Chapter 13 Then

I really think this is a bad idea, Meredith. By not putting on any defense, the committee is going to assume you're guilty of negligence. And they'll set the punishment accordingly."

It wasn't the first time I'd heard those words from my attorney's mouth. I knew he meant well. Martin Hastings worked at my brother's firm. He only wanted what he thought was best for me.

"But I was negligent, Martin. I should've been more aware of what was going on with my own husband."

"Maybe. But the charges are that you overprescribed by signing twenty-two prescriptions for your husband. You didn't sign anything. There's a big difference between not safeguarding a prescription pad located in your private home or office and the committee thinking you signed all those scripts."

I sigh. To the committee there might be a difference, but the end result was the same. People were dead because I buried my head in the sand, refused to see what was really going on with Connor.

"I need this over with, Martin."

He took a deep breath and nodded. "An admission of medical misconduct is grounds to permanently revoke your license. Will you at least let me speak to the committee off the record on your behalf? Explain what really happened? At a minimum, I'd like to try to negotiate the disciplinary action they take."

"Can you do that today, while we're here?" It had been six months since Connor's accident. While I was sure most people dreaded walking into the Department of Health's Office of Professional Misconduct, I'd been marking the days off on my calendar, waiting. I needed to move on. And I couldn't do that until I took responsibility for my actions—or my inactions, in this case.

"Yes. Give me an hour. I'll go in and see what I can do before we start the official hearing."

I hated to wait even one minute more, but following Martin's recommendation on this was the very least I could do. Lord knows I hadn't listened to any of his other advice. I nodded. "Sure. Thank you."

"Great." He pointed to a bench across the hall from the hearing room. "Have a seat. I'll be back as soon as I can."

But I couldn't sit. After Martin disappeared behind the closed door, I paced. Walking back and forth, I rehashed for the hundredth time how I'd gotten here.

Mr. Mankin. My patient who had been preparing for a trip down to Florida to visit his mother and needed a paper prescription to take with him. Only when I'd opened my desk drawer at the office, my prescription pad was gone. On the very afternoon that Connor had been alone in my office.

What had I done about it?

I'd ignored it.

I went home and got one of the other two prescription pads I stored in my home office desk.

Problem solved.

But I should've known.

I should've done something about it.

Not brushed my suspicions under the table.

Connor's anger? Before his injury, he'd never once raised his voice to me the way he did after he started those pills the pain clinic prescribed. He'd also never had trouble sleeping. Or an inability to sit down and relax when he got home.

Side effects of OxyContin abuse: Mood swings. Anger. Difficulty sleeping. Restlessness.

What did I do about it?

Pretended not to see it.

Justified every single outburst. Looked the other way at every other flashing sign so I wouldn't upset Connor.

But deep down I'd known. Hadn't I?

I knew.

I might not be guilty of writing the prescription itself, but I'd buried my head in the sand. I'd failed.

As a wife.

As a doctor.

And so I paced. And paced. And paced. My lawyer had said he'd be out in less than an hour, but it was more like two that passed before the door opened again.

Martin shut the door behind him and blew out two cheeks full of air. "They want a year."

"A year suspension?"

He nodded. "I tried everything. They're not budging."

I let that sink in. A year with no patients. It would be tough. But wasn't I getting off easy compared to the Wright family? One year would likely fly by. I'd be back in my office in no time. But where would they be?

Still dead.

Still buried six feet beneath the ground.

I swallowed. "Okay."

"They also want you to see a therapist during your suspension and for one year after your return to practice. As much as they're holding you accountable, they also recognize that you've been through a lot, that you've experienced a big loss. They want to make sure your mental health is strong enough when you're able to treat patients again."

I nodded. "That's fair."

Martin took a deep breath. "Okay, then. We just need to go in so you can formally accept an admission of professional misconduct and then we'll be on our way. You'll be unable to practice medicine and see patients after today. They'll allow you fourteen days to manage your practice—meaning direct your staff to call patients and cancel appointments or make arrangements for another psychiatrist to cover you during your suspension. After that, you won't be able to have any involvement with your practice whatsoever. I recommend you not have contact with any staff or go into your office for any reason, in order to eliminate any appearance of impropriety. It's best to make a clean break."

"Okay." I nodded.

"I should also warn you that there's a group that could harass you once this becomes public record. It happened to another doctor I represented a few years back. They organized a protest outside his office. They go after doctors who get in trouble for selling scripts or overprescribing. The woman who started it lost her son when he fell asleep at the wheel and drove off the side of the highway. He was addicted to oxycodone. His doctor had written him something like forty prescriptions. This is a very different situation, so they shouldn't give you any trouble. But I thought you should know."

Oh God.

I tugged at the collar of my blouse, feeling suddenly claustrophobic. "Could we go in and get this over with? I really need some fresh air."

"Of course."

Less than fifteen minutes later, I was out on the street. I leaned forward with my hands on my thighs, panting like I'd just run a race.

"You okay?" Martin asked.

I nodded and closed my eyes. "I will be, now that that's behind me."

Martin waited a minute or two quietly. "Are you heading home? Do you want me to hail you a cab?"

I stood upright. "No, thanks. I have another stop to make. I think I'm going to walk."

He rested a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry things didn't work out better. But this is only the end of a chapter of your life, Meredith. Not the end of the book."

I thanked him and nodded. But there was still one more thing that needed to happen before I could put this chapter from hell to bed. And I was anxious to address that head-on. Though I didn't share my plans with Martin, because if my brother found out what I was about to do, he'd flip his lid.

Oddly, a half hour later, my cell phone buzzed right as I arrived at my destination. I paused to read the name flashing on the screen. Jake. He couldn't possibly know what I was up to, so I guessed Martin had just made it back to the office and filled him in. Still, the timing was uncanny. I waited until it stopped ringing and went to voicemail—not wanting to lie to my brother about where I was or what I was doing—before opening the door and walking up to the front desk of the Seventeenth Precinct.

"Hi. Is Detective Green here?"

The officer gave me a quick once-over. "Name?"

"Meredith Fitzgerald."

"Is he expecting you?"

I shook my head. "No, he's not."

He gestured to a seating area behind me. "Wait there. I'll see if he's available."

A few minutes later, Detective Green walked out from a side door. "Dr. McCall?" He looked behind me. "No lawyer today?"

The only other time I'd been here—or been in any police station, for that matter—was a few days after Connor's funeral. Detective Green had asked me to come in and answer more questions. My brother, Jake, had insisted he go with me.

I shook my head. "No, I don't need one."

He motioned behind him. "Come on back."

I followed him down a long hall, stopping at the same door I'd gone through months ago. He extended a hand for me to walk in first. "Would you like a cup of coffee or something?"

"No, thank you."

"Please have a seat."

Detective Green took the chair across from me. "What can I do for you today, Dr. McCall?"

I went to fold my hands on the table, but they were shaking. Instead, I tucked my fingers under my thighs on the seat. "About a week before the accident, my husband and I had a fight. He showed up at my office with flowers the next day. That same evening, I noticed a prescription pad from my drawer was gone."

Detective Green sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Okay…"

It was the first time he was hearing the true story. My brother hadn't let me answer most of the questions the detective had back then—citing either the Fifth Amendment or spousal privilege. At the time, I was walking around in a fog and would've jumped off a bridge if Jake had told me to.

"I talked myself into believing I must've used the last page on the pad. But in hindsight, which is finally much clearer to me, I would have remembered pulling off the last one." I paused. "The afternoon of Connor's funeral, after you came by my apartment, I checked the desk in my home office. I'd had another prescription pad there. That one was gone, too."

He nodded. "Anything else?"

"I was telling the truth when I told you I didn't write any prescriptions for OxyContin. But I should have addressed what was going on."

Detective Green rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Why now? What made you come in and tell me all this today, so many months later?"

I looked him straight in the eyes. "I couldn't live a lie anymore. Not even to myself. Today I accepted responsibility with the state medical board, and I'm here to accept the rest."

He pondered my answer for a moment before leaning forward. "I appreciate that. But as part of our investigation, we interviewed your husband's physical therapist and surgeon. They both said Mr. Fitzgerald had significant deterioration in both his knees, from years of overuse and constant injury. So even if you had prescribed the painkillers to your husband, it was debatable whether that was outside an acceptable treatment regimen. Plus, it might have been negligent to leave your script pad lying around unlocked, but proving your actions were criminal is a much bigger hurdle. It's also my understanding that while it's frowned upon, it's not illegal for physicians to prescribe medications to family members. That's why we never pursued things further with you. In the end, it was your husband who made the decision to take too many pills and drink and drive that night." Detective Green nodded. "And that's on him. Not you."

"But… if I had addressed things, maybe the accident would never have happened."

He nodded. "Perhaps. But there's no criminal case."

A few minutes later, Detective Green walked me back out to the lobby. He stopped before opening the front door. "Can I give you some advice, Dr. McCall?"

I nodded.

"You need to find a way to let go of the guilt, or it will eat you alive."

"How do I do that?"

He smiled halfheartedly. "I'm just a dumb cop. You're the doctor. I'm sure you'll figure it out."