“I don’t think that’s for you to say,” Flynn said, clearly affronted and looking at her over the rims of his glasses. “There’s a family involved here, too.”
“I know,” Casey said, reaching into her briefcase, taking out the report Ralph had given her the night before, and holding it up to emphasize her point. “While her father is dead, the victim has a mother in a nursing home in Oregon suffering from advanced stages of Alzheimer’s. There’s a sister whose last known address, as of April 2006, was Sydney, Australia. That’s her family. Those are the people whose privacy we’re trying to protect. I know because I took the time to try to find them, hoping I could get their permission and save the court the trouble.”
The two men looked at each other, then at her.
“Given the mother’s state and the complexity of her own competence to sign a release and given the sister’s inaccessibility,” Casey said, “a waiver isn’t possible. But given the same circumstances, I think it’s reasonable to suggest that neither one would know or care about the privacy issue involved here.”
“The presumption-” Flynn began before Casey cut him off.
“I understand the presumption of privacy,” she said, “and I’m not going to ask for the court’s compassion or commonsense application. The judge said he’d make his decision based on the law, and that’s the only standard. I agree.”
“Good,” the judge said, placing a hand flat on his desk and starting to rise.
“Because I’m not going to ask you to apply state law,” Casey said.
The judge froze, then lowered himself into his chair, narrowing his eyes at Casey.
“Fortunately,” Casey said, angling her nose at the brief she’d given the judge, “if you look at the second, third, and fourth pages of my brief, you’ll see that I’m relying entirely on federal law to compel you to give me those samples.”
“This is a state court,” the judge said.
“But the court’s actions in this case-if you deny my request,” Casey said, trying not to sound too pleased with herself, “will give me standing in the federal system based on the minority status of my client and the racial composition of the jury that convicted him. If you take a look at Ashland v. Curtiss and maybe even more important, Knickerbocker v. Pennsylvania, you’ll see the authority is clear.”
“It’ll take years to fight that,” the judge said, smirking.
Casey nodded her head and sighed, “And I’ve got years. So does the Project. So does Dwayne Hubbard; he’s done twenty already. In the meantime, given the current political sentiment of the American public, and given that you’ll be ripped up one side and down the other in every newspaper and law journal across this country for the racism you’ll be accused of harboring from your bench, I’m guessing your replacement will act quickly. You are up for election the year after next, right, Your Honor? I thought that’s what they said at the Rotary lunch.”
Kollar bunched his hands into white-knuckled fists and his jaw tightened. When he spoke, his voice rumbled like low thunder. “This is that TV guy, isn’t it?”
Casey shook her head. “I’m a lawyer, judge. I haven’t even figured the TV part of it into the equation. That’s a network decision, but if they did, it would make it all the more interesting, wouldn’t it? Like cyanide? A bit of thrashing around?”
“If you think you can threaten me with politics,” Kollar said, hunching his wide shoulders and leaning forward, “you’re in the wrong place, doll. And I’ve got a few contacts of my own. My wife’s brother is an editor at the New York Post.”
“So, I should file my complaint in the federal court?” Casey said, as pleasant as if they were playing a friendly game of checkers.
She began to rise.
“You sit down,” Kollar said, stabbing a finger at her, keeping his voice soft. “I’ve heard what you both have to say and I will look at your briefs and consider the validity of the arguments.”
Flynn’s smile faltered. “Judge. I thought we-”
“I will consider the law,” Kollar said, turning his finger on the hospital’s lawyer to silence him.
Casey studied them both, then smiled and asked, “Do you have an idea when you might be able to reach a decision, Your Honor?”
The judge’s lower lip disappeared beneath his upper teeth.
“Because I’d like to know tomorrow,” Casey said. “I think you’ll find the precedent is quite clear. I’d hate to have word get out and someone cause a big stir and then you come to the right decision, anyway. Why go through that?”
Kollar looked at her with hatred, but nodded his head. “Tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said, snapping her briefcase shut, rising from her chair, and turning to the butterflies. “Really, just stunning.”
17
JAKE TASTED BILE seeping up from the back of his throat.
“I was looking for the bathroom,” he said, swallowing, stepping forward, and extending his hand to the man in the olive green suit. “I’m here to interview Mr. Graham for American Sunday. We’re set up in his office.”
The man, thin with toffee-colored skin and a dark wiry mustache, shook Jake’s hand with an iron grip, never allowing his eyes to waver from Jake’s.
“Down there,” the man said, pointing to the hallway Jake had come out of. “I’ll let Mr. Graham know you’re waiting for him.”
“I know the receptionist said he’d be on some call until twelve-thirty,” Jake said, retreating. “We’re fine waiting, so you don’t have to bother him.”
“That’s okay,” the man said, still holding Jake in his eyes, “he’ll want to know you’re waiting.”
Jake retreated, pausing only to listen as the man gave two sharp raps on the door, paused, then entered. Jake found the bathroom and applied his makeup, breathing slowly to ease the knot in his stomach. When he returned to Graham’s office, he sat in one of the two chairs Dora had arranged amid the cameras in front of the big desk and pretended to busy himself with his notes to keep Dora from chatting and to give himself a chance to think. By the time the billionaire appeared in the doorway wearing his trademark flannel shirt and jeans with his chest hair showing, Jake had made up his mind to play the TV dope.
“Nice to finally meet you,” Graham said, shaking Jake’s hand and matching the firmness of his grip. “This is an honor.”
“Please,” Jake said, meeting Graham’s steady gaze, “and I admire all the good work you do.”
“I learned that lesson from my ex-wife,” Graham said, cracking a knowing smile at Jake. “She never gave back. That’s why she’s the ex.”
Jake chuckled, then motioned to the chair opposite him in the clutter of lights, cameras, and cables and asked, “Ready?”
“You?” Graham asked, holding Jake’s gaze.
“Always,” Jake said, grinning.
“You found the bathroom okay?” Graham asked, his eyes boring into Jake behind the happy mask of his face.
“Place is a maze,” Jake said, grinning. “I bumble around most days.”
“A Pulitzer Prize winner?” Graham said. “I imagine you know where you’re headed.”
“Me?” Jake said, smiling happily. “I just do as I’m told. Right, Dora?”
Dora looked up from her monitor and rolled her eyes. “When he does good, I give him a cookie.”
Jake smiled back at Graham. “I sure like cookies.”
Someone else might as well have written everything Jake asked. The questions about Graham’s monumental accomplishments and his level of giving pandered to the rich man’s ego, and by the time Jake had finished, Graham was red-faced and teary-eyed from telling humorous stories about eating ketchup sandwiches as a child and building toys out of used Popsicle sticks to sell to the other kids for a profit, part of which he’d always save in an orange UNICEF box he worked at filling year-round.