“Patricia,” I said softly, “before I sign anything, can I show you something on my phone?” She rolled her eyes and waved me on, certain I was about to beg. I turned the screen toward her. It was a photo of her signature on a Medicare reimbursement form for a four-year-old named Jamie Cole — a child who had died eleven days before the procedure was billed. Her smile cracked, just at the corners. I swiped. Another form. Another dead child. Another six-figure charge. “I have eighty-three of these,” I said. “Three years of them. I started collecting the week you told Jamie’s mother her insurance wouldn’t cover the hospice bed.” Patricia’s hand drifted toward her desk phone. I shook my head. “Security won’t help. The two officers on this floor are cousins of nurse Daniela Ruiz — the one you fired last spring for asking questions.” The door behind me opened without a knock. Special Agent Lorraine Tate of the FBI Healthcare Fraud Unit stepped in, followed by two auditors carrying banker’s boxes. Behind them, the hospital’s board chair, Mr. Whitaker, looking older than he had at Monday’s gala. “Patricia Hensley,” Agent Tate said, “we have a warrant for your office, your devices, and your home in Wellesley.” Patricia finally looked at me, really looked. “You set me up.” “No,” I said, standing and smoothing my scrubs. “You set yourself up. I just kept the receipts.” I picked up the Montblanc pen, turned it over in my fingers, and set it back down beside the blank resignation letter. “Keep it. You’ll need something to sign your plea deal with.” Whitaker cleared his throat. “Dr. Vasquez, the board met this morning. We’d like to offer you Chief of Surgery, effective immediately.” I walked past Patricia without looking back. In the hallway, Jamie Cole’s mother was waiting in a folding chair, holding a framed photo of her son. I knelt down, took her hand, and whispered, “I told you he’d be heard.” She cried into my shoulder while, behind the glass wall, Patricia Hensley finally picked up the pen — to sign her rights away.
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