on, Doctor,” he prodded. “Level with me. Tell me what really happened in the O.R. Was there a slip of the knife? A mistake in anesthesia?”
“There was nothing of the kind!”
“Too much laughing gas and not enough oxygen?”
“I told you, there were no mistakes!”
“Then why is Ellen O’Brien dead?”
She stared at him, stunned by the violence in his voice. And the blueness of his eyes. A spark seemed to fly between them, ignited by something entirely unexpected. With a shock, she realized he was an attractive man. Too attractive. And that her response to him was dangerous. She could already feel the blush creeping into her face, could feel a flood of heat rising inside her.
“No answer?” he challenged smoothly. He settled back, obviously enjoying the advantage he held over her. “Then why don’t I tell you what happened? On April 2, a Sunday night, Ellen O’Brien checked into Mid Pac Hospital for routine gallbladder surgery. As her anesthesiologist, you ordered routine pre-op tests, including an EKG, which you checked before leaving the hospital that night. Maybe you were rushed. Maybe you had a hot date waiting. Whatever the reason, you got careless and you made a fatal error. You missed those vital clues in the EKG: the elevated ST waves, the inverted T waves. You pronounced it normal and signed your initials. Then you left for the night—never realizing your patient had just had a heart attack.”
“She never had any symptoms! No chest pain—”
“But it says right here in the nurses’ notes—let me quote—” he flipped through the chart “—‘Patient complaining of abdominal discomfort.’”
“That was her gallstone—”
“Or was it her heart? Anyway, the next events are indisputable. You and Dr. Santini took Ms. O’Brien to surgery. A few whiffs of anesthesia and the stress was too much for her weakened heart. So it stopped. And you couldn’t restart it.” He paused dramatically, his eyes as hard as diamonds. “There, Dr. Chesne. You’ve just lost your patient.”
“That’s not how it happened! I remember that EKG. It was normal!”
“Maybe you’d better review your textbook on EKGs.”
“I don’t need a textbook. I know what’s normal!” She scarcely recognized her own voice, echoing shrilly through the vast room.
He looked unimpressed. Bored, even. “Really—” he sighed “—wouldn’t it be easier just to admit you made a mistake?”
“Easier for whom?”
“For everyone involved. Consider an out-of-court settlement. It’d be fast, easy and relatively painless.”
“A settlement? But that’s admitting a mistake I never made!”
What little patience he had left finally snapped. “You want to go to trial?” he shot back. “Fine. But let me tell you something about the way I work. When I try a case, I don’t do it halfway. If I have to tear you apart in court, I’ll do it. And when I’m finished, you’ll wish you’d never turned this into some ridiculous fight for your honor. Because let’s face it, Doctor. You don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.”
She wanted to grab him by those pinstriped lapels. She wanted to scream out that in all this talk about settlements and courtrooms, her own anguish over Ellen O’Brien’s death had been ignored. But suddenly all her rage, all her strength, seemed to drain away, leaving her exhausted. Wearily she slumped back in her chair. “I wish I could admit I made a mistake,” she said quietly. “I wish I could just say, ‘I know I’m guilty and I’ll pay for it.’ I wish to God I could say that. I’ve spent the last week wondering about my memory. Wondering how this could have happened. Ellen trusted me and I let her die. It makes me wish I’d never become a doctor, that I’d been a clerk or a waitress—anything else. I love my work. You have no idea how hard it’s been—how much I’ve given up—just to get to where I am. And now it looks as if I’ll lose my job….” She swallowed and her head drooped in defeat. “And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to work again….”
David regarded her bowed head in silence and fought to ignore the emotions stirring inside him. He’d always considered himself a good judge of character. He could usually look a man in the eyes and tell if he was lying. All during Kate Chesne’s little speech, he’d been watching her eyes, searching for some inconsistent blip, some betraying flicker that would tell him she was lying through her teeth.
But her eyes had been absolutely steady and forthright and as beautiful as a pair of emeralds.
The last thought startled him, popping out as it did, almost against his will. As much as he might try to suppress it, he was all at once aware that she was a beautiful woman. She was wearing a simple green dress, gathered loosely at the waist, and it took just one glance to see that there were feminine curves beneath that silky fabric. The face that went along with those very nice curves had its flaws. She had a prizefighter’s square jaw. Her shoulder-length mahogany hair was a riot of waves, obviously untamable. The curly bangs softened a forehead that was far too prominent. No, it wasn’t a classically beautiful face. But then he’d never been attracted to classically beautiful women.
Suddenly he was annoyed not only at himself but at her, at her effect on him. He wasn’t a dumb kid fresh out of law school. He was too old and too smart to be entertaining the peculiarly male thoughts now dancing in his head.
In a deliberately rude gesture, he looked down at his watch. Then, snapping his briefcase shut, he stood up. “I have a deposition to take and I’m already late. So if you’ll excuse me…”
He was halfway across the room when her voice called out to him softly: “Mr. Ransom?”
He glanced back at her in irritation. “What?”
“I know my story sounds crazy. And I guess there’s no reason on earth you should believe me. But I swear to you: it’s the truth.”
He sensed her desperate need for validation. She was searching for a sign that she’d gotten through to him; that she’d penetrated his hard shell of skepticism. The fact was, he didn’t know if he believed her, and it bothered the hell out of him that his usual instinct for the truth had gone haywire, and all because of a pair of emerald-green eyes.
“Whether I believe you or not is irrelevant,” he said. “So don’t waste your time on me, Doctor. Save it for the jury.” The words came out colder than he’d intended and he saw, from the quick flinch of her head, that she’d been stung.
“Then there’s nothing I can do, nothing I can say—”
“Not a thing.”
“I thought you’d listen. I thought somehow I could change your mind—”
“Then you’ve got a lot to learn about lawyers. Good-day, Dr. Chesne.” Turning, he headed briskly for the door. “I’ll see you in court.”
YOU DON’T HAVE a snowball’s
