Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

“No, of course not. If you know what meds a patient is getting, and you tell me that over a beer, then no law is broken. But if you copy the file and hand it over, then we could be in trouble.”

“Where’s all this going?”

“It’s headed for the courtroom eventually, but you won’t be involved in that part of it.”

“Is there any cash for this intel?”

“Yep. We’ll pay two thousand bucks a month in greenbacks for the next few months.”

“That’s more than I clear at ten bucks an hour.”

“Is the answer yes?”

“Sure, I guess, but you gotta promise me I won’t get into trouble.”

“I can’t promise anything, Brittany. But if you’re careful we’ll be okay. I’m assuming security is not that tight.”

“Are you kidding? Patients are getting raped by the staff. I could walk into the pharmacy tomorrow and walk out with anything I want, not that the good stuff is there. The manager forgets to lock her door half the time. The only guard is an old fart who should be a dementia patient down the hall. No, Raymond, security is not a priority at dear ole Serenity. Security costs money and that company cares about nothing but profits.”

Jumper was amused. He offered his right hand across the pizza and she shook it.

3.

Glinn Valley was in a chain of ninety nursing homes owned by a private company called Barkly Cave, which was in turn owned by a private company called Northern Verdure. Layered above that were several other corporations in various states. Thankfully, through a federal investigation two years earlier, it was known that the entire and intentionally dense ownership structure came down to a group of investors in Coral Gables, Florida. Their front was called Fishback Investments, and it owned and operated 285 nursing homes in twenty-seven states. It was a shamelessly private corporation that was constantly at war with regulators about how much financial data it should reveal. It had been caught lying many times, with blame always pinned on some junior accountant who was immediately paid off and terminated. Its compliance history was pathetic. Its facilities habitually racked up some of the worst violations in the country, and lawsuits were common.

Even worse was the Serenity Home chain, owned by another shadowy group domiciled in the Bahamas and run by investors who’d never been to the islands. Its parent, Grattin Health Systems, ran 302 nursing homes in fifteen states, and ran them well, judging by the bottom line. According to a quite unflattering article in Forbes, Grattin had grossed just over $3 billion the prior year and netted 11 percent after taxes. The company stayed in hot water with every state where it did business because of shoddy facilities, third-rate medical care, inadequate staffing—the list was long and ugly. Lawsuits were a way of life, and another article in a legal magazine profiled two national firms that did nothing but stalk Grattin facilities and file suits. Grattin always settled quickly and quietly, but did little to improve its care. Because of the advanced ages and limited abilities of its patients, the lawsuits were not worth much. One of the lawyers was quoted as saying, “Most of our clients cannot physically or emotionally go through a challenging lawsuit, and Grattin knows it. You can’t get those guys near a courtroom. They always settle.”

No one from Grattin was available for comment, which was apparently the company’s policy. The research painted a picture of a silent, spooked, even mummified outfit hiding bunker-like on the top floors of a high-rise in south central Houston.

Lindsey Wheat met with both law firms that stalked the company but was unable to obtain anything of value. The firms admitted they had little because there had been, over the years, almost no discovery. She wanted the names of the medications prescribed to dementia patients, and neither firm would budge. In return for settlements, the law firms had signed many confidentiality agreements with Grattin and the files remained protected by the company.

4.

With both Vera Stark and Brittany Bolton on the payroll, the fiction was playing out as planned. The only hitch was the rape allegation, and Lindsey and Raymond were still kicking it around.

For the fiction, Lindsey had rented a small, thoroughly nondescript house on the outskirts of Lexington, an hour north of Flora. The den had been converted into an office-like war room with folding tables and maps tacked to walls. The largest was an enlarged highway grid of Kentucky, with colored pinpricks scattered about the state. Fishback Investments had thirteen facilities in the state; Grattin, nineteen.

If her first two informants delivered, Lindsey and her team might be able to avoid moving into another town. But if Vera and Brittany got cold feet, or otherwise fell flat, she would have to go back to the map and start over. So far, Vera had provided the names of eighteen patients with dementia so advanced they were bedridden, tube-fed, and thoroughly nonresponsive. At the moment, there were 140 patients at Glinn Valley in Flora, so it was about the same size as Serenity. From there, Brittany had identified twenty-four patients.

Lindsey’s experts were predicting a nonresponsive number of about 25 percent for both companies’ facilities in Kentucky. Her legal advisers had analyzed the rape case from all angles and had arrived at the obvious conclusion: It was a massive lawsuit that would be difficult to lose, but also difficult to handle. It would have to be brought by the rape victim’s family, one that appeared to be unsettled, even chaotic. Money might soothe a lot of tension, but the case would be high-maintenance. And then there was the issue of the unwanted baby. There was not a single stable marriage in either the victim’s close or extended family, so the potential for a lot of nasty infighting was high.

But none of that really mattered, at least not to Lindsey Wheat and her project. Her priority was building trust with Vera Stark and Brittany Bolton, and somehow getting her hands on the medications. The labs were waiting.

She met Vera on a cold Saturday morning in January at a laundromat just off Main Street in Flora. The place was crowded and they couldn’t talk. Vera slipped her a piece of yellow folded paper and said, “Four more.”

Lindsey insisted that they do nothing by text or email because everything leaves a trail. Phones were to be used only to arrange meetings.

She thanked Vera, left Flora, and drove to the small town of Harrodsburg. Promptly at 10:00 a.m., Raymond Jumper walked into the omelet shop and took a seat across from her. A waitress poured coffee as they looked at the menus.

An attractive black woman in her early fifties sitting with a nice-looking white guy in his early thirties. It should not have been a problem, and it wasn’t, really. But why were they getting more looks than normal? Both chose to ignore the locals.

Raymond said, “Any luck with Vera?”

Lindsey laid her menu on the table and said, “Four more names. You?”

“Three, up to twenty-four, and Brittany thinks that might be all. Saw her last night in a bar. The girl loves her beer, nachos, and pizza.”

“I don’t think Vera is ready to raid the pharmacy. What about Brittany?”

“We talked about it. To answer an earlier question, she routinely handles the feeding tubes, but the food and meds are prepared by someone else. They bring her the syringe filled with a mixture of formula and meds, and she inserts it into the feeding tube. She doesn’t see the meds but she thinks some are liquid, some are ground-up pills, others are capsules that have been opened and crushed. As she has said, security is not tight at the pharmacy and she’s not afraid to go in, but she has no idea what to look for.”