It is 12:50 p.m. as I stand in front of the market and stare at the three public phones that sit on a metal rack against the red brick wall. No one is using any of the phones, and none of the phones are ringing.
My heart is racing a mile a minute. I am still waiting at 12:53 and there has been no call. I look all around me but I see no signs of anyone watching. I don't see him, and I don't see any police. Carrying the gym bag, I pace nervously in front of the phones, partly to be ready and partly to keep other potential users at bay. Please, phone, ring, I think to myself, not wanting to consider the implications of me arriving too late to receive the call.
A young woman in a tight black skirt approaches, and I place myself between her and the phone bank. She looks momentarily puzzled and then says, “I need to use the phone.”
Before I can speak, the phone in the middle of the three rings. I pick it up. “Yes?”
“Winslow?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, listen carefully. Walk through the market and out the back door. You will be in an alley. Walk directly across the alley from the rear of the store, and you will see a wooden fence. Throw the container with the items in it over that fence. Got it.”
“I have it. What about the location? Where are the children?”
“After you have thrown the container, turn to your right and walk down the alley. You will see a series of closed garage doors. You will find an envelope containing the address on the lower right of the seventh garage door on your left. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“You will find the children waiting at the address in the envelope provided both items are in the container. If not, they will be moved before anyone can get there, understand?”
“Yes, I have it.” The line went dead, and I move into the grocery store and toward the rear door as fast as I can. I can see the rear door, and it has a closed screen.
Someone yells, “Can I help you?”
“No,” I say and keep rushing toward the rear door.
* * *
Katy sat against the metal wall and held her brother tightly. “Please be okay, Joey. We have to get out of here, and I don't know how to do it.” He was not responding. “Are you sleeping?” She pushed tears away and said, “Help me Joey. I don't know what to do.”
Katy heard the distant sound of cars going past, but no one heard her continual cries for help. She kissed Joey on the forehead and again said, “Please be okay, Joey.”
* * *
Jerry saw the bag come over the fence. He heard the footsteps on the other side running toward the envelope pasted on the garage a hundred yards away. He picked up the package and moved from the backyard of the condemned house to the front yard. He walked quickly across the street and into a mobile home park. He walked through eight streets of mobile homes and then threw the bag over a brick wall and followed. As he leaped over the wall, Jerry heard footsteps closing behind him. He grabbed the bag, climbed into the waiting Lexus and drove away quickly, telling himself that his next task was to get rid of the car.
* * *
I see the envelope taped to a closed garage and run toward it. I pull it loose and open the envelope, glancing at the only thing on the enclosed note—an address and the word “warehouse.” I pull out my cell phone and hit the direct dial number.
“Sandoval here.”
“I have the address,” I say breathlessly, and read it off to her. “It's a warehouse.”
“We're on it. I'll call you back as soon as the closest police officer gets there.”
“Thank you, agent Sandoval,” I say again, as those are the only words I can find. I say a prayer that Joey and Katy are where the note says they are. My worst fear is that the warehouse will be empty when the police arrive. What do we do then? I can think of no answer, so I just keep praying.
* * *
I get back to my double-parked car, which has not yet been towed away. Motorists are still grumbling with their horns as I climb in and start the drive back. Five minutes later my phone rings, and I recognize agent Sandoval's number.
“Scott Winslow,” I say with anticipation.
“Scott, we have the children.” I take a breath in relief, and then I hear the rest of the news. “Katy is fine, although a little shaken. Joey is unconscious and being taken to Cedars Sinai Hospital by ambulance. We are bringing Katy to the hospital and will meet you there.”
“What's wrong?”
“Katy says that Joey climbed up a ladder in the warehouse to look for a way out and fell from the top rung. Lisa is going to meet you at the hospital.”
* * *
I run into the emergency department and am directed to the neurology department. In the corridor I see Lisa with her arms around Katy; I throw mine around both of them. “Katy, are you okay? Did you get hurt in any way?”
“I am okay, but Joey got hurt.”
“We know sweetheart, and the doctors are going to take good care of him.”
She nods. “I was nervous.” She tears up. “I was asking him to talk to me, but he couldn't.”
“The scary part is all over now,” I say, even as my thoughts return to new fears about Joey's condition.
We keep asking, and Katy repeatedly assures us that she is okay and that she didn't get hurt at all, and that the man didn't do anything bad to her. A hospital nurse informs us that they looked her over and found no signs of physical injury or assault. Katy appears to be physically okay, though the emotional impact of being a kidnap victim and her brother's injuries remain to be determined.
Katy sits quietly between Lisa and me in a row of chairs in the neurology waiting room at Cedars Sinai. It is now 4:30 p.m., and we have been waiting for some information since about 2:00 p.m., when we were told that tests were going to be undertaken to determine the nature and extent of Joey's injuries. We sit on pins and needles, hugging Katy and waiting anxiously for an update. There are ten other people in the room, all of whom share the same pained look of worry about someone close to them. It is a community of shared anxiety and fear among strangers.
Just after 5:00 p.m., the neurologist heading the team working with Joey emerges and calls out, “Winslow family?”
“Yes,” I say. “Right here.”
He wore the blue physician's uniform, inclusive of the shoe covers on his feet. He walked slowly toward us and extended a hand. “I am Dr. Mitchell, a neurologist and neurosurgeon.”
“Scott Winslow, my wife Lisa, and our daughter Katy.” I say. Then we just waited.
“Joey remains unconscious. He has swelling of the brain tissues that we are studying closely. We will do a couple more tests, and then I should be able to give you more information and a recommended course of action.”
“Is he going to be okay?” Lisa asks.
The doctor goes momentarily quiet and then says, “In many cases, we can reduce swelling and the patient improves dramatically. I don't know if this is one of those cases, but I can tell you that Joey has experienced significant trauma.” He took a moment and then added, “If you can give us a couple more hours, we will give you more specific information. My team will be here until we have completed the tests and are ready to make recommendations to you, however long that takes.”
“Thank you, doctor,” we both mumble and then sit down without the feeling of relief we had wanted so desperately.
It is 8:30 p.m. when we see the doctor again. His face says the news is not good. We stand, but he waves us seated and then brings a chair over to join us. By now Katy, who wants to stay at our side rather than going home to rest with Bernie and Kathy, is exhausted and asleep.
“Tell us,” I say. “Tell us everything.”
He nods. “As I mentioned, there is swelling in and around the brain from the traumatic impact of the fall. That swelling is substantial, and it is life-threatening at this point.” Lisa lets out a cry and covers her mouth. The doctor just nods understanding. “So what we feel strongly is the right course at this point is a medically induced
coma.”
I feel like I have been hit in the gut, and the doctor's face says he sees it. “What does that mean?” I ask. “And what is the effect?”
Seeing our expressions, Dr. Mitchell says, “It is scary; I understand. What a medically induced coma really is …” He pauses to find the right words and then says, “Think anesthesia. We use it to put everyone under for all kinds of surgery. Well, this is the same thing except it is a greater dosage. It is monitored and kept up for a longer period of time. When there is brain swelling, there are certain areas of the brain that don't get adequate blood flow. So the medically induced coma allows the affected areas to require less energy so that they get some protection while the swelling decreases.” He glances at each of us and then adds, “The critical difference between a coma and a medically induced coma is that we can slowly bring the patient out of it when medical conditions warrant it.”
“How long?” I ask. “How long will this continue?”
“We don't know,” he replies. “We can only monitor the results and act based upon what happens.”
“So it can go on forever?”
“No. It is often for a matter of days, but it can be a number of weeks. I've never known of an instance that went beyond five or six months. If it is going to provide relief at all, it will be within that time.”
“And what if there is no change?” Lisa asks.
The look on his face says it all.
“Oh, my God,” Lisa says.
“But we are at the beginning of this, and it does help in many cases.”
“What are the risks of the procedure?” I ask.
“Well, we are slowing down the systems. Blood flow slows and blood pressure goes down. So when you slow systems down, the unexpected can happen, but we are monitoring all the time, so if something happens, we can respond with other appropriate treatment. I should add that right now Joey is breathing on his own, but it can become necessary to use a ventilator if he struggles at some point after the coma is induced.”
Lisa and I are quiet for a time, absorbing the shock of the injuries and the proposed treatment. “Can we visit him and talk to him?” Lisa asks.
“Anytime and all the time. I believe in the positive effects of loved ones nearby the patient. Talk to him as you normally would. Tell him about your day and what's going on in the neighborhood—new toys and new television shows. At some level, I believe that people who are comatose hear and respond to their families.” He rubs his chin and adds, “For the next two or three days, Joey will be in the critical care unit. Once we administer the drugs and assure that he is stable, he can be transferred to a patient room. Then we watch and see how the swelling is doing day by day.”
I give a nod and shake his hand as all of this continues to settle on me. We say good-bye to Dr. Mitchell, who gives us a card with a number where he and the other two neurologists on his team can be reached. As he walks away, I put my arms around Lisa, and we cry together, as softly as we can so that we don't wake our other sleeping angel.
Chapter 26
The next day the police gave the artist's drawing of the suspect to the press for distribution, so that the public would help identify the suspect. The national media picked up the story, and it was in print, on cable, and a topic of conversation on social media. Articles about the kidnapped children of an employment attorney by a man who wanted a whistle-blower lawsuit dismissed dominated the news cycle. There are passionate pleas to the public to provide tips to the FBI about who the skinny, gaunt man with the sunken eyes might be. Television and newspapers reported the kidnapper's demands for dismissal of the lawsuit and for money. They showed pictures of Joey and Katy, and reported that they are at the hospital, and news of their condition will be shared when known. The media even posited possible directions of travel by the kidnapper, which were largely speculation.
We are in the hospital with Joey the day after his admission at about 6:00 p.m. when agent Sandoval walks into the room. She asks if she can speak to Lisa and me outside in the hall for a moment. We step outside, and she opens the artist rendition of the kidnapper. “We have an ID on the guy,” she says.
“Who is it?” I ask.
“Jerry Anders.” We stare at her blankly, as the name means nothing to us. “He is Michael Constantine's wife's brother. Constantine called the office and identified him a short time ago. Constantine says the guy is troubled. Apparently, just recently out of prison and trying to make up for his past theft from the Constantines by helping dispose of the lawsuit against Consolidated.”
I stare at the deep-set eyes in the picture. The guy didn't look evil. He looked a little nerdy and a little lost. “Any leads on the whereabouts of this guy?” I ask.
“Yeah, too many to chase down yet, but nothing that we know is really credible. But we'll get him.”
I just nod, feeling weary.
“Thanks for coming to tell us, agent Sandoval,” Lisa says.
Sandoval nods and then says, “On a personal level, I'm praying for your son's recovery.”
“Thank you,” Lisa says, and we shake hands and step back into Joey's room as she walks away.
* * *
Jerry left his car and all his other possessions behind. He couldn't chance stopping at the guest house. He hid the Lexus in one of the long-term lots that were provided for airport parking. Then he left town on foot, hitchhiking toward San Bernardino. He called someone he met in prison and, for a thousand dollars, ordered new ID. Within seventy-two hours, he would be Frank Adams, from Boise, Idaho.
After taking three rides and seven hours to get to San Bernardino, he found a used car dealer and paid cash for an old Toyota with too many miles on it. Then he stopped at a discount store and bought a couple of pairs of jeans, five shirts, and packages of socks and underwear. He also bought a small suitcase to keep it in. Then he connected with Route 15 and drove toward Las Vegas. He was keeping it together until his name and his picture hit the news services. Then he knew he couldn't check into a hotel without fearing that he would be recognized.
Jerry had to change his appearance, and do it quickly. He stopped at a pharmacy as he hit the outskirts of Las Vegas and bought black hair dye and scissors. He also bought makeup and three different-sized application brushes. Jerry next drove to the Flamingo Hotel and walked into the casino area. He located the closest bathroom and went inside. There were a couple of people in the stalls, but no one was near the mirrors. He cut his hair short and then quickly followed the instructions in applying the black hair dye. He carefully used the makeup to create a mole high on his left cheekbone. People came and went, but no one paid much attention. He then applied small amounts of makeup to his eyes and eyebrows to eliminate the sunken-eye look that the media was describing. When he was done, he thought he looked a little weird, but he didn't look like Jerry Anders. All he needed was his new ID. For now, he would find a small strip motel that would take cash and ask no questions.
* * *
At the end of the first week, Dr. Mitchell approaches us in Joey's room, peeling his surgical mask to allow him to communicate freely. He sits down beside us and asks, “Are you guys hanging in there?”
“No.” I say. “We are struggling.”
He nods. “So far, there is no change in Joey's condition.” He stops and seeks his words cautiously. “The brain swelling has not yet changed. But I don't want you to be disheartened. Joey's bodily systems are working well, and no changes are warranted. He is holding his own with all of this. And remember what I told you before, significant progress can take weeks, and in some cases even months.”
We nod and thank him, looking and feeling disheartened by this news. Our son must remain in a coma for an indefinite period. No progress. None of this registers as good news.
* * *
There are now constant calls from the press requesting comments and interviews. Our days are long visits to the hospital, sitting next to Joey, and talking to him about anything and everything. He sleeps through it a
ll, and I stop sleeping almost entirely. I stay awake all night, listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock and obsessing over what had happened and how I might have prevented it. I spend the quiet hours worrying about whether Joey will recover and the psychological damage done to both kids.
The articles and news stories keep coming—pictures of Joey accompanied by reporting that he was now in a medically induced coma. There are profiles of Lisa and me and our careers. There are stories about Joey and Katy and how their teachers and classmates love them and are praying for Joey. There are vigils at school and a local park, with pictures of Joey all around. And there are stories about Jerry Anders, his criminal history, his failed rehabilitations, and his twisted obsession with finding a way to help Michael Constantine end Kevin's whistle-blower suit.
The media discusses the Walters case. They shine a light on mining accidents and industry practices. They address Kevin's claims of corporate failure to remedy dangerous conditions and the abrupt termination of his long-term career with Consolidated Energy. The media even addresses whether the conditions that Kevin complained about were actually in the Wheeling or Ruston mines. Some suggest that Kevin was confused in what he was urging, as the conditions and the accident did not coexist in the same mine. Some suggest that there are things that they just didn't know being hidden behind a corporate veil.
[2017] The Whistleblower Onslaught Page 22
