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“I can fax it to your office,” said Whiteley.
“Thanks,” I said, crossing my arms. “Nice of you to offer, but I’d prefer to wait.”
Chapter 68
I DROVE BACK to the Hall through medium-heavy afternoon traffic, still feeling the heat of my confrontation with Whiteley and the chilling sight of those damn buttons.
What in God’s name did it all mean?
Placing markers on the eyes of the dead was grim, and it was freaky. Was someone playing a cruel prank as Whiteley had said? Or was Municipal Hospital covering up a long history of serial murders?
The list of the dead that Whiteley had given me rested on the seat beside me.
I braked at the light at California and Montgomery, snapped on my dome light, and opened the folder. A two-page spreadsheet was inside—the names of thirty-two patients who’d been found dead over the last three years with buttons on their eyelids. For God’s sake!
Across the top of the grid were the headings “patient name,” “patient’s physicians,” “date of death,” “cause of death.”
I skimmed the data, then flipped to the second page.
Leo Harris was last on the list, and just above his name—Keiko Castellano.
My heart lurched as I stared at the name of Yuki’s mom.
I saw her sweet face in my mind, then her eyes covered with those vile brass markers.
Blaring car horns brought me out of my trance.
“Okay, okay!” I shouted, putting the Explorer in gear. The car jumped forward as I stepped on the gas.
I was thinking ahead as well.
Whiteley had said he didn’t want details of the buttons to get out—but a sleazy cover-up wasn’t evidence of murder.
We already had stacks of bona fide homicides to solve and too few inspectors to handle them. I needed more than a handful of buttons and a list of names before I went to Tracchio or the DA.
If I wanted some answers, I’d have to work around the edges of the system.
And I’d have to ask a big favor of a friend.
Chapter 69
YUKI SETTLED INTO HER SEAT in the courtroom as the lunch recess ended. Larry Kramer had begun to mount his case in defense of his client, Municipal Hospital. And she’d watched Maureen O’Mara attack his witnesses on cross.
It had been a spirited dance and good theater for the media, but these had been emotionally draining, grueling days for Yuki.
She tried to read the jurors’ faces, and it seemed to her that they had been satisfied with Kramer’s string of witnesses, nodding their heads as each doctor, each clever executive explained away deaths that should never have happened.
Yuki opened her pad and looked over her notes on Carl Whiteley’s testimony that morning. The hospital CEO had been fluent, even funny, under Kramer’s softball questioning.
Then O’Mara had drilled the CEO, asking him what she had asked the others: “Isn’t it true that pharmaceutical-based fatalities have increased threefold since Municipal was privatized three years ago?”
Whiteley had agreed—but unlike Sonja Engstrom, he hadn’t flubbed his lines. He whitewashed the individual deaths and threw national statistics at O’Mara, enough data to numb the jurors’ minds.
“Redirect, Mr. Kramer?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Kramer stood, addressing his witness from the defense table. “Those statistics you quoted, Mr. Whiteley. Between fifty thousand and a hundred thousand patients die annually from medical errors in the United States. This is commonly accepted knowledge?”
