QUOTE : bed private unit on the west side, separated from the ward by teak doors lettered THE HANNAH CHAPELL SPECIAL UNIT in brass. Chappy Ward. Off limits to the hoi polloi and trainees, maintained by endowments, private insurance, and personal checks; not a Medi-Cal form in sight. Private meant Muzak flowing from concealed ceiling speakers, carpeted floors instead of linoleum, one patient per room in place of three or more, TVs that worked almost all the time, though they were still black-and-white antiques. This morning, nearly all twenty rooms were empty. A trio of bored-looking R.N.s stood behind the counter at the nursing station. A few feet away a unit clerk filed her nails. “Morning, Dr. Eves,” said one of the nurses, addressing Stephanie but watching me and looking none too friendly. I wondered why and smiled at her anyway. She turned away. Early fifties, short, chunky, grainy-skinned, long-jawed, sprayed blond hair. Powder-blue uniform trimmed with white. Atop the stiff hair, a starched cap; I hadn’t seen one of those in a long time.