up.
CHAPTER 5
M
itchell S. “Mitch” Tompkins checked the notes on a yellow legal pad and fingered a diamond-crusted gold band on his right hand. He gave a little tug on his Italian suit coat and turned a set of too-shiny white teeth toward Tina Ridgeway. Tina sat upright, legs crossed, her elegant hands folded in her lap in an effort not to show how uncomfortable the deposition was making her. She wore scrubs, sneakers, and her spotless white coat.
N ow, Dr. Ridgeway, before the surgery, did you tell Mary Cash exactly how you planned to destroy her sense of smell?”
Tina returned the stare, winced slightly, and took a deep breath.
“Of course not. We didn’t plan anything of the sort.”
“You did it anyway, though. Didn’t you?” Tompkins pressured.
Tina paused, and tried to choose her words carefully. “No operation is without risks.”
Tompkins paced the conference room on the twelfth floor of Chelsea General when he talked. Like the rest of the floor, the room was elegant, with a cherry-and-oak table and high-backed leather chairs all around. A few of Hooten’s paintings hung on the wall, along with gold-plated light sconces. It was perhaps the worst place to hold a malpractice deposition, but Tompkins had insisted and the hospital lawyers had relented. Tina closed her eyes and tried to remain calm. If Mitchell S. “Mitch” Tompkins planned to rile her up, he was succeeding. She had seen the man’s name before. It was on the back of every phone book, above a picture of him surrounded by concerned-looking patients. HAVE YOU BEEN WRONGED IN AN INJURY? HAVE YOU HAD A BAD MEDICAL OUTCOME? Tompkins didn’t look as good as the picture. In the photograph, he gazed at the camera with a confident air and the hint of a smile. Somehow, the picture made him look tall. In person, he was medium height and build. His handsome features were a little puffy, his face pale, with dark circles under his eyes, but he had swagger, and he was using it right now.
He was perched under an expensive chandelier. “You say no surgery is without risks. So then of course, before the operation you told Mary Cash about the risks?”
“Yes.”
“You, personally—”
“All our patients sign a consent—”
“Did you see her sign the consent? Did you personally see her sign the consent?”
Tina looked over at the hospital’s lawyer, who was reading his BlackBerry. The stenographer looked at Tina, waiting for her answer.
“Usually, that’s the responsibility of the resident, to go over the risks with the patient and have the patient sign the consent form.”
“So for all you know, Mary Cash didn’t even sign the consent.”
“I’m sure she signed it.”
“But you didn’t see her sign it. How can you be sure that’s her signature? It could be anyone’s.”
The hospital attorney looked up, interested the way he might find someone walking down the street with a black eye interesting, and then returned to his BlackBerry.
“Yes, but—”
“For the record,” Tompkins said, looking at the stenographer. “You are telling me you have no idea what risks—if any—Mary Cash was told of before this surgery.”
“We could ask—”
“Yes or no? Do you have direct personal knowledge of what risks Mary Cash was aware of before her surgery?”
Again, Tina looked to the hospital attorney. A four-hundred-dollar-an-hour mute , she thought. Shouldn’t he object or something? Was she supposed to endure this meekly?
Tompkins leaned close to Tina. He was enjoying every minute of this. He folded his arms in a practiced way, like someone on Broadway who wanted to make sure the folks in the back row didn’t miss the gesture.
“I have all day, Dr. Ridgeway. Yes or no.”
“No,” Tina said, deflated. “I did not personally hear what Mary Cash was told before her surgery.”
Tina tried to imagine what her father, the renowned internist Thomas Ridgeway, or grandfather, Dr. Nathaniel Ridgeway, a crusty family
CHAPTER 5
M
itchell S. “Mitch” Tompkins checked the notes on a yellow legal pad and fingered a diamond-crusted gold band on his right hand. He gave a little tug on his Italian suit coat and turned a set of too-shiny white teeth toward Tina Ridgeway. Tina sat upright, legs crossed, her elegant hands folded in her lap in an effort not to show how uncomfortable the deposition was making her. She wore scrubs, sneakers, and her spotless white coat.
N ow, Dr. Ridgeway, before the surgery, did you tell Mary Cash exactly how you planned to destroy her sense of smell?”
Tina returned the stare, winced slightly, and took a deep breath.
“Of course not. We didn’t plan anything of the sort.”
“You did it anyway, though. Didn’t you?” Tompkins pressured.
Tina paused, and tried to choose her words carefully. “No operation is without risks.”
Tompkins paced the conference room on the twelfth floor of Chelsea General when he talked. Like the rest of the floor, the room was elegant, with a cherry-and-oak table and high-backed leather chairs all around. A few of Hooten’s paintings hung on the wall, along with gold-plated light sconces. It was perhaps the worst place to hold a malpractice deposition, but Tompkins had insisted and the hospital lawyers had relented. Tina closed her eyes and tried to remain calm. If Mitchell S. “Mitch” Tompkins planned to rile her up, he was succeeding. She had seen the man’s name before. It was on the back of every phone book, above a picture of him surrounded by concerned-looking patients. HAVE YOU BEEN WRONGED IN AN INJURY? HAVE YOU HAD A BAD MEDICAL OUTCOME? Tompkins didn’t look as good as the picture. In the photograph, he gazed at the camera with a confident air and the hint of a smile. Somehow, the picture made him look tall. In person, he was medium height and build. His handsome features were a little puffy, his face pale, with dark circles under his eyes, but he had swagger, and he was using it right now.
He was perched under an expensive chandelier. “You say no surgery is without risks. So then of course, before the operation you told Mary Cash about the risks?”
“Yes.”
“You, personally—”
“All our patients sign a consent—”
“Did you see her sign the consent? Did you personally see her sign the consent?”
Tina looked over at the hospital’s lawyer, who was reading his BlackBerry. The stenographer looked at Tina, waiting for her answer.
“Usually, that’s the responsibility of the resident, to go over the risks with the patient and have the patient sign the consent form.”
“So for all you know, Mary Cash didn’t even sign the consent.”
“I’m sure she signed it.”
“But you didn’t see her sign it. How can you be sure that’s her signature? It could be anyone’s.”
The hospital attorney looked up, interested the way he might find someone walking down the street with a black eye interesting, and then returned to his BlackBerry.
“Yes, but—”
“For the record,” Tompkins said, looking at the stenographer. “You are telling me you have no idea what risks—if any—Mary Cash was told of before this surgery.”
“We could ask—”
“Yes or no? Do you have direct personal knowledge of what risks Mary Cash was aware of before her surgery?”
Again, Tina looked to the hospital attorney. A four-hundred-dollar-an-hour mute , she thought. Shouldn’t he object or something? Was she supposed to endure this meekly?
Tompkins leaned close to Tina. He was enjoying every minute of this. He folded his arms in a practiced way, like someone on Broadway who wanted to make sure the folks in the back row didn’t miss the gesture.
“I have all day, Dr. Ridgeway. Yes or no.”
“No,” Tina said, deflated. “I did not personally hear what Mary Cash was told before her surgery.”
Tina tried to imagine what her father, the renowned internist Thomas Ridgeway, or grandfather, Dr. Nathaniel Ridgeway, a crusty family
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