Chapter 497 - 231: Wailing Wall (Part 2)
"Mike, are you in position?"
A director from Fox News shouted into his walkie-talkie.
"Got it. I’m right in front of the transport vehicle entrance. The second that kid gets out of the car, we’ll get a shot of his face. Remember to flash the ’terrorist’ headline on screen."
The reporters were all waiting.
They were waiting for the sirens, for the armored vehicle, for the shot of the young man in an orange jumpsuit being escorted into the courthouse.
They were hungry for chaos.
They longed to see radical protesters charging the police lines, to see police swinging their batons, to see tear gas canisters exploding in the crowd.
That was a guarantee for ratings.
But there was no chaos.
Just ten minutes before the transport vehicle was due to arrive, something strange happened on the other side of the plaza.
A group of young people in black trench coats silently walked into the plaza.
Leading them was Alina Rodriguez.
She directed the young people behind her to erect several massive sheets of plywood in front of the courthouse’s iron fence.
The boards were connected, forming a temporary wall fifty meters long.
This caught the reporters’ attention.
"What’s that?"
"What are they doing? Is that a protest banner?"
Cameras swiveled, their lenses zooming in.
It was a wall of paper.
Thousands upon thousands of A4-sized sheets were pasted onto the plywood, layered densely one on top of another.
The wind blew past, and the papers rustled, the sound like a low murmur.
A BBC cameraman shouldered his camera and walked closer, pushing his lens to the maximum zoom, trying to make out what was on the papers.
When the image came into focus on his monitor, the cameraman’s hand trembled.
They were health insurance claim forms.
On every single form, in the most conspicuous spot, was a glaring, bright red stamp.
REJECTED.
Claim: Coronary artery bypass surgery. Review outcome: Rejected. Reason: Not medically necessary.
Claim: Targeted chemotherapy drugs. Review outcome: Rejected. Reason: Experimental treatment not covered.
Claim: Neonatal incubator care. Review outcome: Rejected. Reason: Exceeds annual claim limit.
Thousands upon thousands of rejections.
Thousands upon thousands of red stamps, merging into a sea of red.
Under the pale, white sky, the wall looked as if it were bleeding.
And next to every form was a photograph.
The people in the photos were smiling, living.
There was a retired steelworker with a wrinkled face, wearing a baseball cap.
There was a college student in a graduation gown, her smile radiant.
There was a kind grandmother holding her grandchild.
There was a baby in a cradle, its eyes wide open.
In the bottom corner of each photo was their name, and their date of death.
These were the patients who had died because their claims were denied.
They were the people abandoned by the system, the data points eliminated by an actuary’s tables.
Now, they had returned.
They were plastered on this wall directly facing the entrance of the Federal Court, their eyes that would never close again watching the judges, prosecutors, and lawyers who were about to enter.
The once-noisy media area suddenly fell into a suffocating silence.
The reporters who had been ready to cover a "mob storming the courthouse" stood with their mouths agape, unable to utter a single word of commentary.
Alina stood beneath the wall. She and the dozens of students behind her each held a white candle.
The candlelight flickered in the wind but never went out.
They just stood there.
Silent.
Solemn.
"Oh my God..."
A young female reporter covered her mouth.
She had seen one of the forms.
It was for a seven-year-old girl with leukemia. The reason for rejection was "pre-existing condition."
In the photo, the girl was hugging a teddy bear, her smile innocent and pure.
And beside the photo, her mother had handwritten a single line: "Mommy did her best."
A white-haired old woman walked to the wall. With a trembling hand, she caressed a photo of a smiling young man.
"My son..."
The old woman suddenly fell to her knees, pressing her forehead against the plywood and letting out a suppressed sob.
The crying was contagious.
A stir went through the surrounding crowd.
More and more citizens spontaneously walked to the wall, silently weeping.
This Wailing Wall bore too much death, too much injustice, too much helplessness.
This was the dead’s indictment of the living.
...
At the edge of the plaza, a black sedan was parked by the roadside.
The window lowered a crack.
Leo Wallace sat in the back seat, watching the wall from a distance through that crack.
He wore a black suit, his expression cold and severe.
’This is the best indictment,’
Roosevelt’s voice echoed in his mind.
’It’s a million times more powerful than the thousands of pages of defense briefs Wayne prepared, more powerful than any legal statute.’
Leo looked at the wall.
The wind whipped the papers, the sound growing louder, like a roar, or perhaps a sob.
’This is the moral high ground.’
’Against a backdrop like this, Luigi Randall is no longer walking to the defendant’s table.’
’He’s about to ascend to a pulpit.’
’No matter how the judge ultimately rules, no matter what the law says.’
’In the court of public opinion, the trial is already over.’
Leo nodded.
He watched the red stamps fluttering in the wind.
Behind every "REJECTED" was a human life, a shattered family.
These things were normally hidden away in filing cabinets. Now, they had been dragged out into the open.
They were plastered on the face of civilization, a harsh slap to society.
"Here they come."
Leo saw the flashing police lights at the end of the street.
The convoy of armored transport vehicles appeared, slowly driving into the plaza.
The reporters’ lenses instinctively turned toward it, but they quickly swiveled back to the wall.
A director was screaming into his headset: "Cut the feed! Give me a wide shot! I want that contrast! The transport vehicle against the Wailing Wall!"
The transport vehicle stopped at the courthouse entrance.
SWAT officers jumped out and set up a police line.
The rear door opened.
Luigi Randall stepped out.
He was still wearing the same orange jumpsuit, still in shackles.
The moment he stepped out, he froze.
He saw the fifty-meter-long white wall, the dense spread of red stamps, and the photographs staring back at him.
He also saw Alina standing beneath the wall.
Alina raised her candle, and the students behind her raised theirs.
Dozens of points of candlelight flickered in the morning light, like a flowing river of stars.
Luigi’s body trembled slightly.
He had always thought he was alone.
He thought he was just a ghost driven by rage who had fired a shot in the dark, now awaiting his own destruction.
But now, he saw a response.
The dead were watching him.
The living were supporting him.
His sacrifice had not been in vain.
Luigi faced the wall, faced the photographs, and bent down, giving a deep bow.
"CLICK. CLICK. CLICK."
The sound of camera shutters filled the air.
The moment was immortalized.
A young man in shackles, bowing to a wall covered in death notices.
This photo would be on the front page tomorrow, shocking the entire United States.
"Get inside."
The escorting officer gave him a push.
Luigi straightened up.
He took a step and walked toward the courthouse doors.
Those doors were still imposing, still massive.
But in this moment, they no longer seemed able to overwhelm the figure of this young man.
Leo sat in the car, watching as Luigi disappeared behind the doors.
"The show is starting,"
Leo said.
’Yes,’
Roosevelt’s voice was filled with anticipation.
’That madman Wayne is already waiting inside.’
’Now, it’s time to make those Vampires in high places bleed a little.’
Leo didn’t get out of the car. He didn’t have time to sit in on a trial that was destined to go down in history.
He had more important things to do.
Luigi was leading the charge in the courtroom, while he had to build the defensive lines for this war from the outside.
The car drove away from the plaza.
Leo took one last look in the rearview mirror.
The wall stood firm in the wind.
The red stamps on it were like a blazing fire.
And that fire had finally reached Philadelphia.