Chapter 17 - THE FALL OF DR. WHITFIELD
Before Sterling could stammer out a defense, Marcus Vance signaled toward the doorway.
Two additional federal marshals marched into the hall, escorting a sweating, frantic Dr. Alan Whitfield between them. The doctor’s silver-framed glasses were crooked, and his expensive leather medical case was clutched in his white-knuckled grip like a lifeline.
“Mr. Kane—Everett, please!” Whitfield blurted out immediately, his professional composure completely shattered. “This is a misunderstanding! I was only following standard palliative care protocols dictated by the family trust! Sterling authorized the—!”
“Shut your mouth, Alan,” Everett hissed, his gaze pinning the physician to the spot.
Willa stepped forward, opening her worn spiral notebook and placing it flat on the mahogany table right in front of Sterling and the trembling board members.
“Dr. Whitfield didn't practice palliative care,” Willa said, her voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel. “He administered precisely measured doses of synthetic paralytics and neuro-suppressants designed to keep Mr. Kane in a state of artificial coma while looking like natural neurological decline on standard hospital logs. Here are the exact timestamps, the missing inventory logs from the private dispensary, and the chemical breakdown of the vials he smuggled out in his case tonight.”
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Whitfield turned the color of ash. He lunged toward the door, but a federal marshal stepped into his path, spinning the doctor around and slamming his hands against the table, snapping steel cuffs around his wrists with a sharp, metallic click.
“Conspiracy to commit murder, medical malpractice, and corporate fraud,” the marshal recited flatly. “You have the right to remain silent, Dr. Whitfield.”
