the door, I see Kate at the table, laptop open in front of her, papers everywhere. She’s slumped forward a bit, her eyes are red, and she looks pretty much the way I feel.
But as I’m closing the door, she pulls her chair back and moves towards me. We meet halfway for a quick hug. Then she sits down again, I stand by the refrigerator, and we talk. For the first few minutes it’s all about my day – the work, how I came by it, Barcadero, what kind of place it is, what the prospects are.
Tell me, tell me.
And I do.
But not having mentioned anything yesterday about Phil Coover, I decide not to mention anything about him tonight. I have to improvise a detail or two, but I manage to pull it off and once I’m at the restaurant it’s easy: there’s the rarefied atmosphere to describe, there’s energetic Stanley, Yannis’s ulcer, the kitchen, Pablo, the routine, the food, plus the fact that this could turn out to be what Stanley called a fantastic opportunity . . .
Then I ask how her day went, how she got on with the coding assignment, and, when she looks up at me, I see that she’s got tears in her eyes. ‘Kate? What is it?’
She clenches her fist. ‘Nothing. It’s—’
‘ Kate .’ I go over, pull out the chair next to hers and sit directly in front of her. ‘Kate, what’s wrong? Is it the assignment?’
‘No, I gave that up after twenty minutes—’
‘Well look, who cares, it doesn’t—’
‘No, I could do it, I will do it. I just couldn’t concentrate. Not today.’ She uses her sleeve to wipe away the tears. Then she looks straight at me. ‘I couldn’t get it out of my mind, Danny, that image . . .’
‘What—’
‘Those two guys lying dead on the floor of a freezer. With their heads smashed in? It’s . . . it’s insane .’ Her face crumples again.
‘Oh Jesus, Kate. I’m sorry.’
She takes a deep, gulping breath. ‘It’s not your fault. And you had to tell me. It’s just that . . . I don’t—’
She stops here, uncertain how to proceed, and looks away, over my shoulder, as if the rest of her sentence might be somewhere behind me, on a Post-it note stuck to the fridge, or scrawled across the wall. In blood.
‘Kate,’ I say, feeling sicker with each passing second, ‘ what? ’
She looks back at me. ‘I don’t think we can just . . . unknow this. It happened. You saw it. It was covered up, and that’s wrong.’
‘Kate . . .’
‘Kate nothing . I mean, you didn’t invent it, did you?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well, then. We have to do something.’
‘I thought we had this conversation yesterday. I don’t have any—’
‘Danny, look,’ – she reaches for a sheaf of papers beside her laptop – ‘I’ve been online all day, looking stuff up, printing articles. It’s crazy, I know, but just bear with me.’
As she flicks through the pages, I catch a glimpse of the Gideon logo on one of them, and my stomach sinks. She pulls a single page out and studies it for a second.
‘Okay, get this,’ she says. ‘Over the past fifteen years there have been nine separate whistle-blower cases involving Gideon – and we’re talking everything: fraud, contract violations, falsifying accounts, whatever, but also instances of sexual harassment and even human trafficking – nine , and those are just the ones that have come to trial. They’ve got pretty damn good at defending them too, because with the first couple they ended up incurring huge fines, but after that—’
‘Kate, stop.’
She does, but only for a second. ‘These people are unbelievable, Danny, and they’re getting away with it. I mean, Jesus, from what you told me, they’re literally getting away with murder.’
‘ Kate . . .’
She turns to the laptop and clicks something. ‘Look at this.’
I look. It’s a YouTube video. She hits play, and as we wait the standard one or two seconds of dead time for it to start, I sigh loudly. But it comes out sounding more like a deep
But as I’m closing the door, she pulls her chair back and moves towards me. We meet halfway for a quick hug. Then she sits down again, I stand by the refrigerator, and we talk. For the first few minutes it’s all about my day – the work, how I came by it, Barcadero, what kind of place it is, what the prospects are.
Tell me, tell me.
And I do.
But not having mentioned anything yesterday about Phil Coover, I decide not to mention anything about him tonight. I have to improvise a detail or two, but I manage to pull it off and once I’m at the restaurant it’s easy: there’s the rarefied atmosphere to describe, there’s energetic Stanley, Yannis’s ulcer, the kitchen, Pablo, the routine, the food, plus the fact that this could turn out to be what Stanley called a fantastic opportunity . . .
Then I ask how her day went, how she got on with the coding assignment, and, when she looks up at me, I see that she’s got tears in her eyes. ‘Kate? What is it?’
She clenches her fist. ‘Nothing. It’s—’
‘ Kate .’ I go over, pull out the chair next to hers and sit directly in front of her. ‘Kate, what’s wrong? Is it the assignment?’
‘No, I gave that up after twenty minutes—’
‘Well look, who cares, it doesn’t—’
‘No, I could do it, I will do it. I just couldn’t concentrate. Not today.’ She uses her sleeve to wipe away the tears. Then she looks straight at me. ‘I couldn’t get it out of my mind, Danny, that image . . .’
‘What—’
‘Those two guys lying dead on the floor of a freezer. With their heads smashed in? It’s . . . it’s insane .’ Her face crumples again.
‘Oh Jesus, Kate. I’m sorry.’
She takes a deep, gulping breath. ‘It’s not your fault. And you had to tell me. It’s just that . . . I don’t—’
She stops here, uncertain how to proceed, and looks away, over my shoulder, as if the rest of her sentence might be somewhere behind me, on a Post-it note stuck to the fridge, or scrawled across the wall. In blood.
‘Kate,’ I say, feeling sicker with each passing second, ‘ what? ’
She looks back at me. ‘I don’t think we can just . . . unknow this. It happened. You saw it. It was covered up, and that’s wrong.’
‘Kate . . .’
‘Kate nothing . I mean, you didn’t invent it, did you?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well, then. We have to do something.’
‘I thought we had this conversation yesterday. I don’t have any—’
‘Danny, look,’ – she reaches for a sheaf of papers beside her laptop – ‘I’ve been online all day, looking stuff up, printing articles. It’s crazy, I know, but just bear with me.’
As she flicks through the pages, I catch a glimpse of the Gideon logo on one of them, and my stomach sinks. She pulls a single page out and studies it for a second.
‘Okay, get this,’ she says. ‘Over the past fifteen years there have been nine separate whistle-blower cases involving Gideon – and we’re talking everything: fraud, contract violations, falsifying accounts, whatever, but also instances of sexual harassment and even human trafficking – nine , and those are just the ones that have come to trial. They’ve got pretty damn good at defending them too, because with the first couple they ended up incurring huge fines, but after that—’
‘Kate, stop.’
She does, but only for a second. ‘These people are unbelievable, Danny, and they’re getting away with it. I mean, Jesus, from what you told me, they’re literally getting away with murder.’
‘ Kate . . .’
She turns to the laptop and clicks something. ‘Look at this.’
I look. It’s a YouTube video. She hits play, and as we wait the standard one or two seconds of dead time for it to start, I sigh loudly. But it comes out sounding more like a deep
Similar Books
