Heart of a Killer by David Rosenfelt

conclusion that our approach had to be two-pronged, both public relations and legal. It was not exactly inspired genius, since the PR battle had already begun, and I was a lawyer.
    “I’m going to file a lawsuit,” I said.
    “On what grounds?”
    “I don’t know yet, but I’ll come up with something. We need to pressure them, come at them from all angles.”
    I doubt that Sheryl was reassured, but at least by now she trusted I would give it my full effort. What I hadn’t told her was that I was going to be adding a third prong. I didn’t know whether I could get anywhere with it yet, so I was waiting to broach the subject with her. But I made a mental note to call my uncle Reggie, to get that wheel in motion.
    As I was leaving, a guy dressed in a suit and tie, which meant he was neither a guard nor a prisoner, approached me. “Mr. Wagner, have you got a minute?”
    “For what?”
    “Warden Dolan would like to see you.”
    I let him lead me to the warden’s office, which was surprisingly spacious and well appointed, and seemed incongruous for the prison environment. Dolan was in her mid-forties, with looks that gave new meaning to the word “nondescript.” If I met with her ten times, I still wouldn’t recognize her on the street.
    “Mr. Wagner,” she said, dispensing with any pleasantries, “I have some information for you relating to your client.”
    “What might that be?”
    “She has been placed on suicide watch.”
    “What exactly does that mean?”
    “She is being removed from the general population, into a cell and area of the prison that is constantly monitored by cameras and guards. Anything that could be considered remotely dangerous will be taken from her.”
    “Why are you doing this?”
    “It’s quite common, really. We do it whenever we judge that an inmate might be a candidate for suicide. Today’s media reports clearly indicate that she is a textbook case. Not only does she intend to commit suicide; she wants the state to facilitate it.”
    “She would only do it under medical supervision,” I said.
    “Perhaps. But perhaps in her desperation when her plans are thwarted she would take her own life, hoping that the medical staff would arrange for the transplant.” She showed a small, smug smile. “That is no longer possible.”
    “So you are intent on keeping her alive, so that her daughter can die.”
    “Mr. Wagner, I would have preferred that you had followed the chain of command with your initial request.”
    “You mean I should have come to you?”
    “That is correct.”
    “Why would I want to start at the bottom?”
    I left, having taken a petulant shot at someone in a position to make my client’s life more difficult. It was not my finest moment, but it was unfortunately getting to be a typical one.

 
    I write great briefs; even the partners at the firm wouldn’t dispute that. They cut straight to the salient points, which judges like, and are concise, which judges like even more. It’s not a talent that gets you the big prize of partnership at a law firm; it’s sort of like winning Miss Congeniality. But in any event, I’m sort of known for it, even among my colleagues.
    So I set out to write a brief in support of the lawsuit I was filing on Sheryl’s behalf. It’s disheartening to write something like that, knowing down deep that if I were a judge I would rule against it myself. The law was simply not on our side.
    Which, of course, did not stop me from claiming that the law was exactly, precisely on our side. The specific law I relied on was Griswold vs. Connecticut, a landmark 1965 Supreme Court case. It invalidated a Connecticut law against the use of contraceptives, with seven justices taking the position that it violated the constitutional right to privacy, in this case the marital variety. This despite the fact that not even the like-minded seven justices could point to an actual mention of privacy in the Constitution. Instead they pointed to other areas