What We Find (Sullivan's Crossing, #1)(67)

“Steve, this is my best friend, Dr. Jaycee Kent, ob-gyn.”

“Pleasure,” he said, sticking out his hand.

“Thank you,” Maggie murmured to Jaycee. Next to neurosurgeons, OBs were very vulnerable to civil suits. “You told me to take a week or two off and I haven’t been back yet.”

“Then you needed the time to regroup. Maggie, you’re not unique. A lot of doctors who are under enormous pressure have to schedule downtime just to recover. Now think positive. We’re here for you.”

Over Jaycee’s shoulder Maggie saw Terry Jordan, an RN from the operating room, a round and stern fifty-five-year-old woman who ran that OR with an iron fist and had saved Maggie’s ass more than once by knowing almost as much as Maggie did. And next to her Rob Hollis touched two fingers to his brow in a salute. She spied her old office manager, Susan, a smile on her usually tight and grim face. And there was Kevin from radiology, Kevin who could read those emergency CTs better and faster and more accurately than anyone she knew. There were three OR techs, a couple of nurses, a couple of paramedics she ran into in emergency quite a lot. An audience. They were here for her. She prayed she wouldn’t just draw their pity.

She hadn’t even told her mother and Walter about this preliminary hearing! Now she remembered, she had told Jaycee and Terry in emails when they asked for updates on the lawsuit. Word must have spread like wildfire.

Maggie turned around. She was faced with the plaintiffs for the first time in over a year and it was shattering to see them. They were young, not that much older than Maggie at right around forty, yet they looked so devastatingly old. Mr. and Mrs. Markiff; she remembered telling them their son had expired. She’d held Mrs. Markiff in her arms for several minutes as she sobbed. Mrs. Markiff appeared to be losing her hair and was painfully thin, sallow, her face so deeply lined. She looked so weak. Mr. Markiff, on the other hand, looked so much bigger than she remembered. He had a fierce look on his face and a huge belly that strained the buttons on his white dress shirt. Both of them looked at her with loathing.

She had tried. She had tried so hard. Losing those kids was horrible. And yet it was her work and she didn’t have time to second-guess split-second decisions or pause to reconsider.

“All rise! The Honorable John Bestover White presiding.”

The judge entered, the entire courtroom rose and Maggie studied him. He looked very big in his robes but she thought, given the perspective of him passing the bailiff, he was actually a small, chunky man with a large, intimidating mustache and a ring of white hair around his otherwise bald head. And he was scowling.

He was efficient. They began going through the paperwork, first the complaint of wrongful death, then the motions—each one was read and had Maggie’s attorney not explained them all, she would be lost. There was the complaint, which was the plaintiff’s case. There was the counterclaim, which was essentially her side of the story and as close as she’d ever get to testifying, which she probably would never get to do. With the help of her lawyer and depositions, they had reconstructed the emergency in a timeline with supporting facts. There was the reply to the counterclaim in which the plaintiff alleged it should be obvious to any certified and experienced neurosurgeon that the patient to take to surgery was their son and not the unconscious boy—they alleged she had mismanaged triage. Then there was the statute of limitations, forcing the trial in a timely manner. She found that laughable a year and a half after the event. There were several more motions as well as evidence in discovery. All of these motions, each one read and explained and denied, took almost two hours. Denied to the defense team was the district attorney’s report in which he declined to prosecute any malpractice. A blow to the defense.

Then, finally, the plaintiff’s attorney offered a motion of summary judgment. Steve whispered to her that meant they’d go with the judge’s decision rather than a jury. They had no doubt heard Judge White wasn’t crazy about doctors.

“Your Honor, we make a motion to dismiss,” Steve said.

“Sit down, Mr. Rubin.”

The courtroom sank into dark quiet. The judge took a deep breath before he spoke.

“My heart is very heavy today,” he said. “I’ve read the claim, the counterclaim, all the motions and pleas. Inclusive in those materials was the accident report. In the plaintiff’s claim the focus is on two sixteen-year-old boys but in fact there were five—it was a catastrophic event, all arriving in the emergency room critical, one of them beyond help upon arrival. I preside over many civil malpractice and wrongful death suits. Many of them emerge from emergency rooms and emergency operating rooms. There is not only a reconstructed timeline provided by the defendant but notes from paramedics, RNs, attending physicians and ER physicians, not to mention the OR staff. From the time the first of the injured arrived in the emergency room until the fifth patient arrived, only six minutes had elapsed. From the time triage was complete until the first patient was anesthetized and the surgeon at the ready, four more minutes. From the time patient Markiff was assessed and sent to radiology for his head CT—two and a half minutes. There were also other decisions and designations made within this time frame—one boy sent to surgery for splenectomy while yet another was put into the care of an orthopedic surgeon and on to surgery to deal with two life-threatening broken femurs and yet another put on life support for possible organ harvest.