Mercy

couldn’t even share the blame with anyone else if hindsight proved the decision wrong.

“I reckon they’ll grant the TRO. But the State won’t wait till tomorrow to argue the matter. They want to fry Burrow tonight.”

“Then maybe we should wait till the last minute,” said Nat. “That way we might get more evidence.”

“Let’s not start playing games. If we cut it too fine, the District Court will assume we’re empty-handed and that’ll make them more likely to brush us off.”

Nat was shaking his head.

“But if we get the TRO ex parte, they’ll just show up at the full hearing and argue res judicata.”

Res judicata meant “already judged” — a standard prosecution response to last-minute defense petitions based on alleged new evidence.

“That’s why I need Juanita to keep digging. Hopefully we’ll be able to hit ‘em with even stronger.”

“What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?” asked Juanita.

“There’s the question of whether or not she made the flight. While we’re at the District Court we’ll file a discovery motion to get the information from Sabre, the parent company of EasySabre.”

Nat looked dubious.

“If we file for discovery before the same court, won’t it alert the judge to the possibility that maybe she didn’t make the flight?”

“That’s a risk we have to take. We haven’t got the time to go shopping between courts.”

Nat nodded. Juanita spoke up again.

“Do you think we should try and get a British law firm to file a request to UK immigration and border control to see if she entered?”

Alex looked at his watch.

“There’s no time. London’s eight hours ahead of us. And in any case they probably won’t appreciate that time is of the essence in a capital case.”

“A judge would, surely.”

“Yes but before you get to a judge you’ll find yourself talking to some two-bit clerk. Aside from that, it’s unlikely that UK immigration will be able to respond fast enough to our request.”

Juanita shrugged and pouted.

“There is something you can do right away Juanita.”

She felt another jolt of adrenaline.

“Shoot.”

“Contact the Finchley Road Medical Centre by phone and ask them if Dorothy Olsen had treatment there and if so for what.”

“Isn’t that privileged information?”

“Not in England. Only lawyers have privilege in England: doctors and priests don’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. But it is confidential — which means that they might refuse to disclose it unless ordered to so by a court.”

“But you just said we can’t get a court order in England at such short notice! And how do we even contact them out of hours?”

Alex thought a moment.

“Okay, let’s play it like this: you call them and talk to one of the night staff. Make it clear to them that an innocent man’s life is on the line. At minimum we just need basic confirmation that she was there, when she arrived and when she left. We’re not asking them for confidential details about the treatment.”

Juanita was looking at her watch.

“I’m thinking, it might be kind of difficult.”

“Why?”

“Well the night staff wouldn’t have the power to greenlight anything.”

“That’s why I want you to do it. Talk to the nursing staff on the graveyard shift. They’re probably not very busy, so they might be in a talkative mood. If they come up with anything useful, we’ll get ‘em to wake up the head-honcho.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Any other business?”

Alex looked round. They all exchanged glances and shrugged. It was like a football huddle, complete with the adrenaline rush, but sans the testosterone. Juanita suddenly remembered something.

“There was one thing. This business about Jonathan and Dorothy only being half siblings.”

“Yes,” said Alex. “I tried to get Jonathan to open up about that, but he clammed up like a shell.”

“I was wondering if it might be worth checking out further.”

“It’s not as important as the medical center Juanita. Anyway, how can we check at short notice?”

“You could ask Mrs. Olsen.”

“I’d rather not. Not unless we have to. She’s a frail old woman and she doesn’t need that kind of heavy-duty problem.”

“Maybe we can just Google ‘Edgar Olsen’ and see what comes up.”

“Okay. But first talk to the medical center ASAP.”

“Okay, boss.”

“Okay, let’s kick some judicial butt!” said Alex, forcing an artificially enthusiastic smile.

Minutes later, Alex and Nat were gone and Juanita was on her own. She was calling the Finchley Road Medical Centre on the speakerphone with one hand, and, being adept at multi-tasking, Googling “Edgar Olsen” with the other.

Why delay? she thought. I’m a woman. I can do two things at once.

It might even be a complete red herring. But it was still hanging over them. They were whistling in the dark and had to grab hold of any lifeline that came their way.

Several items came up that referred to a “car crash.” Most of these were from local newspapers and they dated back thirty years. Juanita was amazed that newspaper editions from long before the existence of the world wide web had been digitized and made available online. However, in order to access them one almost invariably had to register with the newspaper or organization.

Juanita had a dummy email account just for this sort of thing, to avoid getting spam in her main mailbox, but she still had to go through the whole process of registering and confirming her membership before eventually being able to log on and find what she was looking for.

February 17, 1977 — Pomona, CA — A three-year-old boy was killed when the car his father was driving collided with a pick-up truck on Route 66. Jimmy Olsen was in the back seat of the car traveling east when a driver headed west swerved across the median line. Edgar Olsen, the boy’s father, tried to avoid the pick-up truck but was hit from the side. The boy was taken to Pomona Valley Hospital a short time later but pronounced dead on arrival. The driver of the pick-up truck was arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol.

So the late Edgar Olsen had two dead children.

15:23 PDT (23:23 BST)

Susan White was at the nursing station when the call came. But it was another nurse who took the call.

“Yes… it comes through to here when the switchboard is closed … I’m afraid the Chief Administrator isn’t here now. It’s almost midnight — well twenty past eleven … I don’t think that would be practical … What do you mean a matter of life and…?”

The nurse noticed Susan White looking at her, like a puma coiled to spring into action, almost as if Susan could hear the other side of the conversation.

“Look, wait a minute, there’s someone else here who may be able to help you.”