Fatal (7 page)

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 words 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.

Ellen lucked into a parking space not half a block from PAVE headquarters. For a few years after its inception in the mid-eighties, PAVE had been a true grassroots organization, run from the kitchen tables of its two founders—Cheri Sanderson and Sally Lynch, both of whom were convinced that their children had been irreparably damaged by vaccinations. One family at a time, the two mothers discovered they were not alone. And now, through vision, patience, and hard work, PAVE had become a major force, with interest and even some support up to the highest levels of Congress, in addition to tens of thousands of supporting members. The words “Research,” “Education,” and “Choice,” emblazoned on their logo, expressed the agency’s goals.

“We are not a bunch of Carrie Nations charging into immunization centers with axes,” Cheri had explained during Ellen’s first volunteer-orientation session. “But we are tough when we have to be. We will not stop until the powers that be recognize the need for research on the immediate and long-term effects of vaccines, as well as the critical need for public education and ultimately parental choice when it comes to vaccinating our children.”

PAVE had its vehement detractors in the scientific, pediatric, infectious disease, and political arenas, but with each passing year, morbidity statistics; clinical disasters; well-attended, PAVE-sponsored scientific conferences; and parents who experienced what they felt certain was a cause-effect relationship between vaccinations and their children’s disabilities added to the organization’s influence, membership, and war chest.

In the early nineties, the now tax-exempt corporation moved its extensive library, dozens of drawers of case files, seven-person staff, and cadre of committed volunteers to the second floor of a brownstone on 18th Street between DuPont Circle and Adams-Morgan. Following the disaster with Lucy, Ellen had begun to send in modest donations. Later, she took the intensive workshop for volunteers conducted by Cheri and became qualified to man the phones. Then, a year or so after that, word was passed on to PAVE of the establishment of a consumer seat alongside the scientists and physicians on the federal commission evaluating Omnivax.

Ellen was told by Cheri and Sally that, as a retired middle school science teacher without a track record of militancy and confrontation on the vaccine issue, she would be the perfect person for the job. Ultimately, the powers at the FDA agreed. Ellen suspected that those who offered her the appointment were certain either that she would remain relatively silent, or that the scientists and physicians on the panel could easily preempt her views if they had to. Not that it mattered. She was only one vote out of twenty-three, and support for the megavaccine and its thirty components was overwhelming from the start. Even if she opposed the project, which in fact she did, it was clear from the first meeting of the committee that the final tally would stand at twenty-two to one.

The door to the PAVE offices opened into a crowded work area with half a dozen desks, all manned at the moment. As Ellen stepped into the room, the staff on hand rose as one and applauded. She did her best to wave them all back to their seats, then smiled good-naturedly and bowed. Over the past two-plus years, they had all received frequent briefings of the Omnivax sessions, and at times verbatim transcripts. They had all heard stories of how, armed with epidemiological and research data she had painstakingly accumulated, as well as affidavits from experts supporting the PAVE positions, she had stood up to some of the leading proponents of expanding the scope of immunizations. And as often as not, she seemed to have held her own.

“Please, please,” she said, “that’s almost enough applause. You there, a little louder, please. Much better. Now, those of you who desire to, and have washed themselves according to my protocol, may come forward, kneel, and kiss my ring.”

“Hey, where you been?” Sally Lynch called out from the doorway.

“A little trouble with Lucy at school,” Ellen replied. “Nothing serious.”

“Well, Cheri’s late, too, for a change. She’ll be here in a few minutes unless she isn’t. She says she has big news for us.”

In her mid-forties, Sally, tall, dark-haired, and businesslike, was more introspective and far less flamboyant than her co-director. It was a perfect match—one working behind the scenes, the other in front of the cameras, yet both possessing a high degree of intelligence, compassion, and drive. If Sally had a shortcoming, it was her extreme intensity, which sometimes clouded her judgment and at other times overwhelmed her patience. But that ferocious commitment was understandable. Within hours of receiving his routine vaccination shot, her six-month-old son, Ian, developed a temperature of over 106, had a seizure, and died. Just like that.

Sally’s office was as well organized and neat as Cheri Sanderson’s was cluttered. On one wall was a professionally made, three-foot-square, multicolored graph showing that the number of autistic children seeking state services in California more than doubled in the eighties and nearly quadrupled in the nineties. The other walls were covered with dozens of framed photographs, most of them of autistic children, whose condition, their parents were certain, was caused by vaccinations. One of the photos, an eight-by-ten directly behind Sally’s desk, was of Lucy. Tucked into the corner of the frame was a heartbreaking snapshot of the girl on a swing, taken a few weeks before her catastrophic transformation.

“Coffee?” Sally offered.

“No thanks. I’m already buzzed.”

“So, in a few more days it’s over,” Sally said, referring to the impending commission vote on Omnivax—the subject of this morning’s meeting of the three of them.