Dead Certain (10 page)

My first instinct was to be furious with my mother. If she was really serious about quashing the deal with HCC, how could she even think about sending me into a meeting with its CEO completely unprepared? It struck me as yet one more indication that my mother had no idea of how things worked outside the constricted sliver of her country-club world.

In spite of myself I felt my heart quicken. Just the fact that Packman was in town spoke volumes about the relative importance of Prescott Memorial to HCC, and there was enough of Everett Prescott in me that I relished the opportunity to size up a potential adversary. That still didn’t mean I was convinced that fighting HCC was a good idea, but there was no doubt that seeing the trauma team in action firsthand had made the discussion much less abstract.

Disconcertingly my escort stopped dead in front of a blank wall at the end of the corridor. At the push of a button, the wall turned out to be a hidden panel. Even I had to concede that it was a nice touch, a way to knock adversaries off balance before they even made it through the door.

The panel opened silently to reveal a long, narrow conference room dominated by a massive table milled from a single, enormous piece of black marble polished until it shone like patent leather. At the far end sat Gerald Packman—alone. Behind him hung an enormous painting that looked like a bucket of crimson paint had been hurled at a white canvas. The top of the table was completely empty except for a single glass of water and a small clock of the kind used to time moves in chess competition.

I knew little more about Packman beyond what Joan Bornstein had told me. There were only snippets about him in the newspaper clippings about HCC my mother had sent over. Neither had prepared me for the sheer force of the personality of the man himself. He was a big man in his early forties with the bearing of an athlete and the manicured hands of an investment banker. Well groomed beyond the boardroom standard, he exuded confidence from every pore. It was no wonder he’d set his sights beyond fried chicken.

“You have ten minutes,” he said, reaching forward to press the switch on top of the clock that set the hands moving.

“Then perhaps you should spend it telling me why I shouldn’t do everything in my power to keep you from buying Prescott Memorial Hospital,” I said matter-of-factly. I’d seen all kinds of outrageous behavior in my time. Packman’s gimmick with the chess clock may have been original, but I wasn’t that impressed.

“It would only be a waste of both of our time,” he replied. “Our purchase of Prescott Memorial Hospital is a done deal. The board of trustees has voted and the letter of intent has been signed. My lawyers tell me that it’s a lock.”

“I’m sure they also tell you what a great guy you are,” I pointed out, surprised by his unwillingness to even pay lip service to diplomacy, “but that doesn’t necessarily make it true.”

“You’re a very rude young lady,” he said. It was a statement of fact.

I looked pointedly at the clock. “And you think you’re more important than you are.”

Packman leaned back in his chair, unmoved, and pressed his steepled fingers to his lips, focusing his gaze on me like a high-priced shrink.

“I didn’t get to where I am today without being a pretty fair judge of people. I’m going to venture a wild guess and Say your mother put you up to this,” he observed.

“I’m here representing the interests of the people whose donations built the hospital you seem to think you’re buying.”

“In that case, let me offer you some advice.”

‘What’s that?”

“Just let it go.”

“What?”

“Walk away.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because it’s in your family’s best interests.”

“I hardly think you’re in the best position to judge what is or is not in the best interests of my family.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you.“

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your family enjoys quite a reputation in this town— like the Kennedys but without all the scandals. I can only assume you’d want to keep it that way.”

“Is that some sort of threat?”

“No, just a statement of fact. It would be extremely unpleasant for your family to have the details of the hospital’s operations dragged out into the light of public scrutiny.”

“More painful than seeing the institution that we have spent millions of dollars supporting being used to squeeze profits out of sick people?” I demanded, wondering what on earth Uncle Edwin had been up to that had given Gerald Packman not only the ammunition, but the sense of impunity to use it.

“Let’s just say that Prescott Memorial’s operations have gone unscrutinized for far too long. As you can imagine, I’ve had quite a bit of experience with so-called charitable institutions. More often than not they are ruled by ego and riddled with financial irregularities. When we come in, we invariably uncover a shocking lack of professional oversight and controls, problems that have been left to fester for years.”

“So naturally you expect to find those same kind of problems at Prescott Memorial.”

“Let’s just say I wouldn’t want anybody to be printing the hospital’s postoperative mortality statistics in the newspaper right now.”

“Is that so?” I observed blandly. Inside, my heart practically leapt from my chest. From everything Claudia had told me, I assumed that knowledge of the problem with postsurgical deaths was confined to the hospital. If so, how had Packman found out about it?

“In the real world the drive to make a profit forces companies to solve problems. In hospitals like Prescott Memorial, they just get swept under the rug. In my experience that’s never a good thing.”

“That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you about,” I said, eager for the opportunity to shift the conversation over to my agenda.

“What’s that?”

“Your experience. I understand that prior to starting HCC you worked primarily in the fast-food and convenience-market industries. I was wondering exactly what it is about those endeavors that prepared you to run a health care company?”

“I know you intend the question as an insult, but I actually look forward to answering it. For your information the similarities between the two industries are actually quite striking.”

“Really? In what ways?”

“Right before HCC bought its first hospital, I spent an entire day just hanging around in the emergency room, observing what kinds of things went on, and you know what struck me immediately? How similar it was to a fast-food franchise. People showed up in a hurry and went up to the counter to tell the person on the other side what they wanted. Not only that, but the measures of customer satisfaction were exactly the same: speed, courtesy, cleanliness, and convenience.”

“No doubt you’re right,” I said coldly. “But there is one significant difference.”

“What is that?”

“When the kid at the drive-through window screws up your order, you don’t die.”

I was on my feet and already out the door by the time I heard the timer go off.

I don’t think it was any one thing that made me change my mind. Perhaps it was that I had seen the difference that one doctor in one hospital can make, or the fact that I’d seen how the ripples from that life can move through the world. Or maybe it was just the stunt with the chess clock, but whatever it was, I walked out of the Darth Vader building certain that Gerald Packman for all his audacity was simply wrong.

The night before at Prescott Memorial Claudia hadn’t served up a Happy Meal. She’d saved a life. Trauma care wasn’t a product line. It was a battle against death fought hand to hand. I suspected that Claudia would be amused by my reaction—a lawyer blown away by what she does not understand. But in my heart I also knew that she would agree with my conclusions. Gerald Packman had to be stopped.

I marveled at how light the traffic was this time of day, especially heading out of the city. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been out of the office on a weekday morning. It felt strange to see that there was a whole world beyond LaSalle Street, people going about their business and enjoying the day.

As I made my way down the familiar tree-lined drive toward the stately Tudor clubhouse, I tried to remember the last time I’d been here. Not that it mattered. The whole point of places like the Lake Forest Country Club was that nothing in them ever changes. No doubt my great-grandfather had driven past these very same elms on his way to play cards with his friends and boast about the hospital he planned on building.

I pulled up under the big green awning, handed my keys to the valet, and made my way up the carpeted steps to the club’s main entrance. As I pushed through the heavy oak doors I could almost feel time slowing down. As I made my way to the ladies’ card room the grandfather clock in the hall marked out the seconds like a miser doling coins from his purse. This was a place where people came to pass the time, not cram as much as they possibly could into every billable sixth of an hour.

As such, it was probably an anachronism, though one that managed to be embraced by succeeding generations. Comfortable and serene, it was governed by a set of archaic rules set out in an oft-consulted volume the size of a small-town phone book. There were regulations covering all forms of behavior. There were elaborate dress codes for both sexes and every situation, including a strictly enforced white rule for tennis that meant that members looked like they were batting the ball around in their underwear. There were separate dining rooms for men and women at the lunch hour and a men’s-only grill at dinner where cigar smoking was permitted. Women were allowed on the golf course only during certain hours of the day in order to give the men who presumably Worked downtown preference in the afternoons.

I sighed and turned the corner into the ladies’ card room, a pink and white trellised space done up as a sort of gazebo. Today it was filled with so many women that

11 looked like a fire sale at Chanel. They were all sitting at tables of four, filling in the hours until lunch by taking a bridge lesson. They chatted and peered at their cards while a forbidding woman who sounded like a high-class dog trainer trilled out incomprehensible instructions about tricks and trumps.

I scanned the room and tried to pick out my mother. One thing that I’d never been able to understand is the singular energy with which these rich women simultaneously copied and competed with each other until they I managed to transform themselves into a veritable army of well-dressed clones. No wonder their husbands were forever giving them expensive necklaces, I thought to myself savagely. Like dog collars, they’re the only way to tell them apart.

I finally spotted her at a table near the front and made my way awkwardly through the room, bumping into chairs, stumbling over handbags, and offering whispered apologies.

“What on earth are you doing here, Kate?” demanded Mother in an irritated whisper once I finally reached her table.

“Since when do I need a reason to drop in and see my own mother?” I replied, unable to resist. One look at her face was enough to tell me that she did not appreciate the joke. “I need to speak to you about something,” I continued. “It should only take a minute.”

“Can’t it wait?” she demanded. “We’re in the middle of playing out a hand.”

I rose to my feet from my tableside crouch. “That’s all right,” I said. “I’m heading back to my office. You can reach me there whenever you find time in your busy schedule.”

I made it as far as the hallway outside of the men’s grill before my mother finally caught up to me. I could tell that she was furious.

“Do you mind telling me what you think you’re doing barging in and embarrassing me in front of my friends like that?” she demanded.

“You know, it was a nice day and I just felt like taking a ride to the suburbs,” I shot back. “Why do you think I came out here?”

Mother stared back at me uncomprehendingly.

“Why don’t you let me give you a hint? I came straight from my meeting with HCC.”

“Oh, that’s right, I’d forgotten all about that,” said Mother as if I’d just brought to mind an overlooked hairdressing appointment. “How did it go?”

“Gerald Packman gave me ten minutes of his time,” I continued.

“And?”

“And you were absolutely right about HCC. We have to stop them from buying the hospital.” Mother stared at me over the tops of her reading glasses, no doubt rendered speechless by the fact that this was the first time I’d told her she was right about anything since I was six years old. “That’s the reason I drove all the way out here today,” I pressed, “to see whether you were serious about stopping the sale of the hospital or if you’d just gotten your feathers ruffled by HCC.”

“How dare you even suggest that I didn’t mean what I said?” declared my mother, stung.

“And how dare you insist that I drop everything else that I’m doing to deal with HCC, while you can’t be bothered to interrupt a hand of bridge?” I snapped.

For a minute we just stood there glaring at each other. I doubted it was a picture anyone would want to put on a Mother’s Day card.

“How do you propose to stop them?” inquired my Mother finally.

“First of all, it’s not me, it’s us. I need you to be clear on that up front. There is no possible way to do this wWithout a commitment from you.”