“False alarm.”
“G’night, Jack.”
And a hole opened up and sucked Jack in.
29
“IT’S A PIECE OF CAKE, I’M telling you.”
Nearly a week had passed since the cat head discovery, and there were no more intimidating incidents. Whatever Nick had done was working. Also, Brenda Flowers, attorney for CommCare, had called Rene to prep her on her disposition scheduled for the following Monday.
“Unlike a courtroom trial, a deposition isn’t cross-examination; it’s just a vacuum cleaner for information—lots of broad, open-ended questions and follow-ups. All they want are the facts, and the strategy is to answer the questions as straightforwardly and narrowly as possible.”
That’s when Rene felt her stomach leak acid. And she could hear her father’s voice:
Flowers also said that the Zuchowsky lawyer’s name was Cameron Beck, and don’t be fooled by his baby face. He could be a little pushy.
But Ms. Flowers had grossly understated Cameron Beck. He was a pit bull disguised as a cherub.
Flowers met Rene the following Monday at Beck’s office on the twenty-eighth floor above State Street. She was in her forties and a pleasant woman with a sincere blue business suit and reassuring manner. “Don’t be nervous,” she said. And instantly Rene’s heart rate kicked up. “You’re going to be fine.”
After a few moments, Cameron Beck came out to lead them to a conference room with a large shiny table, artwork on the walls, elegant designer furniture, and a million-dollar view of Boston Harbor—all of which conspired to remind Rene that there was a much larger world outside of wheelchairs, bedpans, and pills.
Also in the room was a stenographer with a dictation machine. She asked Rene to take an oath that everything she said was the truth. Rene nodded, thinking that she would throw up. But she didn’t and took the oath.
In his early thirties, but looking about fourteen, Beck was a soft and cheeky man with a thick head full of auburn ringlets. He had a sharp, thin nose and intense blue eyes that projected a predatory cunning. As Flowers had said, Beck began with some neutral questions about herself—Rene’s education, job history, her role as consultant to Broadview. Rene explained in minimal terms, as instructed.
Then Beck asked about the people she worked with at Broadview—their responsibilities to residents, what their jobs were, who their superiors were—boring stuff that helped Beck understand how the CommCare pharmacy operated and what its relationship was with the nursing home. This lasted for nearly an hour. All went well until Beck started to ask about Clara Devine. “Did you know her?”
“Not personally.”
“As I understand it, this was the first time that Broadview has ever had a patient escape. Is that your knowledge?”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“I see. Then maybe you can tell me how you think she got out of a locked Alzheimer’s ward.”
“I don’t know how she got out.”
Apparently Beck sensed the psychic shift because his eyes locked onto Rene’s. He glared at her for several moments without blinking, probably hoping she’d crack under the strain and fill the dead air with confession. But Rene held firm and held his gaze.
“Well, Ms. Ballard, maybe you can speculate. Did she go out the door? Or perhaps the window? Or maybe she went up the chimney?”
Brenda Flowers cut in. “Counsel, I don’t think this line of questioning is fruitful. It’s clear that Ms. Ballard doesn’t know how Clara Devine escaped.”
“We’re trying to establish how a lockdown security system failed, apparently for the first time. So I’m sure that Ms. Ballard, an educated professional familiar with long-term-care facilities, has a theory she could share with me, don’t you, Ms. Ballard.” And his eyes snapped back to Rene and dilated in anticipation.
“Then guess.”
“Mr. Beck, please. This is a fact-finding exercise, not a courtroom.” Flowers tried to sound pleasant, but the lilt of her voice had a serrated edge.
Rene responded. “My guess is that the door lock system failed, and she just pushed her way out.”
“She just pushed her way out. I see, as opposed to somebody letting her out.”
“Nobody would let her out.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t.”
“How familiar are you with Broadview’s security system? To your knowledge, how does it work to keep patients in?”
“A security code pad.”
“I see. So you press a certain code and the door opens.”
“Yes.”
“And it closes behind you and locks automatically.”
“Yes.”
“And the only way out is to press the code on the keypad.”
“Yes.”
“So you’re saying that something in that system failed.”
“If I had to guess.”
“If you had to guess. Is it possible that Clara Devine knew the code and let herself out when nobody was looking?”
A prickly rash flashed across Rene’s scalp. And in her head she saw the video of her escape. “Clara Devine was suffering dementia, and such patients don’t have the cognitive powers to remember codes or operate a code pad.”
“But she did get out and go down the stairs or elevator and slip out the front door past the main desk where staffer members were supposedly on duty, is that not correct, Ms. Ballard?”
“Yes.”
“How do you explain that?”
“That the security door malfunctioned.”
“Have you heard of it failing any other times?”
“No.”
“Have you ever known the security system on the Alzheimer’s ward to ever fail?”
“No.”
“Then how do you explain it failing this one time?”
“I can’t.”
“What about the front desk? Did she suddenly turn invisible, or did she turn into a bird and fly out?”
“Mr. Beck, you’re bullying my client and I won’t stand for it.”
But he disregarded Flowers. “Well?” Again he bore down on Rene as if trying to stun her in his glare. But the more hostile Beck turned, the more resistant Rene became. It occurred to her how easy it was to lie, to maintain a kind of Orwellian doublethink—holding two contrary thoughts in your head at the same time. And with every question, she felt a separation from her more real essence—like a retreating doppelganger. To justify the growing
