Chapter 12: The Ethics Panel

Conference Room C has a long oak table, a portrait of a founding nun, and a window that looks at a parking garage.

At nine on Monday the board chair sat at the head of it, a stern woman with a silver bob and a legal pad.

Pembrey sat on her right with a laptop and a folder.

The vascular chief sat on her left, a gray-faced man who looked like he'd rather be in surgery.

Kurt and I sat across the table with a foot of empty wood between us.

I wore my best suit, the one I had bought for fellowship interviews.

Benji slipped into the back row and gave me a thumbs-up that made my stomach hurt.

"This is an informal review," said the chair. "Mr. Pembrey, please present."

Pembrey clicked a key.

A photograph appeared on the wall screen.

It was a still from a hallway camera at the gala, time-stamped 9:11 p.m.

It showed Kurt stepping out of the accessible restroom, adjusting his tie.

The next still, 9:14, showed me coming out of the same door.

"I would like the panel to note the interval," said Pembrey, mildly.

Someone in the back row coughed, and I'd have bet it was Benji.

"Three minutes," said the chair. "Mr. Pembrey, that is also how long it takes to wash your hands."

"Together?"

"People are very hygienic these days."

A low laugh passed around the room, and Pembrey's smile thinned.

"There are also badge logs," he said.

"Eleven entries to supply room 4-112 in two weeks by the Chief of Surgery. Seven on the same nights by Dr. Fairweather."

"That's a busy closet," said Dolores, from her chair by the wall.

She wore her good cardigan and her pink glasses, and she looked like someone's grandmother at a church bake sale.

"Ms. Hennessy," said the chair. "You have worked on four for thirty-four years. Have you ever seen Dr. Hartmann behave improperly with a trainee?"