FRAMED, page 2
“I’m Special Agent Renfrew with the FBI.” He motioned to the man standing next to him, young, with short copper-colored hair. “This is Special Agent Brennan. Dr. Victoria Nelson, you are under arrest for armed bank robbery.”
Tori froze, her heart hammering. “What?” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “There must be some mistake!”
The red-haired agent wasted no time. His grim expression didn’t waver as he grabbed her arm and spun her around with practiced precision. The cold steel of handcuffs bit into her wrists as he recited the Miranda rights in a monotone: “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court.”
She didn’t hear the rest of the recital because her mind was reeling as if she were watching someone else’s nightmare unfold. She felt she was looking in from the outside, a distance away. The room blurred at the edges, and her knees threatened to buckle as they pulled her by the elbow toward the front door.
“Wait!” she cried. “Where are you taking me?”
The taller agent’s response was steely and cold.
“To the FBI field office for processing. And if the Federal Detention Center is full, we’ll take you to the Harris County Jail.”
Chapter 3
The morning after FBI agents led Dr. Nelson out of her clinic, Jo Turner, an associate attorney at the environmental law firm of Fredrick and Engle, left Houston Intercontinental Airport. She drove southeast toward the Houston Ship Channel, reflecting on the conversation with her senior law partner the previous week.
As she’d gazed out the conference room window of their downtown Washington, DC office, she crossed her long legs and dangled one high-heeled shoe from her toes, daydreaming about the upcoming weekend.
She’d snapped back to attention when David, the senior partner, spoke of a call he’d received from Mary Williams, a resident of Oilton, Texas. Speaking for herself and a group of her neighbors, she had told him of a cancer cluster along the Houston Ship Channel where dozens of petrochemical companies belched toxins into the surrounding neighborhoods. David tilted his head toward her.
“Jo, don’t we have a potential expert witness in that area? Dr. Nelson, wasn’t it—studying cancer incidence nearby?”
She uncrossed her legs and swiveled to face him. “She is. We talked only a couple of weeks ago. She’s worried. The local cancer rates in her initial analysis look alarming.”
David nodded. “There may be some business for us. Why don’t you go down there and talk to Dr. Nelson? Meet with the residents who called me, and anyone else who is interested.”
Jo felt a surge of excitement. This was why she did this work. To have a chance to put things right. “I’d be glad to. I’m up to date on my current cases. I can spare a few days.”
“Great,” David had said. “I’ll have my paralegal call the residents and tell them you’re coming. Sounds like we might have a toxic tort case brewing.”
*
Jo steered her Ford Escort rental into Oilton, the refinery looming ever closer with each block. Just beyond the neighborhood’s modest homes, flare stacks pierced the gray sky, their labyrinth of pipes twisting like veins. A faint gray haze hung in the air, and a low, unrelenting hum came from the catalytic cracking units. The compressors’ vibrations could be felt even in her car. She pulled up in front of Mary Williams’s house, a small, weathered home with peeling white paint. Despite its wear, the front yard was tidy, and the grass freshly cut. Bright red geraniums in clay pots lined the wide porch where an older woman rocked gently in a chair.
Jo pushed open the car door, and a sharp stench of rotten eggs hit her like a slap. Sulfuric and acrid, it stung her eyes and nose. She blinked against the irritation and, grabbing her briefcase from the back seat, she made her way toward the house.
The woman on the porch rose from her chair, gripping the railing for balance. She wore a faded floral-print dress and flip-flops that slapped against her heels as she shuffled to meet Jo. Her movements were deliberate, her frame bent. Up close, Jo noticed worry lines creased deeply between her brows. But they softened as Mary’s faded blue eyes met hers with a warm, gap-toothed smile. She extended a frail, arthritic hand. Jo clasped it gently between both of her hands and smiled back.
“Hello, I’m Jo Turner,” she said. “I’m an attorney with Fredrick and Engle. We spoke on the phone. It’s great to meet you in person.”
“Glad ya made it,” Mary replied. Jo was struck by the rasp in her voice. “C’mon in and get comfy. We saved ya a chair, and I whipped up some cold, fresh-squeezed lemonade.”
Jo followed her into the house. In a tidy living room, half a dozen men and women sat on well-worn furniture. Their faces turned toward her, curious eyes sizing her up. Mary gestured to an empty metal chair with a cracked vinyl seat and shuffled off to the kitchen.
Jo sat down carefully under their watchful gazes and smiled in greeting as she set her briefcase beside her. A few returned her smile. Mary returned with lemonade, the condensation already frosting on the glass. She handed it to Jo before easing herself onto the couch between two other women. Jo noticed one of them had a persistent facial tic that tugged at her mouth every few seconds.
“Well, now,” Mary said, with an encouraging clap of her hands, “why don’t y’all introduce yourselves to my lawyer here, Miss Jo Turner?”
The neighbors complied, each taking their turn around the room. Two older men, dressed in worn overalls, introduced themselves as former refinery workers, while the four women shared that they had lived near the petrochemical plants for decades. Their lined, pinched faces revealed the strain of lives spent in the shadow of the sprawling oil refinery.
Jo was impressed. Mary had gathered this group of potential plaintiffs on short notice, even in a town where challenging Oilton’s dominant employer, World Petrol, risked reprisal. She scanned the room, meeting each person’s gaze with steady resolve.
“Thank you,” she said, acknowledging their introductions. “I’m here to listen and learn.” Her voice was calm and purposeful. “Our firm in Washington, DC, specializes in lawsuits against companies suspected of violating laws and harming the environment. I understand you’re deeply concerned about the cancers and respiratory illnesses affecting your community.”
Mary leaned forward. “That’s exactly why we’re here.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I’ll start.” There was a catch in her voice, and she cleared her throat. “My husband, Barry, never smoked a single cigarette. For thirty years, he worked twelve-hour shifts at that plant and hardly missed a day, until he got lung cancer.” Her voice cracked on the last word, but she pressed on. “He used to tell me about those fumes, so strong they’d make him nearly pass out.”
Ralph, a retired maintenance worker with weathered hands and a furrowed brow, nodded grimly. “That’s no exaggeration,” he said with conviction. “Those fumes could topple a horse.”
Mary paused to collect herself, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She swiped at them before continuing. “Barry was only fifty-five when he passed.” Her voice was heavy with grief. “It was awful to watch him go like that. Toward the end, gasping like a fish out of water. He never got to meet his grandkids or take those trips we’d dreamed about for his retirement.” Her expression turned grim. “His doctor tried to file a workers’ comp claim for his cancer, but the company’s insurance folks shut it down. Said it was unrelated.”
Maureen, a woman so emaciated she nearly disappeared inside her baggy man’s work shirt, reached over with skeletal fingers and touched Mary’s arm in silent solidarity.
Jo swallowed hard, her own painful memories surfacing unexpectedly. Her father had died of brain cancer when she was only eight years old. She’d come to believe his exposure to toxic chemicals had stolen him away from her family. It was why she fought so fiercely for people like these. “I’m so sorry,” she said gently, her voice thick with emotion.
Another retired worker raised his hand abruptly, unable to hold back any longer. His voice carried both anger and urgency. “I know for a fact there’ve been leaks of cancer-causing chemicals like 1,3-butadiene, especially when the polymer explodes inside over-pressurized pipes. It’s not just us workers breathing in styrene and benzene. These toxins are also released into the community, often at night when no one can see the smoke.”
Janine, the woman with the facial tic, spoke up next. The tic worsened as she talked. “That’s right,” she said bitterly. “They think they can hide it—but you can smell it plain as day! That rotten-egg stench with its sickly-sweet undertone? It seeps into your clothes and right through your windows.”
Jo noticed Maureen had slumped on the couch, her emaciated frame taking up even less room in the oversized shirt. Her eyes were closed. “Maureen?” Jo said. “Are you okay?”
Maureen opened her eyes and sat up with visible effort. Her voice was faint but steady as she answered. “Just feelin’ a little lightheaded,” she said. “I’ve got leukemia, and I never worked in those plants.” She paused to gather strength. “But I’ve lived here my whole life. And my cousin—she was married to a supervisor but never worked there either—she died from leukemia.” Her thin finger pointed toward the window, as if to accuse the air, and her voice grew sharp with pain and anger. “That stink out there? That’s death you’re smellin’.”
A chilly silence fell over the room, broken only by the distant hum of the refinery. Mary wrapped a protective arm around Maureen’s shoulders, which looked as fragile as bird wings. “Would you like to lie down for a spell, honey?”
Maureen nodded weakly, and Jo rose to help. Together, they guided her down the hall toward a quiet bedroom. Behind them, the others sat in heavy silence.
Chapter 4
When Jo and Mary returned to the living room, the conversation crackled to life like a long-dormant fire. Georgia leaned forward.
“My babies . . .” Her voice faltered. “Three little ones, they all gasp for breath every time that poisonous smoke rolls in. Last week, Caleb turned blue. I held him ’til dawn, praying his lungs wouldn’t quit.” A single tear traced the crease of her cheek.
The woman in sweatpants, Linda, ground her cigarette into an ashtray. “Asthma is bad, but try feeling like someone’s drilling through your skull for days. I snap at my kids, my man. Hell, I even yelled at Ralph’s mangy hound yesterday.”
“Ain’t you always sweet as burnt toast?” Ralph jabbed, but Jo saw his smile fade when Linda turned away, swiping at her eyes.
Georgia continued, desperation etched on her face. “My man works down at the chemical plant. He makes good money and doesn’t wanna leave. But these asthma meds are bleedin’ us dry. So dang expensive, we’re choosing between medicine and meals by the end of the month. I’m ’bout ready to pack up, take the kids, and go before they stop breathing altogether.”
A movement at the door drew their attention.
“I couldn’t settle, hearin’ y’all jawin’.” Maureen’s entrance silenced the room. She moved like a ghost, her thin frame sinking into the couch. “We’re dyin’ here,” she rasped, eyes burning into Jo’s. “What’s your fancy legal firm going to do about it?”
“I’m deeply sorry for your struggles.” Her voice was unsteady, and the words sounded inadequate to her own ears, even though profoundly true.
Jo swallowed hard and tried again, sounding more natural. “It’s terrible what you’ve been through. What you’re going through. My law firm will fight to hold these petrochemical giants accountable for the devastation they’ve unleashed on the environment and families like yours.”
She glanced around the room to make sure she held their attention. “Large damage awards can force them to view you as people deserving of justice rather than blindly focusing on their profit margins. We’ll start with one of the largest and worst offenders, World Petrol. If we win, the case will send shockwaves through the entire industry.”
“How long is that going to take?” Maureen asked, hope battling with doubt in her face.
Jo sighed. It was possible, she thought, that Maureen might not live to see the outcome. “It takes months, if not years. To start, our expert, Dr. Victoria Nelson, is working on a study that I believe will confirm what you already know in your bones. Cancer stalks the neighborhoods around these petrochemical plants.”
Maureen waved her hand in the air. “That’s what we’ve been screaming into the void for years.”
“Yes, you have, and you deserve to be heard,” Jo acknowledged. “But to build a case, we need medical and scientific evidence that connects your suffering to the specific poisons they’re pumping into your community.”
Ralph interrupted, bitterness infecting his words. “Good luck with that.” His laugh grated like rusty metal. “You know what outsiders call the stench around here? The smell of prosperity. Prosperity. That’s what drives these companies. They bury the truth deeper than toxic sludge.”
“Yes, they do,” Jo said. “A small law firm like ours typically partners with other environmental advocates, including other law firms, the government, and organizations such as the Sierra Club. We can demand the company’s air monitoring records during pre-trial discovery. Even with Reagan trying to muzzle OSHA and gut the EPA, we’ll work every angle to uncover the truth.”
“Have y’all had any luck bringing corporate giants to justice?” Ralph asked with a flicker of hope in his weathered face.
“Yes. We’ve forced coal companies to answer for ravaging the land, poisoning their workers, and contaminating the water of entire communities.” Jo looked around at their faces, hungry for justice. “But I won’t lie. It’s a long, hard road. And often workers fear for their livelihoods.”
Several shook their heads, muttering darkly.
“However, change begins with brave souls like you filing lawsuits and demanding that your government prioritize the protection of people rather than corporate profits.”
Maureen’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah, if we live long enough.”
“The jobs at these plants pay well,” Ralph said. “Folks around here aren’t going to like us bringing in doctors and lawyers to rock the boat. Some neighbors, even those coughing up blood, wouldn’t dare speak against the company.”
“I understand the fear,” Jo said. “Your courage humbles me. But these billion-dollar corporations can afford to provide both good jobs and clean air. I need your stories. Your medical records. Your anger. Let me carry them into the courtroom.”
“How much is this all gonna cost us?” Janine asked, her facial tic taking off again.
“Our law firm works on contingency. If we win, we will get a percentage of the monetary award. If we lose, we take nothing.”
This produced some raised eyebrows and nods of approval.
The discussion burned through the afternoon. Jo collected their contact information and signed all six as plaintiffs, adding consent forms to release their medical records.
After sharing a Lone Star beer with Mary, Jo trudged back to her car, her mood dampened by the stories of families trapped between poverty and poison. She tried to lift her spirits by focusing on her meeting that evening with her old friend, Tori. They’d spoken over the weekend, and Tori had invited her to stay at her home in Houston after the interviews. Jo was looking forward to it. The comfort it promised was welcome at the end of a day filled with so much misery.
*
As Jo drove west on I-10 toward Houston, the oppressive gray haze and the acrid stench of burned matches and sulfur began to lift. The road was clear, and she drifted into memories of her long friendship with Tori—a bond forged years ago at Boston University, where they’d shared a dorm room and so much more. Jo had been captivated from the start by Tori’s brilliance, athletic grace, and effortless beauty. With her golden hair and striking features, Tori could easily have been mistaken for a young Candice Bergen. But Jo’s first crush had gone unrequited, as Tori had a boyfriend, Rick, and married him after her first year at Harvard Medical School.
In college, their days were filled with study sessions with friends in cramped dorm rooms or on sun-dappled benches along Commonwealth Avenue. The early 1970s was an electrifying time to be young and idealistic. Second-wave feminism was surging, women’s marches filled the streets, and anti-war protests echoed across campuses. Those heady years shaped their progressive ideals, even as life pulled them in different directions: Tori into medicine, Jo into law. Now, under Reagan’s presidency, she watched with regret as so much hard-won progress slipped away.
Jo reached Houston forty minutes later, stopping at a gas station before heading to a payphone to call Tori. No answer. Jo was puzzled. Tori had sounded eager for this visit when they spoke last week. They’d planned to catch up on their lives and discuss the findings of her cancer study. She battled a growing sense of unease as she grabbed a quick burger and salad at a nearby diner before trying again. Still no answer. She could hardly turn up on her friend’s doorstep, bag in hand. With a sigh, she resigned herself to finding a hotel for the night.
Once settled in her room, Jo called her girlfriend back in DC, as she always did when traveling.
“Sam doesn’t love you anymore,” Kate teased. “He’s sitting in my lap right now and has decided I’m his new favorite person.”
Jo smiled, imagining her Doberman sprawled across Kate’s lap like an overgrown puppy. “Uh-oh,” she said with a chuckle. “Sam and I will have words when I get home.”
They chatted about Jo’s day and her worry about being unable to reach Tori.
“Maybe she forgot?” Kate suggested.
“That’s not like her,” Jo replied, biting her lip. “She’s always so reliable.”
“She might have had a medical emergency. She is a doctor.”
“Maybe,” Jo conceded. “But I checked with my office, and she hasn’t left any messages about canceling.”
