“No one’s pointing, Cole,” Webb replied. “The family are donors to RMC, so we need to be completely sure that we were in process. To that end, you’ve got a meeting scheduled tomorrow morning with Harper Sutton, a director over in Risk. She will review the case, go over the timeline, ensure we’re airtight. Standard procedure, straightforward process.”
A review six weeks after the fact, even though the incident had cleared the post mortem—a session held after every patient death—was proof that this wasn’t standard or straightforward.
“I guess,” I said, instead of voicing my concerns. Even if Webb knew the real story, he wouldn’t share those thoughts with me.
“Thank you for taking the time. And Cole…” He paused, taking so long of a beat that I had to urge him to continue.
“Dr. Webb?”
“Keep your head clear and emotions in check. Be cooperative. Don’t get defensive. This isn’t personal; just dotting i’s and crossing t’s. We just need to answer the family’s questions so this inquiry doesn’t go any further.”
“Don’t make this worse by being myself, then.”
Dr. Webb sighed. “If that’s the way you need to frame it to come out unscathed?—”
“Respectfully, Dr. Webb,” I broke in, “I don’t have anything to worry about. The treatment was warranted and appropriate and within policy.”
“I don’t doubt that. Just let them ask their questions, give your answers, and let it go. Don’t turn this into something it doesn’t need to be.”
I wanted to ask what this could turn into, but it was better that I kept my mouth shut.
“Understood,” I bit out.
“A calendar invite will follow shortly.”
Webb hung up. I pressed the button to lock the phone, trying not to let my mind run away with itself. I couldn’t help it, though.
If it were routine, Webb wouldn’t have called me direct.
If this were just checking a box, Risk wouldn’t be involved. I didn’t need anyone to spell it out; I was the last name on the chart. Last hands to touch the patient.
Easy pickings.
I pushed back through the gym doors. A new game had started, with plastics trying to capitalize on trauma being down a man. Banks saw me first and called a timeout.
“Everything good?” Banks called out, jogging over.
“Yeah. Fine.” I grabbed my water bottle, took a long swallow. “Webb had to hit me up about something.”
“OK. So, you coming back in or tapping out?”
I should go home. Review the Greene case. Pull up my notes, refresh my memory on every decision I’d made that day.
I glanced at the court, at Jackson setting up for an easy layup, at Kim already talking trash about how trauma couldn’t win without their ringer.
“And pass up the chance to block Jackson all night? I’m in.”
We played two more games. Trauma won both. By the time we called it, my shirt was soaked through and my legs felt like concrete, but my head was clearer than it had been all day.
We ambled toward the locker room, still talking trash. Banks elbowed me in the ribs as soon as we were out of earshot of everyone else.
“What’s up with you? You didn’t seem right when you came back in from that call.”
I shrugged. “A death about six weeks back. I told you about it—old dude, aneurysm, bled out as soon as I got him open. A no-win situation from jump. Anyway, it’s coming back up through Risk. I have a meeting with them in the morning.”
“Oh, yeah?” Banks cocked an eyebrow, a sly expression crossing her face. “Who over there? I’ve got friends everywhere.”
“Harper Sutton. You know her?”
