Page 48 of Mirror Image

“Nothing—it’s Ruth’s car.”

“What about it? And how do you even know what she drives?”

“The license plate is R-U-T-H-L-S-S,” I explain and am treated to Gabe’s hearty guffaw.

I’m still chuckling after we exchange goodbyes, and I get out of the car.

Barely five feet tall and built like a hummingbird, attorney Ruth Wang earned the nickname for her ability to bring the most hardened, most badass of witnesses to tears over the course of a cross-examination.

After my sister Jess’s death, there was a carousel of personal-injury attorneys who cycled in and out our front door, each one slicker than the last. I hadn’t understood the meaning of the expression “dollar signs in their eyes” until then. All these people could talk about was the money, the money, the money. The punitive money, the compensatory money, the blood money. Ruth showed up at our kitchen table, wiping tears from her eyes as Lita showed her pictures of my sister. She became a part of our family, sharing our meals and sharing our grief.

And, in the end, no one fights harder for you than family.

Years later, when it became clear that no one at the hospital was going to help me, I knew I had to help myself. I knew I needed Ruth.

Administration moved fast—ten days from incident to disciplinary hearing. Too fast. Ruth and I waited in the medical center lobby for the elevator. It was my first time back since the night Cami died. My badge was gone, replaced with a guest sticker that might as well have read pariah. Colleagues glanced, whispered, turned away.

“I’m going to say this again,” Ruth said quietly. “You should have a health-care attorney. I do personal injury.”

“I trust you.”

That ended the discussion.

The hearing room was a windowless bunker in the basement, all fluorescent buzz and burnt-coffee smell. A long white conference table dominated the space. On one side sat the panel: Associate Dean Steve Cortez, ER Chief Dr. Nila Kumar, a pediatric psychiatry attending, and the hospital’s legal counsel—Joyce Danner.

Ten years ago she was every bit as composed and commanding as she is now—only younger, sleeker, her power newly minted instead of burnished by time. The effect was the same: control, confidence, perfection down to the smallest detail.

Across the table, Ruth was her opposite in every conceivable way—compact, kinetic, and radiating the kind of energy that made people lean back a little. Joyce projected mastery through stillness; Ruth through motion. One ruled the courtroom with a raised brow, the other with a raised voice. And in that sterile little basement, I was suddenly grateful to have the louder one on my side.

Ruth began, calm but lethal. “We request a postponement. Ten days isn’t due process—it’s ambush.”

Cortez didn’t even look up. “You can appeal later.”

And that set the tone.

They read out the charges. I gave my account—precise, restrained, stripped of emotion. From the moment I was paged to when Kellogg threw me out, I stuck to the facts.

When I finished, Dr. Kumar slid a chart across the table: Cami Miller’s intake form. My handwriting filled the top half. But farther down was a section that should have been blank—and wasn’t.

Patient discharged with instructions to follow up with the outpatient psychiatric clinic in the morning for further evaluation.

The handwriting wasn’t mine. Neither was the signature.

“Is this your handwriting?” Dr. Kumar asked.

“The top portion. Not the treatment plan or the signature.”

Joyce’s pen didn’t pause. “So you’re alleging falsification of a medical record?”

“I’m saying I didn’t write it,” I replied evenly.

There was a long pause. The only sounds were pens scratching and paper rustling.

The temperature seemed to rise several degrees.

They picked at my answers for the next two hours—word by word, breath by breath—until Dr. Kumar finally said, “Let’s break for lunch.”

Ruth didn’t miss a beat. “Is that when Dr. Braithwaite will join us?”