Laramore shook his head. “I’ve already had that conversation with the hospital. This place deals with brain injury every day. They know the ins and outs of these programs. To be eligible for Social Security, you have to be totally disabled for a full year.”
“There has to be an exception for a patient in a coma.”
“There’s not. The problem is that no doctor can tell the Social Security Administration when Celeste will recover or what her recovery will look like. She could be in a coma a year or more and end up totally disabled. Or, God willing, she could snap out of it tomorrow and be just fine.”
Jack could hear it in Ben’s voice-the fear that each passing day made the chances of “just fine” all the more remote.
“I’ll do some research. If not disability, maybe there’s another way to qualify Celeste without bankrupting you and your wife.”
“I spent over two hours with a hospital administrator today. She truly wanted to help, but we simply fall through the cracks in the system. Even if Virginia and I could qualify our family for Medicaid, we couldn’t get Celeste covered as our child because she’s over the age of nineteen. And Celeste can’t apply for Medicaid on her own because she has no kids and is under age sixty-five.”
Jack took another moment to think. “When my grandfather was in a nursing home, I read about something called the medically needy program. It’s for people who don’t strictly qualify for Medicaid. It may be worth looking into.”
“Let’s be real, Jack. Most Medicaid programs in this country are on life support themselves. How long do you think the state of Florida is going to pay for us to keep Celeste on life support?”
“We have to be prepared to fight day to day.”
“I appreciate your intentions. But each day Celeste spends in a coma, the pressure to pull the plug is going to build. I want to give my daughter a fighting chance. I don’t want a bunch of bean counters telling me it’s time to give up hope. BNN caused this mess. They should at least pay the hospital bills to fix it.”
“That’s part of our claim.”
“But we can’t wait for trial. Our only real hope is for you to find the magic bullet that brings those bastards to their knees.”
No pressure.
“I’ll do my best,” said Jack. “Step one is to file the complaint as soon as the court opens tomorrow.”
“What about suing the Department of Corrections, like I asked about in the first place? Maybe they’d be quicker to settle.”
“That’s actually more complicated. You can’t just sue a state agency in Florida. We have to give the department written notice of our claim. We’re working on that now. The department has six months to respond before we can even file suit.”
“Six months? I can’t believe this.” Laramore’s cell rang. Jack heard one side of the conversation, which lasted only a few seconds, ending with Laramore telling the caller that he was in the cafeteria.
“UPS,” Laramore told Jack. “Got a delivery for me.”
“At eleven o’clock at night?”
A man approached, interrupting. “Mr. Laramore?”
“Yes.”
The man wasn’t wearing a UPS uniform and wasn’t even dressed in brown. “This is for you,” he said as he handed him a packet. He left quickly, without asking for a signature.
Jack said, “That was a process server if I ever saw one.”
“Am I being sued?” Laramore asked, opening the packet. He handed it to Jack, who read it quickly.
“It’s a temporary restraining order,” said Jack.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that while I was in New York meeting with BNN’s lawyers, another team of lawyers for BNN went before a judge in Miami and got him to enter an order against you, your wife, and me.”
“Don’t we get to present our side of the story?”
“It’s called an ex parte order. It’s not an easy thing to get, but sometimes judges will enter orders without notice to the other side.”
“An order to do what?”
Jack found the operative language in the order. “It requires us to file our complaint against BNN under seal, meaning that it won’t be part of the public record. And it forbids us from discussing the allegations publicly. Essentially, it’s a gag order.”
“They convinced a judge to issue a gag order before we even filed our lawsuit? What kind of system is this?”
Jack considered the question, which strangely echoed public sentiment since the Sydney Bennett verdict.
“This can work to our advantage,” said Jack.
“How?”
“Right out of the blocks, BNN’s lawyers have overplayed their hand. And I intend to make them pay.”
Laramore’s cell rang a second time. Again, Jack got a one-sided perspective on the conversation, but this time he could tell who was on the line: Celeste’s mother.
Laramore ended the call and put his phone away. “I need to go back upstairs,” he told Jack. “Virginia could use some company.”
“I understand. I’ll call you in the morning,” said Jack.
They shook hands. Laramore went to the elevators, and Jack stopped in the men’s room. He was actually hungry enough to eat hospital food, had the cafeteria been open. On the way out, he stopped at the vending machines for a granola bar.
“Hey, stranger.”
Jack turned at the familiar voice. Rene had popped into the vending room after him.
“Hi,” said Jack. “You working tonight?”
She dropped a few coins into the soda machine. “Yup. You?”
“No. Well, I was. Working. Not for the hospital. Law stuff. You know.”
She grabbed her diet soda and smiled. “You’re cute when you’re tongue-tied. I’m off at midnight.”
“Rene, I told you, I’m enga-”
She laughed. “Got ya. You are such an easy target. Stefan is picking me up in an hour. I’d ask you to join us, but you look really tired. Plus, Stefan’s not really into that stuff.”
Jack was a half beat behind her.
“Got ya again, Swyteck. This is way too easy.” She popped open her soda and gave him a wink. “I’ll see you around.”
As she headed out, a folded yellow Post-it fell from her pocket to the floor. Jack was about to say something, but he quickly realized that the drop had been intentional. He opened it and read.
Can’t talk here. There’s more. 2 P.M. tomorrow. Same place.
“More” obviously meant about Celeste Laramore. “Same place” was the coffee shop in Little Havana. Jack tucked the note away and headed for the exit.
Things had been quiet outside the hospital when he’d arrived, but the eleven o’clock news had since started, and “coma watch” had returned for the obligatory live update. The media presence was nothing compared to what it had been earlier in the week. Tonight it was down to a handful of news vans. Tomorrow was sure to bring an uptick in coverage with the filing of the lawsuit against BNN-or not, with a gag order in place. Jack hurried out the door and down the sidewalk before anyone could recognize him. He chose the long route through the parking lot, trying not to walk so fast that he might draw attention to himself. He took a modicum of satisfaction in getting all the way to his car without having a single microphone thrust in his face. He found his key and was aiming in the dark at the ignition when his phone rang. It was an unknown number, but he answered anyway.
“I heard your conversation with Sydney,” the caller said.
It was that thick, disguised voice again-Jack’s attacker, the man with cotton in his mouth. “You’re eavesdropping on my cell?”
“Does that really surprise you? How else would I have known that I could find you walking down Main Highway to Cy’s Place Monday night? Remember that text to your buddy Theo?”