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

“Hmm,” she said. “So, you’re a widowed lawyer and I know your resources. You have access to court documents and you know how to research. You’ve studied my case.”

He shook his head. “I’m not going to do that. I’m not even tempted to do that, although I do want to know. But I only want to know if you want to tell me.”

She sat up a little straighter and took a deep breath. “Have you got any idea how bad the mortality rate is in neurosurgery? There was a time, when Walter started practicing, that he could face losing half his patients to brain surgery but he put his personal feelings aside and took the emotional risk for the ones he could save. It’s better now but it’s still high. The suit against me alleges that I made a bad choice in a triage situation, that I left a patient to die by not taking him to the OR immediately.”

“So the lawsuit is for malpractice?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Malpractice charges have not been filed, though there was an investigation and it’s still possible. Not likely, the investigation returned no malpractice. It’s a wrongful death suit filed by the parents of a teenager who died in the emergency room. We were in triage hell after an accident that brought five teenagers to the trauma unit. The call I made was practiced, logical and routine protocol. I took the patient who was the most critical—unconscious with an obvious epidural hematoma—to surgery and sent the conscious patient with a head injury for a CT.”

He frowned as he listened. “How do you make the call?”

“Besides experience and sound medical judgment? The ABCs—open airway, breathing, circulatory function, conscious. My patient was unconscious and he had a blown pupil, classic epidural hematoma—bleeding between the skull and brain. We had to drill holes in the skull immediately to get pressure off the brain. Another patient we pronounced; his heart was still beating but there was gray matter all over the gurney. We put him on life support for possible organ donation. The patient we sent for a CT was crying, bleeding, conscious, coherent.” She stopped talking and looked away. “He had a fatal hemorrhage before we could get him to the OR.”

“If he’d gotten to the operating room first, would he have lived?”

She shrugged. “Who knows? I can’t control everything that happens during surgery. Sometimes we get a brain bleed, a reaction to anesthesia, any number of things can go wrong. It’s always a risk. Always.”

“So a stroke was the cause of death?”

“The cause of death was five teenagers in a car traveling at a high rate of speed, lubricated by alcohol, hitting a guardrail and then a semi,” she said, almost defensively. She took a breath. “Yes. Stroke. With circumstances.”

“At least you got one to surgery.”

She sighed. “We lost him, too. He was the more critical. He was touch and go. Three teenage boys died that night. Two more were critical. It was devastating.”

“Aw, baby,” he said.

“You know, I don’t mind that they think I made the wrong call. I don’t mind that they’re angry and hate me. I don’t even mind if they sue me. But what I do mind is they think I don’t care. How could you do this job if you didn’t care? Sometimes I care so much it almost brings me to my knees. For the toughest of us there’s still an emotional cost.”

“I understand. As a defense attorney, I’ve faced people that think I want crime to pay or that it’s my intention to get bad people off. Neither being true.”

“I can imagine, though it’s unjust of them to judge you for your clients. But you must admit, with the unsavory element seeking your support, it’s at least understandable. You represent criminals. I save lives! I do everything humanly possible to save lives. That they’re not all savable isn’t my fault.”

Cal smiled patiently. “I don’t represent criminals. I represent individuals charged with crimes. Whether guilty or innocent is not up to me but decided by a judge and jury. The element I represent is the accused. The element I represent is you.”





Rather than love, than money, than fame,

give me truth.





—Henry David Thoreau





Chapter 12