Chapter 2 - The Care Nobody Counted
Roman escorted me past the guard but didn't insist that I join the donors right away.
He led me to a side room, sent his assistants away, and asked which services had been canceled.
I told him about the gait-training sessions and the van that collected patients who couldn't drive after treatment.
The Department of Veterans Affairs covered parts of my medical care, but the foundation had funded additional mobility work through a separate nonprofit contract.
That distinction mattered.
Roman did not have the authority to turn VA medical benefits on and off with his signature.
He did control the organization that had promised to cover services my VA plan didn't provide in that setting.
A letter from the clinic described the change as a reallocation to higher-impact outcomes.
I showed him the letter, the appointments canceled after it, and a list of patients who had been told there was no funding for transportation.
Roman frowned at the word underutilized in the board summary.
"We were told participation had fallen below the threshold," he said.
"Patients missed appointments after the van stopped coming. Then your people counted those missed appointments as proof nobody needed the van."
He reread the pages.
"Who gave you these records?"
"Patients who agreed to share their own letters. I didn't take anyone's medical file without permission."
Roman looked up.
"I appreciate the distinction."
"I wish your staff did."
At the center of the packet was a spreadsheet prepared by the clinic's former program coordinator, Leah Price.
It showed that the number of referrals had remained steady while completed appointments declined after transportation was reduced.
Roman compared the chart with the board summary.
The figures were different.
"This isn't what we were given," he said.
"Then ask who changed it."
Outside the room a string quartet began playing a familiar patriotic hymn.
A waitress passed with a tray of champagne glasses, and I felt suddenly tired.
I had not come to ruin a gala.
I had come because an organization that promised to serve disabled veterans had stopped answering disabled veterans' letters.
Roman took his jacket off and placed it over a chair.
"I need to know why the invitation was revoked," he said.
"You need to know why the care was cut."
"Both."
He called his chief financial officer, Evelyn March, and asked her to join us with the original data files.
She arrived quickly, carrying a tablet and an expression that looked almost practiced.
Evelyn was the foundation's longest-serving executive.
She had overseen the shift from individual patient grants to contracts with regional providers.
"The board approved this," she said. "I can show you the vote."
"I remember the vote," Roman replied. "I want to see the data that supported it."
She glanced at me.
"Patient-level records are confidential."
"We're not asking for private charts," I said. "We're asking how you calculated the total number of people receiving help."
Roman held out his hand for the tablet.
Evelyn didn't move.
"We shouldn't do an audit in a hotel storeroom during our largest fundraiser of the year," she said.
He stood.
"Then the board will meet tomorrow."
For the first time that evening, she looked genuinely alarmed.
After she left, Roman asked whether I would speak to the board as a veteran affected by the cuts.
I said I would, provided the foundation did not treat me as a convenient face for a new publicity campaign.
He agreed.
Then he showed me the email he'd received about the guest list.
The note said my name had been removed because of a potential public-relations disruption.
May you like
The sender was Evelyn March.
And the attached risk memo described me as a former beneficiary whose claims about service disruption were not supported by verified facts.
