Chapter 7 - TWENTY-THREE MACHINES, FIVE HOSPITALS, ONE LIE
“Tomorrow morning?”
I stared at Rosa.
“You're telling me they're still doing this?”
She nodded.
“Seven more machines are scheduled to leave the supplier's distribution center at six.”
“Where are they supposed to go?”
“Saint Agnes and two smaller hospitals.”
“And where will they actually go?”
Rosa looked at the delivery ticket.
“Clearwater Storage, if they follow the same pattern.”
My stomach twisted.
Ben was sleeping downstairs beneath a tangle of tubes and wires.
Somewhere, other premature babies might need equipment that had been purchased for them but never delivered.
And Carter's family had apparently treated those machines like ordinary merchandise.
My father took out his phone.
“I'll contact the state attorney general's public integrity unit through its reporting process.”
I grabbed his sleeve.
“Daddy, please don't use your position to make this disappear.”
He looked at me with surprise.
“Why would I?”
“Because Carter keeps saying powerful men protect their own.”
My father's expression softened.
“Hannah, my rank doesn't give me authority to decide who gets prosecuted. And I wouldn't want it to.”
He pulled his chair closer.
“We'll give them the facts. We'll cooperate. And we'll let people who are authorized to investigate do their jobs.”
I nodded.
That was the difference between my father and the Voss family.
They saw power as something that belonged to them.
Dad saw it as a responsibility he had to answer for.
By afternoon, two investigators from the state attorney general's office arrived.
One was a woman in her forties named Detective Avery Shaw.
She listened carefully as Rosa described the deliveries.
She examined the documents.
She asked about the false receiving records.
Then she turned toward me.
“Mrs. Voss, we understand you were assaulted while pregnant. We'll treat that investigation separately from the equipment fraud, although the evidence may overlap.”
I was grateful.
Because I didn't want my suffering reduced to a footnote in some financial crime.
Avery continued.
“We're asking the hospitals and suppliers to preserve records. We'll also work to verify the destination of tomorrow's shipment.”
“Can you stop it?” I asked.
“We're taking immediate steps.”
I wanted a stronger promise.
But I had learned what empty promises sounded like.
I preferred the truth.
That evening, another problem arrived.
A hospital administrator brought me a formal notice from human resources.
I was being placed on administrative leave while the forged receiving documents were investigated.
My heart sank.
“I'm the victim here.”
The administrator looked uncomfortable.
“We understand that may be true, Hannah. But the hospital has to investigate records bearing your credentials.”
“Do I still have insurance?”
“Yes. Your coverage remains active.”
That was something.
But seeing the words administrative leave hurt.
I'd spent eight years caring for patients.
Now my name was attached to missing equipment.
My father watched me fold the notice.
“You'll have the chance to challenge this.”
I shook my head.
“Carter said he'd destroy my career. He's doing it.”
Dad reached for my hand.
“Then we'll make sure you're represented properly, and you can tell the truth.”
An employment attorney met with me the following day.
She wasn't impressed by Carter's reputation.
She gathered my work schedules, medical records, and the Philadelphia restaurant receipt.
Then she said something important.
“Your husband may understand the legal system. That doesn't mean he controls it.”
For the first time, I believed that.
But the afternoon brought another blow.
Carter had petitioned family court for temporary authority over Ben's medical decisions, claiming I was emotionally unstable after a traumatic delivery.
My attorney explained that filing a petition did not mean he would win it.
Still, I felt sick.
“He watched me bleed,” I whispered. “And now he wants to decide what happens to my son?”
A temporary protective order already restricted Carter's contact with me.
We urgently sought safeguards for Ben as well.
The court required evidence.
And we had evidence.
The paramedics' reports.
My documented injuries.
My statement.
The photographs.
The recorded emergency dispatch call.
Carter's petition would be contested.
But knowing that didn't make the fear disappear.
That evening, Detective Shaw returned.
She had news.
The equipment supplier had confirmed that twenty-three machines were billed through a network of foundation contracts.
Several shipments had been redirected.
And the warehouse at Clearwater Storage was now under investigation.
“We also recovered exterior loading-dock footage from one of the hospitals,” she said.
“Did it show Eleanor?”
“Not Eleanor.”
Avery placed a still photograph on the table.
Two men stood beside a delivery truck.
One wore a dark suit.
The other held a clipboard.
I recognized the first man immediately.
Carter.
My husband.
But the second man was even more troubling.
Richard Voss.
The senior prosecutor.
Avery studied my face.
“You recognize them?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
Then she showed me another photograph.
A close-up of the clipboard.
Attached to it was a shipping schedule for the following morning.
Seven machines.
Three destinations.
May you like
And written across the bottom, in red ink, were four words:
FINAL TRANSFER BEFORE AUDIT.
