Sterling looks like he’s having a stroke. "Your vision? Alistair, you’re a retired Neurosurgeon. You haven't touched a heart in years."
"The principles of micro-surgery are universal, Anthony," Alistair scoffs. "Besides, I’m funding it. I’ll write a check for the endowment this afternoon. Let’s call it... two million? Will that cover the 'misappropriated resources'?"
Sterling’s mouth opens and closes. Two million dollars. He is calculating the budget deficit. He is realizing he is outgunned.
"But... the data," Sterling tries weakly. "We need to see the methodology."
Alistair looks at Jax again. The look in his eyes is pure mischief. He is enjoying this. He is treating the ethics board of St. Jude’s like a game of bridge at the country club.
"O'Connell," Alistair says. "Explain the methodology to Dr. Sterling. Use small words."
Jax doesn't miss a beat. He realizes exactly what Alistair is doing. He sits up straight, adopting the persona of a serious researcher.
"It’s a kinetic feedback loop, Dr. Sterling," Jax says, keeping a straight face. "We’re using the robotic arm to stabilize the valve leaflets during high-velocity trauma simulation.Basically, we’re teaching the robot to think like a sniper. Calm under pressure."
It is utter gibberish. It means absolutely nothing.
Alistair nods gravely. "Brilliant. 'Think like a sniper.' I love it. Very masculine. Very... kinetic. Catherine will hate it."
Alistair turns back to Sterling.
"There," Alistair says. "Methodology explained. Funding secured. Catherine’s blood pressure raised. I’d call that a productive morning."
"Alistair," Sterling says, his voice tight. "You are making a mockery of this inquiry."
"Anthony," Alistair counters, his voice losing its humor and turning freezing cold. "I built this hospital wing. I hired you. And I am telling you that if you touch my son or his pet trauma surgeon, I will not only pull the funding, I will tell Catherine thatyouwere the one who seated her next to the radiator at the Gala last year."
Sterling pales. "That was an accident."
"She doesn't believe in accidents," Alistair says cheerfully. He stands up, grabbing his cane. "Meeting adjourned."
He walks toward the door, then pauses. He turns to me.
"Maxwell," he says.
"Yes, Father?"
"Don't look so relieved," Alistair says coldly. "I didn't do this for you. I did it because your mother called me three times before breakfast to complain about your 'lifestyle choices.' If she wants you miserable, I’m going to make sure you’re successful. It’s the only way to shut her up."
He looks at Jax.
"O'Connell, walk me to the car. I want to hear about that field amputation again. It soothes my nerves."
"Yes, sir," Jax says. He stands up, shoots me a wink, and follows Alistair out.
I am left alone with Sterling.
The room is silent. Sterling is staring at the closed door, his face a mask of humiliation and rage.
He slowly closes the folder on the Ethics Inquiry.
"You think this is funny, Maxwell?" Sterling whispers.
"I think the inquiry is closed," I say, gathering my papers. My hands are shaking, just a little.
"Your father thinks he can buy anything," Sterling says, standing up. He walks to the window, looking down at the parking lot where Alistair is undoubtedly getting into his Bentley. "He treats this hospital like a sandbox for his family feud."
Sterling turns to me. His eyes are dead.
