Closing the cover on the tissue culture incubator, he walked to his desk, vaguely wondering why Ellen had not appeared. He wanted to discuss the Canceran project with someone knowledgeable, and she was the only person he could trust.
He sat down, trying not to think about the recent humiliating meeting with Dr. Ibanez and the Weinburgers. Instead he recalled the frustrating visit to the EPA offices that didn’t make him feel much better. Yet he could laugh at his own naiveté in thinking that he could walk into a government agency and expect to accomplish something. He wondered if there would be any way that he could get some sort of photographic proof of Recycle’s dumping. It was doubtful, but he’d try.
Perhaps if he were responsible for getting the evidence, he should sue Recycle directly rather than waiting for the EPA to do so. Charles knew very little about law, but he remembered there was a source of information open to him. The Weinburger Institute law firm on retainer.
The left lower drawer was Charles’s spot for miscellaneous pamphlets. Close to the bottom he found what he was looking for: a skinny red booklet entitled Welcome Aboard: This Is Your Weinburger Cancer Institute. In the back was a list of important phone numbers. Under services was Hubbert, Hubbert, Garachnik and Pearson, 1 State Street, followed by several phone numbers. He dialed the first.
Identifying himself, Charles was immediately switched to Mr. Garachnik’s office. His secretary was particularly cordial and within minutes, Charles found himself talking with Mr. Garachnik himself. Apparently the Weinburger was a valued customer.
“I need some information,” said Charles, “about suing a company dumping poisonous waste into a public river.”
“It would be best,” said Mr. Garachnik, “if we have one of our environmental law persons look into the matter. However, if your questions are general, perhaps I can help. Is the Weinburger Institute becoming interested in environmental pursuits?”
“No,” said Charles. “Unfortunately not. I’m interested in this personally.”
“I see,” said Mr. Garachnik, his tone becoming cool. “Hubbert, Hubbert, Garachnik and Pearson does not handle personal Weinburger employee legal problems unless special arrangement is made with the individual.”
“That could be arranged,” said Charles. “But as long as I’ve got you on the phone, why don’t you just give me an idea about the process.”
There was a pause. Mr. Garachnik wanted Charles to realize that he felt Charles’s inquiry beneath his stature as a senior partner. “It could be done as an individual or class action suit. If it were an individual suit, you’d need specific damages and if…”
“I’ve got damages!” interrupted Charles. “My daughter has come down with leukemia!”
“Dr. Martel,” said Mr. Garachnik with irritation. “As a physician you should know that establishing causation between the dumping and the leukemia would be extremely difficult. However, with a class action suit for the purpose of securing an injunction against the factory, you don’t need specific damages. What you do need is the participation of thirty to forty people. If you want to pursue this further, I suggest you contact Thomas Wilson, one of our new, younger lawyers. He has a particular interest in environmental matters.”
“Does it matter that the company is in New Hampshire?” asked Charles quickly.
“No, other than that it must be sued in a New Hampshire court,” said Mr. Garachnik, obviously eager to terminate the conversation.
“What if it’s owned by a corporation in New Jersey?”
“That might and might not compound the difficulties,” said Mr. Garachnik, suddenly more interested. “What factory in New Hampshire are you talking about?”
“A place called Recycle, Ltd. in Shaftesbury,” said Charles.
“Which is owned by Breur Chemicals of New Jersey,” added Mr. Garachnik quickly.
“That’s right,” said Charles, surprised. “How did you know?”
“Because on occasion we indirectly represent Breur Chemicals. In case you’re not aware, Breur Chemicals owns the Weinburger Institute even though it’s run as a nonprofit organization.”
Charles was stunned.
Mr. Garachnik continued: “Breur Chemicals founded the Weinburger Institute when they expanded into the drug industry by purchasing Lesley Pharmaceuticals. I was against it back then, but Weinburger, Sr. was committed to the idea. I was afraid of an antitrust action, but it never materialized because of the nonprofit cover. In any case, Dr. Martel, you essentially work for Breur Chemicals and in that capacity, you’d better think twice about suing anyone.”
Charles hung the phone up very slowly. He could not believe what he’d just heard. He’d never cared about the financial side of the institute except to the extent that the Weinburger could supply him with research space and equipment. But now he learned that he was working for a conglomerate which was ultimately responsible for dumping cancer-causing waste into a public river as well as running a research institute supposedly interested in curing cancer. As for Canceran, the parent company controlled both the drug firm holding the patents and the research firm chosen to ascertain its efficiency.
No wonder Weinburger was so interested in Canceran!
The phone jangled Charles’s taut nerves as it rang under his outstretched hand. As the source of the recent dreadful revelation, Charles debated answering it. Undoubtedly it was the administration calling, bent on harassing him with more pressure and more deceit.
Abruptly Charles’s mind switched to Michelle. The call could be about his daughter. He snatched the receiver from the cradle and pressed it to his ear.
He was right. It was Cathryn and her voice had the same stiff quality it had the day before. His heart jumped into his throat.
“Is everything okay?”
“Michelle is not doing so well. There’s been a complication. You’d better come over.”
Charles grabbed his coat and ran out of his lab. At the front entrance, he knocked on the massive glass door, impatient for it to open.
“All right, all right!” said Miss Andrews, pressing the door release under her desk.
Charles squeezed out before the door was fully opened and disappeared from sight.
“What’s the matter with him?” asked Miss Andrews, pressing the close switch. “Is he crazy or something?”
Roy adjusted his worn holster and shrugged.
Charles concentrated on hurrying to keep from guessing what had happened to Michelle. But after crossing the Charles, he got bogged down in traffic on Massachusetts Avenue. As he inched forward, he couldn’t help worrying about what he was going to find when he got to Pediatric Hospital. Cathryn’s words kept echoing in his head: “Michelle is not doing so well. There’s been a complication.” Charles felt panic tighten his stomach into a painful knot.
When he reached the hospital, he rushed inside and forced his way onto a full elevator. Maddeningly the car stopped at every floor. Eventually it reached the sixth, and Charles pushed his way off and hurried down to Michelle’s room. The door was almost closed. He entered without knocking.
An elegant blond-haired woman straightened up from leaning over Michelle. She’d been listening to the girl’s heart before Charles’s entry. On the opposite side of the bed was a young resident dressed in hospital whites.
Charles gave the woman a cursory glance and looked down at his daughter with empathy submerging all other emotions. He wanted to grab her and shield her, but he was afraid she had become too fragile. His trained eyes inspected her rapidly and could detect a worsening in her condition since that morning. There was a greenish cast to her face, a change Charles had associated during his medical training with ensuing death. Her cheeks had become hollow with the skin taut over her facial bones. Despite an intravenous line attached to both arms, she looked dehydrated from the vomiting and high fever.