The entire BC&C operation was located on a vast, dusty plateau, and was completely surrounded by several miles of nine-foot-tall chain-link fence, much of it topped with barbed wire. Matt had been to the mine just once since his father’s death, on a guided tour he and Ginny took shortly after he started work in the ER.
Today, he was an anticipated guest. The uniformed guard at the visitors’ gate greeted him by name before he could introduce himself and directed him to the sparkling two-story cedar and glass headquarters. Blaine LeBlanc’s assistant, Carmella Cassetta, was waiting for him in the carpeted reception area. A former coal-face miner herself, she was attractive in a hard-featured way, and had married one of the execs in the company. Over the years, Matt and she had met on a few occasions and had gotten along reasonably well.
“Matt, it’s so good to see you,” she said warmly, extending her hand.
He tried unsuccessfully to read something into her being the one chosen to greet him. He gestured at the spectacular six-foot-square photos of BC&C scenes—historic and modern—that adorned the lobby walls.
“Thanks. This is quite the building.”
“It makes a good first impression. We do a lot of business here—national and international. Well, we should hurry on over to the conference room. They’re waiting for you. I think you’ll be very excited with what they have to say.”
You mean they’re going to let me live?
“I’m looking forward to whatever it is.”
As they neared the door to the conference room, an elderly black woman approached from the other direction pushing a linen-covered cart with coffee and Danish.
“They’ll only be four, Agnes,” Carmella said. “I won’t be joining them.”
Matt thought he detected a pout in her voice at the prospect. Agnes drew back a few steps as Carmella knocked once, motioned Matt and Agnes in, and left. Three men were waiting at the far end of a glossy mahogany table that had seating for twenty or so—Blaine LeBlanc, Robert Crook, and Armand Stevenson, the CEO of the entire company. Stevenson was five-seven if that, with thinning sandy hair and very quick, engaging blue eyes that remained fixed on Matt from the moment he stepped into the room. BC&C was one of the largest privately owned companies in the state, and Stevenson was something of a legend for the aggressive tactics he used to keep every component of the empire profitable.
After peering curiously at the gym bag, LeBlanc greeted Matt with a single pulse of a handshake, then released him as if trying to avoid a communicable disease. His tense expression had Matt wondering if whatever was about to transpire was not of his choosing. Crook avoided a handshake altogether, substituting instead a curt nod, a grunt that might have been Matt’s name, and a momentary clash of his caterpillar brows. Armand Stevenson, on the other hand, was smiling, cordial, and very much in charge of the proceedings.
“Please sit down, Matthew, if I may call you that,” he said after his offer of something stronger than coffee was declined.
“Matt’ll do.”
“And Armand for me. We appreciate your being able to come out at such short notice, Matt. I understand your father worked here?”
“He was a shift foreman.”
“And he died in an accident?”
“An explosion, yes.”
“Is that where your hard feelings toward the mine and our company stem from?”
Stevenson was firing straight from the hip. No wasted motion. Matt reminded himself that people like Stevenson didn’t become gazillionaires by not knowing what they were doing.
“Perhaps that’s true,” he replied. “Some of the things I was told by my father’s friends and co-workers led me to believe that the explosion and cave-in that killed him might have been preventable. Remember, I was only fifteen at the time.”
“Plenty of what I went through at age fifteen still influences my life,” Stevenson said, sipping at his Perrier. “How long has it been since you returned home to practice?”
Matt wanted to demand he get to the point, but remembered his uncle’s caveat. Besides, Stevenson hardly seemed like the sort one could push around.
“About six years,” he said, realizing that his inquisitor undoubtedly knew the answers to all the questions he was asking.
If the point of these preliminary questions was to put him at ease, they failed miserably. Stevenson opened his briefcase and set a thick file on the table.
“Matt, these correspondences are all from you to MSHA, the Department of Labor, the EPA, Senator Alexander, Senator Brooks, or Representative Delahanty.”
He slid the file across, but Matt held his palm out to indicate that wasn’t necessary.
“I have copies myself,” he said, patting the gym bag.
“At one time or another without, to the best of my information, ever setting foot in the mine, you have accused us of substandard ventilation, antiquated and dangerous equipment, working hours in excess of the collective bargaining agreement with the UMW, toxic emissions from our processing plant, toxic waste dumping, illegal waste disposal, and just about every other violation imaginable short of not enough toilet paper in our rest rooms.”
“Actually, I think one of the miners I speak to from time to time did complain about that as well.”
Stevenson’s laugh seemed genuine.
“And now you’re posting notices and offering rewards,” he went on. “Well, as I know better than anyone, your charges and allegations are groundless. And as you know better than anyone, all this paper you’ve generated hasn’t amounted to more than a spit in the ocean.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Blaine?”
The head of mine safety and health’s attempt at a smile lacked any semblance of warmth. He cleared his throat and took a gulp of water. Whatever he was about to share wasn’t coming easily.
“Well, Matt,” he managed finally, “as Armand said, you haven’t been the least bit successful in goading MSHA or the EPA or any of the others you’ve contacted to run an inspection on BC and C other than the routine ones they always do. But that doesn’t mean you haven’t been a pebble in our shoe. We have wasted a fair amount of time responding to your allegations, and in fact we have invited the MSHA people here two or three times just to prove we’re on the up-and-up. But all that has taken up valuable time. So Doc Crook here made a suggestion.”
Matt glanced sideways at Crook and saw nothing other than disdain and maybe even a hint of despair. Whatever was about to be laid out was Armand Stevenson’s doing, not Crook’s or LeBlanc’s.
“That’s right,” Crook muttered.
“So,” LeBlanc went on, “we’re pleased to be able to offer you a position on our health advisory board. That way you can be right up close to the action here, and you can see for yourself how we do things. You’ll be required to attend meetings every four months, and of course, to submit your concerns for the whole committee to evaluate rather than the vigilante way you’ve been doing it so far. The stipend for being on the committee is a nice round fifty thousand a year.”
Fifty thousand! Matt wasn’t sure whether he had merely thought the words or shouted them out. Given the limitations imposed by managed care, and the socioeconomic status of his patients, he still wasn’t earning much over that annually.
“Of course,” Stevenson added proudly, “the money will be paid to you in such a way—absolutely legal, I assure you—that you will incur little or no tax burden.”
Matt was speechless. He knew a bribe when he heard one. But this was bribe with a capital “B.” Money had never been a big deal for him. If it had, he would have been much more adept at generating it. As things stood, he was managing okay. But fifty thousand a year extra would enable him to start some sort of retirement fund, as well as enable him to give more to those causes he supported.
“I . . . thanks, but no thanks,” he suddenly heard himself saying. “I appreciate your offer, really I do. But I find my hands are more useful when they’re not tied down.”
“You’re a fool, Rutledge,” Crook blurted out. “I tried to tell them that, but they wouldn’t listen. A troublemaker and a fool.”
Stevenson glowered at the cardiologist, then made one last attempt to save face.
“Perhaps you’d like to think over our offer for a few days,” he said, his smile now tight-lipped, his eyes darkened.
Matt shook his head.
“What I want is free rein to bring in a group of my choosing to inspect conditions in the plant and the mine, including a review of your records of how and where every drop of toxic waste is disposed of. What I want is for you to step back and stop paying off whoever you do at MSHA and EPA.”
“You’re out of your mind!” LeBlanc shot out.
“No, you’re out of your mind!” Matt could feel the blood rushing into his face. He usually had a fairly long fuse, but at the end of it was an explosive temper. “You’re out of your mind to think that any decent doctor”—he punctuated the words with a glare at Crook—“would turn his back on cases like Darryl Teague and Teddy Rideout.”
“Tell me, Dr. Rutledge,” Stevenson asked, now clearly peeved, “is it your wife’s death that makes you so vindictive? Do you blame us for her as well?”
Matt went off like a Roman candle.
“As a matter of fact, I do!” he shouted. “You’re damn right I do! Lung cancer. You should try living with someone who’s dying of it sometime! Yes, I blame you. I blame you for every single thing that’s bad and sick around here! You’re a sleazebag, LeBlanc! And you, Crook. Christ, how can you call yourself a doctor when you turn your back on death and pain? Screw you! Screw you all and your goddamn bribe!”
Armand Stevenson must have pressed a button beneath the table, because in seconds, two mammoth security men in BC&C-monogrammed sport coats and ties were in the room. Stevenson’s order was a nod of the head. One of the behemoths took hold of Matt’s arm.
“Let go of me, jerk!” Matt screamed. He wrenched away and grabbed his gym bag. “Touch me again and you’d better have a spare set of nuts!”
In spite of himself, the guard checked out Matt’s heavy motorcycle boots. Armand Stevenson saved him from having to find a way around them.
“Follow him outside and make sure he’s off the property,” he said. “You’ve made your choice, Doctor. Now you’ll have to deal with the consequences. You’re threatening to take jobs away from folks. That sort of thing isn’t looked on very kindly around here. Not kindly at all. Now, get out!”
CHAPTER 6
ELLEN KROFT KNELT BESIDE HER GRANDDAUGHTER and held the girl tightly by her shoulders, trying to force even a moment of eye contact—of connection of any kind.
“Grandma loves you, Lucy,” she said, carefully enunciating every word as she would to a three-year-old. “Have a wonderful day at school.”
The girl, now nearly eight, contorted her face into something of a grimace, then twisted her neck so that she was looking upward past Ellen, at the sky. Not a word. Nearly five years of expensive schooling at the best special-needs facility around, and there still were almost never any words.
“Lucy Goosey, are you ready for school?”
The teacher of Lucy’s small class at the Remlinger Institute in Alexandria, Virginia, was named Gayle. She was in her twenties and new to the school, but she had the youthful exuberance, upbeat demeanor, and saintly patience required for a life of trying to reach and teach severely autistic children. Gayle held out her hand. Lucy’s head kept swinging rhythmically from side to side like the switching of a horse’s tail. She neither avoided the proffered hand nor reached for it. Only if it were something spinning, flashing, or brightly colored would she have reacted.
Eight years old.
It had been five years since the diagnosis of profound autism was made on the girl and nearly four since Ellen began bringing her to school so that her daughter, Beth, could get to work.
“Come on, Lucy,” Gayle sang, leading her off. “Say good-bye to Grandma.”
Say good-bye to Grandma. Ellen laughed to herself sardonically. There had been a time when Lucy Kroft-Garland could do just that. Well, not anymore. She turned and was opening the door of her six-year-old Taurus when Gayle cried out. Lucy, her back arched inward to an extent that seemed anatomically impossible, was on the lawn in the throes of a violent grand mal seizure.
Quickly, but with businesslike calm, Ellen reached in the glove compartment of her car, withdrew four wooden tongue depressors bound together at the end with adhesive tape, and then hurried over. Lucy’s teeth were snapping together like a jackhammer, threatening damage to her lips and tongue. Saliva was frothing out of the corner of her mouth.
“What should I do?” Gayle asked. “I’ve seen some of the children have seizures, but never Lucy.”
“Well, I have,” Ellen said, rolling her grandchild onto her side so that, should she vomit, she wouldn’t aspirate her stomach contents. Next she squeezed her thumb and third finger forcefully into the angle of the child’s jaw. Bit by bit, the pressure overcame the spasm in Lucy’s muscles. A small gap opened up between her teeth, and Ellen expertly inserted the makeshift tongue blade device. With one hand holding the blades in place, and the other maintaining Lucy on her side, she nodded to Gayle that matters were under control.
“Should I have Mr. Donnegan call nine-one-one?” Gayle asked.
“No, dear. Lucy will be fine. We just need a little time here.”
“I’ll go get Mr. Donnegan anyway.”
“Do that.”
The violent seizure had largely abated when the headmaster arrived. Ellen was sitting on the grass, Lucy’s head cradled in her lap. The girl was unconscious now—“post ictal,” the doctors called the condition. Ellen checked that Lucy hadn’t soiled or wet herself, then looked up at the headmaster and shrugged.
“Should we send for an ambulance?” he asked.
“She’ll be fine in twenty minutes. This hasn’t happened for a while. Her medication may have to be tweaked. If it’s okay with you, I’d just as soon she stay in school if possible. Just leave us right here for a bit. If she’s not up and about in twenty minutes I’ll take her home. But she’s better off here with the other children. Much better.”
Donnegan looked for a moment as if he was going to object, but instead reached down and patted Ellen on the shoulder.
“Whatever you say, Mrs. Kroft,” he said. “You know this kid best.”
Ellen sat on the newly mowed lawn, staring off at nothing in particular, rocking Lucy gently in her arms, and making no attempt to stem the steady flow of tears from her own eyes. Minutes later, the girl began to come around.
ELLEN SLID BEHIND the wheel of the Taurus and headed north. In moments, in spite of herself, she was reliving the horrible sequence of phone calls that had signaled the start of it all.
“Mom, something’s wrong with Lucy. I took her to the pediatrician this morning. He said she was in terrific shape. Fiftieth percentile in height and weight, way ahead of most three-year-olds in speech and hand-eye coordination. Then he gave her two shots—a DPT and an MMR. That was about eight hours ago. Now she’s screaming. Mom, her temperature is one-oh-three-and-a-half and she won’t stop screaming no matter what. What should I do? . . .”
“. . . I called the doctor. He says not to worry. Lots of kids get irritable after their vaccinations. Just give her Tylenol. . . .”
“. . . Mom, I’m frightened, really frightened. She’s not screaming anymore, but she’s completely out of it. Her eyes keep rolling back into her head and she doesn’t respond to anything I say. Nothing. She’s, like, limp. Dick is getting the car right now. We’re going to bring her to the emergency room. . . .”
“. . . They’re going to keep Lucy in the hospital. They don’t know what’s wrong with her. Maybe a seizure of some sort, the doctor says. Mommy, it’s bad. I’m so scared. It’s bad. I know it is. Oh, Jesus, what am I going to do? My baby . . .”
What am I going to do?
Beth’s panicked w
ords echoed in Ellen’s thoughts as they did almost every school day after drop-off. With effort, she forced them to the background. There were other things to focus on this day, most notably a strategy meeting across the Potomac at the headquarters of PAVE—Parents Advocating Vaccine Education.
Driving by rote, Ellen headed up the George Washington Parkway toward the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge and D.C. Now a trim, silver-haired sixty-three, she still recalled all too vividly the day just before her fifty-fifth birthday when she went, according to her husband at least, from being “good-looking” to being “a damn fine-looking woman for your age.” A year and a half later, Howard had left their twenty-nine-year marriage and run off to be with a thirty-something cocktail waitress he had met during an engineering convention in Vegas.
At the time, it was as if her life, on cruising speed, had hit a brick wall. She accepted an early retirement package from the middle school where she was teaching science, and then effectively pulled down the shades of her existence, shutting herself in and her friends out. Ironically, it was the tragedy surrounding Lucy that pulled her back into the world.
She had always been a positive, upbeat person, but Howard’s hurtful and unexpected departure coupled with the end of Lucy’s life as a vibrant, healthy child had been a one-two punch that threatened to send her spiraling to the bottom of a Valium bottle. With the help of unrelenting friends and a godsend of a therapist, she gradually opened the blinds again and began putting one foot in front of the other. Now, working out at the gym several times a week, intimately involved in her granddaughter’s life, doing volunteer work at PAVE, and functioning as the lone consumer representative on the blue ribbon federal panel evaluating the experimental supervaccine Omnivax, she was running on all cylinders.
Fatal Page 6
