My voice was hoarse when I asked: “How’d y’all manage to get ahold of this? What did Dick Winston do to get my medical information? You know that the AG’s possession of this record is a violation of federal law. It’s protected by HIPAA. People’s medical records are private.”
She lifted her shoulders with a helpless look—thatdon’t blame meexpression people try to use when they’re part of a group of wrongdoers.
“I know,” she said.
“So how’d you get it? Who turned this over, gave y’all access to my personal business, my medical history?”
“Oh, Judge. You know I can’t reveal that. We have to protect whistleblowers. It’s important, we believe, or they’d never come forward. But that’s not the point.”
“It’s not?” I sounded deadly. Scary.
“The significance of this document is obvious. It demonstrates that you absolutely cannot preside over the case. You can’t be a fair and impartial judge for both sides in this matter. Because you had an abortion yourself. In your twenties. Which you did not disclose to the parties.”
My eyes dropped to the document. It was the record from the abortion clinic I’d gone to in Birmingham. Even all those years ago, whenRoe v. Wadewas the law of the land, it wasn’t easy to find professionals willing to perform the procedure. Not in the Deep South. Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana had a scant handful of clinics between them.
The AAG was talking to me, using an urgent, persuasive tone. “My boss says we can keep this a secret. Really, Dick gives his word on that. No press conference, no leaks whatsoever. There’s no reason why the public has to know about it. You just step away from the case. In light of yesterday’s attack, no one will question the decision. Announce your recusal today.”
I picked up the record. Gave it a final look before I slid it back across the desk. “The AG and I go way back. I practiced criminal defense in the state capital at the same time your boss served as DA of that district. When Dick Winston was rising in the political ranks. His hands are filthy. Does that surprise you?”
The phony look of sympathy dropped from the woman’s face. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, come on. I bet you’ve heard it. Seen it. When Winston wasa prosecutor in Montgomery, he sexually harassed his employees. Secretaries. Interns. Assistant DAs. Women in the circuit clerk’s office. The man was a menace.”
She’d gone pale, her face white as chalk. I kept on talking.
“One of the women came to me about it, asking for legal advice. She had a tape recording she’d made. Alabama is a one-party consent state for recording a conversation. You’re aware of that.”
She gave me a stiff nod.
I continued, “I met up with him at a bar. We had a few drinks before I confronted him. He made damaging admissions. That man never could hold his liquor.”
I tipped back in the chair to ease the pressure on my tailbone, grateful that my sister wore queen-size jeans. “I recorded that conversation. Still have it, even though my client decided against bringing suit.”
Lindquist couldn’t meet my eye. I observed that she didn’t register shock or surprise. Didn’t defend Winston against the accusation. So he was still playing the same game, in a position where he had even more power, and a larger staff.
I kept my eyes trained on her. That was when I knew. I should’ve realized it sooner.
“Oh, my God,” I said. “He did it to you.”
She didn’t deny it. Said nothing at all.
“Son of a bitch.” I shook my head. Hating the man for all kinds of reasons. Resenting that I had to feel sorry for the white woman in my office who’d come in there to blackmail me.
“I’m not trying to push you into confiding in me, Ms. Lindquist. Keep it in your heart, if you prefer. Women been doing that since the dawn of time. But about this.”
I reached for the medical document again and smoothed the paper on the desktop. “Here’s my message back to y’all. You wantto expose me? With this piece of paper? There was nothing illegal about the abortion I got, years ago. I had a constitutional right of privacy to get the procedure done. But your boss? The dirt I have on him will get him disbarred.”
She snatched the paper off the desk, shoved it in the file folder. Didn’t meet my eye as she headed for the door.
And she left without speaking a word.
CHAPTER
74
Presiding at the bench that day, I was in rough shape.
Sitting on a broken tailbone was no picnic. Dr. Thompson told me the night before that it was a miracle that my only fracture was a broken coccyx. He had remarked that I was lucky—that chorus again, telling me to count my blessings, it could’ve been worse.
