'Dr. Linton?' Connor continued. 'I imagine in light of the brutal rape you experienced, it was quite an emotional ordeal to walk into that bathroom and discover a woman who herself had been sexually assaulted. Especially as it was almost ten years to the date that you were raped.'
Buddy snapped, 'Is that a question?'
'Dr. Linton, you and your ex-husband – I'm sorry, husband - you both are trying to adopt a child now, aren't you? Because as a consequence to this brutal rape you experienced, you cannot have children of your own?'
Beckey's reaction was unmistakable. For the first time since this had started, Sara really looked at the woman. She saw a softening in Beckey's eyes, a stirring of joy for a friend, but the emotion vanished as swiftly as it had come, and Sara could almost read the rebuke that cancelled it: You have no right to mother a child when you killed my son.
Connor held up a familiar-looking document, stating, 'Doctor, you and your husband, Jeffrey Tolliver, filed papers for adoption with the state of Georgia three months ago. Isn't that correct?'
Sara tried to remember what they had put on the adoption application, what they had said during the state-mandated parenting classes that had taken up every free minute of their time, over the last few months. What incriminating evidence would the lawyer wring out of the endless, seemingly innocuous process? Jeffrey's high blood pressure? Sara's need for reading glasses? 'Yes.'
Connor shuffled through some more papers, saying, 'Just a moment, please.'
The room was tiny, airless. There were no windows, no paintings on the wall to stare at. A dying palm tree stood in the corner, the leaves drooping and sad. Nothing good would come of any of this. No pound of flesh would bring back a child. No verdict of innocence would restore a reputation.
Sara looked down at her hand. Dorsal metacarpal ligaments, dorsal carpometacarpal ligaments, dorsal intercarpal ligaments…
Sara had visited Jimmy the week before he died, held his frail little hand for hours as he haltingly talked about football and skateboarding and all the things he missed. Sara had been able to see it then, that look of death in his eyes. The look was the mirror opposite of the hope she had seen in Beckey Powell's, even though the woman had heard the prognosis, had agreed to stop treatment so as not to prolong Jimmy's suffering. It was that hope that kept Jimmy from letting go, that fear that every child has of disappointing his mother.
Sara had taken Beckey to the cafeteria, sitting in a quiet corner with the bewildered woman and holding her hand just as she had held Jimmy's moments before. She'd described to Beckey how it would happen, how death would claim her son. His feet would get cold, then his hands, as circulation slowed. His lips would turn blue. His breathing would become irregular, but that shouldn't be taken as a sign of distress. He would have difficulty swallowing. He might lose control of his bladder. His thoughts would wander, but Beckey had to keep talking to him, engaging him, because he would still be there. He would still be her Jimmy until the very last second. It was her job to be there at every step, then – the hardest part – to let him go on without her.
She had to be strong enough to let Jimmy go.
Connor cleared her throat and waited for Sara's attention. 'You never charged the Powells for the lab tests and subsequent office visits after you made James's diagnosis,' she said. 'Why is that, Dr. Linton?'
'I didn't, in fact, make a firm diagnosis,' Sara corrected, trying to get her focus back. 'I could only tell them what I suspected and refer them to an oncologist.'
'Your college friend, Dr. William Harris,' the lawyer supplied. 'And you didn't bill the Powells for any of the lab work or any subsequent visits following the referral.'
'I don't handle billing.'
'But you do direct your office staff, do you not?' Connor paused. 'Do I need to remind you that you're under oath?'
Sara bit back the sharp answer that wanted to come.
'According to the deposition of your office manager, Nelly Morgan, you directed her to write off as a loss the almost two thousand dollars the Powells owed you. True?'
'Yes.'
'Why is that, Dr. Linton?'
'Because I knew that they were facing what could be crippling medical costs for Jimmy's treatment. I didn't want to add to the pile of creditors I knew that they would have.' Sara stared at Beckey, though the woman would not meet her gaze. 'That's what this is about, isn't it? Lab bills. Hospital bills. Radiologists. Pharmacies. You must owe a fortune.'
Connor reminded, 'Dr. Linton, you're here to answer my questions, not ask your own.'
Sara leaned toward the Powells, tried to connect with them, make them see reason. 'Don't you know it won't get him back? None of this will get Jimmy back.'
'Mr. Conford, please instruct your client-'
'Do you know what I gave up to practice here? Do you know how many years I spent-'
'Dr. Linton, do not address my clients.'
'This is the reason why you had to go to Atlanta to find a specialist,' Sara told them. 'These lawsuits are why the hospital closed down, why there are only five doctors within a hundred miles of here who can afford to practice medicine.'
They would not look up at her, would not respond.
Sara sat back in her chair, spent. This couldn't just be about money. Beckey and Jimmy wanted something more, an explanation for why their son died. The sad fact was that there was no explanation. People died – children died – and sometimes, there was no one to blame, nothing that could stop it. All this lawsuit meant was that a year from now, maybe five years, another child would be sick, another family would be stricken, and no one would be able to afford to help them.
No one would be there to hold their hand, to explain what was happening.
'Dr. Linton,' Connor continued. 'As to your failure to bill the Powells for the lab work and office visits: isn't it a fact that you felt guilty for Jimmy's death?'
She knew the answer Buddy wanted her to give the question, knew that even Melinda Stiles, the silent advocate for Global Medical Indemnity, wanted her to deny this.
'Dr. Linton?' Connor insisted. 'Didn't you feel guilty?'
Sara closed her eyes, could see Jimmy lying in that hospital bed, talking to her about skateboarding. She could still feel the cold touch of his fingers in hers as he patiently explained to her the difference between a heelflip and an ollie.
Interphalangeal joints. Metacarpophalangeal joint. Capsule, distal, radioulnar joints…
'Dr. Linton?'
'Yes,' she finally admitted, tears flowing freely now. 'Yes. I felt guilty.'
Sara drove through downtown Heartsdale, the speedometer on her BMW 335ci barely reaching twenty-five. She passed the five-and-dime, the dress shop, the hardware store. At Burgess's Cleaners, she stopped in the middle of the empty street, debating whether or not to drive on.
Ahead of her, the gates of the Grant Institute of Technology stood open. Students walked down the main drive dressed as goblins and superheroes. Halloween had come and gone the night before, but the Grant Tech students tended to-stretch every holiday into a weeklong affair. Sara had not even bothered to buy candy this year. She knew that no parent would be sending their kid to knock on her door. Since the malpractice suit had been filed, the whole town had ostracized her. Even patients she had treated for years, people she had genuinely helped, avoided her gaze at the supermarket or the drugstore. Considering the atmosphere, Sara felt it would not have been wise to don her usual witch's costume and go to the church party as she had for the last sixteen years. Sara had been born and raised in Grant County. She knew that this was a town that burned witches.