Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
“He won’t walk out,” I said. “He is too proud to make a scene in front of the chief of surgery.”
The door to the conference room opened with a slight creak, and Marcus stepped inside, his shoulders hunched. He wore his faded denim jacket, the cuffs pulled down so far they almost covered his knuckles. He looked at the large leather chairs as if he were not sure he was allowed to sit in one.
“Sit down, Marcus,” Karen said, her voice softening slightly but remaining professional. “We need to go over the timing for Saturday evening.”
Marcus slid into the chair nearest the door, keeping his hands tucked inside his sleeves. He looked at me, his eyes wide and anxious, before he looked down at the polished wood of the table.
“He called me last night,” Marcus said, his voice hesitant and thin. “He wanted to make sure I knew where to park.”
“Where did he tell you to go?” Karen asked, leaning forward.
“Behind the kitchen exhaust vents, near the old wooden dock,” Marcus said. “He told me to keep my engine off and stay in the shadows until six-thirty.”
