would happen if we did fire Dr. DiMatteo. She could lodge an appeal. The matter would go to higher review. They look at this case and they'll ask questions. They'll ask why a seventeen-year-old boy didn't get that heart from the beginning."
There was a pause. "Jesus," murmured Parr.
"You understand what I'm saying?" said Wettig. "It looks bad. It makes the hospital look bad. This isn't the sort of thing we want to see in the newspapers. Hints of class warfare. The poor getting the short end of the stick. That's how they'll play it up. Whether or not it's true." Wettig looked questioningly around the table. No one said a thing.
Our silence speaks volumes, thought Parr.
"Of course we can't allow people to get the wrong impression," said Susan. "Outrageous as it may seem, even the appearance of human organ deals would kill us in the press."
"I'm just telling you how it looks," said Wettig.
"I don't care how it looks," said Voss. "They stole that heart."
"It was a directed donation. MrTerrio had every right to specify the recipient."
"My wife was guaranteed that heart."
"Guaranteed?"Wettig frowned at Parr. "Is there something I don't know about?"
"It was decided before her admission," Parr said. "The match was perfect."
"So was the boy's," countered Wetfig.
Voss shot to his feet. "Let me explain something to you people. My wife is dying because of Abby DiMatteo. Now, you people don't know me very well. But let me tell you, no one screws me or my family and gets away with--'
"Mr Voss," interjected one of his attorneys. "Perhaps we should discuss this in--'
"Goddamn it! Let me finish!"
"Please, Mr Voss. This isn't in your best interests."
Voss glared at his attorney. With apparent effort, he broke off his attack and sat back down. "I want something done about Dr. DiMatteo," he said. And he looked straight at Parr.
By now Parr was sweating. God, it would be so easy just to fire that resident. Unfortunately, the General wasn't going to play ball with them. Damn these surgeons and their egos; they resented anyone else calling the shots. Why was Wetfig being so stubborn about this?
"MrVoss," said Susan Casado in her silkiest voice. Her tame-the-savage-beast voice. "May ! suggest we all take some time to think this over? Rushing into legal action is seldom the best course. In a few days, we may be able to resolve your concerns." Susan looked pointedly at Wetrig.
The General just as pointedly ignored her.
"In a few days," said Voss, 'my wife may be dead." He rose to his feet and regarded Parr with a look of contempt. "I don't need to think this over. I want something done about Dr. DiMatteo. And I want it done soon."
"I see the bullet," said Abby.
Mark redirected the light beam, focusing it on the posterior reaches of the thoracic cavity. Something metallic glinted back at them, then vanished behind the inflating lung.
"Sharp eyes, Abby. Since you spotted it, you want to do the honours?"
Abby took a pair of needle forceps off the instrument tray. The lungs had expanded again, blocking off her view of the cavity. "I need deflation. Just for a sec."
"You got it," said the anaesthesiologist.
Abby plunged her hand deep into the thorax, following the inner curve of the ribs. As Mark gently retracted the right lung, Abby clamped the forceps tips around the metal fragment and carefully withdrew it from the cavity.
The bullet, a flattened twenty-two, clattered into the metal basin. "No bleeding. Looks like we can close," said Abby.
"This is one lucky guy," Mark said, eyeing the probable trajectory. "Entry hole just right of the sternum. Rib must have deflected it or something. And it tumbled free along the pleural space. All he gets is a pneumothorax."
"Hope he learned his lesson," said Abby.
"What lesson?"
"Never piss off your wife."
"She was the shooter?"
"Hey, we've come a long way, baby."
They were closing the chest now, working together with the companionable ease of two people who know each other well. It
There was a pause. "Jesus," murmured Parr.
"You understand what I'm saying?" said Wettig. "It looks bad. It makes the hospital look bad. This isn't the sort of thing we want to see in the newspapers. Hints of class warfare. The poor getting the short end of the stick. That's how they'll play it up. Whether or not it's true." Wettig looked questioningly around the table. No one said a thing.
Our silence speaks volumes, thought Parr.
"Of course we can't allow people to get the wrong impression," said Susan. "Outrageous as it may seem, even the appearance of human organ deals would kill us in the press."
"I'm just telling you how it looks," said Wettig.
"I don't care how it looks," said Voss. "They stole that heart."
"It was a directed donation. MrTerrio had every right to specify the recipient."
"My wife was guaranteed that heart."
"Guaranteed?"Wettig frowned at Parr. "Is there something I don't know about?"
"It was decided before her admission," Parr said. "The match was perfect."
"So was the boy's," countered Wetfig.
Voss shot to his feet. "Let me explain something to you people. My wife is dying because of Abby DiMatteo. Now, you people don't know me very well. But let me tell you, no one screws me or my family and gets away with--'
"Mr Voss," interjected one of his attorneys. "Perhaps we should discuss this in--'
"Goddamn it! Let me finish!"
"Please, Mr Voss. This isn't in your best interests."
Voss glared at his attorney. With apparent effort, he broke off his attack and sat back down. "I want something done about Dr. DiMatteo," he said. And he looked straight at Parr.
By now Parr was sweating. God, it would be so easy just to fire that resident. Unfortunately, the General wasn't going to play ball with them. Damn these surgeons and their egos; they resented anyone else calling the shots. Why was Wetfig being so stubborn about this?
"MrVoss," said Susan Casado in her silkiest voice. Her tame-the-savage-beast voice. "May ! suggest we all take some time to think this over? Rushing into legal action is seldom the best course. In a few days, we may be able to resolve your concerns." Susan looked pointedly at Wetrig.
The General just as pointedly ignored her.
"In a few days," said Voss, 'my wife may be dead." He rose to his feet and regarded Parr with a look of contempt. "I don't need to think this over. I want something done about Dr. DiMatteo. And I want it done soon."
"I see the bullet," said Abby.
Mark redirected the light beam, focusing it on the posterior reaches of the thoracic cavity. Something metallic glinted back at them, then vanished behind the inflating lung.
"Sharp eyes, Abby. Since you spotted it, you want to do the honours?"
Abby took a pair of needle forceps off the instrument tray. The lungs had expanded again, blocking off her view of the cavity. "I need deflation. Just for a sec."
"You got it," said the anaesthesiologist.
Abby plunged her hand deep into the thorax, following the inner curve of the ribs. As Mark gently retracted the right lung, Abby clamped the forceps tips around the metal fragment and carefully withdrew it from the cavity.
The bullet, a flattened twenty-two, clattered into the metal basin. "No bleeding. Looks like we can close," said Abby.
"This is one lucky guy," Mark said, eyeing the probable trajectory. "Entry hole just right of the sternum. Rib must have deflected it or something. And it tumbled free along the pleural space. All he gets is a pneumothorax."
"Hope he learned his lesson," said Abby.
"What lesson?"
"Never piss off your wife."
"She was the shooter?"
"Hey, we've come a long way, baby."
They were closing the chest now, working together with the companionable ease of two people who know each other well. It
Similar Books
