"He already made it."
"Did you contact the court?"
"First thing. Judge Harmon's clerk said they'd flag it, but the judge is on a two-week rotation and won't review new motions until she's back. I filed the formal complaint with the oversight board the same day, but they need supporting documentation, so I've been compiling everything—every behavioral observation, medication log, and session note I've submitted over the past thirteen weeks."
"Good. That's the foundation." A pause. "I filed the privileges restriction request the morning before the incident. It was sitting on Hudson's desk when Casey made his move."
"So they had warning."
"They had warning, and they did nothing. Which means they're exposed, and they know it." His voice sharpens. "Hope, I need you to document every refused contact. Every call Hudson doesn't return, every policy he cites without providing the actual policy. Build a paper trail."
"I'm already building it."
"Because when this goes to hearing, we're going to need every piece of ammunition we can get."
I keep a notebook now. A new one, separate from the facility observations. This one is just for the access attempts—date, time, who I spoke to, what they said. I call the facility every morning. I email Hudson's office every afternoon. I drive to Greenridge twice in the first week and sit in the parking lot until someone comes out to tell me to leave. The entries pile up in my careful handwriting.
Day seven, I corner Dr. Kennedy in the parking lot.
"How is he?"
Kennedy stops walking. "I'm not at liberty to discuss patient status with—"
"I'm his court-appointed monitor. I have a legal right to status updates."
"Your access has been suspended."
"My access to the patient has been suspended. Not my access to information about his welfare." I step closer, and Kennedy takes a step back. "How is he?"
His mouth opens and closes. He looks at the ground, then at his car, then back at me—a woman who was cornered and pinned in his facility three weeks ago, standing in his parking lot asking about the man who broke through a door to reach her. He knows how this looks.
"The sedation protocols are... intensive," he says. "Standard procedure for a breach of this magnitude."
"Define intensive."
"I'm not at liberty—"
"You just did." I hold his gaze. "Thank you, Dr. Kennedy. That's all I needed."
I walk away before he can respond. My hands are shaking, and this time it's rage.
Intensive sedation protocols. Chemical restraint. They're keeping him drugged because they're afraid of him, and they're afraid of him because he proved he could get through their security when he wanted to.
He wasn't trying to escape. He was trying to reach me.
The distinction matters. It matters more than anything in those stupid reports, and nobody seems to understand that except me.
The days blur after that. Each one starts with a phone call to the facility and ends with an unanswered email to Hudson's office, and the hours between fill with documentation and dead silence. By day ten, I find myself on my kitchen floor at 2 AM with four months of notebooks spread around me in a semicircle.
I'm not sure how I got here. I remember coming home from another drive to the parking lot, remember eating something that might have been dinner, remember sitting down to review my documentation for the oversight complaint. Then the notebooks came out, one by one, and now I'm surrounded by my own handwriting and I can't stop reading.
Casey Robin's file is in the third notebook from the left. I pull it out and flip to the first entry.
Patient demonstrates improved engagement during group sessions. Medication compliance stable. Positive response to structured interaction with staff.
My handwriting. My assessment. My professional opinion that Casey Robin was doing well.
I turn the page.
