Earlier that morning Charles had been served with the citation concerning the ex parte guardianship hearing. He’d accepted the papers from a sheriff’s department courier without a word, and hadn’t looked at them until that moment. He had little patience with legal gibberish, and he only glanced at the forms, noticing that his presence was required at a hearing scheduled in three days. He returned the papers to their envelope and tossed it aside. He’d have to have legal counsel.
After checking his watch, Charles picked up the phone. His first call was to John Randolph, town manager of Shaftesbury, New Hampshire. Charles had met the man since he was also the owner-operator of the local hardware-appliance store.
“I’ve got a complaint,” said Charles after the usual greetings, “about the Shaftesbury police force.”
“I hope you’re not talking about last night over at the factory,” said John.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” said Charles.
“Well, we already know all about that incident,” said John. “Frank Neilson had the three selectmen meet him over breakfast at P.J.’s diner. Heard all about it. Sounded to me like you were lucky Frank came along.”
“I thought so at first,” said Charles. “But not after they took me back to Recycle so that some half-wit could punch me out.”
“I didn’t hear about that part,” admitted John. “But I did hear you were trespassing, and then pushed someone into some acid. Why in God’s name are you causing trouble at the factory? Aren’t you a doctor? Seems like strange behavior for a physician.”
Sudden anger clouded Charles’s mind. He launched into an impassioned explanation of Recycle’s dumping benzene and other toxic chemicals into the river. He told the town manager that for the sake of the community he was trying to get the factory closed down.
“I don’t think the community would look kindly at closing down the factory,” said John when Charles finally paused. “There was a lot of unemployment here before that factory opened. The prosperity of our town is directly related to Recycle.”
“I suppose your gauge of prosperity is the number of washing machines sold,” said Charles.
“That’s part of it,” agreed John.
“Jesus Christ!” shouted Charles. “Causing fatal diseases like leukemia and aplastic anemia in children is a high price to pay for prosperity, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said John evenly.
“I don’t think you want to know about it.”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“You’re damn right. I’m accusing you of irresponsibility. Even if there were just a chance that Recycle was dumping poisonous chemicals into the river, the factory should be closed until it is investigated. The risk isn’t worth a handful of grubby jobs.”
“That’s easy for you to say, being an M.D. and not having to worry about money. Those jobs are important for the town and the people who work there. As for your complaint about our police, why don’t you just stay out of our business? That’s what the selectmen suggested this morning. We don’t need you city folk with your fancy degrees from Harvard telling us how to live!”
Charles heard the familiar click as the line disconnected. So much for that approach, he thought.
Knowing anger would get him nowhere, Charles dialed the number for EPA. He asked for Mrs. Amendola of the Enforcement Division. To his surprise the line was picked up immediately and Mrs. Amendola’s slightly nasal voice came over the wire. Charles identified himself and then described what he found at Recycle, Ltd.
“The tank that holds the benzene has a pipe that connects directly with the roof drain,” said Charles.
“That’s not very subtle,” said Mrs. Amendola.
“I think it’s about as blatant as you can get,” said Charles. “And on top of that they have a pool of chemicals up there that regularly seeps into the river.”
“Did you get some photos?” asked Mrs. Amendola.
“I tried to, but couldn’t,” said Charles. “I think your people might have more luck than I.” Charles couldn’t see any reason to get into a discussion with the EPA about the destruction of his camera. If it would have helped to get the EPA interested, he would have. As it was he was afraid it might discourage them altogether.
“I’ll make some calls,” said Mrs. Amendola. “But I can’t promise you anything. I’d have more luck if I had the written complaint you promised to send me and a couple of photos, even if they were lousy.”
Charles told her he’d get to it as soon as he could but he’d appreciate it if she’d go ahead and try to get some action based on the information he’d already given her. As he hung up he was not very confident that anything would be done.
Returning to the laboratory bench, he watched Ellen’s preparation. He didn’t interfere because Ellen was far more dexterous than he. Instead he busied himself with the dilution of Michelle’s leukemic antigen to prepare it for injection into the mice. Since the vial was sterile, Charles used sterile technique to withdraw an exact volume of the solution. This aliquot was then added to a specific amount of sterile saline to make the concentration he desired. The vial with the remaining antigen went into the refrigerator.
With the dilution completed, Charles gave it to Ellen and told her to continue what she was doing because he was going out to find a lawyer. He told her he’d be back before lunch.
After the door closed Ellen stood there for a full five minutes watching the second hand rotate around the face of the clock. When Charles didn’t return, she called the receptionist who confirmed that Charles had left the institute. Only then did she dial Dr. Morrison. As soon as he got on the line she told him that Charles was still working on his own research; in fact, expanding it, and still behaving peculiarly.
“That’s it,” said Dr. Morrison. “That is the last straw. No one can fault us for trying, but Charles Martel is finished at the Weinburger.”
Charles’s quest for legal representation was not as easy as he’d anticipated. Unreasonably equating skill and understanding with impressive quarters, he headed into downtown Boston, parking his car in the government center garage. The first impressive high-rise office building was I State Street. It had a fountain, wide expanses of polished marble, and lots of tinted glass. The directory listed numerous law firms. Charles picked the one closest to the top: Begelman, Canneletto, and O’Malley, hoping that the metaphorical implication of their high position would reflect itself in their performance. However, the only correlation turned out to be their estimated fee.
Apparently the firm did not expect street traffic and Charles was forced to wait on an uncomfortable Chippendale love seat which would have been as good for making love as a marble park bench. The lawyer who finally saw Charles was as junior a partner as possible. To Charles he looked about fifteen years old.
Initially the conversation went well. The young lawyer seemed genuinely surprised that a judge had granted temporary guardianship ex parte to a legal relative in place of a blood relative. However, the man was less sympathetic when he learned that Charles wanted to stop the treatment recommended by the specialists. He still would have been willing to help if Charles had not launched into impassioned accusations against Recycle, Ltd. and the town of Shaftesbury. When the lawyer began to question Charles’s priorities, they ended up in an argument. Then the man accused Charles of barratry, which particularly inflamed Charles because he did not know what it meant.
Charles left unrepresented, and instead of trying other firms in the building, he consulted the yellow pages in a nearby drugstore. Avoiding fancy addresses, Charles looked for lawyers who were out on their own. He marked a half dozen names and began calling, asking whoever answered if they were busy or if they needed work. If there was a hesitation, Charles hung up and tried the next. On the fifth try, the lawyer answered the phone himself. Charles liked that. In response to Charles’s question, the lawyer said he was starving. Charles said he’d be right over. He copied down the name and address: Wayne Thomas, 13 Brattle Street, Cambridge.