Children of Hope

by Michael Fine

  Now she knew his last name: Johnson. Derek Johnson. Rapist. Ruiner of lives.

  Hope grabbed a light jacket, her keys, and the small slip of paper on which she’d written the addresses of some local businesses that were hiring. Before heading out the door, she walked over to her bookshelf in the corner of the living room.

  “I’m going to find him, sis. I promise,” she said to the urn that held Angel’s remains. She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the urn. “Oh, and wish me luck today,” she said waving the piece of paper. “I need a j-o-b. Bad.” She headed out the door.

  A few minutes later, Hope parked in the small asphalt lot behind the Pancake Shack restaurant, which sat at the corner of El Camino Real and California Avenue in midtown Palo Alto, California. She’d seen the place while exploring the area a few mornings earlier, noticing that the line at the front door snaked around the corner of the building. Now, at 5:30 a.m., the restaurant was a half an hour from opening; she figured it was a good time to apply for a job, before the crowds came and before she was due at the research lab.

  She walked up to the entrance and pushed through the door. Bells above the door chimed.

  “Hello? Anyone here?” Hope called out.

  The restaurant was well-lit but quiet. After a moment, an attractive man in his late forties came out from the kitchen. He had short-cropped white hair on the sides and back of his head, a white beard and mustache, and a mischievous twinkle in his dark brown eyes. He wore jeans and a loose-fitting Stanford t-shirt, and had a makeshift bandage on his forearm.

  “May I help you?” the man asked.

  “I saw the Help Wanted sign in the window. I’d like to apply.”

  “You live in the area?”

  “Redwood City, just a few miles up the road. I’m a med school student at Stanford.”

  “Congratulations. Not an easy school to get into.”

  “I work hard.”

  “And you have enough time for work?” He’d seen his share of students bail once their course load grew heavy. Still, he’d rather have to deal with turnover of smart, motivated students than to hire reliable idiots.

  “Yes. I don’t sleep much and I’m a hard worker. I also work at the Department of Pediatrics research lab fifteen or twenty hours a week, but if I say I’ll be here, I’ll be here.”

  The man crossed to the entrance of the restaurant, where Hope was still standing, and reached out his hand. “Name’s Charlie.”

  “Pleased to meet you Charlie. I’m Hope. Hope Hunter.” As she introduced herself, Hope motioned to the now-bloody bandage on Charlie’s right forearm. “You okay?” she asked. “That looks pretty bad.”

  “Fine, fine,” Charlie lied. In fact, he was in a good deal of pain and had been trying to clean out and tend to his wound when Hope had come through the door.

  “Do you have any clean bandages? Maybe some antibacterial cream?” Hope asked. “I can help clean your wound and wrap it better for you.”

  Charlie assented and led Hope to the large industrial sink in the kitchen. Hope noticed that the entire kitchen was spotless, every surface practically shining. A large, mostly-used tube of Neosporin sat next to the sink.

  Nodding over to the meat slicer on the counter and then looking down at his wounded arm, Charlie said, “Careful with that thing.”

  Charlie stood at the sink and let Hope unwrap his homemade bandage. As she ran lukewarm water over his injury, she furrowed her brow in concentration, not saying anything. She carefully ran soapy water over what she could now see were three deep gashes along his right ulna. Once the wounds were clean, she applied a generous layer of ointment and deftly wrapped his forearm tightly in a bandage.

  “You should probably go to the hospital, Charlie. You likely need stitches in at least two of those lacerations.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll think about it,” Charlie said. Hope could tell from the tone of his voice and from his posture, this man was not going to go to the hospital.

  “Well, at least clean your arm and apply antibacterial cream a few times a day.”

  Charlie smiled. “I will. Promise.” He led her back out into the main area of the restaurant. “We’re open Tuesday through Saturday, 6:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m. Most of our customers are here from opening to about noon. I can probably give you ten hours a week. Does that work for you?”

  Hope reached out her hand and shook Charlie’s. “Definitely.”

  Charlie went behind the cash register and came back with a job application. “Fill this out. Bring it back with a W-4 on Tuesday, okay?”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Well then,” Charlie said, “get on outta here and enjoy your Saturday, kiddo. Unless you want to work right now?”

  Hope had to be at the lab in ten minutes, so she said, “See you Tuesday morning. 5:30?”

  “See you then. Oh, and Hope, thanks for the medical attention. Most appreciated.” He lifted his arm in a kind of salute.

  Chapter Six

  Monday, September 10 (two days later)

  Parking lot near the Indiana Department of Administration

  Indianapolis, Indiana

  In the three plus years that Diamond, Lancaster, and Patel had acted as a small band of avenging angels, it never ceased to amaze them how people figured out how to contact them and request their help. It hadn’t been intentional, and it started slowly, but over time the men realized helping the powerless was their calling.

  A few weeks earlier, they were approached by a man, Tyson Nathanson, who years earlier had sold three hundred dollars worth of heroin to undercover police here in Indianapolis, as a way to raise money to support his own drug habit. It was his third such offense and Nathanson was arrested and eventually sentenced to six months of home confinement and two years of probation, and assessed $1,300 in court costs and fees. The state of Indiana then seized his $48,000 Range Rover, which he’d purchased just months earlier, through civil forfeiture.

  After the incident, the man had gotten clean and was trying to turn his life around. It seemed wrong to him that the government could seize his $48,000 car for a minor drug offense. After all, his lawyer had told him that the maximum criminal fine he faced at the time was only ten thousand dollars. He filed a lawsuit against the state of Indiana, saying that the state’s seizure of his car was unconstitutional under the Excessive Fines Clause of the Eighth Amendment.

  The ACLU funded the case. Both the trial court and an appeals court held for Nathanson, but the Indiana Supreme Court ruled that the U.S. Supreme Court had never explicitly held that this clause of this amendment applied to the states, only to the federal government. Nathanson appealed and the case went to the U.S. Supreme Court. When the case was finally heard, Nathanson lost, 5–4. Newly appointed Associate Justice Julian Kingsley, citing Barron v. Baltimore from 1833, wrote the opinion for the Court, overturning the many cases where the Court had since incorporated provisions of the Bill of Rights against state governments through the Due Process Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. Nathanson was pissed, and when he saw that the State was going to auction off his Range Rover, he couldn’t take the injustice of it all. Through a friend of a friend, Nathanson reached out to Diamond, asking if there was something Diamond and his team could do to help.

  Now, a few minutes before nine in the morning, they were sitting in a rented white Ford Taurus in the parking lot across from the Indiana Department of Administration building on Washington Street in Indianapolis. They’d had a hearty breakfast of pancakes and eggs at a nearby diner, savoring a few cups of some of the best coffee they’d ever had, and were ready for the day’s activities. The hard work had been accomplished the night before.

  “New watch?” Lancaster asked Patel. He’d noticed yet another new watch on his friend’s wrist, this one a garish bright orange one, on which a cat’s front paws and tail kept time.

  “Like it?”

  Lancaster shook his head and chuckled. Ever since they’d returned from Afghanistan, Patel seem
ed hell bent on being the poster child for American consumerism. “It’s, uh, unique, that’s for sure.”

  Diamond smiled in the driver’s seat. He checked his own watch, turned to Lancaster and Patel and said, “We’re all set, right?”

  Lancaster appreciated the tight ship run by the Indiana Department of Administration, or at least that of their online auction operation. The auction website showed the precise times at which each item was to go up for its five-minute-long auction, and the site showed that Nathanson’s Range Rover was scheduled to go up for auction as the third auction of the morning, at 9:10 a.m.

  “All set,” Lancaster said confidently. He’d been less than impressed with the organization’s I.T. security practices.

  At exactly 9:10:00.00 a.m., the small piece of software Patel had loaded onto the server computer sitting in a hot, dusty closet on the second floor of the building did its thing and submitted a bid from Tyson Nathanson for exactly one dollar.

  Immediately after that, at 9:10:00.01, the infinitesimally tiny bit of explosives Lancaster had wired to the computer exploded, critically damaging the computer’s motherboard. The auction site went down immediately.

  At 9:15 a.m., Diamond turned to Nathanson, who was sitting in the passenger seat, and nodded toward the building.

  “All set. You should be able to claim your truck now.” He handed a crisp one dollar bill to the man and added, “Here you go.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Nathanson said.

  “No need,” Lancaster said from the back seat. “This one was fun.”

  As Tyson Nathanson walked toward the building to reclaim his truck, Diamond waited for Lancaster to hop in the front seat and then drove off. He had to be at work in California first thing in the morning.

  Chapter Seven

  Monday, September 10 (the same day)

  Senator Royce Carrington’s Home

  Village of Oyster Bay Cove, Nassau County, New York

  Sitting in his royal throne, which, truth be told, was how he thought of his Dragon Chair, and smoking a custom King of Denmark cigar, Royce Carrington was in a reflective mood. His father had made a heap of money in the real estate business and he, personally, had turned that heap into ten heaps through shrewd investments across the globe. At seventy-six, it was time to give back a little, he decided. With no wife, no children, and no close family members, the decision was easy: he would pour some of his wealth into Christian charities and other organizations that spread Christianity and Christian values. He’d focus on America, unlike several recent high-profile philanthropists who gave their attention to the far corners of the world.

  At exactly 8:00 p.m., his phone rang. His money manager, as scheduled.

  “Good evening, Senator Carrington,” the man said. “Your secretary asked me to call you? Is there a problem with your portfolio? I know last month’s returns—”

  “Relax. This isn’t about my investments, at least not directly. Although I will say that I am disappointed in how poorly you’ve done over the past few months.” He looked out the french doors from his kitchen table. “No, I am calling for a different reason. I’d like to set up a charitable foundation.”

  The money manager’s stress receded. He’d never been comfortable with how much risk Carrington wanted him to take with his investments. The last few months were some of the handful where those risks were coming back to bite Carrington, to the tune of an eight percent drop in the man’s fortunes.

  “Okay, sure. What did you have in mind?”

  “I’d like to start with a hundred million. Depending on results, I can do more.”

  “That’s very generous, Senator.”

  Carrington didn’t think of it as generosity, really, just promoting the Christian worldview he knew in his heart to be critical to helping the country.

  Realizing that the Senator wasn’t going to reply, the money manager continued. “It’ll take a few days to settle your accounts and a few months for a 501(c)(3) to be set up. With the holidays coming up, it’s possible it might be early next year by the time you’re all set.”

  “Fine,” Carrington said, annoyed. Why did he have to go through so many hoops? It was his money he wanted to give away, after all.

  “What most donors do,” the man went on, “is give approximately four or five percent of their funds each year. That way, with nominal returns on your endowment, your foundation can continue indefinitely and you can keep giving each year while keeping your fund balance intact. I can arrange for you to speak at a few of the various philanthropy conferences each year, introduce you to Bill and Melinda, the Vanderbilts, and other big-name givers, that sort of thing.”

  “You misunderstand. I would like to grant this money over the next year or two.”

  “I strongly advise you against that, Senator.”

  Carrington was peeved. “I’m not in this for prestige or to hobnob with the rich and famous.” As much as he appreciated the man looking out for his money, he was not one who tolerated anything short of obedience. “I intend to make an impact, quickly.”

  “Certainly,” the man said, backing off. “I can take care of everything. There will be some paperwork you’ll have to sign. Do you want me to send it to your office in D.C. or to your home?”

  “Here,” Carrington said. This was his personal fortune he was giving away; it had nothing to do with Washington.

  “Okay, I’ll get to work on this first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Please see that you do,” Carrington said before hanging up.

  Chapter Eight

  Monday, November 6

  Division of Neonatal and Developmental Medicine, Department of Pediatrics

  NICHD Neonatal Research Network Laboratory

  Stanford, California

  Six years, two months later

  The day before the Presidential election

  Hope arrived at the lab by 5:00 a.m., as she always did on days when she had rounds in the main hospital at 9:00. At twenty-five, Hope was now in her third year of residency at Stanford University Medical School. She was at least three years younger than her colleagues, having skipped third grade, finished high school early, and graduated college in just three years. Given her passion for developmental biology and neonatal care, she also worked twenty hours a week at the research lab. To make rent, she continued to work as many hours as possible each week at the Pancake Shack with Charlie, who’d become her favorite person on the planet. Somehow, she also made time each week to work out and keep her body lean and fit.

  Mom would be so proud of how well I’ve channeled my grief about Angel into becoming such a hyper-driven overachiever. Her thought dripped with disdain.

  Hope made her way to the small kitchen at the back of the lab. She needed coffee, bad. As she turned the corner, she found her mentor, Dr. Faye Young, sitting at the small round table in the corner of the kitchen. With her gentle smile and shocking white hair, Dr. Faye Young looked more like a stay-at-home mom who baked chocolate chip cookies for her kid’s soccer team than the no-nonsense, hard-driving head of such a prestigious lab. In addition to running the lab and mentoring residents like Hope, Dr. Young also carried out her own research into how prolonged mechanical ventilation adversely impacts incompletely formed lungs.

  “Morning, Hope,” Dr. Young said without looking up from the research report she was reading. Hope Hunter was the only resident who arrived so early, so consistently. Sometimes Dr. Young worried about her young protegé. There is driven and there is obsessed, and Dr. Young could tell from the first moment she’d met Hope that the young woman was beyond driven. The question was whether Hope could control her obsession.

  “Hi Faye,” Hope said. Dr. Young had insisted that everyone at the lab call her Faye, saving the “Dr. Young” formality for when she presented at conferences or visited foundations when she was looking for grant money. Hope walked to the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee, choosing her favorite bright purple mug from the shelf above the si
nk. She plopped down on a chair next to her idol.

  “What’re you working on this morning?” Dr. Young asked.

  “I’ll finally be able to finish the write-up of my latest trial this morning. I just need to make sure the tables and diagrams are formatted correctly, and triple check all my citations. Thrilling work.”

  Dr. Young ignored the complaint. Writing up research findings, including making sure that all citations were correct, was a necessary part of the job. “That’s great!” she said. “Send it to me when you’re done; I look forward to reviewing it.”

  “Will do,” Hope said. She took a gulp of her coffee and savored the bold, acidic flavor. She imagined the caffeine molecules rushing through her bloodstream, silently urging them to rush faster. Shifting to face Faye directly, she said, “Faye, as you know, the trial was a huge success. The lambs developed perfectly. They were developmentally equivalent in every way to lambs that develop naturally.”

  Dr. Young knew where the conversation was headed. It wasn’t the first time she’d had one like it with an eager researcher and it wasn’t the first time with Hope, who always seemed to be in such a hurry all the time.

  “Hope—” Dr. Young began. Hope cut her off.

  “Faye, my artificial womb works. It can gestate lambs that have been removed from their mothers at the equivalent of the twentieth week of a human pregnancy. When they are removed from the artificial womb, they live! They are normal at birth and they develop completely normally. We should push for grant money to try removing them even earlier. We should even try to get approval to start—”

  This time it was Dr. Young’s turn to interrupt Hope. “Human trials?” Dr. Young flicked her bangs out of her eyes and put a hand on Hope’s knee. “Hope, listen to me, please. Please don’t get ahead of yourself. You are doing amazing research and making amazing strides. But these things take time. You have to take one step at a time.”