“Unlike a courtroom trial, a deposition isn’t cross-examination; it’s just a vacuum cleaner for information—lots of broad, open-ended questions and follow-ups. All they want are the facts, and the strategy is to answer the questions as straightforwardly and narrowly as possible.”
That’s when René felt her stomach leak acid. And she could hear her father’s voice: The softest pillow is a clear conscience.
Flowers also said that the Zuchowsky lawyer’s name was Cameron Beck, and don’t be fooled by his baby face. He could be a little pushy.
But Ms. Flowers had grossly understated Cameron Beck. He was a pit bull disguised as a cherub.
Flowers met René the following Monday at Beck’s office on the twenty-eighth floor above State Street. She was in her forties and a pleasant woman with a sincere blue business suit and reassuring manner. “Don’t be nervous,” she said. And instantly René’s heart rate kicked up. “You’re going to be fine.”
After a few moments, Cameron Beck came out to lead them to a conference room with a large shiny table, artwork on the walls, elegant designer furniture, and a million-dollar view of Boston Harbor—all of which conspired to remind René that there was a much larger world outside of wheelchairs, bedpans, and pills.
Also in the room was a stenographer with a dictation machine. She asked René to take an oath that everything she said was the truth. René nodded, thinking that she would throw up. But she didn’t and took the oath.
In his early thirties, but looking about fourteen, Beck was a soft and cheeky man with a thick head full of auburn ringlets. He had a sharp, thin nose and intense blue eyes that projected a predatory cunning. As Flowers had said, Beck began with some neutral questions about herself—René’s education, job history, her role as consultant to Broadview. René explained in minimal terms, as instructed.
Then Beck asked about the people she worked with at Broadview—their responsibilities to residents, what their jobs were, who their superiors were—boring stuff that helped Beck understand how the CommCare pharmacy operated and what its relationship was with the nursing home. This lasted for nearly an hour. All went well until Beck started to ask about Clara Devine. “Did you know her?”
“Not personally.”
“As I understand it, this was the first time that Broadview has ever had a patient escape. Is that your knowledge?”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“I see. Then maybe you can tell me how you think she got out of a locked Alzheimer’s ward.”
“I don’t know how she got out.”
There! It was out, and on record, and under oath. Officially she had crossed the line. Sorry, Dad. Just made myself a cement bag.
Apparently Beck sensed the psychic shift because his eyes locked onto René’s. He glared at her for several moments without blinking, probably hoping she’d crack under the strain and fill the dead air with confession. But René held firm and held his gaze.
“Well, Ms. Ballard, maybe you can speculate. Did she go out the door? Or perhaps the window? Or maybe she went up the chimney?”
Brenda Flowers cut in. “Counsel, I don’t think this line of questioning is fruitful. It’s clear that Ms. Ballard doesn’t know how Clara Devine escaped.”
“We’re trying to establish how a lockdown security system failed, apparently for the first time. So I’m sure that Ms. Ballard, an educated professional familiar with long-term-care facilities, has a theory she could share with me, don’t you, Ms. Ballard.” And his eyes snapped back to René and dilated in anticipation.
Didn’t I see you in The Silence of the Lambs? she thought. “I don’t have a theory.”
“Then guess.”
“Mr. Beck, please. This is a fact-finding exercise, not a courtroom.” Flowers tried to sound pleasant, but the lilt of her voice had a serrated edge.
René responded. “My guess is that the door lock system failed, and she just pushed her way out.”
“She just pushed her way out. I see, as opposed to somebody letting her out.”
“Nobody would let her out.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t.”
“How familiar are you with Broadview’s security system? To your knowledge, how does it work to keep patients in?”
“A security code pad.”
“I see. So you press a certain code and the door opens.”
“Yes.”
“And it closes behind you and locks automatically.”
“Yes.”
“And the only way out is to press the code on the keypad.”
“Yes.”
“So you’re saying that something in that system failed.”
“If I had to guess.”
“If you had to guess. Is it possible that Clara Devine knew the code and let herself out when nobody was looking?”
A prickly rash flashed across René’s scalp. And in her head she saw the video of her escape. “Clara Devine was suffering dementia, and such patients don’t have the cognitive powers to remember codes or operate a code pad.”
And now you’re falling behind slippery wording.
“But she did get out and go down the stairs or elevator and slip out the front door past the main desk where staffer members were supposedly on duty, is that not correct, Ms. Ballard?”
“Yes.”
“How do you explain that?”
“That the security door malfunctioned.”
“Have you heard of it failing any other times?”
“No.”
“Have you ever known the security system on the Alzheimer’s ward to ever fail?”
“No.”
“Then how do you explain it failing this one time?”
“I can’t.”
“What about the front desk? Did she suddenly turn invisible, or did she turn into a bird and fly out?”
“Mr. Beck, you’re bullying my client and I won’t stand for it.”
But he disregarded Flowers. “Well?” Again he bore down on René as if trying to stun her in his glare. But the more hostile Beck turned, the more resistant René became. It occurred to her how easy it was to lie, to maintain a kind of Orwellian doublethink—holding two contrary thoughts in your head at the same time. And with every question, she felt a separation from her more real essence—like a retreating doppelgänger. To justify the growing split, she kept reminding herself of the “higher good”—of Lorraine Budd recalling her high school friend from 1940-something and Ernestine spelling her nurse’s name and Louis Martinetti remembering his army days. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. Is it possible the front desk attendant maybe left for a few moments to go to the restroom or get a coffee, and while she did Clara slipped by?”
“It’s possible. But I really don’t know.”
“And where exactly were you when she got out the door?”
“At home.”
“You say your job is to monitor patients’ medications, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you have a pharmacy degree?”
“Yes.”
“So you understand the medications that are prescribed to patients?”
“Yes.”
“Good. So if a patient is taking anything that might be harmful to themselves or others, you would know?”
“Yes.”
He opened up a folder and pulled out a sheet.
“Was Clara Devine on any medications that would cause her to become violent?”
Maybe. “No.” She heard the syllable rise easily out of her throat but imagined that her eyes were blinking red polygraph alerts.
“Are there any she was taking that could have such violent side effects?”
“No.”
He opened a file folder and removed a sheet. “The medication sheets on file at the nursing home lists Atenolol. What’s that?”