Dead Certain

the receptionist and down the wide corridor that led to her office. “I’ve heard so much about you from Kate, it’s nice to have a chance to finally meet you, even under these circumstances.”
    She ushered us into a spacious, sunlit office that commanded a stunning view of the lake. Out on the water the first sailboats of the season dotted the horizon with their bright spinnakers. It was a soothing view, not much different from the one from my new apartment, but a world away from the sunless canyon of LaSalle Street.
    The interior of her office couldn’t have been more different from the old-money insides of Callahan Ross. At Callahan Ross the walls were white and there were rules for everything, including how many chairs you could have before you made partner (two) and how many personal photographs you were allowed to display (three). Joan’s office, on the other hand, was a dramatic expression of her personality. The walls were painted a deep carnation pink, and the black leather couches were littered with faux leopard-skin pillows. Everywhere you looked, there were pictures of Joan, her husband, and their young son, including one displayed on the credenza directly behind her desk that was apparently taken just moments after Jared was born. It showed Joan, her hair matted with sweat, beaming down at her new arrival, both mother and child still swathed in surgical green.
    As striking a contrast as it presented to the buttoned-down conformity of Callahan Ross, I knew there was more to it than Joan’s flamboyant personality. Like an attorney specializing in divorce, Joan’s practice was a highly intimate one. When a doctor was sued for malpractice, his or her personal competence and integrity were called into question in the most fundamental fashion. While my clients hid their shortcomings behind the corporate veil, Joan’s were being exposed to the most humiliating type of personal scrutiny. Everything about Joan’s office said, this is who I am, trust me.
    While I sipped coffee and enjoyed the view, Joan took Claudia through the events leading up to Mrs. Estrada’s death, pausing frequently to ask questions and quietly making notes.
    “You did the right thing coming to me,” concluded Joan, laying down her pencil once Claudia had finished. I suspected that she said it to everyone who brought their problem to her door, but it was reassuring nonetheless. For Claudia these were uncharted waters. After the security of being part of the medical staff, she now found herself cut adrift, an outsider. “Though I must confess I’m surprised they were so quick to cast you to the wolves, given your association with Kate’s family.”
    “Nobody knows that Kate and I are friends,” answered Claudia. “The last thing I wanted was for everybody to be whispering that the only reason I have my job is that I’m friends with the Prescotts and the Millhollands.“
    “Well, don’t you think that it’s maybe time they found out?” inquired Joan.
    “I’m not so sure we’re such an asset anymore,” I pointed out. “In case you haven’t heard, the family filed suit against HCC this morning, and as we speak, my mother is sucking up to every journalist who’s ever asked her for an interview, in order to explain what a terrible mistake the hospital is making.”
    “In that case maybe you’re right. I think we should start out by focusing on figuring out the best way to defend against these allegations of malpractice that have been leveled against you.”
    “Before we start, I have to ask you how much this is going to cost,” Claudia said, swallowing hard. I knew that her salary, though adequate, was dwarfed by an Everest of debt owed to the government that had financed her education. While her surgical skills would eventually earn her a lavish income, her current net worth consisted of a nine-year-old Honda, an impressive collection of classic CDs, and the outstanding balance on an amazing number of student loans.
    “Don’t worry about that,” I cut in. “Joan and I will work that out.”
    “You know I can’t let you do that,” Claudia protested. “Listen,” I said. “I’ll make you a deal. When my appendix blows, I expect you to take it out and not send me a bill. Not only that, but I expect all the really good painkillers.”
    “Deal.” Claudia laughed in spite of herself.
    “Good,” said Joan, rubbing her hands together. “I’m glad that’s settled then.”
    “There’s still something