not going to get the appointment. So I’d rather have you withdraw than lose out.”
This couldn’t be true. He was the front-runner. All the news-paper articles had given him that label. The selection process had to be perceived as fair, and the committee had initially included an African American and two Jews in its list of nominees. But he’d survived the initial cuts. Now the contest was between him and Morgan. She might be the token woman, but she couldn’t get the position over him. He was by far the more qualified.
“Look.” Dixon leaned toward him and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “You and I both know that what happened with the Herbert kid wasn’t your fault. It was a horrible tragedy. But the press . . . public opinion . . . The Center and its investors simply can’t endorse you. The last thing a psychiatric hospital needs is a high- profile suicide to open its doors.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Dixon stood up. “Follow my advice. Make it your own choice. Down the road, things may open up. The air will have cleared. No one will remember the Herbert death. You don’t have to be the first director.”
“You’re giving Morgan the job?”
He nodded. “There’s one other candidate publicly in the running, but she’s got it locked up. Although it won’t be public for another couple of months—the end of May if everything goes according to schedule. We want the announcement to coincide with the opening and we’re still doing some finishing construction work, finalizing some administrative details, that sort of thing.”
“She treats children!” His voice sounded shrill, bordering on hysterical.
“Not exclusively. She’s got experience almost as varied as your own. And she’s got impeccable credentials, dozens of publications, research experience. Most important, everybody respects her. She wowed the pants off the committee. That woman knows her stuff. She has unbelievable contacts. Between her personal background and her medical experience, she has access to everyone, including a hell of a lot of people with money. And we need that. You know as well as I do that the director is primarily a political position. She’s not going to be seeing any patients.”
“Let me come in and talk to the committee. Give me one more chance.” He hated begging and hated Dixon for making him beg.
Dixon shrugged his shoulders, leaned on one knee, and pushed himself upright. “It’s too late for that. The decision’s been made. Unless Morgan doesn’t accept the position, she’s got it. I’m giving you an out. If you don’t want to take it, that’s your business. But as your friend, I’m advising you to pull yourself out of the running.”
As David slumped forward, he felt Dixon’s hand on his shoulder. “Give me a call next week. Let’s have lunch. Maybe the Union League.”
David looked up. He wanted to shout. To discuss what? Your betrayal? That I’m being punished for something over which I had no control? That the committee is too filled with cowards to give the job to the most qualified applicant? That my own friend is swayed by media pressure? It would take all his self-control not to throw an order of turtle soup in Dixon’s fat face. But he said nothing.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” Dixon remarked.
Not as sorry as I am, he thought. He thought of Morgan in his office just after Foster’s death, her apparent concern and her apparent sympathy over the adverse publicity. Had she known then that this tragedy would be a windfall to her? How had the media learned that Foster was his patient? Apparently not from the Herberts, who hadn’t given a single comment to any newspaper that he’d seen.
You know how it is. Medical records that are supposed to be confidential never are.
He remembered her words. Could she have gone through his files? Would she have done something so unethical? Had he been betrayed first by a colleague and then by a friend, or was this disappointment making
This couldn’t be true. He was the front-runner. All the news-paper articles had given him that label. The selection process had to be perceived as fair, and the committee had initially included an African American and two Jews in its list of nominees. But he’d survived the initial cuts. Now the contest was between him and Morgan. She might be the token woman, but she couldn’t get the position over him. He was by far the more qualified.
“Look.” Dixon leaned toward him and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “You and I both know that what happened with the Herbert kid wasn’t your fault. It was a horrible tragedy. But the press . . . public opinion . . . The Center and its investors simply can’t endorse you. The last thing a psychiatric hospital needs is a high- profile suicide to open its doors.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Dixon stood up. “Follow my advice. Make it your own choice. Down the road, things may open up. The air will have cleared. No one will remember the Herbert death. You don’t have to be the first director.”
“You’re giving Morgan the job?”
He nodded. “There’s one other candidate publicly in the running, but she’s got it locked up. Although it won’t be public for another couple of months—the end of May if everything goes according to schedule. We want the announcement to coincide with the opening and we’re still doing some finishing construction work, finalizing some administrative details, that sort of thing.”
“She treats children!” His voice sounded shrill, bordering on hysterical.
“Not exclusively. She’s got experience almost as varied as your own. And she’s got impeccable credentials, dozens of publications, research experience. Most important, everybody respects her. She wowed the pants off the committee. That woman knows her stuff. She has unbelievable contacts. Between her personal background and her medical experience, she has access to everyone, including a hell of a lot of people with money. And we need that. You know as well as I do that the director is primarily a political position. She’s not going to be seeing any patients.”
“Let me come in and talk to the committee. Give me one more chance.” He hated begging and hated Dixon for making him beg.
Dixon shrugged his shoulders, leaned on one knee, and pushed himself upright. “It’s too late for that. The decision’s been made. Unless Morgan doesn’t accept the position, she’s got it. I’m giving you an out. If you don’t want to take it, that’s your business. But as your friend, I’m advising you to pull yourself out of the running.”
As David slumped forward, he felt Dixon’s hand on his shoulder. “Give me a call next week. Let’s have lunch. Maybe the Union League.”
David looked up. He wanted to shout. To discuss what? Your betrayal? That I’m being punished for something over which I had no control? That the committee is too filled with cowards to give the job to the most qualified applicant? That my own friend is swayed by media pressure? It would take all his self-control not to throw an order of turtle soup in Dixon’s fat face. But he said nothing.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” Dixon remarked.
Not as sorry as I am, he thought. He thought of Morgan in his office just after Foster’s death, her apparent concern and her apparent sympathy over the adverse publicity. Had she known then that this tragedy would be a windfall to her? How had the media learned that Foster was his patient? Apparently not from the Herberts, who hadn’t given a single comment to any newspaper that he’d seen.
You know how it is. Medical records that are supposed to be confidential never are.
He remembered her words. Could she have gone through his files? Would she have done something so unethical? Had he been betrayed first by a colleague and then by a friend, or was this disappointment making
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