Once the paperwork and other formalities had been done at the ED and the body was released, it was off to Riverside Funeral Home. Both Brian and Jeanne followed along but didn’t say much nor were their opinions actively sought. In some regards it had surprised them that neither Aimée nor Hannah objected to or even questioned Jeanne’s presence, since neither had met her before now.
From the funeral home it was on to the O’Briens’, so Brian could tell Emma’s father that one of his granddaughters had passed away and that there was to be another wake in their home. Why it had to be him rather than Hannah, Brian didn’t question, but since Ryan was going to be paying, as Hannah had offered and as he’d done for Emma, Brian felt obligated to deliver the horrible news. It was only after that visit that Brian and Jeanne were able to excuse themselves and walk home to Brian’s house. It felt like the calm after a wildly destructive storm.
“What would you like to talk about?” Jeanne asked after a few minutes of silence.
“I don’t know,” Brian admitted. “It’s hard to concentrate. My mind and emotions are going a mile a minute.”
“I’ll tell you what I’d like to talk about,” Jeanne declared. “I want to talk about feeling pissed that MMH Inwood and Peerless Health have essentially killed both our spouses and your beautiful child. Just sitting with you in the ED brought back the entire saga of my husband’s torture and death like it was yesterday. There were more times than I’d like to count that we were forced to wait in that same waiting room while he suffered and ultimately died.”
“We have a right to be enraged,” Brian agreed. “In fact, I’ve never felt this deeply furious before. Well, that’s not really true. I felt this way the day Emma died, but it’s worse today. There was an ounce of doubt about whether the hospital was responsible for Emma’s death, but there’s none in respect to what happened today. They should have diagnosed Juliette and the fact that they didn’t or wouldn’t infuriates me. Psychosomatic? Please!” Brian’s eyes darted around the room as if he was looking for something to destroy. “I want to break something. Anything.”
“I know how you must be feeling,” Jeanne agreed. “I can remember when Riley died, I had the same inclinations, and I’m embarrassed to say I did break some dishes. But it certainly didn’t solve anything. Let’s funnel this rage we’re feeling into exposing this disaster by using the list your friend has provided us. The fact that there are almost five hundred cases possibly just like ours in Inwood shocks me. What does that mean for the entire city, or the entire country for that matter? This surely can’t be an isolated phenomenon.”
Listening to Jeanne had Brian trying to focus his anger. What she was saying was undoubtedly true, and the details of the one case that Grady Quillen had mentioned to him involving Nolan O’Reilly sounded as heartrending as his own.
“I think this could be a true media event,” Jeanne continued passionately. “Especially if they question how the hell it has come to this in the richest country in the world. There’s no doubt in my mind that the finger will ultimately point at the profit motive of private equity.”
“And Charles Kelley and Heather Williams are certainly poster children for that culture,” Brian added.
“What shocks me is that none of the politicians are focusing on this,” Jeanne said. “There’s lots of talk about healthcare in general, but not specifics about what the situation is doing to individual people like us and how Kelley and Williams and people like them can get away with what they are doing.”
“My guess is that it’s all about money, appropriately enough,” Brian said. “I’ve heard in the past that the healthcare industry, mostly hospitals, health insurance, and drug companies, spend millions on lobbying to maintain the status quo. They like their profits and don’t want change. It means giving big bucks to politicians on both sides of the aisle.”
“Like how much? I’m sure that doesn’t happen in France.”
“Let’s check it out,” Brian said, eager to do something, anything. He turned on his monitor. After typing into Google, “how much per year does the healthcare industry spend on lobbying,” he hit enter. In a millisecond the results flashed onto the screen. “Here it is! My God! Five hundred and ninety-four million dollars in 2019! That’s more than one and a half million dollars a day. That’s absurd.”
“It’s more than absurd,” Jeanne said. “It’s crazy. As I said, that would never happen in France, or anyplace in Europe for that matter. No wonder it’s come to this point. Why is this bribing allowed? I mean, they maybe call it lobbying but surely in this instance it’s pure bribery.”
“As I recall, it has something to do with ‘free speech,’ which I personally think is ludicrous,” Brian said. “It got turned into a constitutional issue. Whether we uncover five hundred stories as sad and tragic as ours, I can’t imagine it would be enough to change this entrenched system, mostly because of the wildly extravagant lobbying but also because of the news cycle. It could be a big story and most likely would be, but then twenty-four hours later, it would be on to something else.”
“Maybe we could dribble the stories out over time,” Jeanne suggested.
“I don’t think that would work, either,” Brian said with some discouragement. “A handful of sad stories might get on page one the first day, but then subsequent ones would quickly get relegated to less prominent positions. It’s the way the media works. A scoop on day one is often yesterday’s lunch on day two.”
“Does that mean you are giving up on the cases Grady Quillen gave us?” Jeanne asked, sensing Brian’s pessimism.
“Not necessarily. But what we have to do is think up a way to give the story staying power, so that it evolves over time and maintains public interest.”
For several minutes neither Brian nor Jeanne spoke as they pondered. The news cycle was short, particularly in this day and age with the internet supplying instantaneous information 24/7. They stared at each other expectantly, hoping the other would come up with an idea, something to assuage their anger and sadness yet have enough staying power to effect change. But neither spoke until after a kind of visual pas de deux that involved their eyes drifting in tandem over to the bag on Emma’s desk before coming back to stare at each other. Later they would question whose eyes strayed first, but they couldn’t decide. It was as if the idea germinated in both of them simultaneously.
“You said the sniper rifle is very, very accurate,” Jeanne said, breaking the silence. “What does that mean in terms of distance?”
“More than a half mile for most of them,” Briand found himself responding.
“How about this one?” Jeanne said, nodding toward the rifle bag. “Does it have a specific name?”
“It’s called a Remington MSR. And it is particularly accurate out to nearly a mile.”
“Hmm,” Jeanne thought out loud. “Call me crazy and desperate, but I’m starting to think of a story that would have real staying power and one that the media would devour as rightful revenge. Everyone loves a good revenge story, after all.”
“If you are thinking what I think you might be thinking, I have to confess it crossed my mind, too. Especially when I was using the rifle yesterday at the shooting range.”