Chase, the Bad Baby: A Legal and Medical Thriller (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 4)

by John Ellsworth

  Thaddeus knew all about the forensics of the restroom crime scene. He knew the footprint he left on the stall door would be lifted and analyzed. He knew it was likely the footprint would be compared to his own footwear when the FBI appeared at his house with a search warrant, which they surely would, as he was the individual with both motive and opportunity. He knew that the full and partial footprints etched in the victim’s blood on the stall floor would be lifted as well. He prepared for that eventuality by stopping halfway home, pulling into a strip mall, and locating the Dumpster behind the Mandarin restaurant. The Air Jordans on his feet were removed and replaced with loafers. The Airs were deposited into the Dumpster and covered with packaging materials he found there. They would never be found and, even if they were, they would never be connected to him. Too remote, no connection.

  Then he removed the latex gloves from his front pocket, removed the hairnet from his rear pocket, removed the damp paper towels from his rear pocket, and wrapped everything inside the paper hairnet. He snapped a BIC and held the items away from his body, lighting them and watching them burn until he had to drop the package. He waited judiciously while it burned itself out and he then climbed back into the Bug and pulled away. The wind and alley traffic would quickly scatter the ashes and no trace would be left, even if someone came looking, which was mathematically all but impossible.

  Thaddeus knew about the Frye and Daubert legal standards of proof by expert witnesses that might be used against him. He had cited and argued these rules to judges many times during his career as a trial lawyer. Under these standards, which he knew were historically distinguishable, the U.S. Attorney could call to testify against him various experts who would have collected evidence from the scene, tested the evidence and made comparisons, and who would try to connect him with the scene, especially through trace and transfer evidence. Trace evidence would be evidence he might have deposited at the scene under Locard’s Principle, which could include strands of his own hair and fibers from his carpet and chair at the office as well as from home. To protect against contaminating the crime scene with trace evidence Thaddeus had stopped at a Target store and purchased the black turtleneck. It of course bore no hair and no fiber from either home or office. Likewise a pair of black denims pants. He changed in the Target changing room. On the way home, after the hit, he went back to the same Target for the stated purpose of trying on other items of clothing. In his briefcase he had brought along the suit, shirt, and coat he had worn that day to the office. He changed back into these and tossed the jeans in a trash barrel outside a Best Buy at the other end of the neighborhood mall. He pulled into a 7-Eleven two miles on down the road, went inside for a coffee, and on the way past plunked the turtleneck shirt into the trash barrel outside the doors. He felt comfortable, driving home that night, that he had protected himself against all such trace and transfer inquiries and techniques of crime scene investigation.

  * * *

  Manny Rodriguez worked late at the office.

  He straightened his desk, flipping through the Chase Staples case, anything he might have missed that day. He pulled his MacBook out of his backpack. He scanned a stack of paper medical records from the baby’s birth, hospital and doctor and nursing. He moved the scanned PDFs to the MacBook. He studied the screen, then opened the finder. He browsed to Dropbox, where he created a new file titled “Chase Staples.” He copied all scanned medical records on the Chase Staples case over to Dropbox. Morgana says we’re scrubbing Chase Staples? Not if I get there first, we’re not. This kid is too screwed to let it happen to him. He clicked the mouse and his laptop’s desktop swam into view and the screen blinked.

  “Here we go. Hudd Family wants us to screw this kid. Well, here’s one nobody gets to scrub. I’m saving this entire mess to the cloud.” He resumed scanning for another hour. Soon he had twenty-seven PDFs saved to Dropbox on his MacBook. Under his own name, on his own account.

  Two floors below, XFBI recorded none of this. Manny’s laptop did not happen to be connected to the Jones Marentz network. In fact, his personal laptop was running off its own broadband. No one knew the records were saved off-site. No one except Manny.

  He returned the paper files to their accordion folder. He shut down the MacBook and unbuttoned his shirt. The MacBook fit flat against his abdomen. It was time to take it home.

  He turned back to the Jones Marentz office computer and made an entry on the firm’s intake screen. “Let me see. This is a new case about a baby born with severe brain injury. Dr. Phillip Payne, our client. Baby is named Chase. I like that, Chase. Well, Chase, your secrets are safe with me. Now good night.”

  It was after nine.

  XFBI checked his backpack as he left the suite. The agent knew Manny, joked with him several times a day, and loved talking Bulls basketball with him.

  “What about that Joakim Noah last night?” the guard said and whistled. “Bruiser, that guy.”

  “Sir Charles says he might be the best big guy in the NBA. I don’t disagree.”

  “Good night, Mister Rodriguez.”

  “Catch you later.”

  Then he was gone, a complete set of original medical records safely onboard.

  Now to decide what to do with them. He didn’t know, at that point, what he would do. But he did know that the answer would reveal itself to him as they moved further into the case.

  He shivered. Brain damage. How hopeless the parents must feel.

  29

  Prior to the visit with the pediatric neurologist, Thaddeus accompanied Latoya and Chase to the Chicago Office of Social Services. She had been struggling and Thaddeus was ready to do whatever he could to help. His role at the meeting would be to put pressure on Social Services to cough up financial help for the baby. At least provide in-home assistance with his care. Chase’s needs were overwhelming and she needed help with the infant.

  They were sitting across the desk from a rather obese woman who was intently snapping her Wrigley’s and running her fingers across her monitor. Latoya held Chase in her lap. He was tightly bundled, as it was blustery and very damp outside that day. Thaddeus noticed the little boy’s eyes were steadily focused on the overhead fluorescents.

  The woman reported what she saw on the screen. “Uh-huh, you’ve been to see us twice now. Both times we’ve told you there’s no in-home services for a severely disabled child. Now we can help you find an institution that would be wonderful for him, but in-home is a no-no—way too expensive for Uncle, Miss Staples.”

  Latoya patted Chase’s shoulder. “Please. Let me explain this again. Please write it down. This baby is my youngest of three. There are two others. One in pre-school and one in first grade. This one never will be. He was hurt so bad being born that he’s never going to school anywhere. Which means I need help. I cannot do this by myself.”

  “What about your husband? Does he help out?”

  “When he’s not working days driving a bus and nights mopping floors downtown in some office building.”

  “It says here that your baby suffers spasticity and seizures. Is he getting his medical care for these things?”

  “John has good health care from the Blueline Tours. So our baby is getting what he needs there, but it only covers outpatient doctors. There’s nothing for doctors and nurses coming to us at home. I don’t think you people understand. Bringing Chase down here with me today is an all-day job. First I spend two hours getting him dressed and fed and settled down. Then he takes all his medicine—he’s on Dilantin. Then we get down here by bus because I can’t drive, not alone with him in the car. That takes another full hour, meaning we change over on the green line and I have to wait at the bus stop with him. Now he’s upset and throwing a fit because he’s cold. He’s always cold and I just can’t get him warm enough.”

  “I understand all that.”

  Latoya started to cry. Thaddeus held out his arms to take Chase for a few minutes, but she refused.

  The frustration at the situation overc
ame her. She became angry with the case worker. “Do you? Does it say in your computer how my heart is broken? Does it tell you how I cry myself to sleep every night? Does it tell you that I still cry even when all I’m doing is looking at him?”

  Gently, the social worker said, “No, it doesn’t say that. I understand, we all do. But in this economy we’ve had fifty percent cutbacks in all the services we can provide. No one gets their full needs met anymore. But I understand what you’re going through. I really get it.”

  By then Chase was getting explosive. He was bucking like an angry young bull. The allure of the fluorescents had played out and his eyes roamed slowly around the room. A crying fit overcame him and he was crying while half-digested formula rolled from the corner of his mouth. Latoya reached in his bag and found a warm cloth to wipe his face. He jerked away from her touch and began sobbing. Her own tears followed.

  “Do you really get it?” Latoya cried.

  “I’m sorry. We do get it. But there’s no money.”

  Latoya turned and looked at Thaddeus. “See, Thad? See what I mean?”

  Thaddeus could only nod, but asked the case worker, “Is there any kind of appeal process we can undertake? Or is your word final?”

  The case worker shrugged. “You can appeal, but all I’m telling you is that there isn’t some fund of money we can tap if someone in appeals should order it. It’s just not there and hasn’t been for probably ten years. Let me tell you something.”

  She leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “The wars in the Middle East shut off all funding. From Nine/Eleven and after it was like a faucet got turned. Funds dried up, we’ve been operating on a shoestring, and basically we’ve become a referral service.”

  “Can he get Social Security?”

  “Maybe Medicaid. You’d have to see them about that.”

  “And there’s no appeal process? Would filing a lawsuit help?”

  “Be my guest. That still won’t make money appear. No one has money, period. If we did I would love to help. If we did, Chase would definitely be at the top of our list.”

  Thaddeus looked helplessly at Latoya. She was struggling with Chase and trying not to burst into tears again.

  He resolved he would look at all possible ways to sue the doctor and hospital that did this to the baby.

  First he would need the medical records. They had been requested in writing.

  Hudd Family Healthcare had promised the records by the end of that month.

  Until then, his hands were tied and he could offer no other help to the little family with the gigantic problems.

  They left, feeling frustrated and helpless.

  Thaddeus hailed a cab and paid the fare for the duo’s trip back home. When they were gone, he turned and began walking back to his office. He needed to time to think. He needed time to collect himself after the failed system he had just witnessed.

  More than anything, he needed to assess just how totally dependent on him Chase had now become. He accepted that responsibility a hundred percent. Now he had to begin laying plans. There would be a lawsuit and hopefully a full and fair settlement within the next ten or twelve months. He couldn’t deliver it any faster than that and he was going to have to make sure Latoya understood the long wait she was facing before there would be money to help.

  As for himself, he was more than willing to cut back legal fees if that would help.

  If not, he would take Hudd and Dr. Payne to court and get a jury verdict.

  30

  Early that fall, Carson Palmer and A.W. Marentz went bird hunting. Killing domestic pheasants was an annual event. It made both men feel vigorous and virile, the loading of guns, the discussion of shot loads, muzzle velocities, shot patterns, the killing and cooking of game.

  They hunted near the center of a picked cornfield, their shotguns raised and ready. A signal from the end of the picked row told them that a pheasant was about to be released from its pen. The bird fluttered up, trying to pick up speed, when both shotguns roared.

  A.W. was upset. “That was my bird, Carse!”

  Carson cracked open the breech of his gun and pulled the spent shell from the chamber. “Dead bird either way. I lost track.”

  “How many have we killed now?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  A.W. held his hands to his ears. “My ears are definitely ringing. I’ve had enough for one day.”

  “At fifty bucks a bird we each owe five-fifty.”

  “Cheap at twice the price. Bill big, kill tame birds.”

  “Bill big, get boats and country clubs.”

  “Bill big and retire,” A.W. laughed.

  “Speaking of which, A.W.—”

  “—speaking of which I’m about ready. My protégé is winning her cases and my guy at Fidelity says I could live to four hundred ten and still have money left over.”

  “Your protégé Morgana Bridgman? I haven’t spoken ten words to her since she walked out on us. I heard she was or is sick. How’s she doing now? It’s been what—six months since she came screaming back to us? What’s she up to now?”

  “She’s settled eleven cases since the little hiccup. She’s definitely seen the light and evidently enjoys her new partnership status. Not to mention the paycheck she drags off every other Friday.”

  “What’s her trial calendar looking like? Surely not everything will settle.”

  “She has an upcoming trial. It won’t settle. I’m thinking jury selection begins after Thanksgiving.”

  “I’d like you to keep a close watch on that one.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “First trial since she came back. Let’s make sure she’s up to it. There’s a big difference between saying you’ll engage in a criminal conspiracy and actually doing it.”

  They shot simultaneously at a final bird. Both missed and the bird escaped and became a dot in the sky.

  Carson shook his head. “Is she keeping her files cleaned up? XFBI says there are no problems whatsoever.”

  “She must be, she’s getting great settlements.”

  “Good girl.”

  31

  The lawyers had the pediatrician’s records. They thought Chase had a case—so far. Something had gone wrong during Chase’s birth that had caused his damage. It wasn’t something delivered to them as punishment from God (as her grandmother suggested) and it wasn’t something genetic from the mother (as John’s sister suggested). It was something done by the doctor who delivered Chase, or by the hospital, maybe both.

  Which was why Thaddeus accompanied Latoya to the second meeting with Dr. Arroyo. The severity and kind of neurologic deficits suffered by the infant would add another piece of the puzzle. “The etiology of Chase’s deficits,” Thaddeus told her. “That’s what we’re going to need to pin down.”

  Dr. Arroyo entered exam room 4 and found Chase, Latoya, and Murfee waiting. Exam room 4 consisted of an exam table, chairs, nursery rhyme cutouts along the walls, work table with computer and two screens. Latoya sat with Chase on a chrome frame chair, her knee bouncing up and down as she kept the baby moving, an exercise that she had found helped to keep him happy.

  “Hello, Mister Murfee, and thanks for coming. Hello Mrs. Staples. How is young Mister Chase doing today?”

  “No change, Dr. Arroyo. He still cries and throws fits all night long.”“

  “Let’s see. Chase is nine months old and he had his second CT scan last week.”

  “Nine months Friday. He’s growing so fast.”

  “His crying and discomfiture can be explained. Let me just show you what a cross-section of Chase’s brain looks like on the CT scan machine. Remember, a CT scan is just a series of X-rays. These are last week’s study.”

  He positioned the computer screens so Latoya and Thaddeus could see the images. They watched as he flipped through several slides.

  “Now the screen on the left depicts the brain of a normal nine-month-old child. The areas of the brain portrayed are synced to show the s
ame areas as the screen on the right. The screen on the right will show the same views, but these films are Chase’s brain. Please notice the differences.”

  “You took X-rays of my baby’s brain. We’ve had this once before.”

  “That’s right. The images we have obtained can be compared to a loaf of bread. I can look at each of these slices individually and see what’s up with Chase’s brain. Or I can combine them in a whole loaf and visualize the entire brain. Like this—”

  —clicking the mouse—

  Latoya said quietly, “It’s so small. His brain is so small.”

  “It’s a normal size for his age group, and that’s good.”

  For a fleeting moment Murfee could see she felt hope. She had told him that she always felt hope when a doctor or radiologist or nurse practitioner said something about Chase that contained the word “normal.”

  “Why is that size good?”

  “Bottom line, it means we have possibilities to work with. If his brain was microencephelatic it would be much more dire. Not that Chase’s situation isn’t dire.”

  “How dire?”

  “OK, look at this series of images here. Watch as I click through several of them.”

  The screen flashed several times, maybe a half dozen. The “normal” views changed likewise.

  See?”

  She choked back a cry. “It looks like there’s a dark place inside his brain. Is there a dark place?”

  “There is. And that’s what we need to talk about. We believe that while Chase was being born he suffered a lack of oxygen, a condition we call asphyxia.”

  “That’s what Thad says.”

  The doctor nodded at Thaddeus. But the physician wasn’t smiling—this was dire and he wanted to impress her with just how dire Chase’s situation was.