Chapter 23: The Chair

The board chair's office had a green carpet, a window onto the river, and a bowl of lemon drops she did not offer us.

She sat down behind her desk with the pink binder in front of her.

We stood side by side, not touching.

"Sit," she said.

We sat.

"Mr."

"Pembrey is no longer an employee of this hospital," she said.

"Security has his badge, his laptop and his keys."

"All of them, including the spare to your office, Dr.

"Hartmann."

"Thank you," said Kurt.

"I haven't finished."

"The cameras have been removed.

"The footage has been seized by counsel.

"The county will want to know about the call rooms, and I assume you'll want to be there when they do."

"I will," I said.

"His friend's application for the chief's chair was withdrawn about four minutes ago, by the friend."

"Good."

"Dr. Hartmann, you keep the chair."

He breathed out through his nose.

"I'd have kept it either way," he said. "I'd have fought."

"I know you would. That's why you keep it."

She turned to me.

"Dr. Fairweather. Your fellowship stands, with a notation in your file that I wrote myself. It says 'exemplary.'"

"Thank you, ma'am."

"There is an attending position opening in trauma in July. Your name has been mentioned by three people who don't like to mention anyone."

I couldn't speak.

"Last thing," said the chair. "Policy 9."

Kurt's face went very still.

"It's a good policy," she said.

"It has a crack in it."

"A person can fall in love with someone they'll never evaluate and still be guilty in the hallway."

"Yes."

"I would like it rewritten. By the two of you. Dr. Fairweather's notes first."

"Mine?" I said.

"You've lived inside it. I'd like it to say what it means."

She reached into the bowl and ate a lemon drop with enormous dignity.