Chase, the Bad Baby: A Legal and Medical Thriller (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 4)

by John Ellsworth

addresses file folder. And so on, ad nauseam.

  One week later the young lawyer and his paralegal came up for air and by now they had the goods on Mister Luis M. Sanchez.

  Turned out his name wasn’t Sanchez at all. His true name was Ragur Amman Hussein.

  Ragman, to his associates.

  His daughter’s kidnapper, to Thaddeus.

  It was time to pay him a call.

  “How do you want to run this?” Christine asked. She gave him a hard look, her “I’m up for anything” look.

  Thaddeus returned her look. “I’m open to ideas.”

  “Well, the FBI is watching you. They’re not watching me.”

  “And you know this how?”

  She shook her head. “Please, Thaddeus.”

  “Sorry. So what would you do?”

  “Let me locate them. Follow them. Try to figure out their game.”

  “I hate to think what they might really be up to,” he said.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me they’re getting set to blow something up. Or poison the city water supply. Or hijack a bus load of school children. Some asshole ploy.”

  “No kidding,” he said. “I’m beginning to think we should go after all of them.”

  She drank a slug of coffee. “Eliminate all of them?”

  “Why not?”

  She slowly answered. “Well, it is a joint venture of some kind. Something horrible where innocent people will suffer.”

  “That’s what I mean. They already hurt Sarai. That got my attention.”

  “I have to agree.”

  “So we take them all out?”

  “Whatever you think.”

  He nodded slowly and smiled. “I think.”

  “I’m on it, boss.”

  14

  The night after Morgana left Jones Marentz, there was a phone conversation between Sandy Green and A.W. Marentz. Sandy had just come off a twelve-hour marathon at SCU, forging records and creating X-rays from healthy actors. He was tired but it was important he talk to A.W.

  They discussed Morgana, now that she had jumped ship and told them where they could put it. She wasn’t going to cheat. The car and the huge salary hadn’t been enough to lure her in, so they were sweating bullets.

  Sandy was restless. He was getting a great deal of heat from the Hudd powers-that-be about Morgana walking out on the Jones Marentz law firm. He immediately launched into A.W. “So she walked. Truth be told, I’m not that surprised.”

  A.W. sighed and there was exhaustion in his voice. “I guess I shouldn’t be either.”

  Sandy rubbed his eyes. He’d been up all night dealing with the VP of security. “You know, A.W., the Hudds won’t allow this. Morgana’s too dangerous to us now. Look what happened to Garrett Donovan, for god’s sakes.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I shouldn’t have to spell it out. You already know what it means.”

  “Look, tell the Hudds I just need a few days. Let me work on the girl.”

  “I’ve got my orders. She’s got until Monday to come around.”

  “Give me a week. Just make it a week. She’ll get hungry and come crawling back.”

  “Then they’re after me.”

  “A few days then. Give me four days.”

  “Wednesday she’s back behind her desk or I step in. That’s it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I can’t say. Not over the phone.”

  “You’re not talking about hurting her?”

  “I’m talking about keeping her quiet. We don’t know what that means yet, do we? But so far you’ve struck out. Now it’s up to me and I will not—I promise you—I will not let this young woman destroy an industry leader.”

  “So you would hurt her.”

  “Not over the phone. I told you that.”

  A.W. shook his head and hung up. Now he had to get to work on Morgana or things were going to get very ugly very quickly.

  He was feeling too old for this crap.

  He would have given anything if he had just stopped it right then.

  But he didn’t.

  15

  Scared to death.

  Leukemia does that to cowards. Leukemia does it to the brave, as well.

  Morgana came clean with Caroline on the drive to the doctor. “He said leukemia, now I get to find out what that means.”

  Caroline had been hanging on to the Volvo’s passenger grip, showing white knuckles, since then.

  They parked out front, trudged through the morning snowfall, and elevated up to the third floor.

  Dr. Romulus was African-American, maybe ten years older than Morgana, wire eyeglasses, and a large turquoise bolo tie on his denim shirt. Spotless white lab coat, stethoscope coiled in his side pocket, showing blue jeans and sandals with socks below. He knocked once, came bouncing into the examination room, and shook hands. Caroline was introduced, and then they got down to it.

  “Morgana the news is not great, but there’s hope.”

  Morgana’s heart jumped. “The tests are back, I take it.”

  Caroline slumped. “God. Start with the hope, please.”

  He raised a hand. “Let me ask Morgana a few questions first, please. I’m going to suggest symptoms, and you tell me if I hit one that applies, okay?”

  Morgana was perched on the exam table, stripped down to suit pants and tee. Goose bumps rippled along her arms. “Okay.”

  “Swollen lymph nodes? Notice any?”

  “No.”

  “And I don’t palpate any.”

  “Next, fevers or night sweats?”

  The young lawyer smiled. “Night sweats the night before a trial starts? That count?”

  “Nope. We’re talking about more than one, unrelated to any known stressors.”

  “Then no.”

  “Fair enough. Feeling weak, tired?”

  “No more tired than usual. Well, maybe. Definite yes.”

  “Bleeding and bruising easily?”

  “Nope. Sometimes when I floss, there’s a little blood. But I floss every night for a few days and that goes away.”

  “Swelling or discomfort in the abdomen?”

  “No.”

  He sighed. “Pain in bones or joints?”

  “My knees. After I jog, my knees swell up. Especially the right one.”

  “That’s the knee that was scoped after the accident?”

  Morgana had been rear-ended and it drove her knee into the dashboard. “Yes, that was injured in the wreck. And scoped.”

  “Fair enough. Really none of the classical symptoms.”

  “Of what?” Morgana asked, thinking it might be an infection, mono, something like that.

  “Leukemia. You have leukemia, that’s my working diagnosis. Confirmed by an oncologist I spoke to. And the biopsy, of course.”

  Morgana shivered violently on the exam table. Her head was suddenly spinning and she saw spots. Her mind raced backwards, day by day, looking for symptoms, unusual complaints, anything that confirmed what he was saying. But her mind came back empty-handed. She had noticed nothing. Except for the tired. There was that.

  “Leukemia,” she said to her mate. “I’ve wondered all my life what would finally get me.”

  “We all wonder that. You’re not alone in that.”

  Morgana shook her head. “But for me, I figured I would cash it in by drunk driving or maybe blowing my brains out if Caroline left me. Never thought it would be something like leukemia.”

  “Let me tell you what we know.”

  “Please.”

  Caroline retrieved a note pad and a pen from her bag. She was always prepared for the big moments.

  Dr. Romulus crossed a leg in the steel-framed chair he occupied. The mandatory computer screen was behind him, and it looked like a long form that was partially filled in. Morgana’s history, exam findings, workup, she guessed. It was all right there, in electronic measure, tapping out the beats left in her life. Did she have a will? Did she even need one? They owned very little
. Just the condo, the 401(k), a few thousand left from the accident, and the paid-for Volvo. Nothing else. Maybe she would do a will online.

  “Okay, here’s what we have. You came in two weeks ago for your annual physical. You’d had blood work done, my orders. The lab did a CBC—complete blood count, to check the number of white blood cells, red blood cells, and platelets. Came back terribly skewed, off the charts elevated white blood cells. Plus very low levels of platelets. ‘Danger,’ it said. ‘Danger.’”

  He was studying Morgana as he spoke. Probably deciding if Morgana was hearing what was being said.

  She was.

  “So we immediately performed a biopsy. A sample of your bone marrow was aspirated from your hipbone. The path doc studied the sample under a very powerful microscope. Leukemia cells present. Report sent to me, diagnosis followed. That’s what we know so far.”

  “What else is there to know?”

  He smiled. “Glad you asked. It means you’re hearing me.”

  “Oh, believe me, Doc; I haven’t missed a word of this.”

  “Good. Let’s talk treatment. People with leukemia have many treatment options.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Yes. The options are watchful waiting, chemotherapy, targeted therapy, biological therapy, radiation therapy, and stem cell transplant. At least that’s most of what we have in our arsenal.”

  “So which do I do? Or do I do them all?”

  “That’s between you and Donald Rabinowitz. He’s the oncologist I refer my leukemia patients to. Best man in Chicago. Out of Northwestern Med. Like yours truly.”

  “That’s good to know. That’s who I’d want.”

  “Of course. Sometimes a combination of the treatments I’ve mentioned will be offered. But really, the choice of treatment depends on the type of leukemia.”

  “Type?”

  “Whether yours is chronic, myelocytic, or lymphocytic. And your age is a factor. What are you twenty-six? Twenty-eight?”

  “Twenty-eight, almost twenty-nine.”

  “That’s a good number. That plays in your favor.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “It also depends on whether leukemia cells are found in your cerebrospinal fluid.”

  “So I see Doctor Rabinowitz. Then what?”

  He spread his hands and peered at Morgana over his spectacles. “Well, people with acute leukemia need to be treated right away. The goal is to destroy signs of leukemia in the body and make symptoms go away. We call this remission—you’ve heard the term, I’m certain. After the symptoms go away, there’s maintenance therapy. Your case might be different, because you don’t have symptoms. So you may not need treatment right away.”

  “Without treatment, how long do I have?”

  “If it’s acute leukemia? Maybe six months. Maybe eight.”

  “Shit.”

  “But it’s not acute, right Doctor Romulus?” Caroline asked, almost pleading. “Plus,” she added and pointed at Morgana, “you’re getting treatment, of course.”

  They both stared at the young lawyer, who nodded and said, “No problem there.”

  Dr. Romulus continued. “But you will of course opt for treatment. We’ve called Doctor Rabinowitz for you. Monday, nine a.m. This is his card with address. Do not reschedule. You need to get in stat.”

  “I won’t reschedule. I’ll be there Monday.”

  “That’s about it, for my part so far.”

  “My God. Now I go for treatment?”

  “A bit more study and then treatment, possibly, yes. Doctor Rabinowitz will make his treatment plan with your input. You won’t be left hanging by this guy. He’s the best we have.”

  “And what do I tell Caroline?”

  It was asked as if she wasn’t there. She wanted Caroline to hear it directly from Dr. Romulus.

  “Tell her you have the best internal medicine doc, and the best oncology doc, money can buy. Tell her you’re in great hands. Tell her you’re scared to death. Trust me, Caroline will know what to do.”

  Morgana wondered why she herself couldn’t ever remember that.

  Caroline grabbed Morgana’s arm and steered her for the door. “Let’s go to Starbucks. We need caffeine and words.”

  16

  Caroline didn’t take the diagnosis as well as Dr. Romulus had predicted.

  Morgana couldn’t blame her. They had been girlfriend-girlfriend since they were sophomores in high school. They were like twins in love.

  A week later they kept the appointment with Dr. Rabinowitz. He was quick and direct. “Chemotherapy, beginning one week from today and not a day later. This is a difficult type of illness to control.”

  They rode home in silence. Caroline drove, Morgana stared out the window and tried not to think.

  At first Caroline tried to comfort Morgana. “Nobody really dies of leukemia anymore,” she told her.

  She prowled the Internet for the next six hours, reading everything she could find on her disease and treatment modalities.

  It was seven at night. They had ordered ribs and fries, delivery, thrown it down and washed barbecue sauce off hands and table. Bones were dumped in the trash, the rest of it down the garbage disposal.

  They were sitting in their kitchen at the large round maple table. Morgana hated the captain’s chairs with their bony backs, but Caroline loved them. Morgana had long ago made a case for chair pads, but so far Caroline was sticking to her guns. She wanted only wood. It looked better, cleaned better, and so on. So, they had wood and they hurt Morgana’s back, especially that night. Then it occurred to her that maybe she was overly sensitive to pain because of the cancer. Maybe it was in her back too.

  It was pitch-black outside, there was a TV playing in the family room, and supper had been brief.

  Morgana was trying to hold all her feelings inside, then the dam burst.

  “Who the hell told you nobody dies of leukemia anymore?” she cried. She was frustrated and just about ready to take it out on Caroline, which would have been the wrong thing to do. It wasn’t Caroline’s fault she had leukemia. During the course of just a few hours Morgana had invented her own explanation for why she had received the devastating diagnosis. The way she saw it, the disease was punishment she had coming for the trials she had been winning where the little guy got screwed over. In her panic, she felt her whole life slipping away, in the knowledge that there was such a thing as karma and that she had played the game one time too many. Now she had to pay and she was in a rage inside. She was angry and she thought it was up to Caroline to help her keep it together.

  Caroline stood and positioned herself behind her. She began slowly massaging her shoulders. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “If you have to be angry, I get it. Go ahead and vent.”

  She began humming softly. Her college degree was music performance, voice, and she was the lead singer for a group called Rosemary. Who was Rosemary? Nobody, just a name. Her voice was somewhere between Bonnie Raitt and Janet Joplin, and her range would make Mariah Carey jealous. All Morgana ever wanted to do was listen to Caroline’s guitar and voice weave their magic. It was a dazzling fabric, the combinatory art that issued. Rosemary had four CDs out and toured in a bus all year. They were sixty days on the road, then fourteen days at home. That day was day seven.

  But this leukemia thing was throwing both of them right out of the gate. Caroline was talking of canceling the rest of Rosemary’s tour and Morgana wasn’t trying to discourage her. Communicating was fast becoming difficult. Morgana could tell that Caroline didn’t really know how to talk about it and didn’t know all Morgana might be needing to hear from her. That first night neither gave a damn about any of the relationship stuff anyway. Instead they were focused on whether Morgana was actually going to survive to see her next birthday. That was going to be big, for them.

  “What did Doctor Rabinowitz say?” Morgana asked as if she hadn’t been there. In her fright she had missed things. She was trying to go back over, to rehash, to make sure.<
br />
  “He said there is a lot of help for you.”

  Morgana stared blankly. “I think we’re doing chemo and something else.”

  “He said chemo and maybe a biological transplant. Bone marrow.”

  Caroline was right. She had been there with Morgana, of course, and had heard what the doc had to say. Morgana was so scared she had missed some, but Caroline hadn’t. Caroline said Morgana was in her amygdala loop, that that was why she couldn’t remember some of it.

  “Now I remember.”

  “And there was something else I talked to him about. While you were in the bathroom giving your ones and twos samples.”

  “What was that?” Morgana asked. This was curious, she could tell by Caroline’s voice.

  “I want to have our baby. In case something happens to you.”

  Morgana tried clamping her hand over Caroline’s mouth but she jerked away.

  “What?”

  Tears flooded Caroline’s eyes. She pressed up against Morgana and nuzzled her face into her hair. “I want to get pregnant before you start treatments. Just in case.”

  “In case what?”

  “You know. In case of something horrible.”

  “Oh, Jesus. You want to get pregnant? Now? Can’t I even have my damn treatment first?”

  Caroline was crying into Morgana’s hair. “In case something happens to you, Morgana. I want our baby to stay with me. There. I said it and it’s cruel and selfish but I had to tell you. It’s been eating me alive.”

  “Oh, crap. I cannot believe this bullshit! I don’t even have a job and I’m probably dying!”

  Morgana stormed out of the kitchen and went upstairs to her office, where she slammed the door, slumped in front of her computer, and began Googling “leukemia and life expectancy.”

  She read for hours.

  Finally she turned in. Caroline was already asleep.