Linda Fairstein - The DeadHouse

"And Freeland Jennings's diamonds?"

"Hogwash, as far as I'm concerned. Those stories involved the penitentiary, not the hospital. Lola walked in both worlds, but my business was only with the medical aspects of the island."

"And you do have a business interest in the project, then?"

The helix was spinning wildly in Grenier's hands. "You've been listening to Claude Lavery. What we intend to do with this medical knowledge is to let society benefit from it. Hardly an evil motive, is it, Ms. Cooper? There are still places in this world where these diseases have not been wiped out. There still exist strains of these plagues that are resistant to current kinds of medication." The tone of his voice became more strident. "I guess you think I'm just supposed to let someone else profit from this when it's perfectly legal for me to do so myself?"

"But surely, Professor Lavery is also entitled-"

"We're into entitlements now, are we, Madame Prosecutor? Look, everyone's out there on that island digging around for a particular reason. Are you going to be the one to decide someone is more or less selfish than I am, more or less altruistic? Let's not be ridiculous.

"Recantati tells me he's going to get us all together tomorrow to discuss the late lamented Lola Dakota-Lavery, Shreve, Lockhart, Foote. Join us, Ms. Cooper. Come see the seamier side of academia."

"I'm hoping to be there. Professor Grenier, I wonder if you can tell me if there's an office, or a room, that's used as a base for the Blackwells project? Someplace that serves as a central headquarters for the work you've all been doing?" Someplace that needs a key to enter, I thought to myself.

"King's College is small enough, and our offices are close together in this building, so there has not been a need for a dedicated space over here. And for the moment, until something comes of it, we've just got a rented room with a secretary as the sole staffer, which is over on Roosevelt Island, on Main Street. It's just a studio apartment that we're using until we need something larger to store any objects that we might find in the dig."

"Who has keys to that room?"

He yawned again. "We all do. Even a number of the students. No secrets in there, if that's what you're thinking. Just a desk, a phone, a few filing cabinets. You're welcome to go visit it anytime you like. What are you looking for?"

I wish I knew. "Something related to Blackwells that one might keep locked up."

Grenier placed the double helix on the corner of his desk. "One of Lola's little secrets, no doubt. I'll sleep on it, Ms. Cooper. Maybe one of my charming colleagues knows the answer." He rose to his feet. "I understand I'm to show you the packing boxes with her books?"

"That would be helpful." We walked a short distance from his office. The door was unlocked and he flipped on the light switch. Cardboard cartons lined the bare walls.

"Paolo says they've all been moved in here while I was away. Looking for something special?"

"Not really." Not that I need to tell you.

"He says there's an inventory taped to the wall over near the window. See it?"

I looked over the cartons and nodded to him.

"Can you let yourself out?"

"Yes, thanks."

Grenier said good night and I started to browse through the descriptions of the books. It was an eclectic collection, everything from Chernow's brilliant biographies of the titans of business through Wallace's definitive study of Gotham; nineteenth-century geological surveys to reports of the Department of Correction from the early twentieth century; stories of immigrants from every part of the world and tales of urban America. I couldn't imagine disliking anyone who had such a love of books and had preserved so many of them with such care.

My finger ran up and down the pages that were hanging on the wall above the boxes. I found the reference I had been looking for, listed with the items in carton eighteen.

The only noise in the empty corridor was the thud of the book crates as I unstacked and stacked them again to get to the one I wanted. The label on its top flap was marked "Blackwells Project- Penitentiary." I dragged it off to the side and sat on the floor to explore its contents.

The top volumes were years of annual reports from the Board of Health, which supervised those prisoners who served as "nurses" in the other institutions. Below those were records of the Department of Correction, leading up to MacCormick's raid, which closed the penitentiary permanently. I piled up a few copies of each series and jotted down a note about which ones I was taking with me.

Three-quarters of the way down in the package was a set of matching black leather albums, their grainy finish frayed at the edges. The bottom right corner of each bore the stamped gold initials o.l. I opened the cover of the one on top and saw the elegant penmanship of the then-young man who had documented his life with such care.

I lifted the six volumes of Orlyn Lockhart's diaries from the box and added them to my stack of organizational reports. Now I could hear footsteps coming closer and resounding in the darkened corridor outside the small room. I stood to gather my night's reading material and put on my coat to leave.

When I opened the door I stood face-to-face with the night custodian. "Just coming to get you, miss. I'm supposed to lock up the main door at seven o'clock. Heat gets shut way low. The president asked me to be sure you got out okay."

I thanked him and we walked together down the staircase to the front door. The wind came howling off the river behind my back as I turned up to 116th Street and swept me up to Broadway in its wake. The air was heavy with moisture and the sky was an even shade of dark gray, clouds covering the tops of the tall buildings in the distance. It took me almost ten minutes and several blocks of walking south to find a taxi to take me back to Jake's.

"Smells heavenly." I dropped my books on the table in the entryway and walked into the kitchen, where he was putting a salad together.

"Worth the trip?"

"Definitely." I described the conversations and the two meetings.

"Mike called. Said he's got what you sent him for and he'll see you in the morning."

The table was already set and the candles were lighted. I went inside to slip into leggings and a warm sweater when the chef advised me that dinner would be ready in half an hour.

Back in the living room, I picked up the first volume of Lock-hart's diaries. It was dated 1933, when he was still a prosecutor in the Manhattan District Attorney's Office. I read aloud to Jake, amused by the description of the work in those days. I browsed through the opening pages of the next three books, landing on the one that concerned the raid.

Jake had opened a report by the commissioner of correction and was reading selectively from it to me. "'January 11, 1934. The problem of the female offender is growing, due to her emancipation and tendency toward greater sexual freedom.' Are you listening?"

"Sorry. I'm looking for the part about Freeland Jennings." I skimmed quickly through Lockhart's recounting of the raid, and his personal pain when he learned of the death of his friend. There was no mention of diamonds or precious jewels, and I recalled that Lockhart had said those stories didn't surface until much later on.

"Slow down. You can read till your heart's content after dinner."

I came to the description of Jennings's fancy living quarters in the penitentiary. Then the entries stopped for several days. The narrative resumed after the funeral.

I should like to have something of Jennings's to keep for myself, something to remind me both of him and of this daring raid we conducted to weed out the evil on the island. The belonging that most intrigues me is his miniature secret garden, a detailed replica of all of the great buildings of Blackwells constructed in the last century.