping, part of which is at Jefferson Engineering, and the rest of which is still in Larry. Where did it come from?”

  Before lunch, Karen called Max Schumacher to ask if there had been any reports of vandalism in the parking garage recently, other than the thefts of her battery and car phone. Max said no. Karen then asked Max to view the parking garage security camera tapes for the two afternoons when her car had been vandalized. If a rusted Chevrolet pickup truck left the garage before 5:30 P.M. on both days, Max was to take down the license plate number.

  “Will do, Mrs. Hayes,” said Max. “I’m surprised you’re still using the garage at all, with the problems you’ve had.”

  “I’m not using it. I’ve got my husband’s car today, parked on the street. Thanks for getting that service in to clean up the Volvo.”

  “Glad to help. If the pickup truck is on the security cam tape, do you want me to get the name of the owner?”

  “You can do that?”

  “I’m an ex-cop, Mrs. Hayes. I can get it tomorrow.”

  Max said he would be at the hospital Saturday afternoon. Karen asked him to call her at home.

  Karen spent her lunch hour writing a letter to State Mutual Insurance Company disputing the contention that the hospital’s malpractice insurance was void. She could feel herself rushing. Too many balls in the air this time. Drop one and they all hit the floor.

  At 1:00 P.M., her telephone chirped. She answered.

  “Legal Department. Karen Hayes.”

  “Mrs. Hayes, this is Leonard Herwitz calling.” Karen felt a painful surge of adrenaline spurt into her bloodstream.

  “How are you today?” asked the surgeon.

  “I’m fine, Dr. Herwitz. What can I do for you?”

  “Call me Len. I was just calling to see if I might be of any assistance to you on a matter you’re handling.”

  “And that would be…?”

  Dr. Herwitz hesitated. “Karen, I understand you’ve been working on one of Larry Conkel’s files. One having to do with the clinic.”

  Karen silently cursed herself for her rash remark to Bernard at the Ethics Committee meeting. As she had feared, Bernard and Herwitz had figured out she had Larry’s files.

  “I just want you to know,” said Dr. Herwitz cordially, “that if I can answer any questions, be of any help to you, I would be happy to make time to discuss it with you.”

  Karen wasn’t much good at dissembling, but she gave it a try.

  “Dr. Herwitz,” she said, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Dr. Herwitz laughed nervously. “You are an intelligent young woman, Karen, and I admire your zeal. I’m talking about the report to the Inspector General you’re working on.”

  Karen’s neck suddenly began to ache again. Bernard and Herwitz could not possibly have deduced from her remark at Ethics Committee that she was preparing a report to the Inspector General. The only people she had told about it were Jake and Anne. She had worked on the report at her computer terminal, but, unlike Grimes’s, Karen’s computer password was a string of eight random letters, impossible to guess. She suddenly felt weary and slouched in her desk chair. There was only one possible explanation for Herwitz’s knowledge of the report she was preparing, and it was depressing.

  “Um, Doctor, assuming I am working on a report to the Inspector General, what assistance could you offer?”

  “I might be able to help you understand some of the past practices of a couple of our clinic physicians, practices that I assure you have been discontinued.”

  “I think I understand those practices pretty well And it’s more than a couple of physicians, Dr. Herwitz.”

  “Len. The important thing now, Karen, is that we do what’s in everybody’s best interests. There’s no need to destroy the careers of good men who made a few mistakes in the past, mistakes that can be corrected.”

  “That I don’t understand,” said Karen. “How can you correct having put over a hundred people through the misery of chemotherapy when it had no chance of doing them good?”

  “A report to the government won’t help those people now. It won’t do the hospital any good.” He paused for emphasis. “And it won’t do you any good, either.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Heavens, no. Just the opposite. I’m suggesting it could also be in your personal best interest to work with the clinic on this problem, instead of against it. I mean your personal… financial best interests.”

  “You’re offering me a bribe.”

  Dr. Herwitz sighed. “I was thinking more of a consulting fee, to help us with our legal compliance efforts. I must say, Karen, you have your mother’s bluntness.”

  My mother? thought Karen.

  Herwitz continued. “Don’t reject the idea without thinking about it, Karen. I know how you and Jake have had to do without some of the things you’ve wanted, places you’d like to travel to that you haven’t been able to afford. It can’t be easy being the wife of a struggling musician.”

  Karen slumped further in her chair and put her hand on her forehead. “How do you know about my family finances, Dr. Herwitz? Or for that matter, my mother’s bluntness?”

  “Karen,” he said warmly, “your mother and I were very close for a long time. We’re still good friends. I’m sure if you would talk to her about your concerns regarding the clinic, she could give you some guidance. Please talk to her before you do anything that can’t be undone.”

  Karen’s jaw dropped. She remembered her mother’s description of “the other man” as handsome, sophisticated and very successful. There weren’t many men in a town like Jefferson who fit that description. Leonard Herwitz was one. So Herwitz was the heel who took Elizabeth Decker away from her father. What next?

  Karen raised her voice. “Let’s review the record. You rake in obscene amounts of money practicing mediocre medicine. A bunch of your boys get caught doing things worthy of Joseph Mengele, and instead of canning them on the spot, you cover it up. You try to bribe me, and then you try to hide behind my mother.”

  “One call to Joe Grimes,” blurted Dr. Herwitz, “and you’re out of Shoreview Memorial permanently.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t push me. I don’t want to hurt you. It would break Elizabeth’s heart.”

  Karen exploded. “That’s something you would know about, wouldn’t you? So you want me to help out the man who wrecked my mother’s marriage and then dumped her?” She slammed the phone down.

  Karen paced the length of her office several times, feeling slightly nauseated. Instinctively, she knew how Herwitz learned of her report to the Inspector General. But, as she turned the matter over and over in her mind, looking for explanations, none came to her. She composed herself and walked to the door.

  “Margaret,” said Karen, “I’ll be making a very important call to Anne Delaney. Highly confidential. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  She closed her office door, leaving it ajar just a crack, as she called Anne.

  “Annie, big news here,” she whispered, walking quietly to the door and peering through the crack at the back of Margaret’s head. Margaret held her telephone receiver to her right ear, her left hand covering the mouthpiece.

  That’s right, Margaret, thought Karen. Loyalty, gratitude and decency be damned. Suck up to authority. You had already betrayed me when you asked me to help you break that lease! No matter how cynical I get, she stewed, it’s never cynical enough.

  “What is it?” asked Anne.

  “My secretary is being fired this afternoon. ’Bye, Annie. ’Bye, Margaret.”

  CHAPTER

  24

  At 2:00 P.M., Karen called Joe Grimes. Three hours left to clean up as much as she could before being banished.

  “Joe, what are we doing about Dr. Futterlieb?” Futterlieb, the anesthesiologist who had been found passed out from an overdose of recreational anesthesia, had
completed the detox portion of his impaired professionals program. “He’s still on the call schedule for obstetrics. Have you called a Medical Executive Committee meeting?” Joe said that a meeting was scheduled, but that Karen need not concern herself with it. She was not invited. The legal aspects of the matter would be handled by outside counsel, Emerson Knowles.

  “Anything else?” asked Joe curtly.

  Karen explicated the clinic billing fraud investigation. Joe took the position that it was not hospital business and that Karen should not be spending hospital time on it. Karen countered that the doctors involved were all members of the hospital medical staff and that Shoreview had a duty to allow only qualified, ethical physicians on staff.

  “We’re not responsible for what they do in their private practices,” said Joe. “Besides, billing practices have nothing to do with a physician’s qualifications or medical ethics.”

  Karen sighed. Joe had more blind spots than the worst seat at Wrigley Field. Discussing ethics with him was like discussing astrophysics with Barney the Dinosaur. She changed her approach. She pointed out that some of the unnecessary treatment the guilty physicians had rendered had taken place at the hospital, as outpatient procedures.

  “So what? The physician orders the treatment, we just provide the facility. We can’t be questioning the physician’s orders. I’m telling you, this is none of our business.”

  Karen had run out of alternatives, except to blurt out that Larry’s files referred to a conspiracy involving hospital billing of the same patients the clinic had billed fraudulently.

  “Not likely,” said Joe. “If we had been involved in anything like that I would have found out about it. More likely, Larry was mistaken.”

  Karen pointed out that Larry was competent and exceptionally careful.

  “Larry was a geek,” said Joe. “I’m surprised Paula didn’t divorce him years ago. She’s a sharp woman.”

  “You been hanging out with Paula lately, Joe?”

  “No.”

  “I saw you leaving her house on Monday.”

  “What, you tailing me? I was delivering a gift from the hospital, on account of what happened to Larry. You understand, it’s what Anne Delaney calls ‘plying the plaintiff.’ It’s good risk management.”

  “So is poking the plaintiff,” mumbled Karen under her breath.

  “Enough,” said Joe. “Have Margaret pack up those files of Larry’s and deliver them to my office before the end of the day. And I’ll see you in January.”

  Karen spent most of the rest of the afternoon copying Larry’s files and loading the copies in the trunk of the Mustang so the originals could be sent to Joe as ordered. As 5:00 P.M. approached, she stood staring out the window of her office, feeling sad and discouraged. She was out of time and out of ideas. The warmth of the sun and the day’s traffic had turned last night’s snow into dirty gray slush. By the time she got home, Jake would be setting up at the Caledonia Club.

  She was relieved that Jake’s Mustang had survived the day undamaged on the street. Her Volvo was in the shop. Jake was getting a ride to the gig in a fellow band member’s van.

  The drive home was miserable, the road a slushy mess. Passing pickup trucks and SUVs sprayed layers of salty, muddy slop onto her windshield. The wipers of the vintage car were not up to the task, and Karen had to stop frequently to clear a spot on the windshield, first with facial tissue and then, when that gave out, her gloves.

  Karen’s range of emotions, wide as it was, rarely ran to feeling sorry for herself. But on the way home that night, she allowed herself a few self-pitying thoughts. She had always done what she thought she should. Worked hard, applied her considerable ability, tried to make herself useful, tried to be honest and fair. Played by the rules. The result was that she found herself frustrated, underpaid, and now, out of a job. Worst of all, it seemed to her that she was disrespected. Why did it seem to her that too many people abused their positions, took what they wanted, explained their actions with transparent lies, and got away with it? Didn’t it bother them that other people knew what they were up to? Knew that they were dishonorable, opportunistic, and crooked? Well, why should it bother them; everybody still seemed to treat them with respect. And although she resisted the thought, it was there, putting a hard, mortifying edge on her self-pity: they were all reproducing.

  When she stopped for gas, her stomach was growling. The service station mini-mart had no real food, so Karen, knowing better, wolfed down a sugary chocolate cupcake wrapped in oily cellophane and laden with preservatives. By the time she pulled into her driveway she felt drained, defeated, and dyspeptic.

  CHAPTER

  25

  Standing on the front porch of her house, keys in hand, Karen could hear music coming from inside. Jake was not due home from the Caledonia Club for hours. The house was dark. A saxophone was playing, a capella. Karen did not recognize the song—a slow, bluesy number—but she recognized the style. It was Jake.

  Karen entered quietly and listened while Jake finished the song. The living room of their old Victorian house was sparsely furnished, its decor combining Karen’s unpretentious conventionality with Jake’s eccentricity. In front of the fireplace, which was too large for the room, a brown twill convertible sofa and a matching loveseat faced each other across a mahogany butler’s table. The only other furniture in the long, narrow room was a tan overstuffed easy chair in the corner with a brass floor lamp next to it. The white plaster walls were bare save for one enormous unframed Rothko-esque abstract oil, painted by a former member of Jake’s band. A seated Buddha carved from jade surveyed the room placidly from the mantelpiece.

  Jake sat on the arm of the easy chair, a battered saxophone case, a full ashtray, and a half-empty bottle of Gordon’s gin at his feet. The room smelled of cigarette smoke and lime incense. Karen decided she just didn’t have it in her at the moment to scold him about smoking. When Jake finished playing, he slid off the arm of the chair into the seat. He pulled a cigarette from the front pocket of his black silk shirt, lit it, took one puff, and crushed it out. Karen threw her coat on the sofa, sat on the arm of the easy chair and stroked his hair. His head dropped into her lap.

  “We lost our gig,” he said. The owner of the Caledonia Club had informed him during setup that tomorrow’s Saturday performance would be the last night for the band. When Jake told the other members of Code Blue that their long-term engagement was being precipitously terminated, they had rebelliously packed up and left rather than finish out the last two nights.

  “How could that happen?” asked Karen. “You guys are the best draw in Jefferson. Who could they get to replace you?”

  “Not who,” said Jake despondently. “What. They’re putting in a sound system and a karaoke machine.”

  Karen expressed sympathetic outrage. A sound system could never compare to live music. Amateur vocalists could be amusing for about ten minutes, then they became tiresome, and eventually intensely annoying. “That club owner is a Philistine,” she concluded.

  “Maybe,” allowed Jake. “But he’s also a businessman. He knows the simple facts of nightclub economics. The club owner adds up the profit margin on the booze he sells to the customers who wouldn’t be there but for the band. If it doesn’t exceed the cost of the band, it’s history. The karaoke machine costs what he pays us for two nights, and he has the thing forever.”

  “Or until the fad dies,” corrected Karen. “How can people prefer that garbage to real music?” Jake countered that it was lucky for the two of them that their personal tastes were out of step with the masses. If everyone liked the things they did, they would never have been able to afford to see some of the greatest jazz and blues geniuses of the century perform live. Over the years they had, on a modest budget, seen Mingus, Sonny Rollins, Bill Evans, Frank Morgan, Horace Silver, Muddy Waters, Jimmy Rodgers …

  “Remember the night we paid a two-dollar cover charge to sit ten feet away from Otis Spann? Greatest piano player I’ve ever seen
. The same night, we could’ve stood in line for five hours and paid a hundred bucks to sit in an auditorium with bad acoustics for Barry Manilow.” Karen opined that for Barry Manilow, bad acoustics would be a plus. They laughed, and Karen slid into the seat next to Jake.

  “Aren’t you going to ask how my last day at work went?” asked Karen.

  Jake obliged. “How’d your last day at work go?”

  “Don’t ask,” said Karen. She told Jake about her unsettling conversation with Carl Gellhorn, the opacity of file number 3, and Anne’s catheter count. She related Dr. Herwitz’s attempt to buy her off and, when that failed, to drag her mother into it.

  “I can’t see Mom with Leonard Herwitz,” she said. “Mom’s so straightforward and he’s so slippery.”

  “There was the door to which I found no key,” said Jake, “there was the veil…”

  Karen nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Omar Khayyam. Then I had another disappointment. My secretary, Margaret, ratted me out.” She told Jake about catching Margaret eavesdropping and about Herwitz’s knowledge of the letter Karen was writing to the Office of the Inspector General. Then she described her failure to get any helpful information from Joe, her exclusion from the meeting regarding Dr. Futterlieb, and the slushy, miserable drive home.

  “All in all, another red-letter day for Karen Hayes, attorney-at-law.”

  Jake went to the kitchen and got two glasses filled with ice cubes and a bottle of dry vermouth. He came back into the living room and filled the glasses with gin and added a splash of vermouth to Karen’s. Karen moved to the sofa and wrapped her coat around her shoulders.

  “Why is it so cold in here?” she asked.

  “Because the furnace is out,” announced Jake. “Furnace guy can’t come until tomorrow morning. I’ll make a fire in the fireplace.”

  “Good place for it,” said Karen testily. “And make my next martini up. It’s too cold for rocks.”