He looks dubious, but he backs up and closes the door.
“Ruth,” I beg, “don’t sign that release.”
She takes a seat at the table, too. “He promised me that he wouldn’t interfere with whatever you’re doing in court—”
“You’ll sabotage yourself,” I say bluntly. “Think about it—angry mobs in the street, your face on TV every night, legal pundits weighing in on the case on morning shows—you don’t want them taking control of the narrative of this case beforewehave a chance to.” I gesture to the closed door of Edison’s bedroom. “What about your son? Are you ready to have him dragged into the public eye? Because that’s what happens when you become a symbol. The world knows everything about you, and your past, and your family, and crucifies you. Your name will be just as familiar as Trayvon Martin’s. You’re never going to get your life back.”
She meets my gaze. “Neither did he.”
The truth of that statement separates us like a canyon. I look down into that abyss and see all the reasons why Ruth shouldn’t do this; she looks down and no doubt sees all the reasons why sheshould.
“Ruth, I know you have no reason to trust me, especially given the way white people have treated you recently. But if Wallace Mercy grandstands, you won’t be safe. The last thing you want is for your case to be tried in the media. Please, let’s do this my way. Give it a chance.” I hesitate. “I’m begging you.”
She folds her arms. “What if I tell you I want the jury to know what happened to me? To hear my side of the story?”
I nod, striking a bargain. “Then we put you on the stand,” I promise.
—
THE MOST INTERESTINGthing about Jack DeNardi is that he has a rubber band ball on his desk the size of a newborn’s head. Other than that he is exactly what you would expect to find working in a dingy cubicle in the Mercy–West Haven Hospital office: paunch, gray skin, comb-over. He’s a paper pusher, and the only reason I’m here is that I’m fishing. I want to see if there’s anything they’d say about Ruth that might help her—or that is going to hurt her.
“Twenty years,” Jack DeNardi says. “That’s how long she worked here.”
“How many times in those twenty years was Ruth promoted?” I ask.
“Let’s see.” He pores through the files. “Once.”
“Once in twenty years?” I say, incredulous. “Doesn’t that seem low to you?”
Jack shrugs. “I’m really not at liberty to discuss that.”
“Why is that?” I press. “You’re part of a hospital. Isn’t your job to help people?”
“Patients,” he clarifies. “Not employees.”
I snort. Institutions are allowed to scrutinize their personnel and find and label every flaw—but no one ever turns the magnifying glass back on them.
He scrolls through some more paperwork. “The term used in her most recent performance review wasprickly.”
I’m not going to disagree with that.
“Clearly Ruth Jefferson is qualified. But from what I can gather in her file, she was passed over for promotions because she was seen by her superiors as a little…uppity.”
I frown. “Ruth’s superior, Marie Malone…how long has she been working here?”
He enters a few keystrokes into his computer. “Roughly ten years.”
“So someone who worked here for ten years was givingRuthorders—dubious ones at that—and maybe Ruth questioned them from time to time? Does that sound like she’s being uppity…or just assertive?”
He turns to me. “I couldn’t say.”
I stand up. “Thanks for your time, Mr. DeNardi.” I gather my coat and my briefcase, and just before I cross the threshold I turn. “Uppity…or assertive. Is it possible the adjective changes depending on the color of the employee?”
“I resent that implication, Ms. McQuarrie.” Jack DeNardi presses his lips together. “Mercy–West Haven does not discriminate based on race, creed, religion, or sexual orientation.”
“Oh, okay. I see,” I say. “Then it was just dumb luck that Ruth Jefferson was the employee you chose to throw to the wolves.”
As I walk out of the hospital, I consider that none of this conversation can or will be used in court. I’m not even sure what made me turn back at the last minute and toss that final question to the HR employee.
