Confrontation on the Rooftop

My cell phone vibrated on the desk while I was adjusting a new batch of gene sequencing samples. The words “No.1 Hospital Emergency Department” flashing on the screen sent an instant chill through my fingertips. I snatched up the phone and ran out, the corner of my white coat brushing against the lab bench and knocking over a bottle of centrifuge tubes. The sharp crash of breaking glass sounded behind me, but I didn't have the heart to look back—that was the hospital where Shirley was, and just yesterday she'd told me in a video call that her cold was much better. When I reached the emergency building, the corridors were packed with people. I saw Shirley's attending doctor, James Hugh, standing at the edge of the crowd, his white coat stained with a dark red patch, like an unwashed bloodstain. "Doctor James, where is Shirley?"I gripped his arm, my knuckles turning white with the effort. His eyes flickered briefly as he avoided my gaze. "Mr. Carter, please stay calm. The patient is dead; just moments ago..." I didn't catch the rest of what he said. All I could hear was the buzzing of the corridor's overhead lights. I looked into James Hugh's eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses and suddenly sensed that behind those gentle lenses was something I couldn't comprehend. When Quincy Scott rushed over, I was still slumped on the bench outside the emergency room. She had given birth less than two months ago; her belly hadn't fully gone down yet. The loose jacket wrapped around her made her look especially fragile. She crouched down and pulled my head into her arms. Her clothes still smelled faintly of baby formula, but her voice carried the resolute strength only a prosecutor could have: "Mike Carter, Shirley cannot have died in vain. I will make sure justice is served for her." I believed she would follow through. After all, she was my wife, Shirley's beloved "Quincy" since childhood, and a prosecutor wielding the sword of justice. On the day of the first appeal hearing, Quincy Scott wore a dark suit. She stood at the plaintiff's table, clearly and methodically presenting the case against James Hugh's medical negligence, clutching the evidence bag tightly in her hand. But the moment the judge struck the gavel, I heard the words 'insufficient evidence.' James Hugh's lawyer claimed that Shirley's frailty was due to long-term malnutrition, which left her unable to survive the postoperative blood loss—nothing to do with medical error. As we left the courthouse, Quincy Scott took my hand. Her hand was cold, but she smiled and said, “Mike Carter, it's okay. We still have an appeal. I'll find new evidence.” In the days that followed, Quincy Scott hardly went home. Her confinement period wasn't even over, yet she was already running all over the hospital in flats, visiting every department where Shirley had been treated, even cross-checking the duty rosters at the nurse's station, page by page. Several times, I woke up in the middle of the night to find her sitting in the study. The computer screen glowed with Shirley's medical records; she held a pen, filling the paper with dense notes, while an unfinished cup of instant coffee sat on the desk. The second appeal, the third appeal... right up to the seventh. Before every hearing, Quincy Scott would show me the organized evidence, page by page, clearly marked, saying, “This time, we'll definitely win.” But every time, the outcome was the same. On the day of our seventh defeat, James Hugh stopped Quincy Scott at the courthouse entrance. He knelt on the ground, grabbing Quincy's pant leg with both hands, crying, “Quincy, for the sake of our college days, please stop. Please?” I stood beside them, watching Quincy shake his hands off forcefully. She linked her arm with mine and said firmly, “Mike Carter, we're not giving up yet; there's still a chance.” At that time, I still believed her. I thought she was just unlucky, that she was truly fighting with all her might for Shirley's justice. Until the fifteenth appeal.