Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
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.”