It's Nothing Personal Page 10

  Hillary stood and walked to the door. She rudely whistled at the guard outside, like an owner summoning her dog.

  The guard approached the door and Hillary ordered, “Take me back to my cell.”

  Jack watched the back of Hillary’s head of tangled, unruly hair as she shuffled away from him, returning to her cell. Once she disappeared behind the clank of a solid metal door, Jack gathered up his documents and strode out of the jailhouse into the frosty fall air. Walking to his car, Jack felt certain about only one thing – he had no idea which direction Hillary would choose. Knowing that she would leave him hanging until the last minute, Jack was fully prepared to defend her, regardless of her choice.

  **********

  Two hours later, Jack Lewis sat at the courthouse in a windowless meeting room. He sipped bitter, lukewarm coffee while he waited for Hillary to arrive. Within minutes, he heard the rattling of chains and footsteps approaching the door. Hillary arrived with her wrists handcuffed and bound to a belt around her waist. Her feet were shackled together. Each step was an awkward shuffle forward. For her part, Hillary seemed unfazed at the indignity of being tied up like an animal. The officer unlocked the restraints and left the room.

  Jack knew they had very little time to finalize things before facing Judge Redmond. “Have you made a decision?”

  “I have,” she said stoically. “I want to take the plea.”

  Jack did not show any emotion. He pulled out the plea agreement from his briefcase and handed it to Hillary. She thumbed through the document page-by-page, tormenting Jack by wasting precious moments.

  He had his fill of Hillary’s antics. Whether he had her attention or not, he started at the beginning and explained the terms. “The agreement states that in exchange for a sentence of twenty years in federal prison, you agree to provide certain things.”

  “Like what?” asked Hillary, irritated. She slid down in her chair, her legs extended and crossed at the ankles, impinging into Jack’s space.

  “First, you need to release any and all medical and employment records to the federal government.”

  “No biggie.”

  “Secondly, you need to supply blood and any other tissue samples, as reasonably required by the federal government to aid in their investigation.”

  “Fine, so I piss in a cup. Is that it?”

  “Not entirely. You will be required to give a deposition to the federal prosecutor that honestly and accurately details your diversion activities. They expect you to submit to a polygraph test following the deposition. You will have to tell them everything you have told me over this past week. No bullshit. If there is even the slightest hint that you are being deceitful, the plea deal will be revoked, and no further plea deals will be considered.”

  Jack asked firmly, “I need to know, is this still what you want?”

  “It’s pretty much all I’ve got at this point.”

  Jack handed her his pen. Hillary twirled it around in her hand, like a tiny baton. Before signing, she placed the tip in her mouth and rolled her tongue over the silver button. Finally, she flipped to the flagged pages, signed the agreement, and passed the document to Jack with his pen on top of the stack.

  Their time was over. The guard came to the door and replaced Hillary’s wrist and ankle restraints. The three of them walked out of the meeting room. Jack purposefully left his defiled pen behind.

  CHAPTER 22

  The guard led Jack and Hillary into the courtroom through a side door. Every seat in the gallery was occupied. Hillary followed Jack to the defendant’s table. She could feel hundreds of eyes upon her. The air was heavy as Hillary surveyed the crowd. Most of the faces were unfamiliar, but they all wore the unmistakable look of shock, revulsion, and sadness. Unable to face their scowls, Hillary focused on the wooden floor ahead of her.

  Jack pulled a chair out for Hillary. The scrape of the wooden legs across the floor resonated throughout the courtroom. Hillary took her seat and spotted her parents in the row directly behind her. Hillary’s mother wore a heavy wool dress that made her look plain and frail. Her father sat with his shoulders hunched over as if he were trying to dissolve into the wooden pew. The three made eye contact, and Hillary smiled, ever so slightly.

  Hillary was about to turn back around when she noticed Dr. Jenna Reiner seated in the same row as her parents. Jenna’s eyes bore into Hillary’s, holding her captive. Silently, Jenna mouthed the words she had come to say. Her lips moved with such precision, the words would not have been any clearer had she shouted them. “Fuck you!” The expression of immense grief on Jenna’s face was in stark contrast to her expletive. For a brief moment, Hillary started to fully comprehend the enormity of the damage she had caused.

  The court bailiff entered. “All rise. The Honorable Judge Richard Redmond has entered the courtroom.”

  A tall, bald man with a wiry frame and piercing eyes strode into the courtroom. Judge Redmond nodded curtly at the bailiff and took his seat at the bench. From his perch, the judge scanned the courtroom. For a fraction of a second, every spectator experienced the scrutiny of the judge. Finally, Judge Redmond turned his attention on Hillary, much like an eagle would do before seizing its prey. Hillary tried to look at him, but could not. She was weak and defenseless under his relentless gaze.

  Judge Redmond pounded his gavel and spoke with authority. “I understand that we are here today to discuss a plea agreement. Is that correct?”

  Jack and the federal prosecutor stood to address the judge. Nearly in unison, they replied, “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The judge again focused on Hillary. Instinctively, she stood, grasping the table for support.

  “Ms. Martin,” said the judge, “before you enter into this plea agreement, I need to be certain that your attorney has fully explained the agreement to you, including its repercussions and requirements, in a language that you understand. Is this correct?”

  The world crashed down upon Hillary. No longer was she in control, manipulating the situation, and calling the shots. Unfamiliar with vulnerability, Hillary’s legs quivered. She tried to speak, but there was no air in her lungs. In barely more than a whisper, Hillary said, “Yes, Your Honor. I understand it completely.”

  The judge cleared his throat, never for a second taking his eyes off of Hillary Martin. “Ms. Martin, how do you wish to plea?”

  “Guilty, Your Honor,” she replied, this time slightly louder.

  “Do you enter this plea on your own free will and not under any coercion or external influence?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The judge smacked his gavel once. The thud echoed throughout the crowded courtroom, like a gun being fired.

  “The court rejects your guilty plea.”

  Hillary and Jack involuntarily gasped. She looked at Jack with fear and desperation. The courtroom was silent for a moment and then erupted into a stream of whispers and bodies shuffling.

  Frowning at the crowd, Judge Redmond struck the gavel more forcefully. Silence immediately ensued.

  Judge Redmond’s words to Hillary were harsh. “The heinous nature of your crimes and your complete disregard for the consequences of your actions is unprecedented and appalling. The victims of your crime put their trust and their lives in the hands of the hospital staff, yourself included. You violated that sacred trust. These patients were helpless to defend themselves. While they were most susceptible, your ruthless actions inflicted a lifelong and possibly lethal disease on these helpless people.

  “The terms of the length of sentence, according to the plea agreement, do not adequately take into account the views of the victims. Accepting this plea agreement would inordinately restrain my discretion in sentencing.

  “You may still continue with a guilty plea, but I will determine the length of your sentence. You would still be required to abide by the terms of the original plea agreement. I must warn you, if you choose to proceed with a guilty plea, the sentence I impose upon you will be much stiffer than the twenty years origi
nally dictated by this agreement. Or, you may choose to revoke your guilty plea and proceed to trial next week, as scheduled.”

  Jack respectfully asked, “Your Honor, may I request a recess to consult with my client?”

  “Court will take a fifteen minute recess.” Judge Redmond crushed his gavel onto the sound block. The deafening crack shot through the courtroom. Every spectator sat motionless as the judge rose and returned to his chambers.

  Once the judge retreated, the courtroom was on fire with conversation.

  Jack and Hillary huddled at the defense table, attempting to block out the sound behind them. Hillary whispered menacingly, “What the fuck is this? You never warned me that anything like this would happen.” Her face was bright red, her fists clenched.

  Jack responded calmly, “I never expected anything like this. This judge is tough. The problem is, if we proceed to trial, Judge Redmond will preside. I’ve never seen a plea deal rejected before, but Judge Redmond is well within his rights to do so.”

  Hillary glanced over her left shoulder at her parents. Janice Martin was crying softly. Her head was buried into Harold Martin’s shoulder.

  Then, Hillary peeked in the direction of Jenna Reiner. Jenna glowered at Hillary, shaking her head in unabated disgust.

  For one of the few instances in her life, Hillary thought of the people she loved, instead of herself. A trial would cost her parents greatly. Not only in attorney’s fees, but in their standing within the community and their ability to carry on normal lives. Trial or not, she would never see her daughter again, of that she was sure. Her life was essentially over. The only thing a trial would accomplish would be to cause further grief, embarrassment, and destruction to the few people in this world that still cared about her. Her only chance to minimize their pain would be to end this, now. That was all Hillary had to give them.

  Hillary turned back around and said to Jack, “I’m pretty much fucked either way. Or am I missing something?”

  Jack was as serious as Hillary had ever seen him. “No, Hillary, you’re not missing anything.”

  Her words were as cold as ice. “Keep the plea.”

  The fifteen-minute recess was over, and Judge Redmond re-entered the courtroom.

  With cold, critical words, the judge addressed Hillary, “Ms. Martin, you’ve had the opportunity to discuss matters with your counsel. Have you reached a decision on how you would like to proceed?”

  Hillary rose to her feet. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Very well. Do you wish to revoke your plea of guilty and proceed to trial, or do you want to persist with your plea, knowing that the terms of sentencing will be left to my discretion?”

  Hillary stood tall. “I would like to continue with my guilty plea. I do not wish to proceed to trial.”

  Unsympathetically, Judge Redmond said, “The court accepts your guilty plea. You are hereby sentenced to fifty years in a federal penitentiary, without the possibility for parole. Court is hereby adjourned.”

  The judge delivered a final blow of the gavel. Without another word, he stood and left the courtroom.

  Attempting to ease the blinding pain in her heart, Hillary rubbed her chest. She gulped for air. Janice Martin instinctively lunged forward over the wooden railing and held her daughter. Neither mother nor daughter had time to say anything before an officer of the court moved in and separated them. Harold Martin pulled his wife down to the bench where they had been seated during the proceedings. He wrapped his arms around her and used all his weight as an anchor to separate Janice from her daughter.

  Behind Hillary, the victims and their families held each other and cried.

  Hillary was quickly handcuffed and led out of a back door of the courtroom. Jack stood motionless, alone at the defense table.

  CHAPTER 23

  Jenna knew attending the court proceedings was a risky endeavor, but she could not resist the opportunity to express her hatred toward Hillary Martin. Certain that Tom and her attorneys would have forbidden her to come, Jenna chose not to tell any of them of her intentions.

  As soon as Judge Redmond concluded the proceedings, Jenna bolted from the courtroom. With her goal accomplished, she was anxious to leave before anyone recognized her.

  Discreetly, Jenna crossed the lobby of the courthouse. At the main door, she heard the click of stiletto heels striking the marble floor. A tall, slender, blonde woman in a tailored business suit shoved her way in front of Jenna and blasted through the door, leaving it to slam shut in Jenna’s path.

  “Nice,” Jenna uttered sarcastically, flinging the door back open. The obnoxious woman never looked back.

  Jenna was about to walk away when she heard someone shout, “Ms. Anders! Allison Anders! Can we get your comment on Hillary Martin’s sentence?”

  On the top steps of the courthouse, Jenna froze, her eyes and mouth open wide in disbelief. A dozen steps below her, Jenna watched a petite, brunette reporter chase after the blonde stranger. She recognized the newscaster immediately. It was Tamara Knight, the lead anchor for Channel 8 News. A brawny cameraman struggled to keep pace with her.

  At the mention of her name, the attorney stopped and turned in the direction of the news crew. Curling her lips into a smile, she purred, “Of course.” The cameraman shined the spotlight on Allison, and she quickly smoothed her hair. Under the glow, Allison’s green eyes were captivating, and her perfectly coiffed bob glistened. She was strikingly beautiful. Standing at the edge of a small crowd of onlookers, Jenna noticed that Allison Anders’ makeup was even more perfect than that of the pretty journalist.

  The cameraman counted down with his fingers. “We’re live in three, two, one.”

  Gazing into the lens of the camera, the newsperson spoke into her microphone. “This is Tamara Knight from Channel 8 News. I’m on the steps of the Federal District Courthouse, speaking with attorney Allison Anders. Ms. Anders represents many of the patients whose lives have been tragically devastated by the actions of former St. Augustine Hospital scrub technician, Hillary Martin. Ms. Anders, what do you think of the verdict that was handed down today?”

  Allison’s eyes narrowed and her smile receded. In a thick, New York accent, she replied, “My clients are not at all satisfied by today’s ruling. The fact that Hillary Martin was sentenced to fifty years in prison won’t keep this same sort of thing from happening again. The hospital needs to own up to its part. St. Augustine needs to assume responsibility for both creating and allowing an environment to exist where this tragedy could have occurred in the first place. Furthermore, the anesthesiologists who took care of these patients also need to share in the blame. If it hadn’t been for their careless handling of narcotics, Hillary Martin would have never had the opportunity to commit her crimes. My clients demand that justice be served.”

  It was a flawless performance. Every word, every gesture, every facial expression had been rehearsed and finessed for maximum impact.

  The interview concluded, and the cameraman shut off the spotlight. Allison politely shook hands with Tamara Knight and walked away.

  Jenna darted around the corner of the courthouse. Her palms were clammy, and she was sweating profusely. She had come face-to-face with the woman who would set out to destroy her.

  As Jenna stood panting on the sidewalk, her phone vibrated in her purse. A text message from Jim Taylor read, “Plea deal struck with Martin. No trial next week. You’re off the hook. Call with any questions.”

  Jenna whispered to herself, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  CHAPTER 24

  October 25, 2010

  At exactly eight o’clock in the morning, an unmarked van pulled up to the rear entrance of the Federal District Courthouse. Hillary Martin emerged from the back, with armed guards surrounding her. She looked every bit the criminal. As she lumbered along, shackled by chains, a small crowd of enraged bystanders yelled obscenities at her. Some held signs branding her a “Murderer” and a “Drug-Addicted Whore.” Throngs of television cameras cap
tured the scene for the evening news. Reporters shouted Hillary’s name, hoping to get a statement or coax her into turning their direction. She refused to acknowledge them. Once inside, Hillary was led to the U.S. Attorney’s offices on the third floor of the building.

  Two male officers steered Hillary into an interview room and ordered her to sit at the far end of the table. With each step, metal dug into the bare skin of her ankles. Hillary shuffled to the chair and clumsily plopped down. One officer removed her handcuffs and bulletproof vest, but left the ankle restraints in place. The officer stood behind Hillary while his cohort guarded the door.

  Within minutes, a middle-aged man with short black hair and a goatee marched in, carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Hillary recognized him from the court proceedings the week before.

  The man addressed her from across the room. “Hillary Martin?”

  “Yes.” Hillary remained seated, refusing to show respect.

  “I’m Federal Prosecutor Frank Montano.” Montano made no attempt to shake Hillary’s hand or otherwise come close to her. He took his seat at the opposite end of the table.

  “I will remind you, Ms. Martin, that you are under oath,” Montano said with reproach. “There are certain things we need to ascertain from you today, and I expect nothing less than the truth. Do I make myself clear?”

  Hillary’s jaw clenched. Indignantly, she answered, “Yes.”

  “Ms. Martin, during your acts of diversion of Fentanyl at St. Augustine Hospital, did you fully understand that certain diseases, like HIV and hepatitis, could be transmitted through bodily fluids? Particularly through blood?”

  Desperately wanting to hide from the truth, Hillary paused before she answered. Reluctantly, she mumbled, “Yes.”

  “During that period of time, did you fully understand that those diseases could be spread via a contaminated syringe or needle?”