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                                                                                                                                    By Cary Brunswick

     Robin Connelly was still shaking as she started her car to drive the 20 miles home from the hospital. It was mid-winter frigid outside, but she wasn’t shivering because of that. She wasn’t cold at all.

   It was a Saturday in mid-January, the time of year she most hated working that 3 to 11 p.m. shift. It seemed the roads were always bad; if it wasn’t snowing when she was driving to or from the hospital on that winding, two-lane road, then it had snowed not that long ago, making the pavement slippery.

   What will I tell my husband, she was thinking. I’ve been a nurse for what, 15 years now, and nothing like this had ever happened to me before. What am I supposed to do now; act like it was nothing? Should I report it? Maybe I’d get in trouble then and lose my job.

   As she slowed for the curves in the road ahead, Robin began going over that brief moment in the emergency room, reliving it over and over, trying to figure out just where it started and whether she could have squashed it before it got out of hand.

   No, it wasn’t my fault, she kept telling herself. How could I have seen it coming? I’ve worked with him before. He’s always been a little strange, but some of these foreign doctors often seem that way.

   In fact, nothing like this had ever happened to her before, even when Robin was younger and in nursing school and then as a young, single nurse. She was good looking and had a nice build, though she’d put on a few pounds because of her two pregnancies. She’d heard from friends about dates where guys would get aggressive and try to force the issue. But they said that once they got angry, the men backed off.

   Yeah, I guess that was the best response, but it didn’t work for me. And it wasn’t even a date; it was an emergency room, for Christ sakes.

   Damn, I’m almost home. I have to decide what to do. I better tell Luke and see what he thinks I should do. We can’t afford to have me quit the job at the hospital; I’m making more than him and that’s not going to change, with the nursing shortage and all. He’s going to be pissed; I know that. He’s going to want to kick that doctor’s ass.

   The snow crunched from the tires as her car pulled into the driveway. As usual for a weekend night, Luke had waited up, sitting in the living room watching Saturday Night Live. On weekdays, he would have been in bed, since he has to get up at 6 and get to work at the creamery by 7.

   I hope he didn’t let the kids stay up for SNL tonight, she thought as she cut the ignition and slowly opened the car door. They shouldn’t be watching that stuff anyway at their age. Josh was 12 and Luanne, 10.

   The sky was clear now; if she looked away from the house’s outside light, she could see stars twinkling in the frigid sky. What the hell, all I ever wanted to do was be a nurse. I love my job; why did this have to happen?

   Well, here goes, she encouraged herself, as she stopped her dawdling and headed toward the house.

   ``What were you doing out there, Rob? I heard you pull in a few minutes ago,’’ Luke asked from the living room as Robin closed the side door off the kitchen and started to slide her boots off.

   She could hear laughter from the TV, and, shaking again, explained, ``oh, I was just looking at the sky. It’s all clear and you can see stars for a change.’’

   ``Grab your wine and come in here. Any excitement in the ER today,’’ Luke asked. ``I had the kids go to bed earlier like you said. Josh was at Tom’s for a while and we went to pick him up. Played a few card games. That’s about it for thrills around here.’’

   Robin slowly poured herself a glass of red wine and joined Luke on the living room couch.

   As some rock band she didn’t recognize, as usual, started playing on SNL, her eyes watered and she tried to hold back the tears. That’ll just make things worse, she thought.

   ``Luke, can we turn the TV off? I have to talk to you about what went on at work today.’’

   ``Honey, you’re shaking all over. What’s the matter,’’ Luke asked as he clutched the remote and clicked the TV off. ``What happened? A bad car accident?’’

   Robin, forcing herself to be steady, explained how it was a fairly quiet day in the ER and that after dinner she and Dr. Mosquid had just finished treating a teenager who sprained a knee while skiing. She was in one of the triage rooms straightening up and the doctor came back in. He just stood there looking at me, she said.

   ``I felt that he was looking really weird, you know, his eyes were sort of glassy and he had this strange smile. It made me feel really nervous. I asked if there were any more people in the waiting room, and he said `no, it was clear for a while.’’’

   She couldn’t control it any longer. Sobbing, she began to go on, ``He said I was a beautiful woman,’’ but she had to stop.

   Now shaking himself, Luke asked, angrily, ``what did this guy do, Rob,’’ as he slid closer and put his arm around her shoulders.

   Robin quickly lurched up, saying she would be right back as she headed down the hall to the bathroom. She went in and shut the door. Stopping in front of the mirror, she gazed at her face, which to her looked haggard, with makeup running from around her eyes. A beautiful woman? Right, she thought.

   Most people who knew Robin considered her attractive, certainly for a woman pushing 40. And in the small town of Duxton, which many young people fled after high school, she came back after nursing school, married a local boy and now held her own. She had shoulder-length brown hair and a round face, and was big-boned; but her height of 5 feet, 8 inches kept her in perspective. Only slightly over-weight, she tried to keep in check with daily walks and chores around the house, the landscape and, except in winter, the garden.

   I have to get this over with so we can decide what I should do, she thought, turning away from the mirror, opening the door and switching off the light. I hope we don’t wake the kids.

   ``You alright, Rob,’’ asked Luke, who apparently had been pacing the living-room rug while she was gone. ``Come on, tell me what the hell’s going on.’’

   And so Robin, as calmly and as dryly as possible, explained how Dr. Mosquid told her she was beautiful and with that look in his eyes had approached her in the ER room. He put one arm around her, and as he touched a breast with the other hand he pressed her back onto the examining table.

   She said she immediately protested, first verbally and then physically, trying to push him away as forcefully as she could. But his arms were stronger than you would think by looking at him. He held her down, pulled up her dress and grabbed at her vaginal area, though covered by her white pantyhose.

   ``What are you doing, doctor? What do you think you’re doing? Keep your hands off of me. You better watch it,’’ she said to him, getting angrier with each word she uttered until she was almost shouting. She was able to push him away enough to slide off the table and straighten herself.

   Mosquid looked startled, maybe a little shocked, as she dashed by him out of the room and quickly walked to the women’s room.

   Robin told Luke the rest of the shift was quiet and she didn’t have to work with Mosquid again. But, then, just before she left, he came to her, apologized and insisted it was a misunderstanding.

   ``You bet it was,’’ she said she told him, ``and you’re going to wish it hadn’t happened.’’

   Luke said, ``what an asshole,’’ as he sat back down on the couch. ``We can’t let him get away with this shit. What about the police? It has to be against the law to do that stuff. We could call the troopers right now. Or I could just go and teach that rug-rider a lesson he’ll never forget. Where’s the guy from, anyway?’’

   ``Some place near India, but you can’t get yourself in trouble over this,’’ she responded, feeling more rational and braver now. ``The police? Yeah, but he could always deny that anything happened,’’ Robin said, thinking to herself that the last thing she would want to go through is a courtroom drama. ``There were no witnesses. It’s my word against his and he’s a doctor and I’m just a nurse. I know it’s 1990, but it seems like doctors still have all kinds of special privileges.’’

    Luke, after hollering that groping his wife wasn’t one of those privileges, agreed with Robin that she should report the incident to the hospital and the Health Department, which was in charge of investigating physician misconduct.

   Luke was skeptical that the hospital would do anything. ``They might just sweep it under the carpet, and who knows about the state. Aren’t they pretty secretive up there?’’

   ``I guess we’ll find out _ on both counts,’’ Robin replied. ``All I know is, that bastard isn’t going to get away with what he did to me.’’

___

   On Monday, Robin went to work early so she could go to human resources to lodge a complaint against Mosquid. And, at first, the meeting didn’t provide the support that she was expecting.

   The HR director called in a couple other vice presidents and the medical director, all men, and after hearing her story, they tried to explain it away with some sort of cultural relativism. He’s from central Asia, they said, and since acceptable man-woman contact is probably viewed differently where he comes from, he might have some hang-ups.

   Eventually, they said they would talk to Mosquid and get back to her about what they would do next. Robin was convinced, however, that they were more concerned about bad publicity than going after a disturbed doctor.

   A week later, to her surprise, they called her in to say they, indeed, were going to file a report with the state Office of Professional Medical Conduct, part of the Department of Health. So, they would need her to fill out a bunch of paperwork and describe exactly what allegedly occurred.

   ``That’s great,’’ she reacted. ``Does that mean you’re going to suspend Mosquid? You can’t have him working around women anymore.’’

   On the contrary, the HR director smiled, we can’t do anything until it’s been determined that he actually did something wrong. You’ve heard of innocent until proven guilty, right Mrs. Connelly.

   Despite her protests, clearly it was a losing battle. Her hope for justice now rested solely with what she wished was not just a bunch of medical bureaucrats in Albany.

   But there was more.

   One of the vice presidents, chief financial officer Ben Whitaker, suddenly became more serious. Rising from his chair, hands fidgeting, he slowly paced. ``Of course, you realize, Mrs. Connelly, that we have to keep your allegations quiet. A doctor’s reputation is at stake and we have to let the proper investigators in Albany do their job. If you want to call it a gag order, then so be it. But you must not tell other hospital employees or anyone else about this. Next thing you know, the newspaper will be all over it.’’

   ``Naturally I told my husband,’’ Robin said defensively. ``And I did talk to my friend Beth Knowles, you know, the nurse in ICU. But I told her not to tell anybody until I knew what was going on.’’

   ``Well, make sure she follows your instructions,’’ Whitaker said sternly. ``If she has any questions, I’ll be happy to make our position clear.’’

   Robin got the message, and was thinking that it was probably OK to let the proper channels handle the matter. ``All right, no problem. So, you’ll keep me posted about what’s going on with the case in Albany? How long do these things take?’’

   Whitaker said it was hard to say, and smiling again, added that he would certainly keep her informed.

   Why do I feel like I’m being taken for a ride here, Robin thought as she left the office. Now I know what they mean when they say that victims of sex crimes are often made to feel like it’s their fault. Well, Mosquid is not going to get away with it.

   With Robin gone, Whitaker turned to his colleagues and looked concerned. ``I’m worried about this one, boys. I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be able to keep this kind of thing quiet. This Connelly woman may be a local, but I don’t think she’s going to let it die.’’

___

   Luke was not a happy man. At the creamery, he found it hard to concentrate on his work tending the condensers in the yogurt section. He still couldn’t believe what had happened to his wife. Then they tell her to sit tight while these jerks in Albany look into it, he thought. And the asshole is still working as if nothing went on. I still think I should call the cops.

   At home it was no easier. He was sure the kids knew something was up; who knows, they may have heard them talking that first night. Since then, he’s been drinking a lot more; not only beer, but also the Jack Daniels he kept hidden; and kids notice those things. He thought about telling Josh about his mom, but, hell, he’s only 12. What kid wants to know something like that happened to his mother?

   When Robin told him about the gag order, he really got angry. ``That’s bullshit. They are just hoping this whole thing will go away. Well, it’s not going away if I have anything to do with it.’’

   One day after work, with Robin at the hospital and the kids ice-skating with friends, he decided he had to do something. If he called the police, Robin would find out because they would want to talk to her. So, that was out. Walking through the house, nervously, he began rehearsing what he would tell the local newspaper, you know, as an anonymous news tip.

   I’m sure the paper and readers would want to know what some local doctor is doing to nurses, he thought, and especially if the hospital was trying to cover it up.

   Luke was a country boy, growing up in Duxton just like Robin and working at the same creamery where his dad worked before a bad back had forced him out. He started thinking that he couldn’t remember ever talking to a newspaper before, except maybe to bitch about not getting a delivery.

   He decided he better disguise his voice even though he wasn’t giving his name. You never know, he reflected, I don’t want this damn thing comin’ back to haunt me later somehow and then Robin’ll be out of a job.

   Customer service answered Luke’s call, and, gruffly, he said he had some news to report. The woman told him to hold and she would transfer him to the news desk.

   ``Newsroom, this is Michael Burnside,’’ the rapid-firing voice announced.

   Luke said he had some news, and asked Burnside who he was.

   ``I’m the managing editor,’’ Burnside said. ``What kind of news are you talking about?’’

   ``Does it matter?’’

   ``Well, yes, if it’s community news or arts news I can switch you to the right person. Why don’t you tell me what news you have?

   ``OK,’’ Luke said, deciding he’d let it fly, especially since nobody asked him who he was. ``I heard that some doctor at that Wolfson Hospital abused a nurse and they’re trying to cover it up. It ain’t right that he should get away with it. Maybe you paper people can get it made public.’’

   Burnside asked how Luke knew about it.

   ``I just know. I hear things. The doctor is Mosquid. I don’t know who the nurse is. But you guys better look into it. I heard Albany’s investigatin’ it. That’s about all I got to say.’’ And Luke was getting ready to hang up when the editor asked him to wait.

   ``Who are you,’’ Burnside asked.

   ``I ain’t saying. It doesn’t matter who I am,’’ Luke replied.

   ``Well, when did this abuse supposedly happen and what kind of abuse are we talking about? Does the hospital know about it? What else can you tell me?’’ Burnside was as full of questions as a three-year-old visiting a zoo.

   The editor was thinking the tip was probably on the level, so he had to get as much information as he could. He may never have a chance to talk to this caller again. Granted, all too many anonymous tips turned out to be dead-ends, but this guy seems to know what he’s talking about.

   ``It was sex abuse. In the ER,’’ Luke said nervously, wiping the sweat from his forehead and scratching under his armpits, where the perspiration also was gathering. ``He grabbed her crotch and breast. The hospital told everybody to keep it quiet. That’s it.’’

   And he hung up his phone, not a minute too soon as he heard Josh and Lu talking as they walked up the driveway out front. He quickly strode to the bathroom to rinse his face off and tried to calm down before they came in the house.

   Burnside had been at The Morning Sun long enough to know any story about a doctor involved with misconduct was going to take some work. The hospital would refuse to talk; doctors, if they knew anything, would circle the wagons around one of their own; and nurses and other hospital employees would be afraid for their jobs.

   And if the caller was right, and the Health Department was investigating, he knew officials there would be tight-lipped and wouldn’t even confirm that there was an investigation. The Office of Professional Medical Conduct, like the ones that dealt with judges and lawyers, was secretive and only maintained a public record, if at all, long after an investigation was completed and any penalties were meted out. Often, the files were sealed.

   On top of that, Burnside knew he only had a few reporters equipped to tackle such a difficult and sensitive story. Since the editor was on leave, he would have liked to discuss with a city editor how best to proceed and with which reporter, but, being a small community newspaper, he was also the city editor.

   The next morning, going over the day’s stories with reporter Ron Chapman, he asked him to stay a bit to talk about the news tip from the previous day. Chapman was young and had been at The Sun two years _ and he was a good reporter and was not shy about digging for a story. He likely would not be at The Sun that much longer, as the lure of bigger papers, more money and more exciting stories would take him away.

   Burnside filled him in about what he had heard from the anonymous caller, and they talked about what should be done first, to avoid tipping off the hospital that the paper knew about the alleged attack. They decided, more as a formality than anything else, to check with the Health Department to see if, by chance, officials there would confirm that there was an investigation of a Wolfson Hospital physician. More than likely, especially without a name the reporter could provide at this point, the response would be the usual ``can’t confirm or deny.’’

   Obviously, they decided, Chapman was going to have to talk to hospital employees, especially nurses, who may have heard something and maybe could name names of who was involved. Burnside said he knew a few nurses, mothers of children the same age as his, who he could call to see if he could get any information.

   Let’s try that and talk again tomorrow, they concluded.

___

   As expected, when Chapman called officials at the Health Department’s OPMC, they would not confirm or deny that they were investigating a Wolfson doctor. But Chapman didn't know that they could have denied it, because they had not yet been contacted by the hospital about the allegations against Mosquid.

   So, as the reporter took up a post outside the hospital building asking employees going to and from work what they knew about an abuse charge against a doctor, Ben Whitaker was looking as grim as he ever had when he walked into an executive committee meeting with the hospital administrator.

   The administrator, David Rollins, already was explaining to the committee that there had been previous charges lodged by female employees against Mosquid, but that internal reviews had not found anything significant enough to get Albany involved.

   ``We met with Mosquid and told him it had to stop and that he had better be extra careful,’’ Rollins had said. ``We assured the employees that we had taken disciplinary action, and we are fortunate that they trusted us and didn’t drag the state into it. But we believe this case is different.’’ 

   Then Whitaker jumped in. ``I’m afraid we’re going to have to hand Mosquid over this time. If we let it get out that we sat on those other complaints, it won’t be good for public relations and our fundraising will take a big hit; Christ, most of the board's trustees are women. Not to mention we’ll have the health department jumping all over us.’’

   In answer to questioning from one of his committee colleagues, Whitaker acknowledged it had been 11 days since he heard about the latest incident and briefly described his meeting with Mosquid.

   ``It was the same old story. He said he was praising the nurse for her work and stumbled into her. He said his hand might have brushed her breast in the process. What are we supposed to do? It’s her word against his. Except that there’s a pattern _ if that gets out somehow.’’

   What Whitaker didn’t tell his colleagues about the conversation was that Mosquid again had threatened to bring up a serious incident from years ago that the anesthesiologist had been pressured to cover up. Whitaker had doused the threat by reminding Mosquid that he was the one who had fabricated the official record, not the hospital.

   ``You’ve gotten away with this crap long enough,’’ Whitaker told Mosquid. ``The game is up; we have to let Albany handle it and see what happens.’’

   Meanwhile, a hundred yards away, out in the wind and cold, Chapman was getting nowhere trying to pull hospital employees aside during the 3 p.m. shift change.

   One woman, on her way into the hospital, hesitated and seemed like she was going to stop and talk, but then paused.

   ``Yes, what you heard is true but I don’t know anything more,’’ Robin Connelly said, and quickly moved toward the door, remembering what Whitaker had said and fearing for her job. Chapman ran after her and handed her his card; she took it but he barely had time to explain before she scrambled through the door.

   Most employees just waved him away, more interested in getting their cars started and heading home. A few knew something, he could tell by their reaction to his questions, but after quick reflection just shook their heads and moved on.

   They’re afraid to talk, Chapman thought, but there’s definitely something going on here. The problem is finding out what and to whom. Damn, it’s cold. It’s a good thing nobody’s spilling because I think the fucking ink in this pen has frozen. This story’s going to be a pain in the ass.

   After blowing on the pen and putting it back in his pocket, he decided to wait five more minutes for other workers leaving or entering the hospital.

   Back inside, Whitaker was saying that the hospital was going to have to file paperwork about the incident with the OPMC before the nurse gets impatient and does it on her own. She had turned her deposition in to Whitaker a week earlier, and he had been putting her off about when the hospital was sending its packet to Albany.

   ``Hey, if the state investigates and whatever the outcome, we could come out of this smelling pretty good _ as long as those other complaints
don’t surface,’’ he said. ``That’s why we got to play this one straight. I’ll have the papers sent out in the morning.’’

___


   A mile away, in The Morning Sun newsroom, Burnside hung the phone up and pounded his desk in frustration. He had just called two nurses he knew who worked at Wolfson, though not in the ER. They both had daughters who played soccer with one of his, so he figured if he gave them a chance to go ``off the record’’ they might say something.

   He didn’t know whether to believe them or not, but they said they hadn’t heard anything about a doctor, a nurse and alleged abuse. That place has employees scared shitless, he thought. The only other Wolfson nurse he knew was the publisher’s wife, who worked part-time, but he didn’t want to get them involved at this point. That would have to come soon enough, he realized.

   Burnside was still wondering what their next strategy might be when Chapman walked into the newsroom, looking just as frustrated as the managing editor. The reporter tossed his pad and pen on his desk, banged his chair and sulked down into the seat. Burnside heard the racket and called Chapman to the office.

   ``Ron, have a seat. I take it you didn’t have any more luck than I did getting people to talk,’’ Burnside said, unable to avoid seeing the framed Associated Press award for investigative reporting hanging on the wall above Chapman’s head.

   Those were the days, Burnside was thinking as the reporter started complaining about how scared all the employees seemed.

   ``Damn it, I know some of them are tuned in to what’s going on, but, what the hell, you’d think this hospital was being run by the Gestapo with the way they’re all afraid.’’ Chapman exclaimed.

   ``So, you didn’t find anyone who might budge,’’ Burnside asked.

   The reporter noted that there was this one woman who clearly knew what he was talking about, but backed off at the last minute. ``I really thought she was ready to spill and then she clammed right up. Yeah, there was something about her. She knew what was going on. I even gave her my card and said she could call me later. We’ll see.’’

   Burnside was starting to bring up the ``last resort’’ option of going to the publisher about talking to his wife when another reporter came to the doorway to say that Chapman had a call from somebody who insisted it was very important and he had to talk to him now.

   ``What the hell; this better be good,’’ Chapman said as he got up. ``I guess I better take it,’’ he said to Burnside as he was leaving the office.

   ``Go ahead; maybe the Right-to-Life chairman knocked up the director of Planned Parenthood,’’ Burnside said, laughing, trying to lift Chapman’s spirits. ``That would be a down-to-earth one you could get your hands on.’’

   ``Yeah, right,’’ the reporter chuckled, and quickly walked to his desk as his colleague transferred the call back to his phone.

   ``Hello, this is Ron Chapman. Can I help you.’’

   ``Are you the reporter at the hospital today asking questions,’’ the man’s voice asked.

   ``Yes. We heard a doctor abused a nurse and are trying to verify it actually happened. Do you know something? Who are you?’’

   ``Who I am is not important. But I do know about what you’re interested in. The hospital is trying to keep this quiet for obvious reasons, and it’s not the first time.’’

   Chapman, jittery about trying to keep the guy on the phone and get as much information as he could, continued cautiously while trying to make it appear that he knew more than he did.

   ``Yes, we’ve heard that. We’re just trying to verify who was involved and what the hospital’s doing about it,’’ he said, adding, ``so there have been other incidents?’’

   The man said he could not say more now. ``I can provide you with all the documentation you need. Meet me tonight at the West Wolcott rest stop on the interstate. At 9 o’clock. I’ll be in the men’s room. Come alone. I don’t want any trouble. I’m just trying to do what’s right.’’

   Chapman was taken aback but tried not to act that way. ``OK, the rest area at 9, in the men’s room. No problem. I’ll be there. Are you sure you can’t tell me more now, like who’s the nurse and who’s the doctor, so I can start working on this?’’

   ``No,’’ and the phone clicked dead.

   The reporter hung up his phone and took a deep breath. What the fuck, he thought; I’m going to go meet some guy and I don’t know who at some god-forsaken rest area 20 miles up the interstate. I’ve had anonymous sources but this is ridiculous.

   He got up and went back to Burnside’s office.

   ``Mike, you’re not going to believe this,’’ he said, ``but that was some deep throat who wants me to meet him at a rest area men’s room for info on the hospital story.’’ And he went over the entire conversation with his editor, and didn’t have to add any embellishment. It was real.

   ``You OK with this? Think this guy’s on the level,’’ Burnside asked. ``I’ll go with you if you want.’’

   Chapman said he was fine. ``He seemed like he knew what he was doing. But I better go alone. He was pretty clear on that.’’

   ``All right. I can’t believe this. We’re going to meet some guy in a john to get the info we need. That’s a first for me _ and it has to be for you, too. This is getting weirder all the time. Give me a call at home when you get back and fill me in. And Ron, good luck.’’   

___

   In Duxton, Luke and the kids were busy organizing a dinner for themselves when the phone rang. Luanne ran to answer it and, as she had been trained to do, said ``Connelly residence.’’

   ``Hi, Lu, this is mom. How was your day?’’

   ``Mommy! Oh, it was OK. We had a sub ’cause Mrs. Nettles got sick. And then …’’

   ``Lu,’’ Robin interrupted, ``I don’t have much time. Can you get daddy for me; I need to talk to him.’’

   ``OK, mom, just a minute. We’re making dinner.’’ Luanne said.

   ``That’s great, honey. See you later.’’

   Luke stumbled on his way to the phone. ``Hi there, Rob, we’re busy here doing a spaghetti supper. Actually the kids are doing most of the work; I’m just supervisin’ with a little trainin’ thrown in. If I could just get the damn …’’

   ``Luke, I just have a minute. Have you been into the beer again after work? You seem a little chatty.

   ``Oh, I had a few. What the hell’s so wrong about bein’ chatty, if that’s how you want to put it? Usually you bitch ’cause I don’t say enough. We’re doing OK here. We’re not burning the damn kitchen down or nothing. So what the hell’s going on with you? Why you callin’.’’

   ``Be careful, Luke, please. I just wanted to tell you that the hospital’s sending in the report to the health department. They have my statement. It’s all done. And now the newspaper knows, too. A reporter was at the hospital today asking questions. Now we just have to wait and see what happens to Mosquid.’’

   After pausing to grab his beer from the other counter, Luke said, ``I wonder how the paper found out. Well, screw that bastard Mosquid. I’m sick of hearing about him. If the health department doesn’t get him, then I will.’’

   ``Luke, calm down and be careful with the kids there. Don’t let on that you’re drinking. I have to run.’’

   ``OK, Rob, don’t worry about a thing; we’ll be all right. See you tonight.’’

   Robin hung up the phone in the nurses’ room, shut her eyes and put her hands over her face. Ever since that Mosquid thing, Luke has been drinking more beers every day. She thought, it’s a good thing he doesn’t like liquor, or he’d really be in trouble. But still, the fact he’s home with the kids all that time worries me.

   Maybe I should have kept all this to myself, she thought. I got people here looking at me; my friends wonder how I could have let it happen, as if I had a choice. I don’t know, maybe I should have seen it coming and got out of there. I hope Mosquid’s life has been screwed up a much as mine has. I got to get back to work.

___

   Chapman left his apartment about 8:15 even though the ride up to the rest area was only about 20 minutes. He wanted to be there early and see who was around, and decided he would sit in his car and not hang around the restroom before the appointed time. People will think I’m some kind of sicko, he thought, loitering in the men’s room.

   During the drive, he thought about his two years at The Sun and how it was probably time to move on. But it was a good first job right out of Syracuse. He’d had a chance to do all kinds of different stories, from fluffy features to hard crime, and if he could nail this investigative story on the doctor, that would be a great feather in his resume cap.

   I’m glad the road is dry, he continued, otherwise it might take me an hour to get to this fucking rest area. We haven’t had any snow for a few days now; that’s good, but it’s still way too cold. It will be good to get out of this climate. I need to be in a bigger city where there’s more crime and dirtier politics. That’s the kind of news for me.

   Then he recalled his talk with Burnside the day before, which ended up being a debate about why it was so important to do this hospital-doctor story at all. He knew his editor was playing the devil’s advocate when he suggested they just drop the story, saying that who’s business was it anyway what doctors and nurses were doing on the job.

   Did the paper have a responsibility to inform the public about it before any ruling came down from the health department, Burnside had asked.

   Yes it did, they concluded, because if what they had heard was true, then some doctor who treats local patients may not be fit to practice medicine _ and may even have violated the law. The people who work at Wolfson and the people who use the hospital have a right to know.

   Well, as he put on his blinker to exit the interstate, I hope what I find out tonight will answer a lot of questions, Chapman thought.

   He had to get off the interstate and get on again, heading back where he came from, to have access to the rest area, which was just a mile back east down the four-lane.

   As he expected, at 9 p.m. in the middle of winter on a dark night there were only a few tractor-trailers parked in the rest area. They were truck drivers who needed to get off the road for a few hours to satisfy their logbooks, and probably were nodding out.

   Chapman pulled into a parking spot about five spaces past the small restroom building and cut his lights. It was only 8:45, so he kept his engine running for the heat. About five minutes later, another car pulled in and parked on the other side of the no-parking zone that straddles the front of the building. It was another five minutes before a man, wrapped in a long, winter coat, hat and scarf, got out of the car and went into the restroom.

   The reporter decided to wait a few minutes before going in. Then he craned his neck to look down the road to make sure no cars were entering the rest area, and, pen and pad in hand, said, ``well, here goes.’’

   He pushed open the men’s room door and was pleased to feel a little bit of warmth in the otherwise cold room. Walking to the middle of the room, he noticed a pair of shoes in one of the two stalls.

   ``Hello,’’ he called. ``Is anybody here?’’

   After a few seconds, a voice in the stall asked if he was the Sun reporter.

   ``Yes,’’ Chapman replied, and asked the man if he was planning to come out into the open so they could talk.

   ``No, we can talk like this. You don’t need to know who I am, but if you need to know what’s been going on at the hospital, I can help you.’’

   ``Okay, but how do I know that what you say is credible if I don’t know who you are, even if it is off the record,’’ Chapman asked. The reporter was trying to put a face to the voice, without success. Talk about a generic voice, he thought, Nothing stands out with this one; no accent, no nothing.

   ``Don’t worry about facts; I can document everything,’’ the voice responded. ``Are you still interested?’’

   ``Yes, of course.’’

   But before the conversation could continue, Chapman told the man to hold on because he thought he heard a tractor-trailer pulling up outside. He paused to listen and before long the door opened and a truck driver walked in, as the reporter went to the sink to wash his hands to make the situation appear normal. After drying them, he went outside as if he were stretching his legs until the truck driver left.

   When the truck began pulling away, Chapman went back to the men’s room. He got his pad out and told the man it was clear for him to go ahead.

   And the stall-ensconced narrative began.

   What Chapman learned was that an ER doctor named Sanvar Mosquid was accused of inappropriately touching a nurse, the latest in a string of such accusations against the physician. Hospital officials previously had convinced the women employees to allow them to handle the misconduct internally, and they merely gave Mosquid a variety of memos and warnings for his personnel file.

   ``But why would they keep letting him off,’’ Chapman asked, adding, ``and how do you know all this?’’

   Ignoring the latter question, the disembodied voice continued:

   About six years ago, there was a death in the operating room because of an error during an anesthetic procedure. Mosquid was chief anesthesiologist and had been called away on personal business for a day. With a surgery backlog, the medical director decided to go ahead on a surgery with an inexperienced resident. The executives convinced Mosquid to fix the records to make it look like the hospital was not at fault _ that the fatality was an act of God. So, the hospital sent the resident packing and it owed Mosquid a big favor. And as it turned out, more than one favor.

   After this latest incident, however, the hospital was afraid the nurse was going to make trouble so the committee decided to turn the complaint over to the health department. Mosquid denied the charges, and is quite angry with the committee.

   ``I have all the documents here,’’ the voice said. ``A copy of the file being sent to Albany, and some of the previous allegations. What I don’t have, of course, is anything to support the fatal anesthetic in the OR. Like I said, Mosquid wrote the only report on that and it was a cover-up.’’

   Chapman saw a folder being slid under the wall of the stall, and was able to make out that the complexion of the skin on the hand was slightly dark, but not enough to draw any conclusions. He picked up the folder and quickly leafed through it, noticing that the name of the nurse _ and the others _ had been blacked out.

   ``This is great,’’ he said. ``And can I ask why you are doing this?’’

   ``Because I’ve been quiet too long already,’’ the man responded. ``It’s time for the truth to be told and for the hospital and Mosquid to be stopped. With what I’ve told you and with the documents, you should be able to dig for the rest of what you need. It’s getting late. Good luck.’’

  ``Holy shit,’’ was all Chapman could say while walking to his car.

   The next morning, Burnside was pumped on caffeine, and adrenaline from his call the night before from Chapman. He felt they were ready to push full-steam-ahead on the hospital story. He had just eased into his seat in his office when the phone buzzed and the publisher’s light on the pad was flashing.

   ``Hi Frank, what’s up?’’

   ``Mike, come to my office a minute, will you,’’ the publisher asked, though it clearly was a command.

   ``Sure, be right there,’’ Burnside replied.

   A few minutes later, the editor couldn’t believe his ears as he listened to Frank Treadwell explain how his wife is friends with this doctor at Wolfson, a Sanvar Mosquid, who had just received some sort of re-certification.

   ``Let’s get a story on this guy, Mike.’’

   ``But Frank,’’ Burnside said, ``we’re working on a story on him. He’s in some kind of trouble, but it might take a little time. I’m not sure we should be doing a story now about what a great doctor he is.’’

   Treadwell’s face quickly turned red and he shouted, ``I’m the fucking publisher here and if I want a story done then we’re going to do the goddamn story.’’ Slightly less loud now: ``You always have some reason why we shouldn’t do something and I’m sick of it.’’

   ``But Frank,’’ Burnside said again to himself, as he was thinking how it seems like he’s always saying ``but Frank’’ when he’s in this office. No wonder I don’t get along with publishers, he thought, and the office door was wide open just now. Shit, everybody in the building probably heard him screaming at me.

   ``But Frank, this guy’s being investigated for abusing nurses. We just got the papers last night. It’ll take a couple more days and we’ll have the story.’’

   ``Oh, bullshit,’’ Treadwell said, but then he began calming down as the bright red color slowly drained from his face and neck. ``OK, I’ll give you a couple of days to get that fucking story or we’re going to do it my way. Understand?’’

   Burnside couldn’t believe he won a reprieve. ``Good. No problem, Frank. We should be able to land it by then.’’ And, getting up from his chair, swallowing hard, he added, ``thanks, Frank.’’

   When he left the office, however, everybody in advertising and classifieds turned their heads toward him. Then it dawned on him. They must have heard the asshole yelling his head off at me in there.

   ``Hello everybody, don’t worry, I survived; you can go back to work now,’’ he said, and quickly headed back down the hallway toward the newsroom.

   As Burnside got back to his office, muttering about what a jerk Frank could be, he noticed Chapman coming in the newsroom door. ``Good,’’ he thought, ``because now we’re going to have to haul ass on this story.’’

   ``Hey, Ron, as soon as you’re ready, let’s talk,’’ he said to Chapman, and sitting down heavily in his office, he suddenly looked up with a smile that slowly spread his mouth wide.

   That’s it, he thought. There’s no way that doctor would talk to us about the trouble he’s in, but if we tell him we’re doing a fluffy story about his certification and he doesn’t suspect we know anything, he’ll be caught off-guard. And I have Frank to thank for this. Wonderful.

   ``I hate to say this, Ron,’’ Burnside said as Chapman came into the office and sat, ``but we only have a few days to get this story, so we’re going to have to move quickly. OK, based on what you said, the health department is just hearing about this complaint now, so it will be days or weeks before they even acknowledge they’re looking into something. So we may not get anything from them. The hospital people will have to talk to some extent because we have those files. The nurse’s name and the other victims were blacked out, right, so I say we go to the doctor first, before he gets wind that there’s a story coming.’’

   Chapman, skeptical, asked why Mosquid would want to talk to the newspaper, when he’s been denying anything happened and the health department is so tight-lipped. ``I think we should try to find out who the nurse is and talk to her.’’

   Burnside explained the situation with the publisher, the fluff story and the deadline he imposed. ``We may not have time to find the nurse. And there’s no way we’re going to track down this death in the ER at this point, without any documentation.’’

   ``What the hell, that’s bull with the publisher,’’ Chapman responded.

   But they agreed that Chapman would arrange an interview with Mosquid about his board re-certification, and ask him about the allegations against him. Then the reporter would go to the hospital execs for their comment, make a token call to the OPMC, and, nurse or no nurse, write the story.

___

   ``Young man, I do not know what you are talking about,’’ Mosquid reacted, after a moment of silent shock caused his neck to throb as if his pulsing heart had jumped to his throat. The reporter had followed up a few questions about certification by mentioning sexual abuse accusations against the doctor that had been turned over to the OPMC.

   After Chapman called, Mosquid had only hesitantly agreed to meet in his hospital office. Though the interview request was for a story on his re-certification by the national board, the anesthesiologist was wary of even positive publicity because of what he was going through with the administration over the nurse’s complaints.

   ``But, doctor,’’ Chapman said, ``surely you’re aware that the hospital has submitted documents to the state about a sexual harassment and abuse accusation leveled by a nurse. I know for a fact that the report was filed. What do you have to say, for the record?’’

   Mosquid looked through his window at the snow flurries drifting by on their haphazard route to a quick meltdown in the parking lot below. I can’t let this become public, he was thinking. After all, I’m a respected physician; she’s only a nurse.

   ``For the record, young man, I say nothing. Put your pen down and off your record I can explain something.’’

   Chapman closed his pad and put it into the inside pocket of his coat, draped over the back of the chair. He slid his pen into his pants pocket. ``OK, go ahead.’’

   Mosquid started to explain.

   Briefly, he said being an Asian doctor in America was not easy and there was discrimination on many fronts. He came to Wolfson happily and enjoyed his work. But he could tell that some colleagues disliked him for no apparent reason. Then, there was an incident in the OR and he was forced to cover up a terrible mistake or lose his job _ and perhaps even his future in medicine in this country.

   Despite the way he compromised his professional ethics, he continued, the hospital has been trying to get rid of him ever since, coming up with one accusation after another regarding his interaction with women on staff. None of it is true, he said, and this latest allegation was just that _ the most-recent false allegation.

   ``So, if what you say is true,’’ Chapman asked, ``why not speak out, clear your name and put the hospital on the spot?’’

   ``I sincerely wish it could be that simple, Mr. Chapman. I have negligible proof of what I have just described to you, and ultimately I am the physician who agreed _ whatever the circumstances _ to cover up the fatal error that day in the operating room. If forced into the proverbial corner, the hospital would without hesitation, how do you put it, hang me out to dry.’’

   Chapman pointed out that he had enough information to write a story; there was no getting around that. He suggested that it might look better for Mosquid if he made some kind of comment for the record, given the nurse’s charges.

   ``And what would you suggest, young man?’’

   The reporter said that if the doctor was indeed innocent, he should deny the accusation. ``If the nurse is correct, you better try to explain it as some kind of misunderstanding, deny it, or decline comment because of the ongoing investigation. But be prepared; there’s no question the health department will get to the bottom of it.’’

   ``Let’s go with the `no comment’ strategy for now.’’ His neck pulsating again and voice louder but shaky, ``I still don’t understand why the newspaper must do an article before the investigation is finalized. Making that nurse’s accusations public could seriously harm my standing. Either way, so be it. I assume I can trust you regarding our unofficial conversation.’’

   Chapman assured him that he takes journalistic ethics seriously and ``off the record’’ meant just that. He rose and slipped his coat off the back of the chair, folding and tucking it under his left arm.

   Turning toward the door, he thanked Mosquid for the interview and wished him luck. Then he quickly swiveled back toward the desk and put out a hand, which the anesthesiologist softly embraced in a shake.

   ``Good luck to you, too, young man,’’ Mosquid said.

___

   The next morning, story already being written, Chapman called the hospital administrator’s office and asked to speak to Rollins. His secretary asked for a ``what about’’ so she could relay the information to her boss, who she said would get back to the reporter.

   ``The health department investigation of a Dr. Mosquid concerning sex abuse allegations,’’ Chapman responded matter-of-factly.

   The secretary, who had heard only rumors about the incident and knew nothing herself about the health department being involved, nervously said she would give Rollins the message and asked for the reporter’s phone number.      

   Learning later of Chapman’s call, Rollins was so angry he threw a notebook against his bookcase. ``Goddamn it,’’ he muttered, and immediately dialed Whitaker’s extension and told him what had happened. ``Get in here, now,’’ he ordered.

   ``Hey, don’t start in on me,’’ Whitaker said as he walked into the administrator’s office. ``You’ve been involved with this from the start. But nobody’s going to the gallows just yet. We’ve got to figure out how to handle it with the newspaper, and it may mean dumping Mosquid now rather than later.’’

   Rollins had been able to calm down a bit, but Whitaker’s arrival incited his ire anew.

   ``Yes, I know it’s time to cut the cord with Mosquid, but I’d like to know how the hell that blasted newspaper found out about this. Did that nurse talk?’’

   ``No, she wouldn’t say anything. She has too much to lose. It had to somebody else. But the thing now is what we tell the reporter. We don’t have to worry about Mosquid; he’s in too deep to try to drag up the past and implicate himself while he’s at it. But I think we should play it cool and not send him off the gangplank immediately.’’

   The two administrators agreed Rollins should acknowledge, without confirming any names, that, yes, a complaint had been filed with the state, which would be launching an investigation to determine if any wrongdoing had occurred.

   `Then,’’ Whitaker added, ``as soon as the paper prints the article, we announce that Mosquid has been suspended pending the outcome of the investigation. That way, it will look like we’re responding to public concerns. We’ll be the good guys and Mosquid’s out of the way for now. You know the probe’s going to find him guilty, and we can fire him then because he’ll be facing misconduct charges with the OPMC.’’

   And sure enough, the only comment Chapman got out of Rollins was a confirmation that a complaint about a physician had been filed with the state, which the reporter already knew.

   Chapman told Rollins he knew who the doctor was, but the administrator still refused to confirm or deny the name, citing legal issues. In answer to a question, Rollins did say the hospital was reviewing its disciplinary options but may wait until the investigation was complete.

   The story was supposed to run the next morning, to make the publisher’s deadline, so Chapman finished his draft. He was not happy about not having the nurse in the story, so he decided to go back to Wolfson during the shift change and find the nurse he approached the other day, the one who seemed like she knew something.

   He waited near the same entrance, and finally saw her coming from the parking lot.

   Driving to the hospital, Robin was looking forward to work, which hadn’t been the case since ``the incident.’’ She had had a bad day. Luke had stayed home after a call to the creamery to say he had a stomach bug, though she knew it was probably a hangover. When she got home the night before, he was drunk and they argued about his drinking while trying not to wake the kids.

   Today, after the young ones boarded the bus for school, they started in again. Finally, going back and forth about what was going to happen when the hospital situation became public, Luke blurted out that he was the one who had called The Morning Sun.

   ``What were you thinking, Luke,’’ she reacted. ``You think I want my name plastered all over the damn newspaper? That was real foolish _ not to mention thoughtless.’’

   After getting a cold beer from the refrigerator and taking a big slug, Luke was feeling better already.

   ``Don’t worry. I didn’t give ’em my name or your name. They had no idea who was callin’ and I just tipped ’em off about what that fucking doctor did to you. You know, I’ve had enough of this crap. You think you have it so bad because some doc grabbed you and you had to file complaints and all that. Well, what about me? It was my wife who this bastard felt up and there’s nothing I can do about it. Where can I file a complaint?’’

   Anyway, that’s the kind of day Robin had. To keep from talking and listening, she vacuumed the whole house, and then left for the hospital, but not without trying to convince Luke to please keep from drinking too much around the kids.

   The drive had calmed her nerves and she was looking forward to the bureaucratic part of her nightmare being over when, nearing the hospital entrance, she saw that newspaper reporter. And he also noticed her pulling into the parking lot.

   Before Chapman had a chance to speak, Robin blurted out: ``Hey, listen, I know you’re that reporter from the other day, but I just can’t talk to you about anything. Just let me go to work; that’s all I want to do.’’

   ``But do you know there’s been a history of abuse with that doctor and the hospital’s been covering it up,’’ Chapman said. ``We’re doing a story. I wanted to give you a chance to say something. We wouldn’t use your name either way. Maybe we can help put a stop to this.’’

   Robin, eyes watering, rushed toward the door of the hospital and slipped inside.

   Chapman went to the parking lot to check out her car. There was nothing that might identify her except the license plate number, and he knew somebody in the Department of Motor Vehicles who might look up her name for him.

   He tried to jot down the license number in his pad, but the cold again had frozen up his pen. ``Shit. I need to start carrying pencils,’’ he said to himself as he did his best to memorize the plate number for his DMV friend.

 ___

   The next morning, the banner headline in The Morning Sun read: ``Wolfson doctor accused of sexual abuse,’’ with a subhead declaring, ``Health Department to investigate nurse’s allegations.’’

   Whitaker was reading the story at his desk when his phone rang. When he picked up the receiver, Viv Brown, president of the Board of Trustees, was quick to shout, ``Sam, what the hell’s going on down there? You still have this guy working in the hospital. What the hell’s wrong with you people? You know how many calls I’ve gotten already from people we care about?’’

   ``Don’t worry, Viv,’’ Whitaker replied. ``He’ll be out of here by midday and tomorrow we’ll have the headlines. We planned it that way.’’  

   ``Planned it that way? Bullshit,’’ Brown hollered. ``The damages today are going to mean a lot more than any glory tomorrow. We have a fund drive coming up. The board should have been told about this.’’

   ``Hey, calm down.’’ Losing his own patience now, Whitaker continued: ``If you knew half of what we’re dealing with here you would have resigned from the board a long time ago. I have to run to a meeting. Don’t worry, we’ll keep you posted; it’ll work out.’’

   In Duxton, Luke Connelly, after calling in and getting scolded for taking yet another sick day, was in the garage loading his shotgun. He had taken one look at the newspaper headline as the kids waited for the bus outside, put on his boots and coat, and made a beeline for his gun rack, trying not to wake Robin.

   He had decided, once Robin had told him the night before that the story was going to be published in the morning, that he couldn’t take it anymore. ``That doctor’s got to pay,’’ he thought. ``I might even be able to get away with it. Who knows how many people are going to be gunning for this guy now?’’

   As he put the shotgun behind the seat of his pickup, his thinking wasn’t as clear as it may have seemed the night before. Despite the 10-degrees temperature, he was in a sweat with just a light, hunting jacket on. He wasn’t aware that he didn’t know where Mosquid lived or when the doctor went to the hospital, and therefore what he was going to do after the half-hour drive.

   Inside the house, Robin heard the pickup’s engine turn over and glanced at the bedside clock to see that it was a little past 8. That’s funny, she wondered, why’s Luke’s late for work? She got up and made it to a front window just in time to see the truck heading down the road, but not in the direction of the creamery.

   At 8 a.m., Mosquid, too, was a wreck of nerves. He had read the newspaper story, and then got a call from Whitaker to come to the hospital early. After pleading for an explanation, Mosquid was told that the hospital was going to suspend him until the health department’s investigation was complete.

   ``I’m ruined,’’ is all the physician could think as he dressed to go to Wolfson. ``What’s the point in fighting when I can’t offer the proof if I were to tell the whole story? If I could only reason with nurse Connelly, maybe she would reconsider the accusation.’’ And the perspiration beaded on his temples and chin as he looked up her address in the telephone directory.

   At about 9 a.m., halfway to town, Luke was pulling out of a diner’s parking lot. Over a couple of cups of black coffee, he had checked a phone book for ``Mosquid’’ to find no such name listed and now realized he had no idea where to go.

   ``What am I doing,’’ Luke asked himself when back on the road. ``Can I really shoot somebody? Maybe I’ve gotten way too bent out of shape over this.’’

   Meanwhile, Mosquid was in his driveway starting his Volvo. Within minutes he was on the state road leading to Duxton. Still shaking with agitation, he wondered if he was making the right decision in visiting nurse Connelly.

   Why would she even talk to me, he questioned, since she thinks I attacked her? And even if she does listen to me, she is certainly not going to rescind her complaint at this point. Maybe there is some way I can negotiate with the hospital. Why did I ever agree to that cover-up without having some documentation to fall back on?

   Luke was going about 60 mph when a car pulled out from a driveway up ahead. He slammed on his brakes and instinctively swerved to the left. He hit a patch of ice and zoomed forward into the other lane, plowing head-on into the oncoming car.

   Mosquid had decided to turn around and go back to the hospital when a pickup came out of nowhere, sliding out-of-control into his lane. He had no time to react as it was on him before he was able to jerk the steering wheel or hit his brakes.

    Ron Chapman had just arrived at the newsroom and was sitting down at his desk to read the story he had spent three days working on. He had just poured a cup of bitter newsroom coffee when he heard on the police scanner that there was a serious two-vehicle personal injury accident on the state road.

   ``Hey, Mike,’’ he hollered into the office, ``you want me to head out to this crash? It sounds pretty bad.’’

   ``Yes, go ahead, and grab your camera,’’ Burnside said. ``We only have one photographer today and she’s coming in later. Oh, great job on the hospital story, Ron.’’

   Indeed, it was a bad accident. Before Chapman had everything together to leave, on the scanner he heard state police at the crash scene radioing for a coroner.

   ``Christ,’’ Chapman said to himself as he put on his coat and placed his brand-new, sharpened pencil into a breast pocket. ``It’s just one damn thing after another.’’  

   On his way to the accident, Chapman passed two ambulances presumably heading to Wolfson, but they were not speeding and no lights were flashing. ``Not good,’’ he thought. When he reached the point where traffic was halted about a quarter mile from the crash, he pulled over, parked his car and started walking.

   Soon, he could see the mangled vehicles up ahead and looked around for a trooper he knew.

   ``I can’t tell you much now,’’ Sgt. Stewart told him, ``except that we have two fatalities, one in each vehicle. You’ll have to check later for IDs. It looks like the pickup swerved for some reason and skidded into the car.’’

   ``Come on, Sarge, we don’t have another paper ’til morning. Can’t you give me some clues here just in case they’re somebodies?’’

   ``OK, but you didn’t hear it from me.’’ the trooper said. ``Probably nobody you care that much about. One’s a doc at Wolfson. Muskid or something like that. The other’s a guy from Duxton. Donnelly? No, Connelly it was. Somebody said his wife’s a nurse.’’

   ``Thanks. I owe you one.’’ Chapman swallowed hard. ``You mean `Mosquid’ maybe; he’s a Wolfson doctor?’’

   ``Yeah, that’s it. You bet you owe me. Now you better clear out of here. The reconstruction guys’ll be here soon.’’

   ``It couldn’t be,’’ Chapman thought as he got his camera out to take a couple shots of the wreckage. ``Un-fucking-believable.’’