FOURTEEN
About a week later, a call came in the middle of the night. She had made a conscious decision to cut down on the amount of work she brought home, so all she'd done that night over dinner were some budget accountability forms, which had taken twenty minutes. And she'd got in a good solid forty-five minutes of crap late-night television before retiring and being rudely awakened.
The attorneys from the Malcolm Sairo Law Firm were coming after them, and the BBC was trying to avoid the lawsuit. The secretary to the psychiatric directors had apologised for interrupting her sleep, but had said that they had been up late trying to find a way to avoid having this meeting, but had been unable. They were letting her know as soon as they could. The secretary told her, "Dress like you mean business," and report to the conference room at 8 a.m., along with the the day nurse who shares care of the Ward 40 patient.
However, being told to stay calm was a guaranteed way to make most people panic and/or go insane with rage, so she did not relay the sentiment to Jack when she called him and jostled him out of his sleep. Actually, she was fairly sure that Jack didn't have a "panic" mode, so she was really doing this to keep herself calm. She told him in a very even tone what to do and where to be and when, and then turned off her phone. The call had taken all of thirty seconds.
Then she tried to go back to sleep, since she knew she would need all of her strength.
But she couldn't sleep. She reasoned that she'd be calmer tomorrow anyway, if she was tired (which made little sense to her as a doctor, but as a human being, it sounded good... less energy meant less anger, right?). She got up and searched the internet for information on the Minister of Defence, Harold Saxon.
She found nothing particularly useful or interesting on his official government website, other than the fact that he had a military background, as well as some legal training, and was seriously considering a run for Prime Minister this year. She had known all of that already. What's more, before last week, she would have been all right with Harold Saxon as Prime Minister – she'd liked his politics. But that was before he became involved, it seemed, in taking her patient away from her under some crap pretence about humanitarian standards.
So, she tried that bastion of reliable information, Wikipedia. It rarely had the "dirt," but it sometimes displayed personal details that were not necessarily considered pertinent for government websites. Saxon grew up in a London suburb, a football and rugby champ at school and at Oxford, wrote a novel based on his experiences in the middle east, spoke four languages fluently, and married socialite Lucy Pendleton eighteen months ago.
And then…
"Oh, my God," Martha muttered aloud, reading Saxon's personal details. "No fucking way."
Martha was, as she had been told to do, dressed like she meant business – and she did mean business. She was wearing a burgundy blazer with black dress trousers and stilletto heels. She had tried to put her hair up in an efficient bun, but her hands shook, and it wouldn't stay, so she wore her hair down. Jack was dressed in navy blue trousers and a light blue dress shirt. It was interesting to see - had never seen him wearing anything other than his BBC-issue white uniform.
"You look as tired as I feel," she told him, smiling with no gusto.
"Thanks," he chuckled, patting her on the shoulder. "Are you ready for this?"
"What do you think?"
Martha and Jack entered the conference room, which was already full of people. She recognised the directors and their secretary, as well as Mr. Yana and Miss Chantho. Other men and women scowling in suits sat on their side of the table, and Martha assumed that they were yet more lawyers, come to bully them into submission.
"Martha Jones?" a man asked, walking up on her right side. He was middle-aged, had a friendly enough face, though unremarkable.
"Yes?"
"My name is Arthur Winters," he said, shaking her hand. "I'm legal counsel for the BBC. It's very nice to meet you."
She couldn't help but look behind him to see what army he'd brought with him. She was disappointed, but not surprised, to find that he was here alone. She looked at him, and he winked at her. This was not reassuring. She was a psychiatrist, an excellent judge of character (an expert, in fact, almost by definition), and she had no faith in this man. She tried to hide it, though she wasn't sure she succeeded.
They all sat down.
"All right, Mr. Yana, what are Mr. Saxon's terms?" Winters asked gruffly, grandstanding.
"The patient shall be released from this horrific lock-and-key situation, and shall be treated on an outpatient basis at another approved facility," replied Yana.
"That is an extremely bad idea. The Bernard Briscoe Clinic does not treat outpatients for a reason," Winters informed him. "They take on cases that do not qualify for outpatient care, due to their extreme nature." He looked at Martha for help.
"My patient is, to date, impenetrably delusional," she said calmly enough even to surprise herself. "His delusion is such that he does not, and cannot function in polite society. In fact, I can demonstrate through stacks of research that support the fact that he could be a danger to himself or others, were he not under constant supervision by trained professionals."
"He is docile," Yana said silkily. "You yourself attest to this in your patient narratives. Docile, even when you are messing with his mind and experimenting on him."
Martha looked at her directors pleadingly. They have given these lawyers access to my narratives? They have violated the oath that I took to patient confidentiality for me.
"He is not violent," Martha corrected. "That doesn't mean that he's not a danger to himself or others."
"Are you afraid that he might actually try to travel through time and space, thereby blowing up the neighbourhood?" Yana asked, like a grandfather talking to a four-year-old.
Martha opened her mouth to hurl back at him, but was interrupted.
"Mr. Yana, if you could keep a civil tone, it would be much appreciated," Winters warned. "This isn't the schoolyard."
"Perhaps we should postpone this meeting until we have a mediator," suggested one of the directors.
"No need, sir. There is nothing to mediate, no compromise to be made. Those are the terms," Yana said stubbornly. He looked at the directors. "Release the patient to Mr. Saxon's custody, or suffer the consequences."
"No deal," Winters said. "That would be a clear violation of medical ethics."
"Mr. Winters, we have a list of violations here, as long as my arm," Miss Chantho said. She looked at Martha uneasily. "This facility and its staff are already guilty of many clear violations of medical ethics."
"Either the patient is released," Yana added. "Or we sue for custody, and then have the CPS charge you with all of those anti-humanitarian violations, which would then close down the entire facility. I'm sure there's plenty of dirt pertaining to other patients who have been victimised by your practises."
"Victimised?" Jack couldn't help but ask. "Seriously?"
"These so-called anti-humanitarian violations are cited from statutes, some of which are outdated, and some of which only apply to hospitals that are not psychiatric facilities," Winters replied, thumbing through a packet of information. "It's a joke, Yana, and you know it."
One of the stuffy directors stepped forward. "Mr. Yana, would you mind taking your team out into the corridor for a moment or two? I feel I need to discuss a few things with my own team, in private."
Yana nodded and all of the sharks smugly left the room. The director said, "Arthur, if they can manipulate the facts to make it look like we're committing anti-humanitarian violations, then certainly the CPS can as well."
"Stanley, they're quoting laws that have been amended, statutes that are are archaic and weren't based upon sound medical research in the first place," Winters told him. "We can prove…"
"Really? You can prove? So can they, and they'll do it louder. This is the Malcolm Sairo Firm we're dealing with. And there are eight of them, and one of you. Eight of them here today; who knows how many more young go-getters Saxon's got on the case who aren't here today? They are like piranhas, Arthur. You know they will eat you alive."
"So what are you saying?" Martha screeched, getting to her feet.
"I'm saying we have no recourse," the director told her. "We can't win."
"No!" she shouted. "You can't do this!"
"Martha…" Jack said softly, trying to get her to sit down.
"He will languish outside this facility," she said. "He needs constant supervision! He needs to be in the Tardis!"
Jack cleared his throat and said softly, very close to her ear, "Careful, you're starting not to sound like a doctor."
"They are crooked, Stanley," Winters pointed out.
"That's exactly my point! They're crooked as the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and they outnumber us eight to one, at least."
"Sir…" Martha began again.
"We're basically fighting the government now, Dr. Jones. One doctor, one nurse, two bureaucrats and one lawyer versus the Minister of Defence, the entire CPS and a law firm full of velociraptors. I cannot afford to have my facility shut down."
"You'll find another job," she protested. "You don't own it! It's not your financial interest! Fight this! Fight for what's best for the patient!"
He sighed. "I appreciate your idealism, but what you just said is correct. This is not my financial interest, I would not be the one paying the legal fees nor bearing the brunt of the loss when the clinic is closed. I can assure you, the owner will tell me not to fight it. Or at leat her grandson-in-law will. If they won't pay to fight it, then we can't fight it."
"Oh my God," she sighed, holding back tears. "I can't believe this."
"Dr. Jones, you're going to have to let him go," said the director.
Jack reached out and rubbed Martha's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered to her.
"Harold Saxon just wants to use him," Martha said.
"Unless we can prove that Mr. Saxon intends to do him physical harm, there's nothing we can do about that."
Martha shook her head, staring at the director's shoes.
"Stanley, are you sure about this?" Winters asked.
The director looked at his co-director, who nodded.
"Mr. Harkness," said the director. "Please fetch the patient."
Jack didn't say anything, he just left the room obediently.
The director opened the door. "Mr. Yana, we've come to an agreement amongst ourselves."
Martha and Jack stood outside the conference room, waiting. The lawyers were hammering out the final details (actually, Yana was hammering, Winters was agreeing), and custodial contracts were being drawn up. The patient was being told of what was about to happen, and the "experts" thought it best that Martha not be present for this. Though Martha and Jack both knew that he wasn't entirely capable of understanding the real-wold consequences. Saxon would be here in a few minutes to collect him.
"I feel like I've been punched in the gut," she told him, softly so no-one else could hear.
"Is that because you lost this fight," asked Jack. "Or because you're in love?"
She looked up at him. The sadness in her eyes was palpable, and it surprised even Jack. "I'm feeling loss, Jack. Plain and simple."
"I'm sorry," he said. "Are you going to get your own lawyer?"
"I don't know," she told him. "I might consult with someone, but I guess they're right when they say we're outnumbered by a bunch of manipulative prats with unlimited resources."
"You're not going to fight?"
"I said, I don't know. I wouldn't really know where to begin, if the BBC isn't on my side."
"Well, did you ever figure out what Saxon wants with him?"
"Yeah."
"What?"
Just then, the conference room door opened. The directors' secretary stuck her head out. "Mr. Harkness?"
"Yes?"
"Can we see you, please?"
Jack was gone for about five minutes, and Martha paced back and forth. Then the door opened again, and she could hear a bunch of voices. The meeting was over.
The patient was the first person to emerge. He made a beeline for Martha, he took both her hands and looked in her eyes, sadly. Tears streaked her face. All he could do was sigh. Martha glanced at Jack, but he wouldn't meet her eyes.
"Come on, Doctor," one of the directors said. "Time to go."
They took him by the arm and began to tug gently, but he wouldn't let go of Martha.
Suddenly he leaned forward and whispered in her ear. He spoke for a few moments...
What he said shocked her to her very core. Her internal organs felt as if they had leapt into her throat.
He said he had the answer to overruling Harold Saxon, and everyone else, but that wasn't all! Her heart began to beat even faster and harder than it had been. When he pulled away from her and looked at her meaningfully, she gazed back with surprised, wide eyes. She could not speak.
The director tugged again. The patient backed away from Martha, never wavering in his expression. A procession of professionals escorted him out the front doors, a sea of navy blue suits separating her from her favourite patient ever, and, she admitted to herself, the man she loved.
Jack approached her from her right. He took her hand and kissed her cheek. "See you later, okay? I hope."
"What? Wait, where are you going?"
"I'm going to go be his full-time nurse. It's part of the settlement."
Her jaw dropped. "How could you do that?"
"I didn't have a choice! You have someone you love to protect," he said, glancing in the patient's direction. "And so do I. My hands are tied. I swear I wouldn't do this otherwise."
"Jack!"
"I'm sorry, Martha. I have to go," he said, giving her a hug. He whispered to her, "Find a way."
And then he was gone, along with the patient and the entourage of businessmen and lawyers, leaving Martha standing in the corridor to weep.
After a minute or so, two people came through the secure door, and Martha turned away to wipe her tears. She didn't need strangers seeing her this way.
When she turned around again, she saw the formidable, handsome, infuriating face of Harold Saxon, and his blonde trophy wife.
"Dr. Martha Jones, I presume?" he said.
"Mr. and Mrs. Saxon."
"We just wanted to come in and meet you," he told her.
Lucy reached forward for a handshake, asserting, "Such a pleasure," but Martha stood stoic. She wanted nothing to do with these people just now. Though she did note how Lucy seemed to be behaving as though she understood absolutely nothing of what was happening.
"This isn't over," Martha informed them.
Saxon sucked in air through his teeth and squinted. "I think it is, Dr. Jones."
"Truth will prevail, Mr. Saxon."
"I agree. And the truth is, in the eyes of the law, blood is thicker than some hack doctor who thinks she can save the world by turning over patients."
"It's not about turning over patients," she let him know. "He's not just a patient to me, he's…"
"Whatever you're about to say, save it. He's my brother, so I win."