Page 49 of Once Upon A Second Chance

"I know the case was bullshit," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "The anesthesiologist screwed up, not Richard."

Holloway's bushy eyebrows climb toward his receding hairline. "That's not what these documents say."

"Because hospital lawyers buried the truth." My knee bounces under the desk. "You really think the man who stayed for fourteen hours stitching up tornado victims would cut corners on a kid?"

A long silence stretches between us, broken only by the ticking of Holloway's ancient wall clock. The cardinal flies away.

Finally, Holloway sighs and rubs his temples. "Tell Hogan I want those medical records by end of day so I can review them for myself." He flips the lawsuit papers face-down. "And Penny?"

"Yeah?"

"Staff meeting tonight. Mandatory."

As I step back into the hallway, the clinic's usual rhythms feel distorted—like someone pressed pause and then play again at thewrong speed.

The laughter in the break room is too loud. The silence in the exam rooms is too heavy.

And through it all, the unspoken question hangs in the air:

Who do you believe?

The clinic’s conference room was not designed to hold this many people. Chairs scrape against linoleum as nurses, receptionists, and doctors pack in, their voices layering into a low, buzzing hum.

The overhead fluorescents flicker just enough to set my teeth on edge.

I take a seat beside Lena, who’s already scowling at the room like she’s prepared to fight someone.

Across the table, Darlene fans herself with a stack of papers—copies of the lawsuit, no doubt—while whispering something to Simmons, the new OB, who keeps glancing at me like I’ve personally betrayed him.

Holloway stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, waiting for the chatter to die. It doesn’t.

"All right," he barks, and the room falls silent. "We’re not here to gossip. We’re here to decide if this clinic stands behind its doctors or lets some disgruntled ex-wife dictate our staffing."

Darlene snorts. "With all due respect, Doctor, this ain’t about his ex. It’s about whether we’re letting a surgeon with a malpractice suit hang his shingle here."

Lena’s fingers dig into my knee under the table.

Holloway’s jaw tightens. "You got proof he was negligent, Darlene? The suit ended up finding the anesthesiologist liable. So just how to you intend to hold Dr. Hogan responsible now?"

Simmons leans forward, his crisp white coat rustling. "The court documents—"

"—are worth less than the paper they’re printed on if you’ve ever dealt with a corporate legal team. The suit just alleges the circumstances, doesn’t prove them. You need to look at the final outcome, just like Dr. Holloway says," Nurse Patel cuts in, her voicesharp.

She slides a folder across the table. "I pulled the original OR reports. The anesthesia logs don’t match the court transcripts."

A murmur ripples through the room. Darlene snatches the folder, flipping through it with narrowed eyes.

Old Doc Jenkins, who’s been retired for a decade but still comes to these meetings like it’s his God-given right, lets out a wheezing laugh. "Christ almighty. Y’all ever think maybe the uptown New York doctor got railroaded?"

Simmons scoffs. "Or maybe he’s just another surgeon who thought he was God."

The words hit like a slap. Before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet. "You’ve worked beside him for three months, Simmons. You see how he treats patients. You really think he’d risk a kid’s life?"

The room goes still.

Simmons blinks, then shrugs. "People change when lawyers get involved."

Lena slams her palm on the table. "Oh, that’s rich comingfrom—"