Page 46 of Counting Backwards

I wanted to say more, to continue rattling off all the reasons why Isobel’s participation was so crucial, but I reminded myself of what my father always used to tell me: that sometimes sitting quietly is the most effective way to argue.

Finally, Isobel spoke.

“What exactly do you need?” she asked.

“Tell me about Fern, the nurse who works here.”

***

At eight thirty that evening, I was still at my office. Andrew and I had settled the terms of my leave, deciding that I’d finish out the week before making it official. Over the last two days, I’d handed off most of my work to various colleagues, which left me free to focus all my attention on the immigration case.

A few younger associates were in the hallway outside my office, arguing over who would go to the lobby to retrieve their food delivery. I wondered if I’d miss the camaraderie of the firm while I was working on my own, but I’d never really bonded with anyone at the office besides Tate, so probably not. As the associates discussed their dinner, I glanced at the clock on my computer screen, unable to remember if I’d even eaten lunch.

I’d been glued to my desk since returning from Hydeford earlier that afternoon, following up on the meager information I’d collected from Isobel. After finally relenting earlier, Isobel told me the nurse’s last name, Kraska. She said the nurse had been working at the facility since well before Isobel’s arrival there. But that was the sum total of either what Isobel knew or what she was willing to share. Either way, I was beginning to worry that I’d hit a dead end.

I dialed a number from the list I’d made and listened to the ringing on the other end. After a long afternoon of combing the internet, I had located the telephone numbers for all but one of theF. Kraskas who lived within a hundred miles of Hydeford. This was the second-to-last F. Kraska remaining. If whoever answered this call was not the correct Fern Kraska, only one more shot remained before I might have to admit I was entirely out of ideas.

On the third ring, a woman picked up. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Fern Kraska who works at the detention facility in Hydeford?” I asked.

“Who’s this?” The woman’s words were clipped and impatient sounding, similar to all the others who’d answered my earlier calls. They probably thought I was trying to sell them something or steal their credit card numbers.

“This is Jessa Gidney. I believe we met when I was at the facility interviewing a client.”

“You’re Isobel’s lawyer.”

My heart bounced and I pumped a fist into the air.

“Why are you calling me at home?”

“I was hoping you might be willing to speak with me about some of the medical treatments the women are receiving,” I said.

“Not on the phone, no. I have nothing to say.” The panic in the woman’s voice was so palpable that I imagined her looking around the room in her own house, making sure she was alone.

“Perhaps you’d be willing to meet me for coffee?”

“I work all week. I can’t get away for coffee with someone I barely know.”

“Saturday then,” I said. “I’ll come to you.”

To my surprise, the nurse rattled off an address.

***

When Saturday rolled around, I was so nervous I almost called Dustin to ask him to join me. But my leave had officially begun, and going forward, I would need to refrain from using the firm’s resources. I was tackling this case on my own.

I knew in my gut there were more victims of Pinelands at Hydeford, but if I couldn’t get Nurse Kraska to open up to me, I wasn’t sure how I could help them. Under my arrangement with Andrew, if I ever wanted my job back, I had six months to file this case and show a likelihood of success on the merits. Whether it was negligence by the facility or the medical clinic, or intentional targeting by the government, a guard, or Dr. Choudry—I couldn’t yet say. But even if I failed to meet Andrew’s deadline, I would not give up, whatever the cost to my career.

When I pulled my car up in front of the small clapboard house in northern New Jersey, I glanced in the rearview mirror to check my appearance. I decided to quickly pull my unruly curls into a ponytail so I’d look more professional. But then I pulled my hair free of the rubber band just as hastily, deciding that a more casual, approachable look was probably best for this meeting.

When Fern opened the door, she was just as I remembered. Somewhere in her midfifties with long blond hair, which she now wore in a low braid, and thick, sturdy limbs. She was dressed in loose jeans and a faded lavender sweatshirt, and she held a steaming cup of coffee in her hand.

Her eyes swept over me, and then she shepherded me inside. “Come, we can sit on the deck. You’ll want to keep your coat on,” she said, as she pulled her own parka off a coat-tree near the door.

As we passed through the living room, I saw the home was modest but tidy. Colorful area rugs and decorative table lamps filled the space. The shelves in the living room were lined with picture frames, many of them holding multigenerational group photos full of smiling faces. The unmistakable aroma of pancakes wafted toward us from the kitchen, and I wondered if anyone else was in the house. As we continued through the cluttered kitchen toward the glass sliders leading to the back, two tabby cats appeared at Fern’s feet. She shooed them away before opening the glass door.

Outside, two coffee mugs and a carafe waited for us at a patio table.