Chapter 8: On Record

I took my hand off the truck door.

"Say that again."

"Not in those words."

He kept his eyes on the window.

"Counsel wrote me a statement. The patient in the video is not related to me."

"The video was staged by an influencer for content. I regret any confusion."

"Staged."

"If he isn't mine, there's no conflict. There's only a woman with a camera, and the hospital is the victim."

He finally looked at me.

"It makes the whole thing go away."

"And if you don't sign?"

"Then I examined my own child in my own unit, on video, in front of four million people. That's a conflict. They'll take the title."

Behind the glass, Benji made the stegosaurus wave at him.

Jameson lifted two fingers and waved back.

"When?" I said.

"Tomorrow. Nine o'clock. The fourth-floor conference room."

"I'm coming."

"Felicity, you don't have to."

"I'm his mother," I said. "If somebody's going to say on record what he is, I'm going to be in the room."

Ollie stayed at the cottage with Benji and a box of pancake mix.

The conference room had a long table and a view of the river.

There were more people in it than I'd expected.

Four committee members at the head of the table, two men and two women in blazers. A lawyer for the hospital with a thick folder.

Along the wall, in plastic chairs, sat his people.

Three surgical residents in scrubs. Two OR nurses. The nurse with the purple glasses. His old chief, in a golf shirt again, arms crossed.

"They asked to be present," the committee chair said, sounding like she wished they hadn't.

Jameson sat down at the foot of the table.

I sat beside him.

The chair cleared her throat.

"Ms. Dunagan, thank you for coming. We'll want a statement from you as well."

The lawyer slid two pieces of paper down the table. One to me. One to Jameson.

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