Time Served Page 16

  “Sunday, right?”

  I halt. “Yeah.”

  “Okay. What time?”

  My fingers twitch. “Noon?”

  Dean nods. “Sure. I’ll meet you in front of your building.”

  “All right.” It’s a date. A terribly sad, strange date.

  “Bye, Rachel.” I watch him turn and walk away, his broad shoulders cutting a swath through the crowd.

  “Thanks,” I call belatedly.

  If he hears me he doesn’t acknowledge it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Parker’s waiting by the elevators and makes a point to glance at his watch when I arrive at seven-oh-four. “Food?” he queries, punching the button to call the elevator. “Have you been taken hostage and forced to eat like a normal person?”

  “Shut it,” I say, tearing the chocolate croissant in half and handing him a piece. “I can’t handle food this early.”

  Parker takes a bite out of the pastry and makes a grossed-out face. “Oh, this is terrible,” he frowns. “If you don’t want yours, I’ll have it.”

  I laugh and we step into the elevator, lucky to have the space to ourselves as we begin the ride up. I catch his eye in the mirrored wall and we both sober.

  Parker says what we’re both thinking. “This meeting is going to be painful.”

  Then I add, “She’s such a bitch.”

  “She’s a demon-faced bitch.”

  “And Adrian...”

  Parker shakes his head, furious. “If our windows opened, I swear I’d push him out.”

  “I’d be your alibi.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Did Baxter tell you—”

  We stop one floor early, on thirty-one, and I feel like the air has been knocked out of me. Parker actually places a hand on the wall for balance, and we stare in rage as none other than the demon-faced bitch herself steps on, evil minion in tow.

  “Rachel,” Caitlin nods, beautiful face cold and placid. “Parker.”

  Adrian, for his part, avoids our eyes. Good, I think. You should be ashamed, you little shit.

  “This is unexpected,” Parker offers as the doors close and we glide up to the next floor. “And delightful.”

  “Well,” Caitlin says, painted red lips curving in a smile. “I live to delight you.” She steps out and Adrian scurries after her, leaving Parker and me behind.

  “What the hell?” Parker squeals when the doors close. “I thought this was a conference call!”

  “It’s not bad enough she stole the fucking doctor’s note, but now she’s here to rub it in in person?”

  We trudge down the hall to the boardroom, joining Caitlin, Adrian and the partners around the large oak table for a conference call with the associates who are still out of town conducting their interviews. Caitlin’s partner Wallace is still in North Carolina, waiting for her replacement now that Caitlin has convinced Sterling, Morgan and Haines that her “skills” would be better utilized in Camden.

  Parker and I studiously avoid each other’s eyes throughout the infuriating meeting, fuming as we listen to Caitlin’s carefully planned speech about all she’s learned in North Carolina and how she’s ready to apply that knowledge to the interview process here.

  “That leaves Wallace without a partner for the moment,” she adds, as though it’s a sudden surprise to realize this. “He can’t possibly handle the workload alone. Do you really think we need three associates working here?”

  Now Parker and I do look at each other, eyebrows rising simultaneously. There’s no way she’s doing what I think she’s doing.

  “Rachel’s been making such great progress here—her notes are simply wonderful,” Caitlin continues smoothly. “I compared Rachel’s interview notes to the reports Parker and Adrian produced over their days together, and there’s simply no comparison. It’s clear the people in Camden respond better to a female interviewer than male.”

  “It could be that Rachel’s a great lawyer,” Parker interjects through gritted teeth. “And that gender has nothing to do with it.”

  I shoot him a grateful look and then add, “I’ve been over the reports from Parker and Adrian’s interviews, and they’re very well-done. It could be that Parker was slowed down by training a second-year associate instead of working with his partner. We’ve had great results together.”

  “That may be so,” Caitlin begins, but Haines cuts her off.

  “I agree with Rachel,” he says, surprising us all. “Rachel and Parker are an excellent team.”

  “No question,” Sterling nods. “I think gender is irrelevant. What can’t be overlooked is the data in the reports we’ve been collecting. Camden is clearly our strongest contender for the first recorded Harco-99 poisonings, so it makes sense to focus our attention there. Caitlin’s work in North Carolina more than qualifies her for the spot.”

  Haines sips his water. “We can’t spare another fourth year to join Wallace in North Carolina. We’ll see who’s available. Caitlin and Adrian can split the Camden interviews with Rachel and Parker.”

  I feel my cheeks heat. I’ve been complaining all along about how many interviews we have left to complete, but now that the workload has been cut in half I’m outraged. Caitlin doesn’t care about these people; Hector Nunes is just another rung in the ladder for her. But Haines doesn’t seem to be preparing to make any speeches about who’ll second chair on the Fowler case, so I still have time.

  “Sounds good,” I say before Caitlin can suggest she also be given one of my kidneys. “I have the list of remaining interviews in my office. Send Adrian by to collect your share.”

  Caitlin smiles at me, so sickly sweet I feel nauseous. “I’ve taken the liberty of dividing them already,” she replies, sliding a sheet of paper across the table. “Put the files on my desk when you have a moment.”

  Parker makes a small, furious sound, and I hush him with a look.

  “I’ll consider your suggestions,” I say, meaning, No way in hell.

  “Okay,” Sterling says, obviously sensing a catfight. “That settles it. You’ve got another month to complete the Camden interviews. We’ve already filed the initial suit and calls have started coming in from lawyers who have rounded up similar cases. We’ll see which ones have value and go from there. The more we get, the better our chance of taking lead on this class action. I think we can all agree it’s a great opportunity for everyone involved.”

  We all murmur our assent, gather up our things and head out of the boardroom.

  “Get me the files, Rachel,” Caitlin hisses, bumping into me hard as she squeezes past me out the door. “I divided the list fairly. Have them on my desk by noon.”

  Fuck off, I think.

  “You bet,” I say.

  * * *

  Parker and I have interviews scheduled, so I’m forced to take the lists with me on the car ride to Camden, consulting with Parker on which files to give to Caitlin. We’ve gone over the list she created but can’t find a pattern in her selection; as far as I can tell, there’s no way to determine who may or may not have a strong case against Fowler. Age, geography, factory shift—so far there are no consistent themes in who fell ill or when. Hector Nunes worked the night shift for six years and was the first patient—that we know of—to become sick. Paul Germaine worked the afternoon shift for two years and started showing symptoms a year after he started, two years after Hector first visited Dr. Cortez-now-Ash.

  “This is so complicated.” Parker sighs. “I don’t know how she came up with her list, I just don’t want to give her what she’s asked for.”

  “I hear you,” I agree, cramming papers back into folders and stacking them on the seat between us. “And yet somehow I know that no matter which interviews we give her, she’ll find a way to steal ours.” Our attempted analysis may seem cold and calculated, but it’s the only way to win this thing. Telling the partners I should be second chair because I care more than Caitlin will earn me a condescending frown, not a promotion.

&nb
sp; “Yep.”

  My phone rings and I glance at the display. “It’s Baxter,” I tell Parker. I put the phone on speaker. “Hey.”

  “Where are you?”

  “With Parker, heading into Camden.”

  “Write this down.”

  Parker and I exchange a glance but he clicks open his pen and jots down the Camden address as Baxter dictates.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “I got a call from Dr. Ash last night. She asked if I’d been following her.”

  I arch a brow. “Have you?”

  “Nope. And I checked with Berry, and he’s working another case.”

  “So who—”

  “Fowler,” Baxter interrupts.

  Parker’s jaw drops. “What?”

  “After our dueling visits Ash got suspicious. Turned out she got ‘promoted’ out of the Arthur Street clinic in Camden after writing doctor’s notes for three Fowler employees.”

  “With Harco-99 symptoms?”

  “You guessed it. She started digging around yesterday and didn’t have to look too far to find that it was a Fowler exec who visited the clinic director in Camden and suggested she might be happier working somewhere else. I guess they know about our visits and are keeping an eye on things.”

  “So they had her fired?”

  “Or hired, depending on how you look at it. Which, if we’re Fowler, is how you’d choose to see it. It’s not a crime to get someone a new job.”

  Parker leans in. “What are we going to find at this address?”

  “Ash found one of the other two doctor’s notes. She’s still searching for the third. This one showed up three weeks after Nunes was first hospitalized and Ash sent for blood work. Any guesses as to what she found?”

  “Perchlorodibenzene.”

  “Same as Nunes. So she started ordering blood work on any Fowler employees who came in, regardless of symptoms, and noticed a trend.”

  “And then got ‘promoted.’”

  “That’s right. She shared her theory with the other doctors before she left, but as we know, nobody followed up.”

  “So what’s this guy’s name? Patient number two?”

  “Her name was Amelia Brown,” Baxter replies. “Died seven months ago after spending three months in a vegetative state.”

  “Shit,” I breathe. “And her family...”

  “Left town. The address I gave you is for a Sonia Wheeler.”

  “Please tell me she’s alive.”

  “Oh, she’s alive,” Baxter confirms. “Because she didn’t work at Fowler. She was a technician at BioShare Laboratories on the outskirts of Camden.”

  “She did the blood work,” Parker fills in.

  “That’s right. And when she found what Dr. Ash was looking for...”

  * * *

  “They fired me,” Sonia Wheeler finishes, slapping her hands on the table for emphasis. “I do my job and, bam, unemployed. How’s that fair, right? You think I got a real case here?” The patio table wobbles dangerously, creaking on rusty legs. The rolls of flesh under Sonia’s arms flap indignantly, nearly knocking her coffee cup off the table. We’ve been seated in her stifling backyard for almost half an hour, listening to her rant about how wronged she’s been.

  Parker and I exchange a look. Sonia Wheeler may have confirmed Baxter’s findings, but she’s a loose cannon. “Maybe,” Parker hedges. “But at the moment we’re looking into the Fowler cases. We need to find the earliest records of perchlorodibenzene poisoning, and then the most serious. It will help us make Fowler pay for what they did.”

  Sonia takes another sip of what she swears is just coffee and runs stubby fingers through her wiry gray hair. “That’s easy,” she snorts. “Check the damn cemetery.”

  I force a small smile. “We’ve compared the list of Fowler employees to deaths over the past five years,” I say, “and even though ninety-nine former workers have died in that time, only six of the autopsy reports showed any levels of perchlorodibenzene, all within regulated limits.”

  “Well, that’s bullshit,” Sonia says, agitated. “Because I know that all the Fowler employees we tested had serious levels of that stuff in their blood, whether it killed ’em or made ’em sick or not.”

  Parker glances at me. “When were you fired from BioShare, Sonia?”

  “Two years ago last week.”

  “Do you have any contacts still working at the lab who could confirm this?”

  “Why do you need to talk to somebody else? I just told you, didn’t I?”

  “It would help to back it up with lab reports. Official documentation of your findings.”

  Sonia huffs. “It’s not like I took it home with me.”

  I swallow my disappointment. “Right.”

  Then Sonia looks at me from the corner of her eye, a shrewd gleam making me sit up straight. “Except for that one time I did,” she says casually.

  “You...brought your work home?” I echo.

  She nods slowly. “That’s right. I brought it home and forgot to bring it back.” It’s obvious that she simply stole it, but right now I don’t care. I need it.

  “Do you know where it is now?”

  “In the dining room.”

  “Any chance you could get that for us?” Parker tries, smiling sweetly.

  Sonia nods thoughtfully, that worrisome gleam still present. “Any chance you’re going to help me sue the bastards for wrongful dismissal?”

  * * *

  It’s quarter past six when I have Jose drop me off in front of Titan’s Boxing Gym. Parker protests when I tell him I’ll take a cab back, but I wave them away and head inside alone. Between interviews I’d had time to read the very revealing response from Ruthie Block’s lawyers and now I’m here to quit, not that I’d ever really been working for Reginald.

  As on my previous visit, the gym is dank, smelly and full of mostly overgrown men jumping rope and beating the hell out of leather punching bags. “Excuse me,” I say, pausing next to a sweaty man retaping his hands. “Do you know where Reg—Oreo’s office is?”

  “Over there,” he says, curious eyes roving over me. He nods his head in the direction of the door labeled Massage. I suppress a distasteful frown at what I might find before thanking him and moving away.

  I try to look confident as I rap on the slightly open door, light peeking out through the crack.

  “Yeah?”

  I shove the door open harder than necessary and it smashes into the side of a dented filing cabinet. I see Reginald jump, green tracksuit rustling, a package of cookies sliding to the edge of his cluttered old desk.

  “Surprise,” I say with a cold smile.

  “Ah, I’m busy,” Reginald says, trying for gruff but just looking guilty. “Come back later.”

  “I’d like a massage.”

  He barks out a laugh. “In that case, come in.”

  I yank the sign off the door and ball it up, tossing it in the trash to show Reginald that I mean business. Then I slam the door behind me and take a seat in the plastic chair to face my “client” across the desk.

  “You got my message?” I ask.

  His one eye skitters around the room as though searching for an excuse. “Yes,” he says finally.

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “You never asked if I was married.”

  “It didn’t seem important to you to mention that the woman ‘harassing’ you is your wife?”

  “Ex-wife! Almost. Almost definitely.”

  I slap the paperwork on the desk and rise to leave. “Best of luck with that.”

  “What? Where are you going?”

  “Home. Where I have clients who actually need my help.”

  “I need your help! Everything I told you is true. She’s a psychopath and this proves it.”

  “All this proves is that you’re a liar.”

  Reginald looks affronted. “I never lied to you!”

&
nbsp; “A lie of omission is still a lie.”

  “I don’t care to know what that means. I need someone to help me. She doesn’t want half of this business, she just wants to screw with me. Why else would she rent a crappy old building in a terrible part of town?”

  “To be close to her husband?”

  “We’ve been separated for seventeen years! She’s the one who asked for a divorce and then never got around to making it happen. Come on, Rachel. She can’t have half my business. I’ve got nothing else. What are my options?”

  “Well, I’m not a divorce lawyer, Reginald, but I’d say your choices are limited. Divorce her and give her half your business, or stay married and give her half your business.”

  “I can’t do that,” he pleads. “This place is my life. I—”

  I hold up a tired hand to stop him. I’ve heard enough sad stories for today; I’m not going to add his to the list. “Then reason with her. Stop fighting. Maybe she’ll see the light.”

  “Rachel, please. Things ended very badly with us. There’s no way we’re going to reconcile. Some things you have to leave in the past.”

  “You should have made a clean break, Reginald. The way it stands now, she still has a claim to you.”

  I watch Reginald bury his weathered face in his hands and try to harden my heart. It doesn’t work. “Is she any good?” I ask reluctantly. “Ruthie?”

  “At what? Being crazy? Yes. She’s terrific.”

  “As an artist. Is she talented?”

  Reginald shrugs. “I guess.”

  “Is she successful?”

  “She used to be. It’s not like I’m in her fan club or anything.”

  I sigh. “I mean financially, Reginald. Has she made money?”

  He peers at me through his fingers, that one good eye fixing on mine. “I suppose. She bought that building. Or so she says. Could be that she’s lying.”

  I finger the envelope, the thick stationery, the embossed lettering. It’s expensive. There’s no way a starving artist could afford a law firm like Stockard Jones. “I’ll look into her,” I tell Reginald, ignoring my better judgment. “If Ruthie’s well-off and she wants a divorce, you’ll have to divide your assets equally. If she’s got more than you...”