Chapter 6: The Oncologist
His name was Dr.
Marcus Webb.
He had delivered my diagnosis on a Tuesday morning in a room with pale blue walls and a box of tissues on the corner of his desk.
He had spoken slowly and clearly, the way doctors do when they have practiced the words.
He had said *stage four* and *pancreatic* and *I'm so sorry* and *ninety days is our best estimate.* He had handed me a printed summary of my results and told me his office would be in touch about palliative options.
I had driven home alone.
I had sat in the car in the driveway for twenty minutes before I could go inside.
And all of it had been a performance.
Patricia filed the supplementary criminal complaint on a Friday morning.
By Monday, the fraud office had opened a separate investigation into Dr.
Webb.
By Wednesday, two detectives were at his clinic.
I was not there for that.
Patricia told me about it afterward, in her office, with the same flat calm she used for everything.
"He didn't deny the recordings," she said.
"He admitted it?"
"He said he was coerced.
That Richard had information about him — prior conduct with a patient, years ago — and used it to compel his cooperation." She paused.
"That may or may not be true.
It's possible he was coerced.
It's also possible it's a strategy to reduce his sentence."
"Does it matter?" I said.
"To his sentencing, yes.
To your case, not significantly.
The recordings are the recordings."
"What did he say about the diagnosis itself?
About sitting across from me and telling me I was dying?"
Patricia was quiet for a moment.
"He said he told himself you would find out eventually.
That the hospital would catch the error.
That it wouldn't go as far as it did."
I looked out the window.
"He sat across from me," I said.
"He watched me cry.
He handed me a tissue."
"Yes."
"And he told himself I'd figure it out."
"That's what he said."
I didn't say anything else for a while.
There wasn't anything to say that the silence didn't say better.
Eventually Patricia spoke again.
"Victor Hale's solicitor made contact this morning."
I looked back at her.
"He wants to negotiate," she said.
"Victor is prepared to provide a full written statement confirming Richard's role in the conspiracy, the oncologist arrangement, and the financial restructuring.
In exchange, he's asking for reduced charges."
"What does he have that we don't already have?"
"Names," Patricia said.
"Specifically, the name of the person Richard paid to alter the hospital records.
That person is still unidentified.
Victor knows who it is."
"And if we take the deal?"
"Victor faces lesser charges.
Possibly a suspended sentence, depending on the judge."
I thought about Victor Hale sitting in my living room with a bunch of white flowers, asking me how I was sleeping, whether the medication was helping, whether I had anyone coming to stay with me.
*You shouldn't be alone through this,* he had said.
"Tell his solicitor we'll consider it," I said.
"But I want the name first.
In writing.
Verified.
Then we discuss terms."
Patricia made a note.
"There's one more thing," she said.
"Tell me."
"Richard's legal team filed a motion this morning to have him released on bail pending trial.
They're arguing the fraud charges are overstated and that the domestic @buse evidence is circumstantial."
I felt something move through me.
Not fear.
Something harder than fear.
"The photographs of my injuries are circumstantial?" I said.
"His team is arguing the injuries are consistent with falls related to your supposed medical condition."
"And the security footage?"
"They're challenging the chain of custody."
I stood up.
Walked to the window.
Looked down at the street below, at the ordinary people moving through an ordinary afternoon, none of them knowing that somewhere across the city, a man who had paid a doctor to tell his wife she was dying was asking a judge to let him go home.
"Patricia," I said.
"Yes."
"If he gets bail — where does he go?
The house is mine.
His accounts are frozen.
Where does he actually go?"
She was quiet for just a moment too long.
"We believe he would go to Sienna," she said.
I turned around.
"She's still in contact with him?"
"Her phone records suggest she accepted a call from the detention facility on Saturday evening."
I thought about Sienna placing the USB drive on the table.
The pale face.
The voice stripped of its sneer.
*He trusted me with a lot of things he shouldn't have.*
"She gave us the drive," I said.
"She did."
"And then she took his call."
"Yes."
The room felt different than it had a moment ago.
"Is she a witness or a risk?" I said.
May you like
Patricia looked at me steadily.
"Right now," she said, "she might be both."
