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on her match list. At the time, largely because of her unique background and high scores on the National Medical Boards, several more prestigious hospitals had already expressed interest in her.
    “Please sit down,” Paris said finally.
    “In 1951, at age fifty …” Truscott murmured.
    “Before going any further,” the CEO continued, “I want to address the heightened security to which you were all subjected this morning. Over the past year, too much of this hospital’s business has been finding its way to certain reporters and other special interests, who have gone out of their way to paint an unfavorable and damaging picture of the Medical Center of Boston. Some of these leaks involve the minor day-to-day errors—no, most are too trivial to be called errors—I should say
problems
in patient care which plague any hospital, and which are never shared with the public. Others involve exchanges at our staff meetings and conferences.”
    Sarah’s beeper went off, the readout summoning her to an outside call. Wishing she could have crawled to the end of the row rather than stand up directly in front of Paris, she made her way to the nearest auditorium phone.
    “All hospitals,” Paris continued, “are in competition to maintain their allotment of beds and to keep a reasonable percentage of those beds filled. And as you know, that competition is often intense. Hospitals as large and prestigious as White Memorial now advertise in the yellow pages. Negative publicity for MCB, especially
groundless
negative publicity, hurts every one of us. From now on, no unauthorized personnel will be allowed in our medical rounds or staff meetings. Further, anyone other than our public relations office who speaks about hospital business with the press will be asked to leave our employ …”
    Sarah listened for a minute to her call, gave some instructions, and returned to her seat.
    “One of my home birth patients is in active labor,” she whispered. “She’s still got a ways to go, but her bp’s a little low. I hope this program doesn’t run over.”
    “You’re doing home births yourself?” Truscott looked at her incredulously.
    “No, Andrew. I assure you, I only look dumb. Dr. Snyder will be coming out with me. This will be our second one.”
    Randall Snyder, the OB/Gyn chief, was one of those seated on the stage behind Glenn Paris. As Sarah nodded up toward him, she realized that Paris had stopped speaking and was glowering down at her.
    “Sorry,” she mouthed, color rushing to her cheeks.
    “Thank you,” Paris mouthed in return.
    He cleared his throat and took a sip of water. The silence in the hall was dramatic.
    “Believe me,” he went on finally, “this subversion from within is serious, serious business. As you know, outside interests and some more financially secure institutions have been just waiting for us to go under. Ours is an attractive facility with a wonderful location. But those folks are in for a rude awakening, my friends.
A rude awakening
. For some time now, I have been negotiating with a very well-endowed philanthropic group whose primary aim is the improvement of health care. We are currently on the home stretch of an extensive grant application. If that grant comes through—and at present all the signs are right—MCB will have financial stability and a vast capability to grow. That was the goal I set with you six years ago, and today I am pleased to state that it is a goal well within our reach.”
    There was a smattering of applause, which gradually spread until all in the auditorium—including Andrew—had joined in.
    “That’s the spirit,” Sarah said to him.
    “My hands were getting cold,” Truscott replied.
    Behind the podium, Glenn Paris again was beaming.
    “Please don’t stop on my account,” he said as the response died down.
    “He’s a crafty one,” Truscott whispered beneath the laughter that followed Paris’s comment. “I’ll say that for him.”
    “He’s