Webb’s face went carefully blank. “No one offered me anything.”
“But they talked to you.”
The silence stretched long enough to be an answer.
“Legal?” I suggested. “Dr. Rice? Higher? Chairman, maybe?”
“There was a conversation about how to support you through this situation.”
“Right. Support me by making sure I don’t rock the boat, say all the right things, bend over for the rich folk so they’ll keep giving us money.”
Webb’s jaw worked. “Cole, you’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”
“No, you’re making it simple when it shouldn’t be.” I pulled the door open. “Thanks for the prep session, Dr. Webb.”
“Dr. Vaughn?—”
I walked out before he could finish.
The hallway was empty, just carpeted floors and closed doors with nameplates announcing the occupants’ names and titles. I took the stairs down instead of the elevator, needing the physical movement to burn off the anger building in my chest.
My office was nothing like Webb’s—no mahogany desk, no leather chairs, no view. Just a functional space with a computer, a filing cabinet, and a secondhand bookshelf I’d picked up from a resident who was moving across the country. But it was mine, and more importantly, it was private.
I closed the door, dropped into my desk chair, pulled up my VIP contact list and scrolled to a number. The call connected on the third ring.
“Cole! Caught me between meetings! Everything alright?”
My stepfather, Walter Ellis, had a voice that immediately eased some of the tension in my shoulders, even over the phone line. The Ellis Clinic specialized in executive health services and taught him how to navigate the intersection of medicine and money better than anyone I knew.
“Hey, Dad. You got a minute?”
“Always. What’s going on?”
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling tiles. “I need some advice. Might lean toward the legal area, actually.”
There was a pause. “Legal? Son…what’s happening?”
I gave him the abbreviated version of the story, starting with Earl Greene in the ER and ending with the upcoming meeting. Dad listened without interrupting, letting me get it all out before weighing in.
“And Dr. Webb’s direction is to capitulate?”
“Pretty much. Play nice, don’t make waves, help the grieving family understand that nobody did anything wrong—but if we did do something wrong, it wasn’t the hospital’s fault.”
“Which means they’re positioning you as expendable.”
“That’s my understanding.”
Dad was quiet for a long moment. I could picture him in his office, leaning back in an expensive leather desk chair, fingers steepled while he processed what I’d told him. “Have they told you that you need legal representation?”
“No. But Harp—someone suggested I shouldn’t answer questions without a representative present.”
“Someone…” Dad echoed, and there was an edge now, a flick of curiosity. “Does this someone work for the hospital?”
“Yes. The case came up through Risk Management.”
He didn’t say anything right away. I could feel him on the other end, the gears in his mind turning. “So someone from RiskManagement is advising you? A Black surgeon in the middle of an investigation that involves donors?”
“…yeah.”
