Silent Treatment (36 page)

“What in the hell?” Willard McDevitt exclaimed.

Wetstone nodded toward the buffer man and the machine was shut off.

“Mr. McDevitt, do you know this man?”

“I do not.”

“Mr. Crawford, do you work for this hospital?”

“I do not.”

“Mr. Crawford, where did you get that contraption?”

“From the room marked
Floor Maintenance
in the subbasement.”

“And was it difficult for you to get?”

The blond man grinned.

“Piece of cake,” he said. “I’ll return it now if that’s okay.”

He spun the machine around and wheeled it out. Instantly, it seemed as if everyone was talking and gesturing at once. Harry noticed that several members of the medical staff were laughing. Willard McDevitt looked as if he was going to charge Mel Wetstone. Instead, he listened to some
whispered words from the hospital attorney, shoved his chair back, and stalked out. For his part, Wetstone carefully avoided appearing smug, or even pleased. He sat placidly, allowing his theatrics to hold sway. For the first time, Harry felt that the emotion in the room might be turning in his favor. If Rennick and his witness could be so wrong about the floor buffer, people had to be thinking, maybe they could be wrong about other things as well.

“Now just a minute. Just one damn minute!”

Caspar Sidonis had clearly taken as much as he could. He stood and strode to the head of the table. Owen Erdman, the hospital president, moved his chair aside for him.

“This man is a huckster,” Sidonis said, motioning toward Wetstone. “A snake oil salesman. He’s using misdirection and tricks to keep you from focusing on the important points in this case. And Sam, I’m afraid all you’ve done is make it that much easier for him. This isn’t a courtroom, it’s a hospital. We’re not here to debate fine points of law. We’re here to see to it that our thousands and thousands of patients—patients who could take their business to any number of facilities—have the confidence in the Manhattan Medical Center to continue coming here. We’re meeting here today to prevent our hospital from becoming the laughingstock of the city. We’re here to ensure that the medical school graduates, with every hospital in the country to choose from, think enough of this place to apply for residency here.”

The man was good, damn good, Harry acknowledged. This was revenge for Evie and payback for the humiliation of the amphitheater all rolled into one. And most important, his force and effectiveness sprang from his hatred of Harry and his consuming belief in Harry’s guilt. Harry took another silent poll of the room. Already things didn’t look as promising as they had. Mel Wetstone seemed on the point of rising to object to Sidonis’s tirade, but he thought better of it and sank back in his chair. Trying to stop the powerful chief of cardiac surgery from expressing his opinion could only hurt them.

“I am not embarrassed to say that Evie DellaRosa and I were in love,” Sidonis went on. “For years, she and Harry Corbett had had a marriage in name only. The night before she entered this hospital, the night before she was murdered, she told him about us. I know that for a fact. That gives him a motive. A two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar insurance policy gives him another. The nurses have already testified to his opportunity. And certainly the method chosen was one only a physician would know. Now, it’s remotely possible that Dr. Corbett is as innocent as he claims. It’s remotely possible that every crazy alternative explanation he has come up with actually happened. But even his innocence does not change the fact that two of our patient’s with strong connections to him are dead. The newspapers are having a field day at our hospital’s expense. The public confidence we have worked so hard to build is plummeting.

“Harry Corbett owes this hospital the respect and consideration to remove himself from the staff until this whole matter is resolved one way or the other. Since he has refused to honor that responsibility, this group must take action. I promise you here and now, I will not continue to practice at an institution without the gumption to stand up for itself and do what is right for its staff and patients. Thank you.”

Drained, or apparently so, Sidonis used the backs of chairs to help him return to his seat. Mel Wetstone inhaled deeply, then let out a sigh. Harry felt flushed and self-conscious. Sidonis had threatened the hospital and the board of trustees with a massive blow to their two most vulnerable areas: reputation and pocketbook.
World Famous Heart Surgeon Quits Hospital Over Handling of Doctor Doom
. Harry could just see the headlines in the
Daily News
. He leaned over to his lawyer.

There was a commotion outside the room. The doors burst open and Owen Erdman’s staid secretary rushed in.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Erdman,” she said breathlessly. “I tried to explain to them, but they wouldn’t listen. Sandy’s called security. They’re on their way.”

She stepped aside as a small mob marched into the room. Leading the way was Mary Tobin, and close behind her was Marv Lorello. Next came all the other members of the family medicine department, along with a number of Harry’s patients, some with their children in tow.
Two dozen people in all
, Harry guessed.
No, closer to three
. Among them he recognized Clayton Miller, the man whose severe pulmonary edema he and Steve Josephson had reversed by removing almost a unit of blood. The group crowded into one end of the conference room. Then several people moved aside and Harry’s patient Mabel Espinoza stepped forward. Two of her grandchildren clung to her skirt.

“My name is Ms. Mabel Espinoza,” she said. Her Latino accent was dense, but no one ever had trouble understanding her. She faced the hearing with the stout dignity that had always made her one of Harry’s favorites. “I am eighty-one years old. Dr. Corbett has cared for me and my family for twenty years. I am alive today because he is such a wonderful doctor. Many others could say the same thing. When I am too sick, he comes to see me at my home. When someone cannot pay, he is patient. I have signed the petition. In less than one day, more than two hundred have signed. Thank you.”

“This was your Mary’s idea,” Wetstone whispered to Harry. “I never thought she could pull anything like this, though.”

Another woman stepped forward and introduced herself as Doris Cummings, an elementary-school teacher in a Harlem school. She read the petition, signed by 203 of Harry’s patients, enumerating the reasons Harry was essential to their well-being and that of their families.

“… If Dr. Corbett is removed from the staff of the Manhattan Medical Center without absolute just cause,” the petition concluded, “we the undersigned intend to take our health care to another hospital. If leaving the Manhattan Health HMO is necessary and possible, we intend to do that as well. This man has been an important part of our lives. We do not want to lose him.”

Marv Lorello whispered in Cummings’s ear and motioned toward Owen Erdman. Cummings circled the table and set the petition in front of the hospital president. Across from Harry, a distinguished woman named Holden, who was a past president of the board of trustees, brushed aside a tear. Standing to her right, Mary Tobin was beaming like a mother at her child’s graduation.

Next, Marv Lorello spoke on behalf of the department of family medicine, describing Harry as an invaluable friend and powerful example to those in the department, especially those newly in practice. He read a statement signed by every member of the department, in effect threatening to move their services to another facility if Harry should be removed from the hospital staff without absolute, legally binding proof of his misconduct. He set the document on top of the petition in front of Owen Erdman. Then the group trooped out of the hearing.

There was no further discussion. The vote was a formality, although two of the twelve submitting ballots did endorse Harry’s removal from the staff. Caspar Sidonis left the room as soon as the result was read.

“Dr. Corbett,” Erdman said coolly, “that was an impressive show of regard for you. It would be tragic to learn that such loyalty is not deserved. Have you anything further to say?”

“Only that I’m grateful for the vote. I
am
innocent, and I intend to prove that, and to find this man. I would hope to begin by posting this likeness around the hospital.”

“Absolutely not!” Erdman snapped. “My staff will discreetly distribute that sketch to our department heads. But we will not lay ourselves open to the public suggestion that a murderer could just waltz into our hospital, disguise himself behind one of our floor polishers, and murder one of our patients. I demand your promise of cooperation in this regard.”

Harry looked over at Mel Wetstone, who simply shrugged and nodded.

“You have my word,” Harry said.

“In that case,” Erdman concluded, “you have our blessing to continue with your work.”

“Are you going home?” Wetstone asked as they headed out of the hospital.

“No, I’m headed to the office. I think Mary deserves a lunch.”

“Dinner at the Ritz would be more like it.”

The thermometer, mounted on the wall just outside the Battery Park IRT station, was in direct sunlight. Still, ninety-four degrees was ninety-four degrees. As he entered the station, damp and uncomfortable, his briefcase in one hand and his suit coat scrunched in the other, James Stallings cursed his penchant for dark dress shirts. He loved the way they looked on him, and the statement that they made among his white-shirted colleagues. But on a day like today, wearing royal blue was simply dumb.

But then again, he had been doing a lot of dumb things lately.

The station was mobbed. Tourists from Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty jostled with passengers off the Staten Island ferry and a crowd of kids in their early teens wearing Camp Cityside T-shirts. Almost everyone was talking about the heat. Stallings shuffled through the turnstile behind two Cityside girls, who were giggling about a boy being disallowed on their field trip. Caught up in their conversation,
Stallings tried to piece together what it was the boy had done and where they were all headed. But before he could, the teens took up with a dozen other campers and moved like a jabbering phalanx down the broad stairs.

There was a train waiting at the platform. Battery Park was at the beginning of the run, so there were almost always seats, even at rush hour. Today, though, it was standing room only. From snatches of irritated conversation around him, Stallings discerned that there was a delay of some sort. And of course, while the cars themselves were air-conditioned, the platforms were not. Thick, steamy air billowed in with the passengers and overwhelmed what little cooling the system was generating. Beneath his arms, Stallings’s shirt was soaked through. He glanced out the window at the crowd still pouring down the stairs and across the concrete platform. Loomis was supposed to wait ten minutes before heading back to Crown. It had probably been close to that already. Not that it really mattered if they ended up on the same train. Especially different cars. But Stallings, who had never been the nervous or paranoid type, was frightened—
irrationally frightened
, he kept trying to convince himself.

Sir Lionel had posed something of a threat to The Roundtable, and he had died suddenly and mysteriously. A year or so later, Evelyn DellaRosa had been murdered in her hospital bed. She, too, had crossed paths with the society. The drug used to poison her
had
been discovered, but almost by accident. Were the two deaths coincidence?
Possible, but doubtful
, Stallings thought. Now, within twenty-four hours, he would either have to submit a list of hospitalized clients to be terminated, or become a potential threat to The Roundtable himself.

Meeting with Kevin Loomis was the right thing to have done, he decided. Loomis seemed like an up-front, decent enough guy. Even though he remained noncommittal and maybe even unconvinced, as soon as he had the chance to sort through everything, he would come around. And together they would figure out something. They simply had to. Stallings wiped perspiration from his forehead with his
shirtsleeve. The car was nearly packed. The heat oppressive. It was only a matter of time before someone passed out.

“Hey, watch it!” one of the passengers snapped.

“Fuck you,” came the quick retort.

A gnarled old woman with a pronounced hump and an overfilled shopping bag worked her way between him and the seats and stopped with one of her heels resting solidly on Stallings’s toe. Stallings excused himself and pulled his foot free. The crone glared up at him with reddened eyes and muttered something that he was grateful he couldn’t understand.

The doors glided shut and for a moment it seemed as if they had been condemned to a new brand of torture. But slowly, almost reluctantly, the train began to move. Stallings was taller than most of those standing in the car. Clutching his briefcase and his hopelessly wrinkled suit coat in his left hand, he was able to keep his balance in part by holding onto the bar over the old lady’s head, and in part by the force of those pressing around him. He commuted to work from the Upper East Side on the IRT, and so was an inveterate and extremely tolerant rider. But this was about as bad as he could ever remember. To make matters even worse, the train was lurching mercilessly—perhaps responding to an effort by the driver to make up for lost time.

A minute out of the station, the old lady’s heel again came down on his foot. This time Stallings nudged her away, earning another glare and another epithet. Moments later, a particularly vicious lurch threw a crush of people against him. He felt a sharp sting in his right flank, just above his belt. A bee? A spider? He reached down with his right hand and rubbed at the spot. The stinging sensation was already almost gone. His shirt was still tucked in all around. His hand was still off the bar when a tight curve pitched him against the passengers behind him.

“Hang on to something, for chrissake,” someone cried as he was pushed back upright.

“Idiot,” someone else added.