"How goes it? Mom okay?"
"She's still upset about Annie, but otherwise, she's fine. In it up to here in that garden of hers."
"She certainly does love that ol' garden. Lisette's been working on one, too, you know. You and Mom'll have to come see it. Speaking of Annie, have you by any chance seen her today?"
"Nope, tonight. I promised your mother I'd take her over."
"Well, you're in for a pleasant surprise. She's doing great. Don Norman tells me they'll probably operate on her hip before the week's out. Now Suzanne Cole is back on the case, so Annie's got the benefit of both doctors."
"That's good to hear, Frank. It's a shame, though, a crying shame that she had to fall like that."
Frank tensed. As always, the man had gone right for the jugular. No bullshit, no finesse. The key to handling him would be to stay cool and not allow himself to get rattled. "No one feels worse about what happened than I do, Judge, " he said. "But what's done is done. Now, our job is to get her back on her feet, right? And thanks to Ultramed, we've got one of the best physical therapy departments in the state."
"You didn't keep a tight enough rein on that doctor of yours, Frank.
You're in charge. It's your hospital, just like this is my courtroom."
Oh, give me a fucking break, Frank thought. "You're right, Judge," he said. "Your point's well taken. I've spoken to Don, and he knows his behind is on the griddle from now on. Also, he's making arrangements to pay for any expenses Annie runs up in getting home care after her surgery."
"Excellent, son. That's an excellent move."
"Our hospital's come a long way since Ultramed took over, Judge. I'll do anything I have to to keep it on the right track." Clayton Iverson loosened his tie and ran his thumbs beneath the black suspenders that had always been part of his courtroom dress. "I assume, " he said, "that statement of purpose is your roundabout way of asking me to withdraw the notice I dispatched to your friend, Ms. Baron."
Damn, but the man was tough. "Well, as long as you brought it up The Judge swiveled in his seat, lifted the picture of Frank from the wall, and appraised it thoughtfully. "Remember when this was taken? " he asked. "It was right before the state championship game against Bloomfield. The best game you ever played, I think. Six touchdown passes against the team people were calling the toughest ever in the state."
"Five, " Frank corrected. The Judge smiled. "You're forgetting the thirty yarder in the third quarter that was called back for a holding penalty. On the very next play, you threw that forty-five-yard bomb to Brian Cullen. Three men hanging all over you, and you heaved that ball downfield like… like you were playing in the backyard."
"That was a long time ago, Judge."
Frank was genuinely surprised and touched by the detail in the man's recollection. "You have quite a memory."
"Son, " Clayton Iverson said, "you'd be amazed at how much I remember from those days."
His tone was uncharacteristically wistful. "There was a toughness to you then, Frank-a determination to be the best. You had the whole world right in the palm of your hand. Somewhere along the line, though, you started backing off, making bad choices. No, not bad," he corrected,
"terrible. Somewhere along the line, you lost that edge."
"But-"
"I'm not through. The worst part of it all is that the more you struggled, the less willing you became to listen to advice. You ran up against problems, and instead of plowing through them like you used to do, you tried to run around them. "I want you to succeed here, Frank. I want that very much. But I'm not going to make it easy for you. I'm going through with that letter, and I'm going to try and find out just what went on with Guy."
"I've told you before, Judge. Nothing went on with Guy."
"I hope not, Frank. Don't you see? I want you to show up at that board meeting with a case for Ultramed that's so strong and so polished, no one on the board would even think about voting against you. This is one problem you're going to meet head on, son. And I pray to God you roll right over me."
Frank held up his hands in frustration. "Judge, you're just making a mess of everything. Checking up on me and the hospital, auditing our books. The people at Ultramed are watching. If they see that I can't even reason with my own father, everything I've gained these past four years will be headed down the drain. Just the fact that I was the last one to know about your letter has already made me look like an idiot."
"Well, when Ms. Baron and her associates see the case you put together for their corporation, you will be a hero."
"But-, "That's the way it is, Frank."
He swung back and replaced the photograph. Frank felt an all-too-familiar anger and frustration begin to well up. He cautioned himself against any outburst, and reminded himself to meet strength with strength. "Okay, Judge, " he said. "You obviously have your mind set on this thing."
"I do."
"Well, then. I'd like you at least to compromise on one thing-the audit.
We weren't scheduled for our general audit until next February. It will take me days to put everything together as it is, and it will throw my staff into chaos. Either cancel it or… or at least postpone it until next month."
The Judge shook his head. "Farley Berger says it's got to be done in the next day or two in order for his team to have all the figures checked over by the meeting on Friday."
"But there's nothing in the contract that says the audit has to be done by the board meeting. Make it two weeks."
Clayton Iverson thought for a minute. "Okay, Frank, " he relented, "you want two weeks, you've got two weeks."
That's it, Judge, Frank thought exultantly. That's it, that's all I need. "I'm going to beat you, you know, " he said. "I hope so, son," the Judge responded. "I truly do."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For Zack, the day had resembled some of those during his residency. Two consults on the floors, assisting one of the orthopedists with a back case, admitting a three-year-old who had fallen off a swing, hit her head, and then had a seizure, and finally, seeing half a dozen patients in the office. It was the sort of pace on which, ordinarily, he thrived.
This day, it was all he could do to maintain his concentration. Six days had passed since his initial contact with Toby Nelms, and he was still unable to put together the pieces of the child's diagnosis. For a time after his abortive interview with Jack Pearl, he had tried, as an exercise, to give the anesthesiologist the beiiefit of the doubt-to concoct another explanation that would jibe with the facts. He had cancelled his schedule for the day and driven to Boston for consultations with several anesthesiologists at Muni. He had also spent four hours in the county Medical Library at Harvard, reviewing every article he could find on Pentothal, isoflurane, and their complications.
By the end of his search, he considered himself qualified as one of the experts in the field. Always, though, his efforts brought him back to his original hypothesis, and back to a single word, Metzenbaums. Now, in a few days, he would meet again with the boy and his mother. This time, Zack knew, Barbara Nelms would not settle for evasions and half-truths.
The woman was desperate. She had every right to be. It was just after four in the afternoon. From the west, dusky mountain shadows inched up the valley toward Sterling. Zack had just finished a detailed discussion of Meni amp;re's disease with the last of his office patients. "I know exactly what you have, " he had told the elderly man, who had come because of intermittent dizziness and a persistent, most unpleasant hum in his ears. "Unfortunately, I also know there is very little we are going to be able to do beyond teaching you how to live with it."