A light knock on the door ended their discussion.
The surgeon, a tall brunette with shoulder-length hair, strode into the room. She carried a file in her left hand and used her right to shake Beth's hand first, then Debbie's. She sat down on a roller stool, pulled up a screen on the computer, and opened the chart she'd carried into the meeting. The movements were quick. She was used to the ritual. She also skipped the small talk. There was a time for chitchat, but now was not one of them.
Beth's face didn't betray any hint of anxiety. Debbie wondered how her mom stayed so calm when her own stomach dropped four floors at the sight of the doctor. It had to be all those years of watching juries come back into the courtroom to deliver a verdict.
"Well, ladies, I'm happy to give you good news. Initially, I told you we were probably looking at stage 2 cancer. But now that we've done the surgery and had the chance to look at the tumor, it turns out that it is only at stage one."
"And my lymph nodes?"
The surgeon smiled. "More good news. They were clear. No sign that the cancer has spread."
Beth nodded her head and continued with her questions, as if checking them off a list in her head. "Do you have the results of the BRCA genetic test?"
"You don't have the gene."
Beth shut her eyes, took another deep breath, and nodded her head as she digested the information. It was the first bit of emotion she'd revealed since arriving at the doctor's office that morning.
Beth set aside her relief and moved on to the next question. "What about chemotherapy?"
The surgeon leaned forward. "That isn't my call. It is going to be up to your oncologist. But I think you have a good chance of skipping chemotherapy because the genetic testing results on your tumor look really good so far."
"What does that mean?"
"It is slow growing. It isn't aggressive. Your tumor's characteristics will factor into the final decision on radiation or chemotherapy. But again, it isn't up to me. Your oncologist and a panel of doctors will review your medical file and make the final recommendation. They will weigh whether the benefits of those treatments outweigh the toll they take on the body."
"So, just to make sure that I'm hearing you correctly, you're saying that my tumor is rather lazy so there is a chance that I could skip chemo and move forward with the breast reconstruction phase?"
"Again, I can't make you any promises," the surgeon cautioned. "But you are a candidate for this newer, more conservative treatment. In the last few years, we've stopped taking the fire hose approach to cancer. We recognize that radiation and chemotherapy, while extremely helpful, also have harmful side effects. In some cases, the harm of the treatment doesn't outweigh the benefit."
"I won't get my hopes up," Beth said even as her lips formed a smile.
It was just before noon when Debbie entered Sam's office.
"How'd your mom's appointment go?" Sam asked without looking up from the proofs he was reviewing. He edited stories on his desktop. But for the final proofing, he was old-fashioned. He preferred paper.
Debbie sat down on the edge of the chair across from her editor's desk. "Better than we could have ever hoped for. Turns out she had stage one cancer. She may not even need chemo."
"Hmmm. I didn't know they did that," Sam said as he set aside the paper marked with red-pen hieroglyphics and looked at the reporter.
"One of the advantages of being treated at a leading cancer hospital, I guess," Debbie said. "They even test the genetic makeup of the tumor, to customize the treatment."
Sam studied Debbie carefully. "Could make a good story. Our readers would be interested. The cancer center would be grateful for the publicity. So, does the good news mean you'll be trying to get your old job back in D.C.?"
"Honestly, I hadn't even thought of that," Debbie lied. "I've just been focused on my mom and trying to get myself reestablished here."
"There's a lot more action in D.C. than there is in the heartland," Sam remarked.
"That's true. But I don't know that I'm ready to deal with," Debbie paused, "some issues that I left unresolved in D.C. Besides, everything that the doctor said about my mom today was predicated with caveats and don't-get-your-hopes-up-too-high language."
"Well, I'm just saying that it would be a pity to lose you now," Sam said. "Crime Beat Girl is gaining traction. Lots of social media shares. Even your less-than-professional photos are getting some notice on Instagram. Our owner is very happy. He's already pushing for more video; says it will increase time-on-page. He wants you to add the Crime Beat Girl moniker to your social media accounts. And he's even considering building a podcast room."
"No pressure, huh? Try to slow him down a bit," Debbie pleaded. "I know these tech guys are push, push, push, but I haven't even gotten business cards. And I should have never agreed to that name. You may force me to leave St. Louis to get rid of it," Debbie said. "That reminds me, I need to do some last-minute fact checking on the Jarrett story. Make sure I've got all the names and dates right. Instead of calling, I think I'm going to drop by his grandmother's house, if she's cool with it."
"What else are you working on?"
"Don't I get a breather?" Debbie answered. "I'm working on nothing and everything."
"That's not going to feed the monster," Sam said pointedly, referring to the constant need for content.
"I know. I have a lot of questions, but no answers. I have one defendant in the Travis Hunt murder, but the other people involved haven't been identified. There's the shooting outside the abandoned building. No one's been arrested. And how is it that the same gun was used in both murders? Was Roberto Simmons involved in both? I'm also keeping an eye on the grocery store carjacking."
"I've been looking at the crime stats," Sam said. "If we keep up this pace of violence, it is going to be one of the bloodiest summers on record in St. Louis; maybe that's your next story."
"Aren't the civic leaders, many of whom are our readers, going to object to that sort of piece?" Debbie asked.
"Of course. But we can start it by noting that stats are misleading because they don't include the whole metro area. I actually agree with the St. Louis cheerleaders on that point. It is unfair to judge our area without including the suburbs. Anyway, let me worry about that. You know, we could create a collage of the murder victims so far this year--put faces on the numbers. Each of the names could be clickable. When you click, you get the biographical information of the victim, the place of the crime, whether anyone has been charged in the killing. And we could have an interactive map with the location of each murder."
"That's going to be a lot of work," Debbie said as she felt her phone vibrate. She checked the screen. "City government number. Could be the police department. I should probably get it," Debbie said before answering, "Debbie Bradley."
"Ms. Bradley, Detective Flannery."
"So nice of you to call, Detective Flannery," Debbie said for her boss to hear. "What can I do for you?"
"Seems the mayor was miffed about the fact that you made me look like a good guy. So now guess who wants to meet with you?"
"Who? The mayor?" Debbie asked.
"Yes, the mayor," Flannery replied. "I guess they've noticed that your obscure column isn't so obscure anymore. I heard some of his big campaign donors are calling to compliment him on my work," the detective said, unable to suppress a chuckle.
"How do you know this?"
"The mayor calls the police chief. The police chief calls me," Flannery said. "Anyway, I'm just giving you a heads-up. The mayor's office isn't going to call you and ask for an interview. What they want is for you to call and ask them. This is all ridiculous, but it seems that I've been nominated to be the guy who floats the test balloon, as I guess PR people call it. I don't know why they gave the task to me, other than I've had the most contact with you. As you can see, I'm rather blunt and I don't have time for these stupid PR games."
"Um, okay," Debbie said. "I'll give the mayor's PR flack a call in just a b
it. Thanks for passing along the information. Anything else?"
"Nope, that is it," Flannery said. "I'm sure we'll run into each other at another crime scene. You are, after all, Crime Beat Girl," he said. Debbie could hear him chuckle as he hung up the phone.
Just as the call disconnected, Debbie's phone vibrated again. She looked down and then decided to answer. "Hello?"
"Debbie, this is Chase Laclede," the voice on the line began.
"Chase," Debbie said. Her editor's eyebrows rose. "How are you?"
"You suggested lunch the other day. Is the invite still open?"
"Absolutely. When do you want to get together?"
"I've got court in the morning. I never know exactly when it'll end. Could be early. Could be late. How about dinner tonight?"
"Dinner? Tonight?" Debbie repeated. Sam smiled. "Um, sure. But you name the place and time. Just text me the details this afternoon and I'll be there."
Debbie hung up and looked at Sam.
"Would be a real shame for you to leave St. Louis now," her editor said.
A sleeveless turquoise summer dress with a narrow waist and a slim skirt that hit just above the knee, paired with white sandals, was the outfit Debbie chose for her dinner meeting with Chase. Not too formal, not too casual. Confident but relaxed. Attractive, but not too sexy. She'd spent twenty minutes staring at her limited wardrobe wondering whether male journalists wasted as much time pondering their appearance, and the unintended signals they could be sending, before key meetings. But after living with Christian, she already knew the answer: No.
Chase had suggested meeting on South Grand, an area of the city known for a cluster of restaurants serving a variety of international fare. He picked a well-established place that had branded its Iranian roots as Persian cuisine.
Debbie arrived a few minutes before the agreed hour. Chase was already there, seated at a table next to a window that looked out onto the busy street.
"You're on time," Chase said as he stood up.
"You're early," Debbie replied as she pulled out the chair across from her dinner companion and sat down.
Chase was wearing a white polo shirt and dark-blue slim-fit pants. His Sperrys rounded out the affluent, prep school look.
"I took the liberty of ordering a pomegranate yogurt appetizer with pita bread. I hope you don't mind," Chase said. "I came straight from the office. I'm starving."
Debbie smiled. "No problem. Never tried it. What were you working on, Joshua's case? Or Roberto Simmons's?"
"Slow down," Chase said as he sat down. "Catch your breath. I'm not running away. You don't have to try shoot rapid-fire questions at me in the hopes of getting a few answers before I bolt. To be honest, I'm simply too hungry to leave."
Debbie inhaled, set her hands on her lap, and concentrated on relaxing her shoulders as she let out her breath. "Let's start over. You know, when I was a kid, it used to drive me crazy when my parents would come home but stay stuck in lawyer mode. I can't tell you how many times I was cross-examined--especially when I was a teenager. Now, I seem to follow in their footsteps. I bring my work persona into my private life. I guess I have a tough time of letting go of my reporter instincts, even in a casual setting."
The waitress appeared with the appetizer.
Chase nodded. "I had the same issues with my parents. I get it. And my personal identity is, unfortunately, tightly wound up in my professional work as a lawyer. My mom keeps telling me that it isn't healthy. That I need to work harder to be more than Chase 'The Lawyer.'"
Debbie took a piece of bread, dipped it in the pomegranate yogurt appetizer, and took a bite. "Wow, this is good." She placed the food on the appetizer plate in front of her and then held up her hands. "Look, no notebook. No pen. No tape recorder. Nothing is on the record."
"Good, I wanted this to be a friendly dinner," Chase replied.
Debbie wiped her hands on her burgundy napkin. "That said, I am genuinely curious as to why you work so hard. Especially on the criminal defense side. I mean, I can understand Joshua Lucas. He's just a kid. There are, one could argue, mitigating circumstances. He could have found the car and just been unable to resist an abandoned red Audi with the keys in the ignition. But Roberto Simmons? And how in the heck can his family afford you?"
Chase smiled. "What you're really asking me is how I can represent people I believe are guilty of committing a crime, right?"
"No, not exactly," Debbie answered. "Well. Maybe."
"Let me see if I can explain," he began. "And let me preface this by saying that I don't have any idea whether Roberto Simmons committed the acts that the state accuses him of. In fact, I learned something earlier today that may very well get the charges dropped. But more on that later. And off the record."
He sipped his tea and then leaned forward. "First, I believe in the Constitution. Because you're a reporter, you must believe in it too. I have sworn an oath to protect and defend the Constitution. I also believe in the adversarial criminal justice system. Finally, I believe it is better to let ten guilty men go free than convict one innocent man. Because those are part of my core principles, I don't question the constitutional right to a fair trial. A defendant doesn't get the benefit of that right if I think my job is to put my client on trial in the office before they enter the courtroom. No. As a defense lawyer, my job is to represent the defendant as best I can so long as I follow the ethical rules and stay within the law. That means I can't put my client on the stand and let my client tell a lie--if I know he's lying. I can't help my client commit future crimes. But I can make sure that the rules are followed and that the process is fair. The prosecutor, the judge, the jury are the ones responsible for convictions, not me."
Debbie sat back in her chair. "You don't think that putting a bad guy behind bars is a good reason to skirt the legal processes, cut constitutional corners?"
Chase shook his head emphatically. "The Bill of Rights protects all Americans from unreasonable searches and seizures. We all have the right to remain silent. And every person is innocent until proven guilty--not guilty until proven innocent. Constitutional rights apply to all, not just the people who are rich, or who look like us, or who act like us, or who worship like us. And besides, I've seen too many well-meaning people do bad things because they believed that the end justified the means."
"Perhaps," Debbie said.
"We're not so different, Debbie Bradley. Let me put it this way. Let's say you support a scrappy politician who supports gay marriage, reasonable gun laws, and health care for all, liberal causes that I'm guessing you favor. But let's say you find out through your work that the same politician has an unseemly side, that he or she broke campaign finance laws or was accepting bribes. Would you sit on the story to ensure that health care and gay marriage are preserved? Or would you report about it?"
"No brainer. I'd report it," Debbie said.
"And why is that?"
"Because I'm a journalist, not an advocate. My duty is to the truth and to the reader. I guess, as you say, the end doesn't justify the means."
"Now you see my position," Chase said. "I may not always agree with my clients, but I agree with our Constitution. That is the oath I've taken, and it is the oath I will honor. And I owe a duty to my client. But my allegiance isn't just to the client, it is to the Constitution and the law."
The waitress reappeared.
"I haven't had a chance to look at the menu yet," Debbie said. "What do you recommend?" she asked Chase.
"How do you feel about lamb?" he asked.
"Too heavy," Debbie replied.
"Vegetarian or meat?"
"I guess you could say I'm a flexitarian."
"The chicken koobideh is good. It is a mix of ground chicken, saffron, and turmeric," he recommended. "Along with the side of saffron rice."
"Okay, give me that."
"I'm hungry. I'll have the ghormeh sabzi," Chase informed the waitress. "Lamb may not be the healthiest, but this stew with parsley and cilantro is amaz
ing," Chase admitted. "Besides, I'll compensate for my meal this next week with a vegetarian diet and plenty of visits to the gym."
"How did you become such an expert on Middle Eastern cuisine?" Debbie asked.
Chase smiled. "I have to admit that I am, to use the slang of teenagers, extra."
"Extra?"
"Over the top. Pampered. Spoiled," Chase said. "My parents have given me every opportunity imaginable. I spent a semester of college studying in Spain. In addition to touring Europe, I spent some time in Morocco and Turkey. Every place I go, I try to immerse myself in the culture. One of the best ways to get to know a place is through food--and I love trying new things."
"So, you've traveled around the world. You've lived abroad. You're clearly smart and talented. And yet, you came back to St. Louis," Debbie observed. "Why?"
"I guess I could run down the list of the usual advantages that people cite to justify living here. The cost of living is reasonable, compared to the coasts. It was easier for me to start a law practice where I had some roots, and quite frankly, connections."
"But those are the easy reasons," Debbie replied. "What was the real reason you returned home after experiencing so much of the world outside of St. Louis?"
Chase pointed to the busy sidewalk on the other side of the window. A middle-aged white couple passed a twenty-something woman with purple-tinged hair clad in black and sporting a nose piercing and tattoos. A young African-American family pushed a stroller. An immigrant woman in a burka carrying a grocery bag from the international grocery store on the street corner hustled down the sidewalk with two small children trailing behind her.
"We can look out the window here onto South Grand and see diversity. But it is a pocket in St. Louis. There's still a lot of economic and racial segregation. And that was even before Ferguson. As a child of a black father and a white mother, I've experienced the good and the bad this town has to offer. Maybe I loved St. Louis more after I had a chance to leave. I wanted to come back home and use my talents to make this a better place--for all."
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