“Onward, troops,” said Kornblatt, pointing to the stairwell and increasing his pace to a near-run. All of them vaulted the first flight with the zest of triathlon junkies. When we got to the top, Kornblatt was bouncing like a boxer.
“Go, team!” he said, pushing the door open.
The auditorium was a few paces down. A couple of doctors were lounging near the entrance, which was topped by a handwritten banner that said ASHMORE MEMORIAL.
I said, “Whatever happened to Kent Herbert?”
Kornblatt said, “Who?”
“Herbert. The toxicologist. Didn’t he work with Ashmore?”
“I didn’t know anyone worked with Ashmore. The guy was a loner, a real—” He stopped himself. “Herbert? No, can’t say I remember him.”
We entered the big fan-shaped lecture hall; rows of gray cloth seats sloped sharply to a wooden lecture pit. A dusty green board on wheels stood at the rear of the pit. The upholstery on the seats was dingy and some of the cushions were tattered. The light, fluctuating hum of occasional conversation filled the room.
The auditorium held at least five hundred chairs but no more than seventy were occupied. The spotty attendance gave it the look of a pass-fail class. Kornblatt and his entourage headed down toward the front of the room, shaking hands and trading a few high-fives along the way. I hung back and sat by myself in the uppermost row.
Lots of white coats — full-time staffers. But where were the private practitioners? Unable to attend on short notice or choosing to stay away? Western Peds had always suffered from town-gown tension, but the full-timers and the physicians out in “the real world” had always managed to achieve a grudging symbiosis.
As I looked around some more, I was struck by another scarcity: gray heads. Where were all the senior people I’d known?
Before I could mull that, a man holding a cordless microphone stepped into the pit and called for quiet. Thirty-five; soft, pale baby face under a big blond Afro. His white coat was slightly yellowed and too big for him. Under it he wore a black shirt, and a brown knit tie.
He said, “Please,” and the hum died. A few beepers went off, then silence.
“Thanks to all of you for coming. Could someone get the door?”
Faces turned. I realized I was closest to the exit, got up and shut the door.
“Okay,” said Afro. “The first order of business is a moment of silence for our colleague Dr. Laurence Ashmore, so if you could all please rise...”
Everyone stood. Heads drooped. A long minute passed.
Afro said, “Okay, please be seated.” Walking to the board, he picked up a piece of chalk and wrote:
AGENDA
1. ASHMORE MEMORIAL
2.
3.
4....?
Stepping away from the board, he said, “Is there someone who wants to say a few words about Dr. Ashmore?”
Silence.
“Let me say, then, that I know I speak for all of us in condemning the brutality of what happened to Larry. And in offering our deepest sympathy to his family. In lieu of flowers, I propose we get together a fund and donate it to an organization of the family’s choice. Or our choice, if it would be too disruptive to ask the family at this point. We can decide now, or at a later date, depending on what people feel. Anyone care to comment?”
A short-haired woman in the third row said, “How about the Poison Control Center? He was a toxicologist.”
“Poison Control Center sounds good,” said Afro. “Anyone second that?”
A hand rose in the middle of the room.
“Thanks, Barb. So moved. Anyone know the family? To inform them of our plan?”
No response.
He looked at the woman who’d made the suggestion. “Barb, would you be in charge of collecting the funds?”
She nodded.
“All right, people, bring your donations to Barb Loman’s office in Rheumatology and we’ll see that the Poison Control Center gets the money, posthaste. Anything more along those lines?”
“Data,” said someone. “As in, we don’t have any.”
“Could you stand and clarify, Greg?” said Afro.
A stocky, bearded man in a checked shirt and wide, floral, retro tie rose. I thought I remembered him, as a resident, without the beard. An Italian name...
“... I’m saying, John, is that security stinks around here. What happened to him could have happened to any of us, and since it’s our lives on the line we deserve to have full access to information. Exactly what happened, the progress of the police’s investigation, as well as any measures we can take to assure our safety.”
“There aren’t any!” a bespectacled black man across the room called out. “Not unless the administration makes a real commitment to genuine security — twenty-four-hour guards at every entrance to the lot and at each and every stairwell.”
“That means money, Hank,” said the bearded man. “Good luck.”
A ponytailed woman with dishwater hair got up.
“The money would be available, Greg,” she said, “if they got their priorities straight. What we don’t need are more paramilitary types obstructing our patients in the halls. What we do need is exactly what you and Hank just said: genuine security, including self-defense classes, karate, Mace, personal training, whatever. Especially for female staff. The nurses deal with this kind of threat every single day, coming from across the street. Especially the night shift — you know how a couple of them were beat up, and—”
“I know tha—”
“... the open lots have no security at all. As all of us are learning, from direct experience. I drove in at five this morning on an emergency call, and let me tell you, it felt scary, people. I also have to say I think it was a serious mistake to limit this meeting to physicians. This is no time for elitism. There are nurses and ancillary staff out there suffering just like we are, working for the same goals. We should be getting together, empowering each other, not fractionating.”
No one spoke.
The ponytailed woman looked around the auditorium and sat down.
Afro said, “Thank you, Elaine, your point is well taken. Though I certainly don’t think any deliberate attempt was made to be exclusionary.”
“Well,” said the ponytailed woman, standing again, “was anyone else other than physicians informed?”
Afro smiled. “This was an ad hoc medical staff meeting, Elaine, so it’s only natural that physicians would—”
“Don’t you think the rest of the staff cares, John?”
“Of course,” said Afro. “I—”
“Western Peds women are terrified! Wake up, people! Everyone needs to be empowered. If you recall, the last two assault victims were women and—”
“Yes, I do recall, Elaine. We all do. And I assure you that in the event other meetings are scheduled — and it’s certainly clear to me that they need to be — a definite effort will be made to reach out.”
Elaine contemplated debate, then shook her head and sat.
Afro returned to the board, chalk poised. “I suppose we’ve moved on to another item, de facto, haven’t we. Staff security?”
Scattered nods. The lack of group coherence was almost tangible. It reminded me of so many other meetings, years ago. Endless discussions, little or no resolution...
Afro placed a check next to ASHMORE MEMORIAL, wrote STF SECURITY on the next line, and faced the assembly.