The peanut gallery smirked again. Gaines moved to the next slide. “Our remaining points of disagreement are not so benign. Paragraph thirteen: ‘Upon information and belief, plaintiff alleges that BNN co-opted information about Ms. Laramore’s medical condition through surreptitious and illegal means. Specifically, BNN (or someone acting on BNN’s behalf) intercepted critical and confidential patient data as it was transmitted by paramedics from the moving ambulance to doctors at Jackson Memorial Hospital.’ Hogwash. Next.
“Paragraph fourteen: ‘BNN’s illegal interception of Ms. Laramore’s patient data interfered with the paramedics’ transmission of real-time information to emergency room physicians. As a result, the ER physicians never received the intercepted transmission, and they were unable to prescribe real-time measures to the paramedics that would have addressed the patient’s life-threatening condition.’ More hogwash. Next.
“Paragraph fifteen: ‘Plaintiff further alleges . . .’” Gaines stopped. “You know what? I’m already tired of this. Lights, please.”
The junior attorney jumped from her chair and switched on the lights. Gaines returned to his seat and cast his most intimidating glare across the table, directly at Jack.
“In plain English, this is a bullshit lawsuit, Mr. Swyteck. I don’t know where you came up with your ‘information and belief,’ but pulling allegations out of your ass won’t cut it in a court of law. The only kernel of truth here is that ninety seconds after the ambulance pulled away from the scene, BNN was the first news organization to report that Celeste Laramore was unconscious and in cardiac arrest. BNN gathered those details the way it always gets its information: nose-to-the-grindstone, feet-on-the-ground, tireless reporting.
“Now, I fully understand that Faith Corso said some harsh things about you during the trial of Sydney Bennett, and I’m sure you’d love to nail Faith and her network. But—”
“This isn’t personal,” said Jack.
“Noooo,” Gaines said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “of course it isn’t.”
Jack leaned into the table, returning the stare. “This meeting wasn’t my idea. My clients asked me to arrange it. They’re reasonable people. Their hope was that you would be reasonable, too. It’s clear they were wrong.”
“What did you expect us to do? Roll over?”
“I would have expected you to tell me not to come if this was the way you intended to treat us. Let’s go, Hannah.” They rose and started for the door.
“Swyteck,” said Gaines.
Jack stopped and turned.
“I’ve done all the talking for the team today,” said Gaines. “But with me at this table are some of the best lawyers in the country. Trust me. On so many levels, this is a fight you don’t want to pick.”
“Too late,” said Jack. “Hannah really wants to kick your ass.”
Hannah did a quick double take, then for some reason felt the need to speak. “Yeah, I’m gonna kick your—”
Jack silenced her with a sideways glance. He opened the door, and they started down the hall to the elevator.
Hannah spoke through her teeth. “Did I just sound like a sixteen-year-old girl in there?”
“Fifteen,” said Jack.
“Oy vey.”
Jack pushed the call button for the elevator. “We’re cool,” he said.
Chapter Seventeen
Jackson Memorial Hospital is virtually around the corner from Miami International Airport, right on the way home for Jack. His flight from LaGuardia was a few minutes late, but the Laramores were at their daughter’s side around the clock. Jack made a quick stop to give Ben Laramore a flavor of how the meeting with BNN’s lawyers had gone.
“We’ve got a battle on our hands,” said Jack.
They were at a table in the ground-floor cafeteria, which had stopped serving for the night and was a few minutes from closing. Most of the chairs were upturned and resting on the dining tables, out of the way for a floor mopping. Only one other table was occupied, an intern on her cell phone.
“Is there any hope of a quick settlement?” asked Laramore.
“It’s going to take more than filing a complaint to bring them to the bargaining table. We need to push the case forward, take some depositions. Even then, this could be one of those cases that doesn’t settle until the eve of trial, if it settles at all.”
“Then we need to push the case to trial. Fast.”
“We’ll push, but civil suits don’t typically move quickly. Realistically, the soonest we can expect that judge to set the case for trial would be six to eight months from now, and we can pretty much bank on at least one continuance. Probably a year or more, when all is said and done.”
“A year?” Ben said, running his hand through his hair. The worry lines in his face seemed carved in wax, each day taking a toll. Laramore dug an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Jack. “I can’t wait a year.”
Jack checked inside. It was a hospital expense report. “Ninety-two hundred dollars,” said Jack, reading the bottom line aloud.
“That’s just for today. No insurance. Virginia doesn’t work. I’m a laid-off plumber. Whoever strangled my daughter is still out there, and I can’t even afford to post a security guard outside the door. I asked for daily printouts, just so I can keep a handle on expenses, but what’s the point? How are we supposed to pay for this?”
“First off, I wouldn’t worry about a guard. This happened only because her attacker thought she was Sydney, and even if for some reason he comes after Celeste now, he has to get past the cameras, security guards, locked doors, and all the other restrictions on access to the ICU. But the bills . . .” Jack paused, searching his mind for some way to help. “I’m no expert in this field, but I believe that if we can get Social Security to determine that Celeste qualifies for disability income, Medicaid will cover her hospitalization.”
Laramore shook his head. “I’ve already had that conversation with the hospital. This place deals with brain injury every day. They know the ins and outs of these programs. To be eligible for Social Security, you have to be totally disabled for a full year.”
“There has to be an exception for a patient in a coma.”
“There’s not. The problem is that no doctor can tell the Social Security Administration when Celeste will recover or what her recovery will look like. She could be in a coma a year or more and end up totally disabled. Or, God willing, she could snap out of it tomorrow and be just fine.”
Jack could hear it in Ben’s voice—the fear that each passing day made the chances of “just fine” all the more remote.
“I’ll do some research. If not disability, maybe there’s another way to qualify Celeste without bankrupting you and your wife.”
“I spent over two hours with a hospital administrator today. She truly wanted to help, but we simply fall through the cracks in the system. Even if Virginia and I could qualify our family for Medicaid, we couldn’t get Celeste covered as our child because she’s over the age of nineteen. And Celeste can’t apply for Medicaid on her own because she has no kids and is under age sixty-five.”
Jack took another moment to think. “When my grandfather was in a nursing home, I read about something called the medically needy program. It’s for people who don’t strictly qualify for Medicaid. It may be worth looking into.”
“Let’s be real, Jack. Most Medicaid programs in this country are on life support themselves. How long do you think the state of Florida is going to pay for us to keep Celeste on life support?”
“We have to be prepared to fight day to day.”
“I appreciate your intentions. But each day Celeste spends in a coma, the pressure to pull the plug is going to build. I want to give my daughter a fighting chance. I don’t want a bunch of bean counters telling me it’s time to give up hope. BNN caused this mess. They should at least pay the hospital bills to fix it.”
“That’s part of our claim.”
“But we can’t wait for trial. Our only re
al hope is for you to find the magic bullet that brings those bastards to their knees.”
No pressure.
“I’ll do my best,” said Jack. “Step one is to file the complaint as soon as the court opens tomorrow.”
“What about suing the Department of Corrections, like I asked about in the first place? Maybe they’d be quicker to settle.”
“That’s actually more complicated. You can’t just sue a state agency in Florida. We have to give the department written notice of our claim. We’re working on that now. The department has six months to respond before we can even file suit.”
“Six months? I can’t believe this.” Laramore’s cell rang. Jack heard one side of the conversation, which lasted only a few seconds, ending with Laramore telling the caller that he was in the cafeteria.
“UPS,” Laramore told Jack. “Got a delivery for me.”
“At eleven o’clock at night?”
A man approached, interrupting. “Mr. Laramore?”
“Yes.”
The man wasn’t wearing a UPS uniform and wasn’t even dressed in brown. “This is for you,” he said as he handed him a packet. He left quickly, without asking for a signature.
Jack said, “That was a process server if I ever saw one.”
“Am I being sued?” Laramore asked, opening the packet. He handed it to Jack, who read it quickly.
“It’s a temporary restraining order,” said Jack.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that while I was in New York meeting with BNN’s lawyers, another team of lawyers for BNN went before a judge in Miami and got him to enter an order against you, your wife, and me.”
“Don’t we get to present our side of the story?”
“It’s called an ex parte order. It’s not an easy thing to get, but sometimes judges will enter orders without notice to the other side.”
“An order to do what?”
Jack found the operative language in the order. “It requires us to file our complaint against BNN under seal, meaning that it won’t be part of the public record. And it forbids us from discussing the allegations publicly. Essentially, it’s a gag order.”
“They convinced a judge to issue a gag order before we even filed our lawsuit? What kind of system is this?”
Jack considered the question, which strangely echoed public sentiment since the Sydney Bennett verdict.
“This can work to our advantage,” said Jack.
“How?”
“Right out of the blocks, BNN’s lawyers have overplayed their hand. And I intend to make them pay.”
Laramore’s cell rang a second time. Again, Jack got a one-sided perspective on the conversation, but this time he could tell who was on the line: Celeste’s mother.
Laramore ended the call and put his phone away. “I need to go back upstairs,” he told Jack. “Virginia could use some company.”
“I understand. I’ll call you in the morning,” said Jack.
They shook hands. Laramore went to the elevators, and Jack stopped in the men’s room. He was actually hungry enough to eat hospital food, had the cafeteria been open. On the way out, he stopped at the vending machines for a granola bar.
“Hey, stranger.”
Jack turned at the familiar voice. Rene had popped into the vending room after him.
“Hi,” said Jack. “You working tonight?”
She dropped a few coins into the soda machine. “Yup. You?”
“No. Well, I was. Working. Not for the hospital. Law stuff. You know.”
She grabbed her diet soda and smiled. “You’re cute when you’re tongue-tied. I’m off at midnight.”
“Rene, I told you, I’m enga—”
She laughed. “Got ya. You are such an easy target. Stefan is picking me up in an hour. I’d ask you to join us, but you look really tired. Plus, Stefan’s not really into that stuff.”
Jack was a half beat behind her.
“Got ya again, Swyteck. This is way too easy.” She popped open her soda and gave him a wink. “I’ll see you around.”
As she headed out, a folded yellow Post-it fell from her pocket to the floor. Jack was about to say something, but he quickly realized that the drop had been intentional. He opened it and read.
Can’t talk here. There’s more. 2 P.M. tomorrow. Same place.
“More” obviously meant about Celeste Laramore. “Same place” was the coffee shop in Little Havana. Jack tucked the note away and headed for the exit.
Things had been quiet outside the hospital when he’d arrived, but the eleven o’clock news had since started, and “coma watch” had returned for the obligatory live update. The media presence was nothing compared to what it had been earlier in the week. Tonight it was down to a handful of news vans. Tomorrow was sure to bring an uptick in coverage with the filing of the lawsuit against BNN—or not, with a gag order in place. Jack hurried out the door and down the sidewalk before anyone could recognize him. He chose the long route through the parking lot, trying not to walk so fast that he might draw attention to himself. He took a modicum of satisfaction in getting all the way to his car without having a single microphone thrust in his face. He found his key and was aiming in the dark at the ignition when his phone rang. It was an unknown number, but he answered anyway.
“I heard your conversation with Sydney,” the caller said.
It was that thick, disguised voice again—Jack’s attacker, the man with cotton in his mouth. “You’re eavesdropping on my cell?”
“Does that really surprise you? How else would I have known that I could find you walking down Main Highway to Cy’s Place Monday night? Remember that text to your buddy Theo?”
Need a ride tonight. Walking over now.
“Nothing surprises me anymore,” said Jack. “What do you want?”
“There’s been a change in our arrangement.”
Jack massaged between the eyes, staving off a massive headache. “There is no arrangement.”
“Relax and listen. This is all good. See, now that I heard you and the party slut talk, I believe you. You really don’t know where she is.”
“That’s what I told you from the beginning.”
“No worries. Just a little glitch. We can work around this.”
“I’m not interested in working anything out.”
“Sydney won’t just walk away from a book and movie deal. She’ll call you again. Especially after that lawsuit is filed tomorrow against BNN.”
“How do you know about—”
“I know these things, Jack. When she calls, I want you to insist on meeting her face-to-face.”
“No.”
“Don’t tell me no. You know what happens if you don’t do your part.”
Jack said nothing, but he remembered the threat well: Someone you love will get what Sydney deserves.
“We’re a team, Jack. We’ll find her.”
The call ended, and the light from Jack’s keypad faded, leaving him alone in the dark.
Chapter Eighteen
Jack met Andie the following morning in Miami Gardens, a short ride away from the FBI’s Miami field office. Andie didn’t want a meeting at the office. Over the years, Jack had done legal work for the St. Thomas University Center for Justice and Peace, and he’d spent enough time on campus to remember that the coffee at the book center was drinkable. They each grabbed a cup and a bagel and walked across the parking lot to the baseball diamond, where a travel team was practicing. Alone in the bleachers behind home plate, they could talk freely.
Jack had left a message for Andie immediately after the call from his attacker. It had taken another phone call and two text messages to get a callback, which told him either that she was really mad at him, or that something big was in the works.
“I’m going undercover again,” she said.
Something big—which explained her hypersensitivity about the publicity over the Sydney Bennett case. But it didn’t rule out the possibility that she was also mad.
/>
“When?” he asked.
“You know I can’t tell you that. But soon.”
The ping of an aluminum bat sounded on the other side of the batting cage. The baseball team was fielding ground balls. Jack watched, working on a chewy bagel. He was reluctant to ask, but he needed to know.
“Is this in response to the threat?”
Andie seemed put off by the insinuation. “Are you asking if I’m going undercover to run away from the man who attacked you?”
Hearing Andie rephrase it made the question sound insulting. “Sorry,” said Jack. “I asked only because you were the one who immediately thought that the threat against ‘someone you love’ meant you.”
“It has nothing to do with that. This assignment has been in the works for months.”
Jack’s attention turned briefly to the infielders, then back to Andie. “So . . . where does this leave us?”
“We’ll be fine,” she said.
He smiled a little. “Does that mean I’m off the FBI’s ten most unwanted list?”
She returned the smile, more with her eyes. “You’re such a goofball. Yes, you’re off the list. Or at least out of the top ten.”
“So you still love me?”
She gave him a little kiss. “Yes, I love you. Even though I was right.”
Jack knew it wouldn’t be simple. “Right about what?”
“That photograph of us walking out of the emergency room. It took less than eight hours for it to show up on the Internet.”
“True. But you’re barely recognizable. Obviously, the bureau doesn’t think it’s an issue if they’re sending you back undercover.”
“We got lucky. This time.”
Jack drank his coffee, watched the infielders turn a double play. There was more to sort out. “Who will be my contact at the FBI when you go undercover? It’s clear I haven’t heard the last from this guy.”
Blood Money Page 10