“These are beautiful,” Casey said, turning back to the specimens. “This blue is electric.”
“A lot of people use ethyl acetate in their kill jars,” Kollar said. “Cyanide makes them squeamish-the way the little suckers thrash around a bit-but it’s the best way to keep the colors bright.”
Casey looked at the judge for a deeper meaning before she shook hands with the hospital’s lawyer, William Flynn, a tall, angular man in a tan suit with thinning brown hair and gold-rimmed glasses. She handed both the lawyer and the judge copies of the brief she had prepared, then sat in the other leather-upholstered wooden chair facing Kollar’s desk. The big judge folded his hands and used them as a resting place for his chin. The judge asked Flynn to present his argument first, flipping open the hospital lawyer’s brief.
“Judge, as much as we’d like to help Ms. Jordan, giving out these samples would be an egregious invasion of privacy, plain and simple,” Flynn said in an even voice so full of confidence that it bordered on condescension.
Kollar looked at him and nodded.
“State law is very clear that outside a subpoena in a criminal proceeding, the medical information of a patient is sacrosanct,” Flynn said, pointing to his brief. “The case law supporting patient privacy laws is extant, but the court of appeals decision in Marley v. New York is the most commonly accepted authority.”
The judge compressed his lips as if this were common knowledge.
Flynn held up a hand, looked at Casey, and said, “I’m sure Ms. Jordan will argue that this is a form of criminal proceeding, but I have to point out that case law is clear on that as well. Her client has already been tried and convicted. He has exhausted all avenues of appeal provided for by the state, so his standing isn’t one of the accused. He’s guilty. He’s a prisoner of the state serving a life sentence. The only rights he has are the recent rulings that compel the state to provide any evidence used in the case against him. What Ms. Jordan is asking for is simply and obviously not state’s evidence. It is the private property of a hospital patient. I’m afraid the law is cut and dry.”
15
JAKE ATE BREAKFAST alone and allowed his sweat from the run to dry. His phone chirped and he read the text message from his son, Sam. Sam wanted to know if he could go right from camp to visit with a friend in the Hamptons for a few days. Jake answered with a text of his own, giving him permission and resisting the temptation to ask Sam why in the world he couldn’t come home for a few days first, but didn’t because Sam had a tough time making friends. He also wanted to ask why Sam didn’t give him more notice, because he already knew the answer. Sam didn’t like to plan things and, he claimed, neither did his friends. Sam being away would allow Jake to return from his Rochester interview with Graham and take Casey up on dinner. He wasn’t sure, but he had the feeling-if he didn’t rush it-something might be there between them.
Jake changed into a suit and headed out. Robert Graham kept his Rochester offices outside the city in a nondescript two-story office building just down the main road from the big shopping mall in Palmyra. A savings bank occupied the ground floor of the white building surrounded by parking lots and locust trees. Jake parked in the shade next to the rented van belonging to Dora and her crew and bypassed the glass doors of the bank to enter a side door marked Graham Funding by a modest black-and-white sign. In the small entryway, as he waited for a private elevator, Jake spied the surveillance camera in the corner. He tried the fire door to the stairs, but it was locked, so he waited for the elevator. Inside the car, Jake stared into a second camera until the door rumbled open and he stepped into a small lobby. Behind a panel of glass sat a pretty young receptionist with bright red lipstick and short dark hair. When she got up, her black tailored pantsuit gave away her excellent shape.
She smiled at Jake, obviously expecting him. Jake heard a hum and the muffled clank of a heavy metal bolt before the receptionist swung open the door, greeting him with a sultry look and a thin cool hand.
“I’ve seen your show,” she said. “This is all very exciting. Can I get you something?”
Jake cleared his throat and said, “Just my crew. Thank you, though.”
“They’re in Mr. Graham’s office. Right this way,” she said, leading him around a corner and down a brightly lit hallway to a very large corner office looking out into the trees.
A big cherry desk sat in the corner facing the leather furniture, stained-glass lamps, and Oriental rugs. Books and Remington sculptures lined the shelves that framed the spaces taken up by richly painted seascapes blazing with three-masted battleships. Jake looked but saw not a single photograph of loved ones, their absence making the space feel sterile.
Dora smiled up at him from her monitor and motioned impatiently for him to come see.
“No water? Nothing at all?” the receptionist asked him, barely whispering and toying with her gold hoop earring.
Jake looked at her a moment, his eyes distracted by the red smudges across the face of her pearl-white teeth. “No, I’m good, but thanks.”
“Maybe something later,” she said.
Jake waited until she’d gone before he said hello to the crew, then looked at the shot before asking Dora directions to the bathroom.
“Get made up, too,” Dora said, directing him around the corner, down a hallway, then around another corner. “The makeup girl is AWOL, so it’s a good thing you’re multitalented. I’d like to start this thing.”
“Is he here?” Jake asked, looking around.
“Flew in from Philly at six this morning,” Dora said. “The legend lives on. He’s on some call in the conference room, supposedly until twelve-thirty, but let’s be ready in case it ends early.”
“It never does with these guys,” Jake said. “You can set your watch depending on how much money they have. They keep you waiting a half hour for every billion they’ve got.”
“Good,” Dora said, looking at her watch, “I should still make my flight back.”
Jake followed Dora’s directions to the bathroom, walking slowly through the hallways and wondering at the quiet and the well-heeled offices without a sign of workers past or present, no cups of coffee, no framed pictures of loved ones on either a desk or a wall anywhere. When he came to a short hallway ending in a broad mahogany door, Jake realized he must have misunderstood Dora. He turned to go but froze when he heard someone shouting from the other side of the heavy door. Jake looked around without seeing any security cameras in the corners of the ceiling and eased himself toward the door, placing his ear gently against its cool smooth grain so that he could smell the hint of varnish.
He heard voices talking and strained to decipher the words, his instincts telling him that, if he could, he’d quickly have something to turn the puff piece on Robert Graham into something juicy. But no matter how hard he listened, he couldn’t understand a single word. Jake moved away from the door, turned, and was startled by someone at the other end of the hall.
“What are you doing?” the man asked.
16
FLYNN, THE HOSPITAL’S lawyer, let his hands come to rest in his lap. His eyes glittered and his lips tugged ineffectively at his smile. The judge turned his attention to Casey.
She took a deep breath and said, “I agree with Mr. Flynn completely on his findings in regards to New York State law, Your Honor.”
Both men gave her affirmative nods, their faces grim.
“I’d like to ask the court to find some loophole here,” Casey said with a sigh, “to use its discretion and compassion to apply some common sense to the fact that the privacy we’re talking about is for a woman who’s been dead for twenty years.”