Stevens crinkled his face and squirmed a bit. Ingle was scribbling notes on a pad. “Phillip Madison is not a murderer.”
“Assuming you’re correct, let me rephrase the question. The action the hospital board has taken is intended to distance the hospital from an accused murderer, severing a relationship before it becomes even more damaging than it’s already been. Isn’t that right, Dr. Stevens?”
Stevens’s head bobbed back and forth, left and right.
“Essentially.”
More scribbling. “Do you feel that Madison is capable of committing murder?”
“I can’t speak for the actions of another,” Stevens said cautiously, playing the role of administrator and bureaucrat. “But I can tell you that Dr. Madison is one of the finest human beings you’ll ever meet: I’ve never known him to hurt a fly. He’s also responsible for building this hospital into what it is — a valued teaching institution with state-of-the-art equipment and an expert staff of distinguished surgeons. He’s dedicated his life to saving people, not killing them.”
“Would you say that one’s actions in the past are an indication of what their actions will be in the future?” asked Ingle, the rookie, trying hard to contribute.
“As I said, no one can guarantee the actions of another. To do so would be like trying to predict the stock market. It’s just not possible to do with any degree of accuracy.”
“What about the hospital’s exposure on Madison’s arrest?”
“What about it? We had nothing to do with the murders.”
“Could it be said that the hours you force surgeons to work, the stress these doctors are under, results in a high degree of alcoholism, of driving while under the influence?”
“Do you really think I’m going to answer such an absurd allegation?”
“Statistics don’t lie, Dr. Stevens. The rate of alcoholism, and even drug abuse amongst surgeons, is quite high compared to the general — ”
“If you’re going to persist in this line of questioning, Mr. Mather, then this interview is over.”
“Fine. I’ll move on.” He looked down at his pad.
“A question if I may, Maurice.” This from Ingle.
Mather waved him on.
“Dr. Stevens, you acted as if you didn’t know of the rape charges against Dr. Madison.”
“I have no comment on that.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“You can take it just as I answered the question.”
“Then you didn’t know of the payoff he made to the woman to keep her quiet.”
“I’ll have to answer that question the same way as I answered your last question.”
Ingle scribbled some notes.
“How long have you known Madison?” Mather asked.
“About thirteen years. We started out at the hospital together.”
“Would you consider him your friend?”
“Yes, I would.”
“And would you say that you would go out of your way to protect your friend?”
“Mr. Mather...yes, I would go out of my way to assist a friend in need. But that does not mean I’d go so far as to do anything that would impair my job as a hospital administrator, nor would I do anything that would jeopardize this hospital in any manner. Now, I believe this interview is over. Gentlemen,” he said, as he stood from behind his desk and walked over to the door.
After they exited his office, Mather began walking at a fast clip. “We’ll have Andy get some footage of the hospital interior, and a few seconds of Stevens’s door as we try to open it, and then have it close hard on the camera. It dramatizes the way we were shut out from filming the interview.”
“But he was pretty cooperative, he just didn’t want to go on-camera.”
“That,” Mather said with a grin that could sour milk, “will turn out to be a mistake.”
THE MOBILE VAN SAT parked in front of the hospital with its antenna telescoping into the sky fifteen feet. The camera was mounted on a tripod just to the left and in front of the hospital’s main entrance. A small television monitor sat below the tripod on the floor, as they set up for a live remote shot for the noon newscast. Ingle was helping Andy, the cameraman, set up the shot while Maurice Mather stood with his lapel microphone in place, his handwritten notes on a small pad in front of him.
“Minute thirty out,” Andy said as he pressed the headset radio against his ear. Mather looked into the camera and practiced a few lines from his pad. “How did we sound?” he asked into the mike, listening through his earpiece to the director back at the station. “Testing, one-two-three,” he said.
“They’re not getting us,” Andy said. “Your mike’s dead.”
“Do we have another?”
“Checking.” Andy trotted over to the van and rummaged through a box of electronic equipment and jumbled wires.
“Thirty seconds out,” called Mather, trying not to show visible signs of sweat — perspiration did not look good on camera. Ingle was standing next to the tripod, perspiring profusely, watching as Andy rummaged through the box, counting out the remaining seconds.
“Got one, but it’s a handheld job,” Andy said as he fumbled to plug the microphone into his camera. He handed it to Mather and jumped back behind the tripod to check its position. “Counting,” Andy said, holding up five fingers. “Five-four-three-two-one.”
As Andy hit “two” in the count, a broad smile spread across Mather’s plastic face and he brought the mike up to his mouth. “Thanks, Patrick. We’re here at Sacramento General Hospital, the very hospital where Dr. Phillip Madison was on staff at the time of the grisly hit-and-run murders.
“The hospital administrator, Dr. John Stevens, refused to allow our cameras in, but he did permit us to interview him.” Mather watched the monitor as the tape that Andy had shot an hour earlier was rolling at the station, reviewing the prior events in the story, showing the hospital footage, and setting the stage for the remainder of Mather’s report. Mather squinted into the lens of the camera, adjusted his hair in the reflection, looked down at his pad to review his notes. Glanced at the
