Chapter 33 – Deposition

James barely slept. Every time his eyelids grew heavy, his mind conjured fresh catastrophes—questions he couldn’t answer, mistakes he couldn’t defend, the humiliation of silence. By 5:30, he gave up, showered, and dressed in his gray pinstripe suit with a maroon tie. The crisp white shirt felt more like armor than attire. Staring at his reflection, he rehearsed: Good morning. I am Dr. James Deetan. It sounded hollow.

The deposition was set for 9 a.m. in Memorial’s pathology conference room. May sunlight filtered through the blinds, bright but brittle. He was the last to be called—everyone else had already faced the inquisition.

Moynihan, calm as ever, arrived first. Irving Goldstein, the plaintiff’s attorney, followed, his briefcase snapping open like a predator’s jaw. The ULS attorneys loomed over the speakerphone, their voices metallic. A stenographer adjusted her machine at the head of the table, fingers poised like daggers.

The first questions were simple—identify this report, confirm that signature. James’ pulse slowed. He exhaled. Until—

“Dr. Deetan,” Goldstein leaned forward, “how would you describe the work environment at ULS?”

James hesitated, eyes flicking toward Moynihan. A curt nod.

“Supportive enough,” James answered carefully. “The staff is… adequate. Of course, things can always be improved.”

Goldstein pressed. “What about the transcriptionists?”

James swallowed. He remembered Wilma’s pies, remembered Audrey’s tears in the parking lot. “They could be more diligent. There are… frequent typographical errors. If written protocols had been followed, this incident may not have occurred.”

“Objection. Speculative,” the ULS attorneys snapped.

James added anyway, “We’ve caught errors before—Dr. Nomura once even found a requisition in the trash—”

“Objection!”

Moynihan cut him off with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Answer only what’s asked, Doctor. Or I’ll have to put you in the corner.” The room chuckled; James flushed scarlet. He couldn’t tell if Moynihan was joking.

Goldstein didn’t relent. “Have you ever witnessed Dr. Nomura make a mistake?”

James bristled. “Dr. Nomura is one of the finest surgical pathologists I’ve worked with. He corrects the mistakes of others.”

Goldstein slid forward a folder. “Exhibit 4A. Corrected reports bearing Nomura’s signature. Are you saying these don’t exist?”

James’ stomach dropped. He remembered a similar slip in his own first month, two patients with nearly identical names. Caught just in time. We all make mistakes.

Goldstein’s voice softened, persuasive. “Don’t all pathologists err, Dr. Deetan? Isn’t it part of learning? Haven’t you?”

James’ mouth dried. If he admitted it, Nomura would hang. If he denied it, he’d perjure himself. “I… cannot recall.”

Goldstein’s eyes narrowed. “Convenient. And Audrey Johnson, your transcriptionist—she recalls you telling her Nomura mismatched a requisition with the wrong slide. Is she lying?”

James’ ears filled with heat. He could still see Audrey’s smudged mascara, her desperate plea: I’m not a bad person.

“I cannot recall that conversation.”

Ten minutes later, it was over.

“Good job,” Moynihan murmured as they stepped out.

James’ eyes narrowed. “If that was a good job, I’d hate to see a bad one.”

Moynihan chuckled. “Trust me—I’ve had to gag clients before. This was tame.” He left whistling, as if the day had been routine.

James couldn’t share the levity. As he gathered his papers, the stenographer whispered to Goldstein, giggling, “He looks so young.”

The hallway back to his office was gauntlet enough. Two histotechs and a transcriptionist stood at the end, gossiping. One sneered as he passed. “Can you believe these pathologists?”

James whipped around, fury boiling. “Dr. Nomura didn’t make the mistake. Someone else did!”

“Sure, Doctor,” the histotech smirked. “And how old are you again?”

His fists clenched. He stormed past, bursting through the doors into the muggy St. Louis air. In the rearview mirror, he glimpsed Nomura’s silhouette bent over slides, as if nothing had changed.

James slammed the wheel. “Divided we fall.”

The lie twisted in his gut. He had protected Nomura, but at what cost? His honor? His father’s expectations? He remembered Deanna’s whisper the night before: Love is not blind. It sees more… but chooses to see less.

He saw everything. The errors, the betrayals, the silence. He saw more than he could bear. And now he was choosing less.

By Wednesday, the rumors confirmed what Deanna predicted—Carlisle had gone to Morelli. The chairman’s response was predictable: smooth it over, protect the contract. Keep Memorial tied to ULS. Even if it meant sacrificing James.

For the first time since he began, James wondered if pushing glass was worth the cost of his soul.

Next Chapter: Chapter 34-Settlement