The W Hotel’s small ballroom was standing room only.
Evan was like a kid in a candy store. Every major wire service was there. The Pulitzer-prize winning investigative reporter for the Times-Picayune had a front row seat, his photographer at his side, camera at hand.
Jeanette even thought she saw Bill Kurtis from A&E’s Justice Files mingling among the crowd.
Truth to tell, she couldn’t see all that much.
She was short, and the men guarding her were as tall as redwoods. If Rutherford was going to try and do something before the conference, he would have to chop through her protection first. Hopefully, he was leaving the country, trying to get to his assets before the federal government convinced the Caymanian Bank to freeze them.
But then, when had Rutherford ever done the smart thing?
The smart thing would have been to fire her and bury the evidence. But no, his hubris — his machismo — his goddamn-I’m-god-and-no-one-can-touch-me attitude hadn’t allowed him to do the rational thing. He’d gotten away with murder and more for so long that he really couldn’t see an insignificant female like herself taking him down.
Well, he’d been wrong. But look at the price she’d paid.
“Tony, why am I here?”
Tony looked down at her. His frown told her it was an excellent question.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I told Evan it would be hard to protect you in a crowded room. Hell, any of those guys out there could be a sniper on Rutherford’s payroll.”
He shrugged, then rolled the tension out of his shoulders. “Evan said it was important for you to be here. Maybe the Feds will acknowledge your part in this. Who knows? But if they’re going to give you a goddamn medal, they could do it later, after Rutherford’s in jail.”
“Are they arresting him?” Jeanette peered through a gap between the two big men guarding her front.
“They were supposed to serve the warrant and take him into Federal custody at least fifteen minutes ago.” Tony snorted, the sound somewhere between a laugh and disgust. “The local law enforcement now wants a piece of him. They heard somehow — probably through the same sources that Rutherford uses — that the deal was coming down. Now, New Orleans wants to charge him with all sorts of crimes.”
“Stupid, stupid. What difference does it make who arrests and tries him? Just so long as he is punished for all the grief and harm he’s caused.” Jeanette shook her head. Even elected officials had to get into the dominant-territorial-male act. It was the herd that always paid for it, though.
“They’re starting.” Tony reached out and grabbed her arm.
“I can’t see.”
Jeanette steamed. You would think she would at least be able to watch while Evan brought the lid down on Rutherford’s casket.
Tony issued low-voiced orders to the men in front of her. Still shielding her with their bodies, the two angled themselves so she had a full view of the podium.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the press. May I have your attention, please?” Evan said.
The clamor in the room died down. Only an occasional scuffing of feet, a cough here and there, and the sound of chairs moving across the wooden dance floor were heard. Evan had their complete attention.
To his right, the side nearest her and her bodyguards, stood the New Orleans Chief of Police. She recognized him from all the times she’d seen him on the six o’clock news. An arrest like this on his territory, even though he had nothing to do with the man’s apprehension, would be a coup come election time. Maybe it was more than a territorial thing for him; to him, it was his survival.
Everybody had an angle.
On the far side of Evan was a man she’d never seen before. She assumed he was a federal government representative — maybe DEA, since they seemed to want a piece of Rutherford and One World so damn bad.
Jeanette stifled a sob. In all this, no one cared about Scott or Charles or Sally or poor Stu Thomas. All of them dead because of Rutherford and his ilk. The people in this room only cared about drug-running activities.
Well, Evan had promised to set them all straight. She’d seen the statement that was being handed out to the press. That ought to open their eyes. Someone out there would report the victims’ stories.
“The report circulating through the room spells out in detail the list of crimes of which Dr. Byron Rutherford, his partner, Dr. Manuel Lopez, and their nonprofit organization, One World, are felt to be guilty.” Evan paused. “Please glance over the papers. When the remainder of our podium panel arrives — which should be in just a few minutes — we’ll be ready to address all your questions.”
One reporter yelled, “Has Rutherford been arrested yet?”
The Chief of Police stepped up to the microphone. “Cars have been sent to his residence and his clinic. We have the sheriff and the State Police alerted to keep a look out for his car on the roads leaving New Orleans. We have also covered the airport, the train and bus stations. We expect an imminent arrest.”
Jeanette’s heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest. “Tony?”
“They’ll get him, kiddo.” He stroked her arm. “You won’t be left alone. We’re here for you until he’s in jail and his connections to his thugs are severed.”
A commotion at the back of the ballroom had the reporters turning en masse. The show being put on in the room was the most exciting thing to happen to New Orleans since Mardi Gras.
Peeking through the burly arms of her two front protectors who’d closed the gap when the disturbance had occurred, Jeanette saw several men enter the room.
The two lead men looked like her bodyguards, yet stiffer. Must be Feds. She always heard they all walked and talked alike — as if they had a poker up their behinds. The next man was very distinguished looking, an ad for Gentleman’s Quarterly. The third man was…
“Scott!” Jeanette screamed his name.
“Jeannie?”
A frail-looking Scott called her name. His head whipped around searching for her in the crowd.
With a strength she didn’t know she had, she barreled through her protection like a running back slipping through the defense.
Her goal was Scott. And no one, no how, was going to stop her.
“Jeanette, no!” Tony roared behind her. “It isn’t safe.”
Jeanette didn’t care. If she died now, it would be in Scott’s arms with the words “I love you” on her lips. She hadn’t told him that enough. She wanted him to know.
But she didn’t plan on dying. God wasn’t that cruel.
She flew down the aisle. Reporters cleared out of her way as she approached. Camera flashes lit up the room.
Then the shooting began.
“Jeannie, get down!”
Scott’s frantic words reached her a second before the stinging burn of a bullet creased her blouse on her upper arm.
Yet, even though someone was shooting and all hell had broken loose in the room, she didn’t stop moving toward Scott. Crouching, she made herself as small a target as possible.
Hell, what did Scott think he was doing telling her to get down? He was a target, too!
“You get down!” There she’d said it. And she’d give him piece of her mind after all this was over. Evan, too. Parading Scott down the center aisle like bait.
Damn, that’s why they’d done it. Bastards. Hadn’t Scott been through enough?
The room erupted in chaos. Reporters yelled. Cameras flashed. Bullets flew.
But in her concentration to get to Scott she saw none of it.
She didn’t even notice Rutherford until he popped up next to her.
He grasped her arm, then jerked her around in front of him. A gun jabbed at her head.
“Everybody shut the fuck up!” he screamed.
Rutherford’s mask of civility had slipped completely. He now sounded like the street-smart thug he’d hidden for years.
“Give it up, Rutherford,” a stiff-figured man who’d arrived with Scott called out. Hi
s gun was drawn and pointed at Rutherford — and her. “The building is surrounded. There is no place to run. Let Ms. LaFleur go.”
Rutherford snarled a vile epithet, then called out, “Bennie? You out there?”
“Bennie is dead.” The twin to the stick figure spoke. “Throw down your gun, please.”
“The hell I will.” Rutherford prodded her temple with the cold metal barrel. “She’s my pass out of here. I want a helicopter outside, now. She stays with me until I reach my destination.”
“No can do, Rutherford.” Number-one stick answered this time.
“Then I’ll just blow her brains out right here.” Rutherford shrugged and jammed the gun into her temple even harder.
She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
Think, Bootsie. The FBI and the New Orleans police must have sharpshooters in the room. What had Scott and Paul taught her about weapons and being held captive? Think. And do it fast.
Jeanette looked for Scott. He was a mere six or seven feet in front of her. His gaze glued onto the gun at her head. Then he caught her eyes with his. An imperceptible nod. A slight smile.
Scott knew what she was thinking. He always had. For once, she didn’t resent it.
Then he blinked three times.
Okay, on the count of three she would do what?
Whatever it was, she’d better figure it out.
Then she knew. Like a gift from God — she knew.
She blinked back three times.
Scott smiled.
She watched him like a hawk, readying herself to move at his signal while around them the two Fed-sticks and Rutherford argued her fate.
Scott blinked once.
He blinked twice.
He blinked the third time.
At the third blink, she did three things in a concerted move which would either allow her to live another day — or not. She let the strength go out of her knees. She reached back for Rutherford’s balls with a free hand, grabbed them as hard as she could and twisted. And she dropped, taking advantage of his momentary distraction.
As she fell, several shots rang out at once.
———
“Jeannie? My God, where are you hit?”
She lay on the ground. Scott’s voice, filled with panic, washed over her. She didn’t have the energy to move. But she didn’t think she was seriously hurt, or if she was, she was too numb to feel it.
“Not hurt,” she said. “I think.”
“Thank God. At least you can talk to me.”
Scott began to feel for any damage. Jeanette let him take control. It was nice to have him back in one piece, taking care of her once again.
A warm, metallic wet oozed over the arm she’d thrown up to cover her head. Blood. Was it hers? Scott’s surgeon hands gently probed her head and neck. She wanted to tell him her shoulder hurt, but she was afraid if she opened her mouth again she would either start bawling or screaming. She refused to break out into hysteria in a room full of strangers, especially ones with cameras and press credentials.
“No obvious injuries,” Scott said. “Where are the goddamn medics? She needs to be taken to the emergency room.”
He spoke to someone other than her. All the while, he stroked her hair, her cheek. Why didn’t he hold her? She needed to be held.
Through clenched teeth and tightened lips, she chanced speaking and was happy to find that she was enough in control not to scream.
“H-h-hold me.”
“Oh, baby, of course.”
Scott pulled her onto his lap. She started to rest her head on his shoulder, then remembered the blood and stopped.
“Blood on my face — off.”
Scott wiped a warm cloth over her face and head. The smell of blood lessened.
Of course. It was Rutherford’s blood. They’d shot him when she fell.
Scott nudged her head onto his chest, then tucked a blanket around her legs and another over her chest.
She’d been shivering and hadn’t even realized it.
Scott’s concerned face appeared above her. He concentrated on her as if he wanted to absorb her.
He smiled.
She smiled back. “Did I remember to tell you I love you?”
It was important that he know. Before anything else was resolved.
“Yeah, baby. You sure did.” He shook her gently. “You almost got yourself killed telling me. It could’ve waited.”
“No.” She reached up and touched his lips. He kissed the tips of her fingers. “It couldn’t. I’d put it off so long. Besides, why would God bring you back to me if he’d meant for me to die?”
Scott just smiled and shook his head. “Crazy woman.”
“But I’m your crazy woman, right?”
“You got that right, cher.” He leaned over and kissed her lips.
“Dr. Fontenot.”
Scott broke off the kiss which had deepened to a point where Jeanette felt the adrenalin pumping again, but for different reasons. The man who’d interrupted the kiss probably saved her and Scott from an embarrassing moment.
Jeanette looked to see to whom Scott was speaking. Their conversation flowed over her like Lethe, the Greek stream of forgetfulness.
Love — and yeah, she would admit it, lust — had a way of healing all ills.
Scott said, “The bastard is dead, right?”
The hatred in his voice shook her out of the peaceful lethargy that his nearness and kiss had brought her.
“Rutherford’s dead?” Jeanette could barely speak, her voice tightened by the memory of the gun jammed against her head and Rutherford’s hateful voice in her ear.
“Yes, cher.” Scott gathered her even closer against his warmth. “He won’t ever hurt you or threaten those you love again.”
“Then, can we go home? To Manchac? Our family must be worried to death.”
Scott laughed out loud. “No need, my heart. Look who’s coming down the aisle.”
A forest of legs parted in front of her. Down the aisle came Mama Chloe holding onto Brigitte’s hand with Frenchy and some of the other bayou men close behind.
“Mama!” Brigitte broke free and raced down the aisle. The little girl threw herself at Jeanette. “You’re all right.”
Jeanette reached up from the shelter of Scott’s arms and hugged her daughter, kissing any and all parts of the precious little face she could reach.
“Yeah, darling.” Jeanette sniffed back tears of relief and happiness. “I’m all right.”
Brigitte’s shining face looked up at Scott.
“Did Uncle Scott tell you? He came to the swamp and got us, me and Mama Chloe. He said we’re going to get married.”
“He did, huh?” Jeanette looked up.
A crease appeared on Scott’s forehead.
She reached up and soothed the lines on his tanned face.
“Well, he happens to be one hundred percent correct. We are getting married, as soon as we possibly can.”
Jeanette started laughing as the entire room erupted into cheers.
Spring had come into her life once more. Winter was a distant memory, a season in her life she hoped to put off coming again for a long, long time.
AFTERWORD
Although a real life case inspired the writing of this book, this is a work of fiction. So, the reader might ask, “What’s real and what isn’t?”
In the 1980s, there was a study performed in New Orleans called Epikeratophakia or the Living Lens procedure. The procedure was as described in this novel — it used donor corneas, which were cut, lathed, then applied as a living contact lens. The procedure had potentially severe side effects. Patients were not fully informed of the potential risks, one of which was blindness.
Blind-Sided takes as its inspiration the case of one such bad result. One patient was bilaterally blinded by the Living Lens procedure. She chose to sue the doctor and the research institution. Janet Ferran, a Research Assistant on the project, was subpoenaed to testify on behalf of the patient. Janet
was fired when she refused to lie on behalf of the doctor. The patient won her case at trial, which was appealed by the defendants to the Louisiana Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals. The appellate court not only upheld the jury’s verdict and award, but also increased the amount of money damages.
Body part trafficking was not a part of the real-life case. However, in today’s world, body part trafficking has become a concern. A small international task force (not associated with the United Nations, to my knowledge) called the Bellagio Task Force on Transplantation, Bodily Integrity, and the International Traffic in Organs conducted field research into what they call the “commodification” of the body and body parts. A paper written by Nancy Scheper-Hughes, Department of Anthropology, University of California — Berkeley, entitled “The End of the Body: The Global Traffic in Organs for Transplant Surgery,” (May 14, 1998) summarizes the findings of the Task Force (only up through the date of the report’s publication; I’m sure they have found out much more since then).
It was from this paper I learned about Brazil and the body mafia. Once I had a setting for my stolen body parts, the rest was all fiction.
The characters are all figments of a writer’s imagination, and any resemblance to any one living or dead is unintentional.
While the Jazz Festival, Manchac Swamp, the Rock N Bowl do exist, Lady Marmalade’s in the Quarter does not. We needed it, so we invented it. — Monette Michaels and Janet Ferran
The End
About the Authors
Janet C. Ferran is a native of New Orleans and as a Certified Ophthalmic Technician has worked as a clinician and researcher in the field of ophthalmology for the past twenty-eight years.
As Vice-President of Research and Development for Baltech, Inc. for the past thirteen years, she has worked on the development of an antiviral drug recently licensed to a large pharmaceutical company. Daily she can be found in the retina clinic at Ochsner Foundation.
In her spare time, she enjoys interviewing local ophthalmologists for her column Reflections in the New Orleans Academy of Ophthalmology Newsletter.
She shares her private life with her daughter Tina, son-in-law Matthew, and grandson Austin.
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