Dead Certain

its name.
    Our bedrooms were directly across from each other at the back end of the apartment. Architecturally they were mirror images of each other. They were big rooms with dingy windows encased in burglar grilles that looked out onto the narrow alleys that ran between all the buildings on the block. Each had its own drafty fireplace and an adjoining private bath with a deep, claw-footed tub that, like all the rest of the fixtures, dated back to the twenties.
    But in every other way our rooms were completely opposite. For one thing, mine was decorated almost exclusively with dirty clothes. Stephen used to say that whenever he looked at it, he knew exactly what Saks would look like if it were ever leveled by a tornado. In contrast, Claudia’s room, like her life, was arranged with the precision of a naval cadet. Of course, I liked to think that the rigors of her schedule gave her an unfair advantage. Years of wearing nothing but surgical scrubs had not only winnowed her wardrobe down to two manageable categories—socks and underwear—but left the hospital responsible for her laundry, while I had no choice but to dress like a grownup.
    I knocked softly on her door and waited. When it comes to personal relationships, I believe in taking people at their word. Unlike my mother, when someone says they don’t want to talk about something, I change the subject. Not only that, but when told to go away, I leave. I’m not sure why so many people find this bewildering.
    Claudia’s voice, hoarse from crying, bid me to come in. Inside, the room was dark, the only illumination coming from the desk lamp in the far corner of the room. But even through the darkness I could see that she hadn’t changed out of the day’s blood-splattered scrubs. She had also been crying for a long time.
    “Is everything okay?” I asked quietly, setting myself gingerly onto the corner of her bed.
    She shook her head in reply, still struggling to muster the composure to speak.
    “Has something happened? Are your parents okay?” I pressed.
    Hugging her knees to her chest, Claudia forced herself to take a couple of deep breaths. “My parents are fine,” she answered finally, managing something that was meant to be a smile. “I’m afraid it’s me that’s the mess.”
    “Why? What’s wrong?”
    “I lost a patient today.”
    “Another patient?” I demanded reflexively. On some level every lawyer is a prosecutor, even against their better judgment. “Another respiratory arrest?”
    “Not another patient,” replied Claudia, the words bitter in her mouth. “ My patient. My very first patient.“
    “What do you mean?” I demanded. Even though they were often more highly skilled than their counterparts in private practice, the surgeons in Claudia’s training program were not technically responsible for their patients’ care. As physicians in training, they were required to work under the direct supervision of one of the senior physicians on the medical staff. In practice, of course, the opposite was more often the case. At Prescott Memorial it was the fellows, working trauma full-time, who were considered at the top of their game. It was the rare attending physician who challenged their instincts or interjected themselves in the management of patient care.
    “It doesn’t make one fucking bit of difference who the surgeon of record was,” Claudia declared miserably. “I was the surgeon who did the case. I’m the one who is ultimately responsible. McDermott never even set foot in the operating room.”
    “It was McDermott’s patient?” I asked, the first inkling of bad things beginning to stir at the base of my brain.
    “I told you it doesn’t matter whose name was on the bottom of the chart. I was the one who operated on her, and I was the one who killed her.”
    “What was her name?” I demanded, instinctively taking the interrogator’s tack of starting with simple questions and easy answers.
    “Camille Estrada,” said Claudia, as if even uttering the name was painful. “She arrived in the ER day before yesterday complaining of abdominal pain. They sent her up to OB-GYN, where Farah Davies had a look at her and admitted her with a tentative diagnosis of endometrial adhesions. While she was on the OB-GYN service they worked her up. When her abdominal ultrasound revealed cholelithiasis, Farah referred her to Gavin, who scheduled her for surgery.”
    “Would you mind telling me what happened again, but this time in