Flashback (1988) (43 page)

“So, my dear,” the Judge said, completely ignoring a
question from her about the differences between putting greens in various parts of the country, “I assume that the powers that be in Ultramed didn’t send someone as bright and charming as you are just to pass the time with this old north woods war-horse.”

“No,” she said, smiling at him curiously. “No, they didn’t.”

The Judge waited for her to continue.

“Well, then,” he said finally, clearing his throat. “I suppose they wish you to lay some of the groundwork for tomorrows board meeting.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Are you always this evasive and … and mysterious, Mrs. Baron?”

“Judge Iverson,” she said, “exactly who do you think I am?”

“That’s a rather strange question, don’t you think? I certainly know who you are.” “Do you?”

There was a firmness in Leigh Baron’s voice—a steely brightness in her eyes that Clayton Iverson had not noticed before. Still, the ploy of asking questions rather than answering them was an amateurish tactic, and one she would have to improve upon if her aim was to control their conversation.

“Okay,” he said after some thought, “I’ll play. You’re Leigh Baron, vice president of the Ultramed Hospitals Corporation. Your division is, correct me if I’m wrong, operations.”

“Judge, I hope this doesn’t come as too much of a shock, but I haven’t been a vice president at Ultramed since, oh, just a few months after I negotiated our arrangement with Davis Regional. We were restructured by our parent company. My formal title now is Managing Director. That translates into CEO.”

Startled, the Judge pulled from his briefcase the Ultramed organizational chart Guy Beaulieu had compiled.

“Well, then, who’s, um … Blanton Richards?”

Leigh smiled enigmatically.

“Judge Iverson,” she said, “Blanton Richards hasn’t been part of Ultramed for several years. I don’t know who put that list together—Dr. Beaulieu, I presume; he was always putting lists together—but whoever it was didn’t do his homework. I know how much you expect to be dealing with the good old boys on matters such as this, but I’m afraid that as far as Ultramed is concerned,
I’m
the good old boy.”

“Now just a minute, young lady—”

“Young lady …” Leigh Barons expression was not a little patronizing. “Judge Iverson, I appreciate the compliment—really I do. But I think it will make things easier for both of us if you understand that my young lady days are well behind me. I’m thirty-seven years old. I was second in my MBA class at Stanford more than a decade ago, I spent two years studying economics at Oxford, and I managed several smaller operations for RIATA International before I was brought into Ultramed. My income last year—not counting bonuses and stock options—was slightly over half a million dollars. Now, if that little misunderstanding is taken care of to your satisfaction, I would suggest we get down to work. You and I have some important business to attend “to.”

“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat again. “Yes, I suppose we do. How about some more coffee first?”

The Judge suddenly felt edgy, and anxious to do something—anything—that would disrupt the woman’s rhythm. What he had anticipated would be a preliminary sparring match with Ultramed had turned out to be the main event.

“No, thank you,” she answered. “But go ahead if you want.”

“I think I will.”

He walked to the kitchen, poured himself a cup, laced it with a stiff slug of brandy, and took a long sip. The warm, velvet rasp had a calming, reassuring effect, reminding him that, although Leigh Baron had him back on his heels, this was the sort of game he loved to play—the one in which he held all the trump cards. He was still the chairman of the board of the hospital. And in the end, regardless of who Leigh Baron was, how much she earned, or what she had to say,
he
was the one who controlled the votes.

His next swallow drained the cup. He poured himself another before returning to the den.

“Okay,
Ms
. Baron,” he said, with ever-so-slight emphasis, “what’s your pitch?”

“No pitch, Judge. Simply put, I would like to know what your plans are for the meeting tomorrow.”

He tried for a bemused expression, but sensed that he missed. He held all the cards. She knew that as well as he did. And yet she continued looking at him as if whatever he had to say really made no difference. He sought another taste of his brandied coffee, but realized that he had once again drained his cup.

“You have my letter,” he said. “In it, I stated that it was quite possible the board and Ultramed would be able to work things out.”

“Judge, we have reason to believe that the situation up here, at least in your eyes, has changed since you wrote that. I’d like to know what’s going on.”

“Nothings going on. I’ve done what I was supposed to do as chairman of the board here, and sent you a letter. The meetings tomorrow. We expect you’ll be there to represent Ultramed’s interests. At the end of the meeting there’ll be a vote.
C’est tout.”

He held his hands out, palms up.

Leigh Baron rubbed at her eyes wearily.

“Judge, that list you just consulted, was that compiled by Dr. Beaulieu?”

“As a matter of fact, it was.”

“Then I can assume that you have all the other material he had been scraping together against our company.”

“You did try to drive him out of practice.”

“That, Judge, is ridiculous. Ultramed has grown faster than any company of its size in the field. We know exactly what we are doing. So does our parent company. If we wanted somebody out, believe me, they’d be out. Where did you get the idea that we would do such a thing?”

“Well, actually, it was from my—Actually, it’s none of your business. You can find out everything you want to know at tomorrow’s meeting.”

“Your son Zachary was a pall bearer at Dr. Beaulieu’s funeral. Is he the one who’s taken up Beaulieu’s cause?”

“If he has, then like I said, you’ll find out tomorrow.”

“If he has, then he’s wrong. If Guy Beaulieu was being driven from practice, it was not by us.”

“Perhaps,” the Judge said, sensing a shift in control back toward himself. “If that’s true, that should come out at the meeting also.”

“Tell me something, Judge. You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say that at all.”

She flashed that same disquieting smile.

“You don’t have to,” she said. “Judge, if your board does vote to repurchase Ultramed-Davis from us, what were you planning to do about Frank?”

“Do? Why, keep him on, of course. If—and mind you, I
said, if—we do vote to return the hospital to the community, we’ll need him. He’s done a terrific job. You told me that yourself.”

“And I meant it, too,” Leigh said, “with one slightly enormous exception.… Here, Judge, I think you’d better look this over carefully.”

She removed a thin folder from her briefcase and handed it to him.

“While you’re doing that,” she went on, “if you could just point me toward your bathroom …”

“Huh?” He had already started scanning the material. “Oh, it’s over there. Down that hallway and on the left …”

“Thanks.”

Clayton Iverson finished reading the first page. Written by a well-established, highly respected Boston accounting firm, it was basically an explanation and summation, of the material to follow.

Before going on, he went again to the kitchen. This time, he poured brandy into his cup but did not bother adding coffee.

By the time Leigh Baron returned to the study, he had reread the cover letter and begun to skim the lists of figures and transactions, all of which seemed to bear up the accountants’ contention that almost three years before, Frank had embezzled nearly a quarter of a million dollars from the Ultramed accounts.

Whether it was the hour or the brandy or the acid anger welling in his throat, the Judge was having increasing difficulty concentrating on the specific financial transfer maneuvers, which were characterized by the bookkeepers as “rather superficial efforts to obscure the missing funds; efforts which any reasonable audit would uncover, and therefore ones which suggest Mr. Iverson’s intention of making good the shortfall at some near date.”

“So,” Leigh Baron said. “Suddenly this all becomes very serious business, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Why haven’t you done anything about this before now?”

“Oh, come now, Judge. It’s unbecoming for you to ask a question with so obvious an answer. Besides, as we’ve both been saying, Frank’s done a terrific job for us. It’s apparent that he just got a little greedy back there three years ago. He does have a way of being headstrong sometimes. But I guess you know that.… Well, I had actually decided that once the sale of Davis to our company was a fait accompli, I would write
off the $250,000 as sort of a bonus for his good work. After all, anyone can make a mistake.…”

“Sure, sure. And now you’re saying that I would be making a mistake to vote against turning our hospital over to you.”

“You won’t have left us much choice, Judge, other than to press charges. And believe me, the evidence against Frank is solid—absolutely rock solid.”

In keeping with his overall outlook, Clayton Iverson had always reserved his strongest emotions—positive
and
negative—for men. But at that moment he hated the woman sitting across from him with more passion than he had ever hated anyone.

Who in the hell did she think she was?

The question echoed impotently, over and over again in his mind. She looked like some sort of high fashion model, and discussed issues with the naiveté of a schoolgirl; and yet, there she sat, smiling quietly as she viciously blackmailed him.

The life of his son and, by inference, the lives of his daughter-in-law and granddaughters, in exchange for a vote. He should have retired, he thought. He had clearly lost his edge. He should have stepped down from such dealings long ago.

His head was spinning.

“I … I need time to think,” he said. “I understand.… Unfortunately, you have only until tomorrow.”

“I was right in wanting your company out of our town, Mrs. Baron. You’re a very callous and self-serving woman.”

“Let’s not lower ourselves to name-calling, Judge. It’s so unprofessional.” She stood. “So, then. Tomorrow at one minute after noon everything will be”—she shrugged—“exactly as it is right now. Only more permanent. Yes?”

Clayton Iverson, his weathered face flushed, his eyes smoldering, could not respond.

“Oh, and Judge,” she said, “there is one other thing. I would like to review that material Guy Beaulieu accumulated. I promise its return in … a few days.”

“You can’t have it,” the Judge snapped.

“Judge Iverson, I know I don’t have to spell it all out for you, but let me do it anyway. If you go along with our request, your son will be exonerated from all he has done, and we will complete our purchase of the hospital. If you do not, your son will probably end up in prison, and his family will be
disgraced. Your influence in Sterling will be greatly diminished, if not destroyed, and we shall almost certainly end up with Ultramed-Davis just the same.”

“This is insane!”

“Perhaps,” Leigh Baron said. “Perhaps it is.… That material, please?”

“Dammit …”

“Judge Iverson, face it. It’s going to happen. Our business arrangement is going to be consummated as it was laid out. Either easily and cleanly, or very, very messily. But it’s going to happen. Now …”

Reluctantly, the Judge passed Beaulieu’s folder across. Leigh Baron slipped it into her briefcase.

“As I promised,” she said, “I’ll return this in a few days. Don’t bother to show me out. I know the way.”

His face buried in his arm, Clayton Iverson sat alone in his study, listening to the soft spattering of night rain against the shutters. In all his business dealings, in all his years on the bench, never had he been manhandled so brutally or efficiently as he had by Leigh Baron this night.

Desperately, he struggled to keep his anger in check—anger directed as much at his son as at the Ultramed CEO. At this point, he reminded himself, he had only Leigh Barons side of the story.

Before he made another move, before he spoke to one more member of the board, he and Frank had to talk. If Frank could adequately explain why he took the money, how he lost it, how he was planning on replacing it, perhaps they could work something out. If not …

Went to Frank’s. Please don’t worry
.

Clayton Iverson set the note for Cinnie on his desk and walked, somewhat shakily, to the Chrysler, wondering if perhaps he had had a bit too much to drink.

His thoughts tumbled about as he tried to focus on what his options might be. He needed the fresh air of a drive as much as anything … needed to clear his head … needed to confront Frank.…

He put the car in gear, turned around with more difficulty than usual, and sped down the winding drive.

Frank would have an explanation, he thought. He would
have an acceptable explanation for everything, and together they would find a reasonable way out.

But if there was no explanation … if Frank, had nothing to offer except greed …

The Judge sped through the turn onto the Androscoggin access road. A station wagon speeding south swerved sharply, narrowly avoiding a collision.

Clayton Iverson did not notice.

 … Of all the ungrateful, inconsiderate things Frank had ever done, he was thinking, this was absolutely the worst.… Perhaps it was time he put his foot down.… Prison or no prison, disgrace or no disgrace, perhaps it was time.…

His eyes open, but unseeing, Toby Nelms lay twitching on the cooling blanket, jerking one restrained hand from time to time in what might have been an attempt to get at the breathing tube Jack Pearl had inserted into his trachea. His core temperature, despite the blanket, intravenous cortisone, and several doses of rectally-administered Tylenol, was still 103.

“… Absolutely not,” Pearl was saying. “There’s absolutely no way I am going to put a critically ill child under anesthesia for some off-the-wall theory.”

“Jack, let me go over this again,” Zack pleaded, making no attempt to mask his exasperation. “What I’m proposing is not off the wall. Just because it isn’t a widely used technique doesn’t mean that it’s wrong. Hell, the problem hasn’t been studied enough to be certain one way or the other. But there
is
the LSD article. Why do you think I drove all the way home to get it from my files for you?”