by Adam Mitzner
“Yes.”
“Your witness,” Salvesen said.
Lisa Kaplan returned to the podium.
“Dr. Cammerman, please explain the treatment you have been providing to Owen.”
“Owen was diagnosed with AML when he was thirteen. He was treated at that time with chemotherapy and radiation, and the cancer went into remission. However, it returned earlier this year. When it did, the decision was reached that additional chemotherapy alone was not recommended because his cells would continue to produce leukemia. Instead, we suggested he undergo what is called an allogeneic transplant, by which donor stem cells are implanted into the bone marrow.”
“Prior to the transplant, a process called myeloablation occurs, correct?”
“Yes. Myeloablation is a particularly aggressive round of chemotherapy, in which the patient’s existing stem cells are largely destroyed to make way for the transplanted cells.”
“Was that process completed?”
“Yes.”
“And did you immediately begin the transplant?”
“No. We waited forty-eight hours.”
“Why was that?”
“It’s the standard protocol. The myeloablation is severely debilitating to the patient. We want them to get their strength up before the transplant.”
“Did there come a time when you performed an allogeneic transplant on Owen?”
“Yes.”
“Did it work?”
“It was a successful procedure, but it is still far from clear whether it will, as you say, work. Or even what working means in this context. We deal with five-year survival rates, and our patients, of course, hope for much more than that. So it hasn’t, quote, unquote, ‘worked’ until we pass at least that milestone.”
“So there is still a possibility that Owen Fiske could die from his leukemia?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What are the risks that Owen faces now that the transplant has been completed?”
“There are many, but the thing we’re most concerned about after a transplant is a rejection of the transplanted cells. After that, the focus turns to the elevated risk of infection. The myeloablation process eliminates the entirety of the patient’s white blood cells. The white blood cells are the body’s defense against infection. It can take up to a year before the new stem cells—the stem cells that have been transplanted—are producing sufficient white blood cells to fight infection. During this period, we monitor the patient very closely and take precautions to ward off infection.”
“What precautions do you take?”
“The patient remains hospitalized after the procedure for about a month. Sometimes a bit shorter, sometimes a little longer. During that period, visitation is limited, and we require anyone who has contact with the patient to wear gloves and a mask.”
“Is Owen still in that phase of the treatment?”
“He is. And he will be for at least another week. Maybe longer.”
“What are the other risks?”
“The medicines we provide to fight off other risks unfortunately increase the likelihood of the patient contracting a fungal infection. Even mold is a serious risk for these patients.”
“How serious are these risks?”
Dr. Cammerman hesitated for a moment as he considered the question. “They run the gamut from mere annoyances, like a skin rash, to fungal pneumonia, which is potentially fatal.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Kaplan said. “No further questions.”
After Dr. Cammerman was excused, Judge Martin asked whether either side had any further witnesses to call. Both lawyers answered that they did not.
Jessica held her breath. She knew that a decision might come immediately, just as it had when the judge considered the DNA issue with regard to Wayne.
Judge Martin said, “Thank you. I will take the matter under advisement and issue a written ruling with all deliberate speed. I understand the importance of the issues for both sides, so you will not wait long.”
Once they had left the courtroom, Wayne opined that it was a good sign that the judge hadn’t ruled from the bench. Jessica didn’t have the strength to disagree.
27
Jessica was at home, seeking comfort in a bottle of chardonnay, when her phone rang. It was Alex Miller.
“Is there a decision?”
“There is. I have Wayne on the line too. I conferenced him into the call before calling you so I could tell you both at the same time.”
“Hi, Jessica,” Wayne said.
She didn’t return the greeting. She didn’t want to say anything to delay Alex’s reveal of the judge’s ruling.
“I’m sorry to report that Judge Martin went against us and is allowing the police to get Owen’s DNA,” Alex said. “Lisa asked me to convey her disappointment as well. But as I told you from the beginning, these motions are real long shots. Judges like to grant the police every benefit of the doubt. And Dr. Cammerman didn’t help our cause by saying that compliance with the warrant wouldn’t put Owen’s recovery at any risk.”
Jessica wasn’t listening. She didn’t care why they’d lost. All that mattered was that the police were now going to get Owen’s DNA. And once they had it, they’d be able to prove that her son had left his blood at the crime scene.
“When will it happen?” she asked.
“Lisa called the ADA and told him that she needed twenty-four to forty-eight hours to decide whether to make an emergency stay application. He agreed to hold off executing the warrant until then.”
“So we’re going to appeal, then?” Wayne asked. He sounded hopeful, as if he wanted to continue to fight until the bitter end.
“We can,” Alex said, which Jessica recognized was not the same as a recommendation that they should. “It’s your right. And maybe we even get a stay of the order while the appeal is pending. But all that does is kick the can down the road. And to what end? At the end of the day, they’re almost certainly still going to get Owen’s DNA. Our best shot to block that was with Judge Martin. Appellate courts are very reluctant to overrule a trial judge who has heard live testimony. All that being said, the only real downside to appealing is the legal cost. So I’m happy to make that filing and play the delay game. But it doesn’t come cheap.”
“How much?” Wayne asked.
“Somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty grand? Maybe a little less. But in that ballpark. But to be perfectly frank, you’d be throwing good money after bad. My advice would be to preserve your resources for the trial. I’ve spoken to Lisa and she agrees. You need to be thinking about the long-term defense, not every battle. A trial is going to cost you at least two hundred grand. Unless you are really liquid, I wouldn’t spend any money you could put toward the defense on a near-hopeless appeal.”
Jessica was now in tears. All she heard from Alex’s legal analysis was the word hopeless.
“Are they going to arrest him?” Jessica asked. “I mean, when they find that his DNA matches.”
Alex didn’t answer at first. It was almost as if the question had surprised him, although it couldn’t possibly have. This was the only question that mattered, after all.
“I assume they will,” he finally said. “They’ll have the same evidence against Owen that they had against Wayne at that point. No, they’ll actually have more because they’ll have the DNA match too. So, yes, I think you need to prepare yourself for Owen being arrested after the DNA comes back as a match.”
Jessica sobbed into the phone, wishing she hadn’t asked the question.
“But—and this is the key thing, Jessica. And you too, Wayne. You need to focus on the positives. If Owen is arrested, we’ll fight like hell for him to stay confined in the hospital and then be released on bail, or, at worst, kept under house arrest. The prosecution will resist. They don’t want it to look like white kids of means get to stay at home and kids of color rot on Rikers Island. But, at the end of the day, I’m confident that we’ll be able to keep him out of jail pendin
g trial. At the same time, it isn’t too early to start thinking about a plea. Involuntary manslaughter carries a three-and-a-half- to fifteen-year sentence.”
“Oh my God,” Jessica said.
“What’s the charge going to be if he doesn’t do a plea?” Wayne asked.
“Murder in the second, which is the most serious charge for a murder that is premeditated but not involving a police officer. That carries a life sentence, no possibility of parole. The DA will probably hedge its bets and also include a first-degree manslaughter charge as a lesser included offense. If convicted on that, Owen would get a sentence of five to twenty-five years.”
Jessica could barely comprehend what Alex was telling them. All she heard was that her son would be in jail for a very long time.
“Just tell me one thing, Alex,” Jessica said. “Can Owen win at trial?”
She heard their lawyer sigh. Never a good sign.
“I’ll do everything I can to make that happen,” he said.
No one said anything for a good ten seconds, then Alex continued, “I know I’ve given you a lot of information all at once, and I also know that the stakes couldn’t be higher. You don’t have to make a decision about even the appeal now. And as for the plea, that’s premature right now too. So let’s do this one step at a time. Talk to each other about the pros and cons of the appeal on the DNA warrant. On that, I need to hear from you no later than tomorrow. If you decide not to pursue the appeal, there’s nothing for us to do until Owen’s DNA comes back as a match. At that time, we can turn to discussing the best time to raise a plea discussion or if we want to go that route at all. And, of course, Owen is the decision maker here, so I’m going to need to get his sign-off on any plea.”
Wayne called Jessica back right after they got off the phone with Alex.
“We should get Owen out of the country,” he said. “To Paraguay or Venezuela or some other place without an extradition treaty with the United States.”
“That’s just not possible, Wayne,” Jessica said. “He’s in the hospital, and will be for the foreseeable future.”
“So what are we supposed to do? Just let them convict our son of murder?”
Owen’s parents told him that the police were coming. In fact, that was why his mother and father were both in his room, like sentries on the castle walls. They’d told him that they couldn’t do anything to prevent him from being forced to provide a DNA sample, that they’d done everything they could, and the judge had ordered it to happen.
The exact day and time for Owen to provide his DNA had been agreed upon in advance. Even with the warning, Owen was still startled when he heard “NYPD” following two loud knocks on his door.
“Come in,” his father said.
His mother held his hand, their skin-on-skin contact prevented by her latex glove. He could tell that she was terrified. His father too, despite the bravado.
The man at the door was wearing hospital scrubs. He looked no different from any of the dozens of doctors Owen had seen but for the shimmer of silver around his neck. Owen’s memory flashed back to the crime scene and the cop with the swagger who had worn his badge on a chain.
“I’m not going to come inside, but I’m sure your mother explained why I’m here, Owen. My name is Lieutenant Velasquez. I’m a police officer with the NYPD. A judge has granted us permission to take a sample of your DNA.”
“Please don’t talk to my son,” Wayne said, firmly. “Just do what you came here to do and then leave.”
“You won’t have to do anything,” the cop said to Owen, ignoring his father’s tough-guy line. “A nurse is going to come in and take some blood. Okay?”
His parents had told Owen not to say a word. But it just seemed wrong not to answer him.
“Sure. Whatever.”
The nurse came in. It was just like any of the countless times before when he had given blood through the CVC.
After she left, Velasquez said, “The warrant also permits us to inspect and photograph your hands.”
Without waiting for permission, a man in full hospital garb entered, including a mask. Owen couldn’t tell anything about him other than that he had blue eyes.
“Please hold out both your hands,” he said.
Owen looked to his mother, but she had turned away. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw his father nod.
Owen pulled his right hand from beneath the covers. The photographer took pictures of the now-faint but still visible scratches across Owen’s right knuckles. Yet another wonderful by-product of having leukemia—scars were slow to heal.
Haley still couldn’t wipe from her mind’s eye what she’d witnessed the day James died. She doubted she ever would. Sometimes she wondered why she had even entered James’s office in the first place. She knew James was still there, after all, and that should have dictated that she stay far away. But after watching Reid leave and the skinny, short-haired woman follow him, and then James’s stepson enter right after the woman left, only to flee like a bat out of hell a few minutes later with blood on his hands, she knew something was seriously wrong.
Had she entered the office to help James? Or was it only curiosity? Maybe she wanted to see James suffer. She honestly still did not know.
Whatever her motivation, when she entered, she saw James lying on the floor, facedown, blood pooled around his head. She was surprised by just how dark his blood was. She had always imagined blood to be red, like marinara sauce. Turned out it was more akin to the dark purple of a cabernet.
Instinctively, she checked his pulse—no doubt leaving evidence of her presence on his body—but he was already gone.
She hated to admit this, even to herself, but at that moment, she felt nothing but sorrow. She hadn’t wanted James to die, despite all the times she’d soothed herself with thoughts of his death. What she really wanted was for him to regret leaving her. Now that could never happen.
And then the moment after that realization, her instinct for self-preservation kicked in. She had made herself the prime suspect in James’s murder. From her antics at the party, to when she spotted James with the skinny, short-haired woman, to her persuading Malik to call Jessica, to her fingerprints putting her at the scene of the crime, the police wouldn’t have to look too far for evidence to arrest and even convict her.
She could have told the police what she had seen that day, but she quickly realized that was very weak tea. Which meant that she had to figure out a way to put other suspects into the mix. But who? Pointing the finger at Reid would only cause him to tell the police that she was a scorned ex-lover. The skinny, short-haired woman was hardly a more inviting target, since there might not be any way for the police to prove she even existed.
But the boy, he was an entirely different kettle of fish. Pointing the finger at him was a game changer.
The irony wasn’t lost on Haley that she wasn’t even sure Owen had killed James when she made that very accusation to Jessica at the funeral. For all Haley knew, it could have been Reid or the skinny, short-haired woman. Or both of them in cahoots. Maybe they killed James, and Owen only came upon the body. In that way, he would have been no different from her: someone in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But Haley knew that Jessica would not stop accusing her unless Haley had something to hold over her as leverage. Threatening that she’d tell the police Owen had entered James’s office, then left covered in blood, was more than enough to do the trick.
It worked like a charm. After confronting Jessica at the funeral, Jessica and Wayne presented a united front to stonewall the cops. Haley hadn’t expected Reid to join the party, but of course he did. That guy didn’t do anything that wasn’t shady, so the last thing he was going to do was cooperate with the police, even about something he hadn’t done.
With everyone else not cooperating, Haley’s own refusal didn’t seem so bad.
From what she’d read, the police made their way to Owen Fiske on their own. She couldn’t even begin to comprehend why
that kid had murdered James, but that wasn’t her concern.
This summer would mark two years since James had left her. It was time to put her life back on track and stop blaming a dead man for her troubles. Well past time, in fact.
She needed to get a job and deal with her obsessive tendencies, her probable drinking problem, and definitely her anger issues. She thought she could do that. After all, she didn’t have much choice in the matter.
Reid’s lawyer was urging a plea deal. He thought he could get the feds to agree to less than five years.
“I’m not agreeing to spend even a day in jail,” Reid said.
He’d made bail and was now living at home, albeit under some restrictions. Nevertheless, it was much more pleasant than life in a prison cell.
“They’re not going to end up giving you the key to the city on this one, Reid,” Weitzen said. “Murcer has already flipped, and they have you on tape negotiating the deal. And I don’t have to tell you that without a deal, you’ll be looking at ten years. Maybe more.”
Reid knew he’d eventually have to take a plea. The strategy now was to delay that for as long as possible. In the meantime, he’d work his own lawyer so that Weitzen would work the prosecutors.
Negotiating jail time was just like any business deal. When Reid finally believed he was getting their rock-bottom offer, he’d accept it and plead guilty. He had no other choice.
Three days later, the DNA results from Owen Fiske came in. Gabriel found out via a call from Erica Thompson.
“Fuck,” he said when she told him.
28
In Greek mythology, Chimera was a fire-breathing monster. She combined the head of a lion and midsection of a goat with a dragon’s tail and hind legs. Sometimes the dragon tail was depicted with a snake’s head on it. The legend was that Chimera destroyed the cities of Caria and Lycia before being slain by Bellerophon.
Owen was a chimera. Literally. Well, not literally. He did not breathe fire or have the head of a lion, the midsection of a goat, or the tail of a serpent. Nor had he ever destroyed a city. But in AML circles, his condition was actually called a chimera.
