“Do you remember the story?”
“It’s easy.”
“Tell me,” Max said. “You have to believe it to make it real.”
“I started working for you six weeks ago and because I was so stressed about doing a good job, I started popping pills again. You caught me, and you’re giving me this one chance.”
“And?”
“And because my dad is a cop I don’t want to go to back to Boston where people might know me and tell him. We’re looking into a couple of thirty-day facilities to get me clean.”
“Good.”
“You can still admit me,” Riley continued. “And I can be working here while—”
“No,” Max said. “I told you, we’re not prepared for that level of involvement. I’ll tell the director that we’re looking at three facilities and will get back to them. If we decide to pursue this, we’ll do it next week when I can get an apartment set up here, equipment I can smuggle in, the works.” Max was getting excited. She missed working undercover. Ever since she started working the cable show, she could no longer go undercover. It wasn’t that everyone recognized her, it was that people could learn who she was very quickly. If she went undercover now, she’d have to do a complete makeover—cut and dye her hair, colored contacts, change her style, take on a different persona. She and Ben had talked about it, and when they found the right cold case she would do it.
“Nothing unreal, Riley,” Max said. “My name, your name. Same backstory. Don’t start making shit up, it’ll screw us in the end. Understood?”
“And then what?”
“We’re going to wing it, take advantage of opportunities. Do not mention the name Adam Bachman to anyone.” She looked out the window. They’d gotten off the freeway, but Max didn’t know where there were. “How far?”
“Twenty more minutes, according to the GPS.”
“I hate those things.”
“They’re useful.”
“I had a rental car once with a GPS that sent me to hell and couldn’t tell me how to get back.”
Riley frowned, but didn’t comment.
“Can I ask you a question?” Riley said a moment later.
“Anytime.”
“Are you nervous about me going undercover because of what happened to you in Mexico?”
Talk about a zinger that came out of left field. “Why on earth would you think that?”
Riley stuttered. “I-um-I read all your books. I read that book a few times. Remember, you gave a seminar at Columbia about human trafficking and foreign travel and—”
“I remember,” Max snapped. She hadn’t wanted to write that book. It had been an intensely emotional and difficult book to write. She knew her problem with it came from not only what she’d learned, but also what had happened to her.
She’d gone to Mexico to research kidnappings for ransom, but uncovered a far more insidious operation of human trafficking. It was one of those things she knew existed, but had never thought about much. But once she had seen the results—the young women and children and how they suffered—she couldn’t sit by and the wrong people ignore it. She pushed and ended up being arrested.
The Mexican jail was far worse than she had imagined. Had she not been a reporter with press credentials, they would likely have killed her or let her die—not the police themselves, but they would have turned her over to others. If it wasn’t for her then-boyfriend, FBI Agent Marco Lopez, she’d probably have spent far more than eight days in jail.
She’d thought writing the book would give her peace as well as shine a much-needed light on the problem. While it stimulated debate for a short time in media circles, little had changed in the big picture. It was that book, more than any other, that taught Max that what she did really didn’t matter to anyone except the individuals she helped. It didn’t matter how much money she had or who she talked to or what she said. She couldn’t change the world; she couldn’t change public policy.
She could, however, help individual families. She had helped a mother find her son’s body in the Rocky Mountains, so she could bury him and have closure. She’d helped identify the killer of a young architect in her hometown so his family could have justice.
And dammit, she would find out what happened to the Palazzolos so that their three children could have closure and justice.
“I’m sorry,” Riley said. “I didn’t realize it was a sore point.”
She sighed and tried to push back her frustration. She wasn’t used to being the one questioned. “What’s your question?”
Riley hesitated, then said, “In all your articles, you are really open. You share a lot of yourself. But in that book, when you wrote about the eight days you were in the jail, it was very unemotional. Like you were reciting facts. And it was a short chapter. I can’t imagine it didn’t affect you more.”
It was an astute observation, and Max wasn’t certain how she should respond.
Finally, she said, “‘Eight Days of Hell.’ That’s what I called the chapter. But the book wasn’t about me; it was about a truckload of women and children who had been left to die in the middle of the desert, and why. Because they had no value to the people who bought and sold them. It was easier to let them die and find replacements than to rescue them. That was the story I wanted to tell. As Renault says in Casablanca, ‘human life is cheap.’”
Max had given a grant to a university to identify their remains because each one of those girls had families, and their families should know the truth. To date, nine of the sixty-three young women had yet to be identified. But they’d made great progress over the last five years. Her imprisonment was a mere footnote. She refused to give it any more play than what was necessary to get the real story out in the world.
A footnote she had never forgotten, and suspected she never would.
Chapter Twelve
Greenhaven sounded cliché to Max, but what did she know about psychiatric facilities? The grounds were certainly green—a long, wide expanse of lawn, flower gardens all around, and healthy trees marking the perimeter. Riley turned the car up the long driveway that led to a parking lot and a roundabout. There was no gate, no guards, no check-in at parking. Spaces were marked for STAFF and VISITORS, with several slots headed by a personalized sign. There were three doctors—N. Abrams, R. Schakowsky, and C. Duvall. One was identified for Chief Administrative Officer, N. Jackson.
From their Web site, Max knew that “N. Jackson” was Nanette Jackson, an older, attractive woman who had a cultured, moneyed appearance in her photo. And Nanette Jackson was the person Max had the appointment with.
One of the benefits of having money and contacts was getting in to see the head of any facility. Nanette Jackson had been at Greenhaven for more than a decade. She would have been here with Adam Bachman. If she was at all good at her job, as soon as Bachman was arrested, she’d have closed ranks, followed the case, made sure that Greenhaven’s name was protected. It wouldn’t matter if there wasn’t anything untoward about Bachman’s admission into the facility, they wouldn’t want a notorious serial killer synonymous with Greenhaven.
Max couldn’t come in asking questions unless she already had some of the answers.
“You ready?” Max asked Riley who, for the first time, looked a little nervous.
“Yes,” Riley said.
“Follow my lead.”
They walked up the wide brick steps to the building that was designed to look two hundred years old but was, in fact, erected in 1975. The wide veranda was reminiscent of the South with many chairs and couches in clusters. Two people quietly conversed in one corner; a small group sat in another corner.
Max was greeted by a wall of cool air when she entered the building. The interior was just as reserved as the front. Large, dark furniture juxtaposed against light floors and walls. Everything looked rich and inviting, but the furniture was mass-produced, inexpensive, and modern. Still, Max couldn’t find fault with her initial impression of Greenhaven as quiet, restful,
and clean.
A small, open office to the left had one desk and a fast-typing receptionist.
“Hello, welcome to Greenhaven. Are you here to visit a guest?”
Guest, not patient or resident.
“I have an appointment with Ms. Jackson.” Max handed the woman her card.
She eyed the card. “Of course, Ms. Revere.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a clipboard. “You must be Ms. Butler?”
Riley nodded.
“If you can fill these out we can get started.”
Max said, “We haven’t decided if Riley will be staying.”
“It’s standard.”
“We’ll fill out any paperwork when and if we decide to use your services.” Max made a point of glancing at her watch. “Our appointment is at ten; it’s ten now.”
The receptionist looked momentarily flustered, but recovered quickly. She smiled, picked up her phone, and pressed four buttons. Then, “Ms. Jackson, Maxine Revere is here with Ms. Butler for their appointment?”
She hung up and said, “She’ll be right out. You’re welcome to sit in the gathering room—it’s right through those doors.”
Riley followed Max out. The ballroom-sized gathering room had enough seating for half the residents. The maximum live-in capacity was one hundred and eighty, but according to the Web site, they also had meetings for “drop-ins” and outpatient counseling services.
“Why weren’t you nicer to her?” Riley asked quietly. “I thought you said to always be nice to support staff.”
“Authority. If we need her, she’ll now respond to you—she sympathized with you.”
“Psychology.”
“I didn’t get a degree in it, but I know people.”
It didn’t take Nanette Jackson long to greet them.
“Thank you for waiting,” she said as she extended her hand to first Max, then Riley. Jackson was fifty, born and raised in New Haven, a graduate from Syracuse in business with a minor in psychology. She was neither attractive nor unattractive, very average even though she made every attempt to put herself above them, including standing one step up.
Max had a bad habit of making instant judgments of people. However, she was rarely wrong. When she looked at Jackson’s picture on the Web site and read her bio, she thought wealthy, cultured, and privileged—someone you could trust with an expensive and costly facility. Seeing her in person, that impression wasn’t accurate—which made Max wonder what else about Nanette Jackson was fake. She wore classic pearls—except they were too perfect, too white, and based on the clasp, cheap. Her earrings matched the necklace. Her suit was off-the-rack—good quality, but not tailored, and it hung too big on her lean frame. Her shoes were new, but also cheap.
Fraud.
Perhaps that assessment wasn’t fair, but there was a contradiction to Nanette Jackson. She presented herself well and wanted the world to believe she was cultured, but she wasn’t. That duality intrigued Max and made her wonder if there was more this woman was hiding about herself or about Greenhaven.
“Would you like to talk in my office or see the grounds first?”
“How about if we walk and talk?” Max suggested.
“Of course,” she said, conciliatory. Jackson was hospitable, she wanted Max to be comfortable, to make decisions. From a business standpoint, it was smart. You want your clients to feel like they are in control.
They left through wide doors in the back. Framing a large, elaborate garden were four identical two-story buildings, which were functional and matched the old design of the main building. “The dormitories are on the right. Every client gets their own private room and share an adjoining bath. They’re small, but well-appointed. Bed, desk, couch. There’s a small kitchen and dining room in each building open twenty-four-seven for snacks and drinks, but three meals a day are provided in the main building for our live-in clients.
“On the left are offices and classrooms. Many of our clients are older teens and college age and because they sign on for thirty, sixty, or ninety days we want to make sure they keep up with their work. We also offer classes on nutrition, time management, stress reduction—issues that are ancillary to addiction problems. Every client is assigned a counselor who specializes in their particular problem.”
Max said, “I noticed on your Web site that you have three doctors on staff. Psychiatrists?”
“Yes,” Jackson said. “All three are board-certified and combined have more than fifty years of experience in the field. When you sign in to our program, you first spend time with one of our doctors. He or she will evaluate you, run both psychological tests and blood tests. We have random drug testing for all patients, even those not here for drug or alcohol abuse.”
“But this is open rehab, right?” Riley asked.
“Yes, Ms. Butler, it is. You’re not a prisoner. We don’t lock the dorms, though everyone needs a card key to enter, all except for the main building, which is locked at ten each night.”
Jackson continued. “Everyone has a personalized schedule, but there’s also free time built in. Mornings are individual counseling sessions and classes. Afternoons are group sessions and activities. We have a gym and develop individual exercise routines.”
“What sort of tests do you run?” Max asked. “We know what Riley’s issue is—why subject her to tests?”
Ms. Jackson smiled as if it was a common but misguided question. “Riley has struggled with drug addiction for many years—”
Riley cut her off. “I’ve been clean most of the time. It’s only been recently that I had a couple problems.”
“Well, as you might remember from previous therapy, just because you’re not currently using doesn’t mean the underlying issue disappears. Our tests are designed to identify the underlying problem that’s causing the addiction or phobia or anxiety and solve that problem so the addiction or phobia is fixed. Then we teach you tools to avoid relapses.”
“Hmm,” Riley muttered.
“Ms. Jackson, I’m particularly concerned about privacy issues,” Max said.
“Greenhaven is a completely private facility adhering to all HIPAA laws. All clients are required to sign a confidentiality statement. We can and will take anyone to court who violates our policy.”
“That may be true, but the information is still out there.”
“We have had very few cases where information has been leaked. In the one instance that a staff member was involved, we immediately terminated employment.”
“Was this recent?”
“No, three years ago. It wasn’t a counselor who would be privy to personal information, it was a support staff member, our activities director. We haven’t had an incident since.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Would you like to see the dorms?” she asked.
Max glanced at Riley. “I think Riley should—this is ultimately her decision.”
Jackson frowned. “I was under the impression this was an employment issue.”
“It is,” Max said. “Again, it’s her decision about which facility she feels will best help her resolve her issues. I’d like to talk to you about the finances and review your privacy documents. Riley doesn’t need to be involved with the mundane details.”
“Let’s go back to the main building and I’ll find someone to give Ms. Butler a tour of the dorms and answer her questions, and we can talk paperwork.”
Max glanced at Riley and mouthed, “Eyes and ears, no questions.”
Riley nodded. Jackson called in a counselor to give Riley a more extensive tour, then Max followed Jackson into her office. The office was more well-appointed than Jackson herself, Max noted—real wood furnishings, plush carpet, a large picture window looking out at the wide expanse of lawn.
Jackson chatted while handing Max papers. She was a nervous talker, Max realized, and she didn’t know if it was because Max herself was intimidating, or if she was simply a nervous person.
“You’re welcome to take the packet back to
New York to review, but it’s standard for a facility like this.”
“Tell me about your counselors. What type of training do they receive?”
“They’re all certified, I can assure you. They work closely with our staff psychiatrists.”
“And those three—Abrams, Schakowsky, and Duvall. How long have they been here?”
“Dr. Schakowsky is our newest staff member. She’s a recent graduate, but spent her residency in Washington, D.C., working with teenagers suffering from substance abuse. She came highly recommended.”
“And the others?”
“Dr. Abrams has been here for more than twenty years. His father founded Greenhaven, and Dr. Abrams has maintained the vision. He teaches part time at the university and is well-respected among his peers. His full bio is on our Web site. Dr. Duvall has been here for eleven years. He’s published many articles in industry journals, plus a best-selling book about childhood phobias.”
“You indicated that each client is assigned a counselor and a psychiatrist?”
“Our doctors meet with the client, talk to them, determine what underlying issues there may be to their addiction or phobia. Often, addictions start with a fear that the client has never addressed. Counseling is usually sufficient, but if there needs to be a medical intervention of some sort—a prescription for anxiety or depression, for example—our doctors can take care of those needs. All clients meet with our doctors at least twice during their time here, and weekly if they are on medication. Our counselors are fully trained and licensed as well.”
“I’d like to meet the doctors.”
She frowned. “I don’t know that it’s possible.”
“Excuse me?”
“They’re in a staff meeting right now.”
“I’d like to get a sense of who they are and how they communicate before I can give Riley a recommendation. And since I’m paying for her treatment, I don’t see why that should be a problem.”
She hesitated, then said, “If you can wait a moment.”
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