Tasha Put Her Numbered Foot On The Review Room Floor

The review took place in a rented meeting room near the Gulfport airport. Beyond the glass, rain blew sideways across a parking lot full of white trucks.

Malcolm arrived with a leather folder and a box of pastries.

“Long morning ahead,” he told Celia. “Thought your team might need something.”

She thanked him and left the box on a side table.

June sat beside me. I had paid another $600 from the money meant for my roof repair. The roof could wait through one more wet season. My name could not.

Tasha came last, walking without a cane.

She paused in the doorway.

“I like walking into rooms where somebody hoped I wouldn't show up,” she said.

Then she took her seat.

Celia explained that this was a payment review. It could lead to a demand for repayment and referral to investigators. It was not a court trial or a review of anyone's clinical license.

“Then why has he told people my work was unsafe?” I asked.

She looked at Malcolm.

“Our suspension letter raised possible duplicate claims and missing proof of delivery,” she said. “It made no finding about unsafe care.”

June wrote that sentence down.

Malcolm shifted his folder.

I had expected relief when she cleared that point. Instead, I remembered Mrs. Ellis pulling away from me. An answer in this room would not reach her by itself. I asked for a copy of the suspension letter for my lawyer. Celia agreed to provide it.

“I may have used broad language during a very stressful period.”

“You used my name,” I said.

“Let's stay with the documents,” Celia said.

We did.

Malcolm's first copy showed Tasha receiving a complete limb on February 12. That was true. His second showed another on May 9. His third listed July 18. His fourth said September 3.

Each copy bore what looked like Tasha's signature.

“Mine,” she said, pointing at February.

“And these?” Celia asked.

“That's my signature copied three times.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because I signed one delivery. I won't pretend to be a handwriting lab.”

I pushed the archive production receipt across the table. The records service had sent the originals straight to Celia, with a list of when each file entered storage.

“There is one delivery record for her,” I said. “The later copies were never in my clinical archive.”

Malcolm turned toward me.

“You had control of that archive.”

“I was its custodian. I could add records. I could not erase an old version. The service has confirmed that.”

He had thought I was the man who would protect the clinic at any price. I held the records that could tell the truth about it.

I had kept them because a patient might need help ten years later. That was enough reason at the time.

Celia placed two pressure maps side by side.

“These show different fitting dates,” she said. “Our file review shows the image is the same.”

“A patient can have similar pressure readings,” Malcolm said.

“Similar, yes,” I said. “These include the same loose sensor mark outside the socket edge. That's an image from one test.”

“Would that alone prove no second limb was supplied?” Celia asked.

“No. The delivery record, part numbers, and patient account matter too.”

Tasha pulled back her chair.

“Here's the patient account.”

She stood and lifted her trouser cuff.

GV-1147 faced the table.

“I received this one. I have worn this one. If you delivered three more, where are they?”

Malcolm's ears went red.

“Some equipment may have stayed in storage at the patient's request.”

“Not my request.”

“During storm season, there are delays.”

“I captain a tug. I know what a delay is. It isn't a delivery.”

Celia turned a page.

“Your statement says no stock remains outstanding.”

“Finished goods can be held off-site.”

“What site?”

He closed his folder.

For eleven years, I had counted every foot and pylon that entered my room. I had never heard him mention another site.

“What site?” I asked.

He ignored me.

Celia asked for the inventory and storage addresses supporting the claims. Malcolm said his bookkeeper would provide them.

Tasha sat down slowly.

“Good,” she said. “I'll go look at my legs.”

“You cannot just enter private property,” Malcolm snapped.

“Then arrange a visit.”

The pastries sat untouched when we left.

In the hallway, Malcolm caught my sleeve.

“You think these people care what happens to your job?”

June stepped between us.

“Send any employment notice to my office.”

He let go.

At home, I set a pot of rice on the stove and checked my email before the water boiled.

Celia had sent a lease page supplied by the clinic's bookkeeper. It named a warehouse off Canal Road, with Malcolm's signature as tenant.

A line beneath the address read: Patient Delivery Storage, Location Two.