Mercy Street(74)

“Thanks for being here, everyone,” she said. As though they’d had a choice: an all-staff memo had informed them that the clinic would be closed to patients, the morning appointments rescheduled. This had happened before, but not recently. Even during a monster nor’easter, Mercy Street opened on time.

“As some of you may have heard, we have an ongoing security situation at the clinic.” Florine spoke deliberately, choosing her words. “I know how rumors get started—I’ve heard some pretty outlandish ones already—so I wanted you to hear it straight from me.

“It has come to our attention that someone has been taking photos of our patients outside the clinic. We don’t know who this person is, but we know it’s happening because we’ve got him on video. The quality isn’t great, so I’m going to turn down the lights to help you see.”

The lights dimmed. Florine bent over her laptop and tapped briefly at the keyboard until an image appeared on the screen. It was the same footage Claudia had watched with Luis, the wide-angle view of the clinic entrance.

She’d watched it so many times that she could anticipate each frame: the protestors shifting and shuffling, Shannon F.’s jerky marionette steps as she made her way to the door, the guy in the Sox cap approaching from the edge of the screen like a hunter moving in for the kill. She felt a terrible anticipation as he raised the cell phone to his chest.

Florine paused the recording.

“This guy, whoever he is, has been uploading photos of our patients to a website. We have no reason to believe anyone is in physical danger, but our patients’ privacy is a serious matter. We’ve been in touch with law enforcement for guidance on how to proceed.”

Whispers in the room, a low hum of conversation. Florine turned up the lights.

“I know you have questions,” she said. “Hit me.”

A half dozen hands shot into the air. Good girls they were, polite and mannerly. They raised their hands and waited to be recognized, to be granted the right to speak.

“What about the website?” said Mary Fahey. “Do we know who built it?”

“The police are working on that,” Florine said.

Another show of hands.

“This can’t be legal,” said Heather Chen. “Posting people’s photos without permission. What about HIPAA?”

“I knew someone was going to ask that.” Florine looked very alert, her sole mode of expression. “Here’s the situation. According to our attorney, HIPAA is no help to us here. Health-care workers are legally bound to protect patient confidentiality, but the rest of the world isn’t required to do so. And in Massachusetts, anyway, there don’t seem to be any state laws that apply.”

“Well, what about the site that hosts it?” Mitch called from the back of the room. “Can’t we make them take it down?”

“It isn’t that simple. There are First Amendment issues. I know,” Florine said, at the groan of protest in the room.

Immediately ten conversations started at once. Florine knocked on the tabletop to get the group’s attention, her silver ring loud as a gavel.

“People, people! Stay with me. This is important: we aren’t the only clinic that’s been targeted. The photos on the website were taken in multiple locations, probably in several different states. So there may be other state laws to consider.”

“What about FACE?” Naomi asked.

“Too narrow,” said Florine. “Physical force, threat of physical force, or physical obstruction. Unless this guy lays hands on a patient, or physically bars her from entering the facility, he isn’t committing a crime.

“The point is, it’s complicated. I don’t have a lot of answers for you—yet—but I want you all to know that we’re taking this very seriously. The police are aware of the situation and will be stepping up their patrols.”

This was true. That morning Claudia had spotted a BPD cruiser idling on Mercy Street, maybe fifty yards from the clinic’s front door.

“If you see anyone behaving unusually outside the clinic, and especially if you see someone taking photos, let Luis know about it. I’m dead serious, people,” Florine said in a husky voice.

The room fell silent. The director’s poise was legendary. This was the equivalent of a normal person bursting into tears.

She recovered quickly. “That’s all I’ve got for you at the moment. The safety of our staff and patients,” she added (smoothly, in her TV voice), “is, as always, our primary concern.”

WHEN CLAUDIA ARRIVED AT THE DELI, PHIL WAS WAITING.

“She lives,” he said, clasping her briefly. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Nowhere. I’ve been nowhere.” It was factually true. In the weeks since her visit to Maine, she’d been a stationary object. Except for work, she had scarcely left her apartment. Each morning she woke exhausted, as though the winter had finally caught up to her. There was simply nowhere she wanted to go. Holed up at home, she read trashy novels and watched Dateline. Occasionally she texted Phil to cancel lunch dates. Returning his phone calls seemed too complicated.

“Work has been crazy,” she said—her all-purpose excuse.

She explained, then, about the security video, the freak in the Sox cap taking photos with his cell phone. She talked and talked, aware of the hysterical edge in her voice. She sounded crazy. She felt crazy. If I didn’t know me, she thought, I would think I’d lost my mind.