Hard To Breathe, page 11
part #2 of Drake Cody Series
Drake obtained the research animals from the to-be-euthanized queue at the city's Animal Humane Society facility. The cats he selected would've otherwise been put to sleep within hours. But it still troubled him. Sometimes they appeared in his dreams.
His exposure to the human suffering caused by spinal cord injury overrode his misgivings. He took care of patients—scared, injured people he spoke with and touched. He looked into their eyes. It was his heartrending responsibility to tell them they were paralyzed.
Then he had to confess that no treatment existed. On each occasion it was a struggle for him not to break down.
Up until now, the four years of research effort had resulted in a solid animal research model for creating and testing spinal cord injury—nothing more. The drugs Drake had developed and tested showed no benefit. With each failure, his doubts grew.
But this night, everything felt different. Could this cat’s astounding improvement be real?
Drake slipped his hands under the drape, lifting the little black-and-white cat and placing her, as if made of crystal, into one of the kennels along the wall.
Rizz stopped his cleanup and looked across the table. “Drake, you knew going in that the odds against success were ridiculous. There's never been a treatment that helps spinal cord injury. Never.” His expression lightened. “Whatever. You're the biochemist and principal investigator, while Jon and I get research credit just for being Igors to your Dr. Drakenstein genius.” He affected a hunched back and claw-handed posture.
Drake looked at the cage where he'd just placed the black-and-white cat. “I have to try.”
“Hey, I respect that, partner, but just keeping it real. This is the ultimate long shot. Pfizer, Genentech, and all the giant pharmaceutical labs have been trying to develop a drug that treats spinal cord injury for a long time. Newsflash—they haven't come up with one. When the spinal cord goes down, it stays down.” He stuffed a last item into his backpack.
“I won't quit.”
“No,” Rizz said, eyeing him. “You won't.” He looked at his watch. “But I will—at least for today. I'm meeting someone a hell of a lot better looking than you or these cats.”
“Rizz, why not wait? I can double-check this pretty quick.” Drake picked up the test drug vial. The vial's protocol label read D-44. Could it be the miracle he dreamed of?
Rizz slipped a backpack strap over his shoulder. “Dude, it's party-time. All work and no play—”
“If my review shows no errors, I'm gonna be super jacked. Keep your phone handy. I'll call you.”
“Don't bother.” Rizz gave a backhanded wave as he passed the cages heading for the door. “I can wait. Later.” He pulled the lab door closed behind him.
Drake shook his head. Rizz had ceased believing.
Drake dared to believe. He tried to control his excitement, dreading the disappointment of a technical error. He turned to the data records and computer with surging anticipation.
The lab's overhead lighting hummed. He smelled the mix of the cats and the fresh cedar shavings used as bedding. He heard the soft, quick paw pounces of the untested animals and a soft mewing from the upper cages. He began to bounce his leg as he reviewed Rizz's documentation of the cat's pre-drug paralysis. His leg stopped. Rizz had not made an error—the animal's findings were complete.
Drake soared inside as he accessed the video file.
The screen flickered. The images revealing his surgical treatment of the black-and-white cat were clear.
His technique was without flaw. The experimental record left no doubt. There were no errors. His mind emptied and warmth flooded him.
He carefully closed the laptop, slid it forward with both hands, and stepped back from the slate-topped table.
He felt as if he might float away, static charged, his scalp tingling. In his dreams of a breakthrough he jumped into the air, screaming his joy. Tonight he placed both hands over his face and slumped to the floor with his back against the ancient iron radiator. The unyielding flanges dug into his back. He heard the scattered soft mewing, the ticking clock, the hammering of his heart.
He looked up and out the upper panes of the streaked and vine-latticed windows to a brilliant full moon. Absolute confirmation would require repeat trials. But inside he knew.
It was real.
***
Present time
Drake cleaned and freshened the bedding, replenished the food, and topped off the water for FloJo and each of the four remaining cats. He’d come to enjoy the scent of the cedar shavings and well-cared-for animals. He examined each animal and documented any return of nerve function. FloJo’s recovery continued. She could now stand and take steps. The four cats treated with D-44 after FloJo had also shown improvement, demonstrating subtler signs of recovery.
Their success defied all odds. It was like a couple of guys in a garage developing a breakthrough in computer technology. Improbable but real—no experimental treatment for spinal cord injury had ever shown such promise.
Beyond that, Rizz's self-treatment with D-44 had occurred at least ten years ahead of when, if all testing went well, human testing would have been allowed. The risks were profound. So far none of the cats had shown any ill effects, but it was too early to presume safety, and none of the cats had ever been given a second dose.
The repeat dose Rizz so aggressively sought would be another giant leap into a dangerous unknown. Besides which, they had to keep use of D-44 secret. Drake had Kip lined up to provide screening lab tests, but generally the first human subject would be watched continuously and tested exhaustively. They were doing neither of those things with Rizz.
There was no doubt that a drug this powerful could sicken or kill. Drake remained filled with misgivings, but Rizz had no hesitation.
Did Drake have the right to withhold a second dose because of his fears?
Rizz understood the stakes better than anyone. But if Rizz suffered adverse effects or died, Drake’s already burdened conscience would make him a victim as well. They were in this together. He stared at the locked medication refrigerator.
They faced another D-44 crisis—challenge to their ownership. With Rizz's paralysis and the likelihood of Drake losing his career, they'd need money. D-44's potential value was so great some had been willing to kill for it. Now it was uncertain if Drake, Rizz, and Jon had the legal right to sell it.
Acting as their attorney, Jon's wife had not only failed to safeguard their intellectual property rights, but she'd falsified documents and signed a contract selling D-44 to a Swiss pharmaceutical corporation. Thankfully, she'd delivered nothing more than research data before her death.
The Swiss firm believed it had a legal claim.
The university's patent office posed another, perhaps greater threat.
Drake, Rizz, and Jon had trusted Faith to handle the legalities. Now they had to deal with the disaster her criminal behavior had wrought.
Business and intellectual property law were not areas Drake held expertise in. He was a physician and medical researcher. He did know enough to recognize that defeating both a giant multinational corporation and a massive university in court was a long shot—and would be hugely expensive.
Could the law be trusted to protect their rightful ownership of D-44 in the end? Drake's experience with the courts and “justice” left him queasy with distrust.
They could lose everything. He ran his hands through his hair and took deep breaths. The laboratory’s exposed pipes and radiators clanked and knocked in the background. What should he do?
He had to look several uncertain steps ahead. The challenge was similar to the critical thinking that guided him in the dynamic of treating crashing patients—if this response then that, if that response then this, and so on. The variables were unpredictable and constantly changing. The objective in the Crash Room was singular and never in doubt—the impact on the patient's well-being guided every decision.
What should guide his decisions with D-44?
He stepped over to the window. The sun lit the crumbled asphalt surface of the parking lot below.
After a moment he turned, went to the medication refrigerator, then unlocked it. He surveyed the contents.
It would take all they had.
Chapter 22
2:40 p.m.
Drake headed down the hospital corridor, glad to find it empty. Though the administrative wing rarely had patient or visitor traffic, there was generally staff headed to or from medical records. With news of his criminal history and civil suit spreading throughout the hospital, he preferred to avoid contact. The hospital areas outside of the ER felt like foreign territory—as if he didn't belong.
He opened the oak door to the administrative executive offices. His mouth was dry. He looked at his hands, then clenched and unclenched them to lose the tingly sensation.
Called to the office of the President of Medical Affairs twice in less than twelve hours. He'd been there once in his previous four years of emergency medicine residency training—and that was to learn he'd won an award.
Torrins' text message had reached Drake as he was finishing up at the lab. He'd been summoned to meet Torrins at 2:45 p.m.—fifteen minutes before his ER shift started. The head of Medical Affairs had not shared the reason, but it sure as hell was not an award. Drake's gut clenched. Would he be allowed to work his shift?
This could be the ax falling. Jim Torrins could be planning to tell Drake his career was over, that he could no longer care for patients at Memorial Hospital—or anywhere. Ever.
Drake knocked on the administrator's partially open door.
“Come in, Drake.” Torrins sat at his desk. He glanced up then returned his attention to a document on his desk. He held a pen in his hand. “I heard the anchorwoman is doing well. That's good.”
“Yes.” Drake would normally acknowledge Dr. Stone, the paramedics, the ER team, and others, but the life saved was not why he'd been summoned. He held his breath.
Torrins kept his head trained on the paper in front of him. The rumpled look he'd evidenced in their middle-of-the-night meeting had disappeared. He wore a pressed white shirt and a red power tie with a gold cravat pin. Every strand of his razor-cut salt-and-pepper hair was in place. His dark pin-striped suit coat hung on a padded hanger along the cherry wood wall. He peered through reading glasses perched low on his nose.
“I've reviewed the Ogren situation and your domestic abuse report. All I have to say on that issue is use your judgment. Despite what Kline and others may believe, it's none of their concern. It's your responsibility as a physician to do what you believe is right—period. Neither I nor anyone else has any business attempting to influence you.”
Torrins signed the document, set the pen down, then looked Drake in the eye.
“The rest of what we will discuss today directly involves the hospital and, unfortunately, falls under my responsibility as president of medical affairs. This,” he indicated the sheet of paper on his desk, “is the closest thing to good news I've got for you. And it isn't much.” He held up the sheet. “This is a temporary continuance of duties release. It allows you to work in the ER, get paid, and keep your license until the Medical Board rules on you next week.” He shook his head. “If it weren't for the fact that the shootings have left us short-staffed in the ER, I don't think I could have gotten even this.” He set the paper aside. “The other news I have for you is bad or worse.”
Drake stood in front of the large desk. The wood-paneled walls and lack of windows made him feel as if he were trapped in a box. The office was warm but his fingers were ice. Memory spiraled back—sixteen years old and standing in front of the judge's bench in Cincinnati juvenile court. Torrins’ expression reminded him of the judge's—pained but resolute.
Drake once again felt helpless.
“Kline wanted you gone yesterday. University risk management thinks you’re radioactive because of the lawsuit threats, and the word is the Medical School will cut all ties to you. My Medical Board contact says your license revocation decision looks open-and-shut.” Torrins spread his hands.
It seemed as if the air had left the room. No!
He’d known it was coming—he’d always known—but now that it was happening it seemed unreal.
“A history of a felony assault conviction broadcast all over the state and a civil suit alleging racism and assault. The media is in a frenzy. All with Minnesota licensed, University Medical School accredited, residency enrolled, Memorial Hospital employed Dr. Drake Cody dead center.” He took off his glasses. “You know the score. What else can the authorities do?”
Drake could still picture the crutch he'd used to protect his brother. He could hear the sound of the aluminum strut whistling thorough the air as he'd swung it. He recalled the feeling in his hands as it had impacted the big skinhead's face. Then his fingers on the throat of the second skinhead, the snapping twigs sensation as the airway fractured and collapsed.
He'd almost killed those who'd attacked his brother so many years earlier. He regretted how badly they'd been hurt, but he didn't accept the legal judgment of guilt. The trial had been a travesty.
“I was sixteen years old. They hurt my brother. I defended him.” The court's verdict had nothing to do with the guilt that gnawed deep inside him. Those regrets came from the court of his conscience and had nothing to do with his arrest and conviction.
Torrins' expression softened for a moment, then his administrator's face returned.
“We can't retry your case. You were convicted. It is what it is. I'm sorry. If we had an emergency medicine physician available that could handle what comes into our ER, I'd have been forced to cut you loose immediately.” He put his glasses back on. “I'll keep you working as long as I can. The Medical Board meets next week. I'd suggest you make plans.”
Drake swallowed. A bitter taste filled his mouth. The floor shifted underneath him. His stomach plummeted and for a moment he was lightheaded.
It was really going to happen. They were going to take being a doctor away from him. No!
He'd been forced to kill and had others attempt to kill him. He'd been locked in a place alone among monsters. He'd failed the person closest to him. His mother and his best friend now both suffered paralysis. He'd almost lost Rachelle and the children he loved more than anything. He blinked.
In spite of all that—perhaps because of all that—he felt a hollowness greater than any he could remember.
His life as a doctor had just received a death sentence. The grief struck so hard he didn’t know if he could remain upright.
Chapter 23
Clara exited the hospital stairwell after her mid-morning stair workout.
She'd climbed strong despite little sleep. Dan's late-night visit had been unexpected but glorious. The fevered middle-of-the-night workout and shuddering bliss his body provided had made the few hours of sleep she'd got restful. She couldn't get enough of him. She knew he felt the same.
Underneath her lab coat Clara was sweating. She wore a white coat over her workout gear when she slipped to and from the southeast stairwell. It was rare that anyone used those stairs so she was able to run her eight floors up and eight floors down in isolation. Every day she completed the circuit twice—once in mid-morning and again in the afternoon. She pushed herself so hard that sometimes she became light-headed and nauseated. Lately she allowed herself a quarter of a granola bar before each workout.
On the rare days she wasn't at the hospital, she ran outside. Taking off from her Calhoun Beach Club condominium, she would circuit Lake of the Isles, Lake Calhoun, and Lake Harriet. She could punish herself on those days.
It paid off. Dan relished her endurance. She could take a lot and give back in kind. There could be no way his wife could match what Clara could do. She revisited their frantic, almost savage, sex sessions.
God, he was magnificent. And so in love with her!
She wiped her brow as she swiped her ID card to open her private office. As the hospital's clinical information technology head and lab services chief, she ran two departments that each typically required at least one alpha-level performer. She scanned the door-mounted placard:
Clara Zeitman, PhD Clinical Laboratory Science, MS Health Informatics
Chief of Laboratory Services and Health Information Management
Her position and titles were nice, but the absence of the degree that meant everything tormented her.
Every day the shame of their moronic misjudgment raged within her.
Clara opened the door and entered her office, which was windowless but bright white with high-output fluorescent lighting. The air conditioning kept the room in the mid-sixties. The negative air flow left the air sterile and scented with a hint of disinfectant. The computer fans sounded their soft, continuous whirring. She had her keyboard and display screens positioned on the horseshoe-shaped desk such that when she occupied the lone chair she felt as if she were at her personal NASA command center.
The rear wall held a door marked with a biohazard symbol and a sign reading “Laboratory access. No unauthorized personnel”. As head of Laboratory Services, she was the only one authorized to use this entry.
Her science knowledge and commitment to precision made management of the laboratory little challenge. The physician pathologist who was the licensed head of laboratory services knew his stuff but recognized Clara's competence. He left her free to oversee the day-to-day operations. She worked hard to make sure he did very little.
The laboratory staff were highly educated, skilled, and conscientious. The work attracted intelligent and self-motivated people. The lab technologists weren’t her friends, but they feared her disapproval, which worked out better. The lab earned high marks from the physician staff.
Her autonomy in healthcare information technology was even greater. The computer network and display screens allowed her to monitor virtually all activity within the hospital at a glance. In her sixteen years at Memorial, she'd seen the hospital's data management explosion and oversaw the conversion to electronic health records.
