“Was I supposed to let him bleed to death while I waited for someone to pick up the phone?”
“I’m not saying you should have done anything differently, Dr. Vaughn. I’m getting the lay of the land and the case fromyour perspective. And I’m telling you what the family’s attorney is going to argue.”
“Which iswhat? The family thinks I’m a showboat looking for any opportunity to cut? He died on my operating table in a room full of people while I was trying to clamp his aorta,” Cole argued, his jaw clenched so tight the words sounded snapped off. “There was no one to ‘be with him’ because I was up to my elbows in his blood.”
Anger flared like a pulse thrumming under the skin. He would never believe me, but I understood his position. Cole was a mere mortal who was supposed to be a god. Instead, he’d watched someone die under his watch and had to justify why he couldn’t perform miracles.
I softened my stance and my tone. “I’m not here to judge your clinical decisions. From what I can see in the chart and our discussion today, you did everything by the book?—”
He cut me off. “I’m waiting for thebut.”
“But…perception is what matters here. When the attorney starts picking apart our timeline, they’ll only care about whether we followed protocol. Whether Mr. Greene’s family was contacted at every juncture, and whether he received an appropriate standard of care.”
“Appropriate standard of care,” he repeated in a brittle tone. “That man received world-class care in a renowned hospital by a skilled surgeon. He was going to die no matter what I did.”
I nodded once. “I understand.”
“So,” he said, angling back with his arms spread wide across the chairs next to him. “Is this the part where you work your magic, make the hospital shine, and I get the shit end of the stick?”
As if he realized he’d let loose, he sat up straight. “I—pardon me. Excuse my language.”
“You’re fine, Dr. Vaughn.” I smiled, assuring him I wasn’t offended. “If I wanted to position your role as expendable, I’d be taking a different approach entirely.”
His eyes narrowed, calculating. “Do tell.”
“I’d zero in on the rush to surgery, of course. I’d paint a picture of a cowboy with a scalpel instead of the surgeon who’s never had a complaint here at RMC.”
I paused for effect, letting him know I’d researched him thoroughly. “I’d be laying out a case that paints you as reckless, not the competent, skilled surgeon I find you to be.”
Cole studied me, the lines of his face shifting. Not trust yet. But something close flickered behind his eyes. “Whyaren’tyou asking those questions?”
“Because Stevie Wonder can see that Mr. Greene’s death was imminent, no matter what anyone did and when anyone was notified. Nothing short of divine intervention would have saved him.”
I leaned in, lowering my voice. “And between us? When the hospital needs someone to blame, they never pick themselves. Who do you think is next in line?”
The silence in the room thickened, crowded in with the understanding of what remained unsaid.
“So, what’s your angle?” he finally asked. “You work for the hospital.”
“And so do you. I mitigate risk for RMC, but I’m also here to make sure every clinician with patient exposure follows policy. And when I’m satisfied that they have, I stand on that. I won’t let anyone question their integrity. Mr. Greene’s outcome was tragic, but his treatment here at RMC was appropriate. I will defend that position vigorously.”
Dr. Vaughn’s eyes lingered on mine for a long moment. He seemed to still be sizing me up, but eventually, he gave a slow nod. “Alright. What do you need from me?”
My coffee was cold by the time we finished our review, but my legal pad was full of notes. The air between us had changed, the earlier hostility dissolving into something closer to collaboration.
Cole glanced at his watch, his mouth dropping open. “Not to be rude, but I need to get down to ICU. Are we good?”
I hadn’t realized how much time had passed. “For now, yes. Thank you for your time.” I closed my laptop and stacked my notepad and iPad. “If I have questions, I’d like to reach out to you directly. Not through Dr. Webb.”
He pulled out his phone, swiped to contacts, and handed it across the table. “Put your number in. I’ll text you so you’ve got mine.”
I keyed in my personal number, already feeling like some of our discussions would not be welcome on the official record. Then I saved it and slid the phone back to him.
“Thank you for being straight with me,” he said, getting to his feet. “I appreciate being treated like a professional. Most administrators try to manage me.”
“Well…” I smiled and started gathering the papers, the folders, the pens I’d scattered across the table like breadcrumbs. “I try hard not to be most people in administration.”
“I feel that.” The undercurrent in his tone made me look up. “Keep that up.” He swung his bag onto his shoulder and left.
