The reason seemed to be that the medical lobby‑‑he'd named names—had successfully turned back all attempts by Congress to pass such a law, even though it was a formal recommendation by the Institute of Medicine. The problem was, once you admitted you screwed up, you could get sued.
So there was no formal accountability.
But (and here was the constructive part) if patients' medical records were put on the Web—everything, even their medications—it could make a big dent in the all‑too‑frequent hospital medication foul‑ups. That alone could cut accidental hospital deaths in half.
He'd pitched Jay Grimes, the managing editor, to let him do a five‑thousand‑word piece for the Sentinel. Jay had agreed and even promised him the front page. Jay liked him, but since all the real decisions were made by the owners, not‑so‑affectionately known as the Family, there wasn't much Jay could do to protect his people. Stone now realized that more than ever.
The e‑mail on his Compaq's screen was from Jane Tully, who handled legal affairs for the paper. Apparently, Jay didn't have the balls to be the hatchet man, so he'd given the job to Jane, who could throw in a little legal mumbo jumbo for good measure. And she hadn't even had the courtesy to pick up the phone to do the deed. Instead, she'd sent a frigging e‑mail: See attached. Corporate says legal implications convey unacceptable risk. Consider an op‑ed piece. That way the liability will be all yours. Love and kisses.
And of course, by "Corporate," she meant the Family (or, more likely, their running‑dog attorneys down on Nassau Street).
It was really too bad about Jane. She was a young‑looking thirty‑six and had her own legal practice with a large law firm in midtown, but she always dropped by before her Sunday brunch to answer any legal questions that might be pending before the Sentinel was put to bed. Stone knew pretty well how her mind worked. He should. Jane Tully was his former, very former, significant other.
They d lived together for a year and a half on First Avenue in the East Sixties. But she was type A (tailored Armani suits and always on time) and he was a type B (elbow patches and home‑cooked pasta). The denouement had been seismic and full of acrimony and accusations.
So was she killing this major piece out of spite? he wondered. Just to prove one last time who really had the cojones?
Actually, it would have been nice to think so. That would put a human face on this gutless travesty. But the attached memo had enough legal jargon that another reason was immediately suggesting itself. The owners of the paper, the Family, the fucked‑up twins Harry and Bosco and their mother, Adeline, the heirs of Edward Jordan, actually were afraid of a lawsuit. The attachment had the fingerprints of the Family's attorneys all over it. Jane was just carrying out marching orders.