No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(20)

Hix paused to give his concluding point some extra emphasis, then rested his palms on the table, leaned forward, and said, “Questions?”

Hix always got asked about a bunch of mundane details. The identity of his investors. Recruitment. Employment practices. Visitation rights. Violence. The presence of gangs. He figured there would be something about the environment and the impact of Minerva’s operations, too. That had become a hot potato of late. And there could be some wild cards. Spicier issues, which may or may not come up, depending on the feistiness of the audience. Issues like the morality of profiting from other people’s incarceration. Whether enough was being done to prevent the sexual abuse of vulnerable inmates. Evidence of racial bias among the guards. Things that required a little more thought and finesse.

Within a quarter of an hour the five journalists sitting close to Hix had ticked all the usual boxes. Hix had tried to make it sound like he had never heard their types of questions before. Like he was interested in them. He gave what he thought would be his final answer and was about to wind the session up when the sixth journalist sprang into life. The one at the far end of the table. He was the youngest of the group. He had a round, plump face, straggly blond hair, and was dressed in faded clothes from an army surplus store. Like a wannabe Che Guevara in need of a hat and a dye job, Hix thought. And some focus. Until that point the guy had shown little interest in anything going on around him. He had shown little sign of being awake.

“The death rate in Minerva’s prisons is shocking,” the guy said. “Why is it so high?”

Hix glanced down at Brockman and paused for a moment. Then he wet his lips and said, “The mortality rate at our centers is not high. What makes you think otherwise?”

Brockman slipped his phone out of his pocket. He held it low down, next to his leg, so no one could see him tap out a message with his thumb.

The Guevara guy said, “I have my sources.”

“Which you can’t reveal?” Hix said.

“Correct.”

Hix smiled. “You’re fishing, aren’t you, my friend? Well, you’re casting your hook in the wrong pond. The health and life expectancy of our inmates is significantly better than at comparable institutions. And that’s not down to chance. Or luck. It’s thanks to our unique, progressive, humanitarian policies. If fate leads you down the unfortunate path to incarceration, a Minerva facility is where you want to end up. There’s no question about that.”

“You’re saying your death rate isn’t sky high?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“You have the data to back it up?”

“Of course.”

“Then why don’t you publish it?”

“To what end? There’s nothing to see.”

“You should publish it anyway. For transparency.”

“We publish everything we’re required to by state and federal law.”

“Which is a fraction of what state and federal facilities have to publish.”

Hix shrugged. “We don’t make the law. We just comply with it. Scrupulously.”

“You’re using it as a smokescreen. You have a serious drug problem in your jails and you’re trying to hide it. Whenever an inmate overdoses and has to go to the hospital, you pass it off as some kind of preventative measure coming from your so-called humanitarianism. You’ve gotten good at hiding the truth about the ones who recover. But when they die? That’s where the real story is, right?”

“Wrong. Look, can I hand on heart say there won’t be a single drug taken in any of our facilities today? No. We live in the real world. I’m not na?ve. But when it comes to drugs, just like everything else, Minerva is streets ahead of every other operator in helping and protecting our inmates. The idea that addicts are dying in droves in our care is ridiculous.”

“Prove it. Show us the data.”

“I—”

There was a hard rap on the door behind Hix and the guard who had been watching the group came back into the room. He said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but there’s a phone call for you.”

“Tell whoever it is I’ll call them back. I’m busy here.”

“It’s the governor, sir.”

“Oh. What does he want?”

“He didn’t say. Just that it was urgent.”

“OK. I guess I shouldn’t keep him waiting, then. Could you help these good folks find their way to the exit?”

The guard nodded. “Happy to.”

Hix turned back to the journalists. “I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to draw a line at this point. Which is a shame because I was really enjoying the debate. My friend at the end of the table, I’ll get you those mortality numbers. Assuming our legal guys give me the green light. We have to be careful about privileged information, SEC regulations, things like that. And I’ll also have a word with one of our inmates. See if he’ll talk to you. When Minerva took this place over the guy had something going on with one of his eyes. Damon and I had seen the same thing with a prisoner years ago, when we were working for a different corrections provider. That company wouldn’t bring in a doctor because of the cost. They didn’t provide insurance. The condition got worse and worse, and long story short the prisoner was left completely blind. The same would have happened to our guy, only we got him proactive treatment. Now he’s an artist. He paints watercolors. Some of them are on display in a gallery in Jackson. He can give you the real scoop on our humanitarian policies. With no dead junkies involved. I guarantee.”