A Simple Cure

by Lawrence Gold

  After a moment of silence, Mickey inhaled. “Stay where you are. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  The family room remained dark since Jennifer had yet to open the drapes. She sat in the middle of the sofa with her arms folded across her chest. She had difficulty breathing.

  This can’t be happening to me.

  Nobody in my family has cancer.

  I always used sun screen.

  Random thoughts flashed through her mind, no single one lasting long enough for her to focus.

  Mickey...Lizzy...Brad.

  How can I leave them?

  I can’t die...I’m too young to die.

  When Mickey burst through the door, she rushed into his arms.

  “Maybe it’s a mistake,” he said.

  “They don’t make that kind of mistake.”

  “Let’s call Lenny. He’s our doc and our friend. He’ll find the best cancer doc and center for you, Sweetheart.”

  Jennifer and Mickey counted the days to their appointment with Jason Beckman, the director of oncology at the University of California, in San Francisco.

  The UC Medical Center was a crowded complex of gray and tan high-rise buildings sitting atop Parnassus Heights just south of Golden Gate Park. They arrived as the bone-chilling afternoon fog rolled over the heights and into the city.

  They registered and made their way to the eighth floor waiting room packed with patients and their relatives. When Jennifer looked across the room filled with cancer patients at varying stages of their diseases, she shuddered.

  It’s a menagerie—a freak show. She regretted the unkind thoughts, those terrible words almost as quickly as they came.

  Cancer was a word no longer whispered. Patients refused to hide in dark corners. Many assumed the armor of public militancy like rights activists, and recognized the power of the “squeaky-wheel” principle.

  Media embraced the disease in every form. They warned and encouraged. Warned us to avoid the sun, cell phones, high voltage wires, barbecues and most of the food we love; encouraged us to get mammograms, total body scans, and sent us on a trip through Katie Couric’s colon.

  As Jennifer looked at the baldheaded women, the amputees, the heads and necks deformed by radiation and surgery, the wasted and wretched, she clung to Mickey and cried.

  The elderly woman sitting next to them said, “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Jennifer.

  “The first time I came to the clinic, I cried. It’s overwhelming.”

  “I feel so stupid and selfish,” Jennifer said. “All this terrifies me.”

  “You’ll get used to it.” She turned to Mickey and said, “Guess how long I’ve been coming here.”

  “Don’t have a clue,” said Mickey.

  “Guess. Take a stab at it.”

  Mickey looked at Jennifer, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Five years.”

  “Twenty-five years,” she said with pride. “Breast cancer that spread to my bones. They said I’d be dead in a year, yet here I am. If they can’t cure cancer, they can usually control it. My doctors say I’m going to die of old-age or in a traffic accident, and not the cancer.”

  “Jennifer Howe,” echoed from the speaker.

  They rose. Jennifer grasped the woman’s wrinkled hand. “Thank you. God watch over you.”

  The nurse escorted them into Jason Beckman’s office which looked more like the back office of an auto supply shop than one for a physician.

  Jason rose and extended his hand over a desk strewn with charts, thick reams of research data, and correspondence.

  “Excuse the mess,” he said. “My mind’s much more orderly.”

  Beckman was thin and balding and spoke with a thick New York accent.

  Jason held up a thick chart. “I have your biopsy and your medical records.”

  “Jennifer can’t sleep, she’s been so upset,” Mickey said.

  “It would surprise me if you weren’t.”

  “It’s the unknown that scares me the most,” said Jennifer. “I can deal with most anything, I think, if I know what to expect.”

  Jason’s gaze moved between the two. “We’re at the start of a long journey with twists and turns. We’ll encounter roadblocks, detours, and probably a pitfall or two, but I’ve been this way before, I know my way around.”

  “Please be frank with us, Doctor,” Mickey said.

  “I will. Stop me anytime. Melanoma is our most serious skin cancer and each year we see over fifty thousand new cases. It’s increasing at an alarming rate. Why? We’re not sure. Sun exposure is the most often cited factor.”

  “I always used sun block,” Jennifer said.

  “The use of sun screen and blockers is controversial. We’re still recommending them, but we know they may block the wrong ultraviolet rays, giving us a false sense of security. New sunscreens are available to block all the dangerous UV rays.

  “To be brief, we need to widen the excision around that melanoma and check the status of the lymph glands in that area. Once we know the extent of the disease, we can discuss treatment options.”

  “When do we start?” asked Jennifer.

  “We’ll do a lymph node scan tomorrow, then surgery.”

  Mickey and Jennifer clasped hands.

  “I’ll assume that like most intelligent people we see here at UC, you’ve looked or will look on the Internet for information about melanoma. I think that’s great, but I have reservations. You can learn much from the NIH and university web sites, but other sites contain information that’s highly speculative or flat-out wrong. In addition, we’re doing much better in treating the disease than you’ll find anywhere on the web, so take heart.”

  They drove home in silence. Traffic stopped them when they reached the midpoint on the Bay Bridge. Mickey stared over the bay in thought. He turned to Jennifer, reaching for something to say, something that could help. “We’re lucky to have one of the best programs in the country nearby.”

  “If I was really lucky, I wouldn’t have to go there in the first place.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lisa Gomez’s tissue culture experiment with BCG had produced remarkable results.

  She sat with Evan Klack in her cubbyhole office. Reams of data covered her desk.

  Evan pointed to a graph. “This new strain of BCG is wreaking havoc with most melanoma cell lines.”

  They’d accumulated fifty different tissue cultures from melanoma patients. They manipulated the environment for these malignant cells trying to understand how they grew and spread. The cells passed through three phases, a low risk phase, a high risk phase, and the metastatic phase where cancer cells spread all around the body.

  With these excellent results, they went immediately to experiments using a specific mouse model. Exposing these mice to ultraviolet light in the newborn period predictably induced melanoma. In these so-called genetically modified organisms (GMOs), they could control the genetic makeup of the test mice and isolate the effects of any therapy, especially BCG.

  Soon after Lisa and Evan reported their results, David Birch developed a renewed interest in their work, spending hours analyzing the data.

  Evan frowned as David crossed out an entire section of their data. “You can’t do that.”

  “Don’t tell me how to handle research data. I’ve been at it a lot longer than you. These results are way out of line with the bulk of our findings, so we, like any reputable research institute, throw them out.”

  “Evan’s right,” said Lisa. “We need to understand why a particular group’s results are different.”

  “Give me a break, you two. This data is remarkable. Let’s not dilute its significance.”

  “If you eliminate all those outliers, no one’s going to believe the data when we present it at meetings. Nobody’s data is that good.”

  “We’re not yet ready to present this material in public,” David said. “You two do understand the proprietary significance of this information.”


  “This is basic science stuff, David,” Lisa said. “We’ll need verification of these findings by other laboratories.”

  “Let me make this as clear as I can,” David said. “The directors of Kendall Laboratories want this information held as proprietary secrets. You are not to share this data or even hint at its existence with anyone outside this facility.”

  Evan Klack shook his head. “I know you must draw the line somewhere, David, and I understand that this is a business and not the university, but we should be able to report our findings without the specific details. Withholding the results will impede research and delay the development of a potentially useful treatment for this devastating disease.”

  “Kendall will determine when and if that will happen. Do you understand?”

  Later that same day, David called Richard Kendall.

  “How’s it going, David?” asked Richard.

  “Well, very well, indeed.”

  “We could use something to prop up our future.”

  “How about something that will blast your bottom line into outer space?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The preliminary studies with BCG in mice with melanoma are producing fantastic results. We may be on the threshold of producing a vaccine to cure advanced melanoma.”

  “Don’t jerk me around, David. I know what it takes to bring a new drug to market.”

  “Of course, but if this vaccine proves as effective as I think it could be, the FDA will be pounding on our door to get it out to the public ASAP.”

  “You mean Fast-Track approval?”

  “If clinical trials produce results like the mouse studies, Fast-Track may not be fast enough, especially if great results inadvertently leak to the public.”

  “You’re a man after my own heart, David. I knew you’d come through for us. We could make millions on this.”

  “Richard,” David said, “you don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  “The principles we’ve applied in BCG vaccine treatment of melanoma are likely to apply in many cancers. We’re not talking millions, Richard, we’re talking billions.”

  When Lisa and Evan looked at the completed mouse experiments results, David’s interest increased further. Karl Muller had become a fixture in their lab which had developed a prison-like atmosphere. Muller stood by the door at the end of each weekday and randomly searched their belongings.

  “Get your hands off my purse, Karl,” Lisa said. “That’s private property.”

  “Hell it is,” said Karl pulling the purse from her hands and dumping its contents into a large tray by the door.

  “If you think I’m going to put up with this,” Lisa said, “you’re crazy. I’m going to Greg and Amanda.”

  “Save your breath. They already signed off on this.”

  “We’ll see,” she said, stuffing her belongings back into her purse.

  “Some people have to learn the hard way,” Karl said. He turned to Evan Klack. “Don’t tell me I’m going to have problems with you too, shorty.”

  “Don’t talk to him that way, you pig.”

  Karl reddened, grabbed Lisa’s arm and pushed her through the door. He turned to Dr. Klack and stared.

  Evan paled then handed over his leather case.

  Raymond Fish’s voice boomed from the rear of the lab. “If you think we’re going to let you get away with this crap, you’re out of your mind.”

  “Why don’t you join me in my office?” Karl asked.

  “Don’t think you can intimidate me,” Raymond said. “I’ve known people like you my whole life.”

  Woody Hopkins, watching the meeting on closed circuit TV in Chicago, quickly typed a text message: keep it cool, Karl.

  Karl felt the vibration of his pager then stared at the screen, read the message and smiled.

  “A text message from God, or perhaps the Kendalls,” Raymond said, smiling.

  “I think you guys go into the labor movement just for the chance to poke us in the eye. What happened, did some horny CEO fuck your mother?”

  Karl stood and moved next to Raymond’s chair. He bent down and in Raymond’s ear whispered, “I don’t think you give a shit about our employees.”

  “Think what you want. Just don’t engage in the violation of any Fair Employment Practices and we’ll get along just fine.”

  “Listen Raymond, let me give you a piece of advice. Kendall, its administration, its security services, or its attorneys are not your problem. When you screw around with a good thing, it’s the people you’re trying to help that you should fear. Not every employee loves unions, you know.”

  Two days later, while walking down the darkened street toward his apartment, Raymond heard, “Hey, Ray, wait up.”

  Ray turned and saw a figure he couldn’t recognize walking toward him. “Who is it?”

  Suddenly, his head exploded in pain. As he lay on the pavement, the dark suited man kicked him repeatedly.

  “Maybe this will teach you to mind your own fucking business,” were the last words he heard as his world turned black.

  Raymond awakened at Brier Hospital in Berkeley.

  He groaned in pain as his father, Ned and brothers surrounded the bed. Ray tried to speak, but couldn’t because they’d wired his jaws together.

  “Your jaw’s broken,” his father said.

  Raymond made a writing gesture with his hand and when they handed him a pad, he wrote: PAT. Karl Muller, then drew a circle around Muller’s name several times.

  Ned Fish and Ray’s brothers flooded into PAT like a tsunami. They demanded answers and pushed the Emeryville police for action. They got neither.

  “If Mr. Fish wants to press charges,” said the sergeant, “we’ll proceed.”

  “He didn’t see his face,” Ned said. “He wore a ski mask.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir. We’ll investigate. That’s all I can promise.”

  The brothers waited for Karl Muller outside a local Emeryville bar. When he left, Raymond’s two brothers grabbed and pulled Muller into an alley.

  “What the fuck is this all about,” Karl cried.

  “Raymond Fish, you bastard,” said the youngest brother.

  “I didn’t have nothing to do with that. I didn’t like the guy, that’s for sure. He was a real pain in the ass.”

  Ned Fish nodded and the two brothers began to pummel Muller who fought back with incredible strength. Just as Karl was about to break free, Ned smashed a piece of rebar across the big man’s head dropping him at once.

  As Muller lay unconscious, Ned pulled a serrated hunting knife and approached the supine figure.

  “Don’t,” the brother’s yelled as they restrained their father.

  “Let me go, damn it. I’m going to kill that son-of-a-bitch.”

  “He’s not worth the jail time, Dad. We’ll teach him a lesson he won’t forget.”

  They were kicking Karl’s supine body when bright flashing lights atop the police cruiser stopped at the entrance to the alley.

  “Emeryville Police. What’s going on here?”

  When they shined their spotlight into the alley, a body lay crumpled against the wall. Three men were racing away down the alley.

  One officer stopped to check on Karl Muller. “We’d better call an ambulance.”

  “Hell no,” grunted Karl. “Just give me a hand to get up.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing, officer,” Karl said brushing himself off and grimacing with pain. “So much for freedom of speech. All I said was that the Oakland Raiders were a bunch of pussies.”

  After six months, the first few studies were nearing completion. The BCG melanoma animals were disease free in over 80 percent of cases.

  “You won’t believe these results,” David Birch said, as he talked on the phone with Richard Kendall at Kendall’s offices in Chicago.

  “When can we go the Phase I human trials?” Kendall’s CEO asked.

  “Right away.” />
  “If this pans out, David, I’m doubling your salary and giving you a pile of stock options.”

  “I appreciate that, Sir.”

  “Don’t let anything screw this up.”

  “I won’t.”

  One afternoon, as Lisa was preparing to leave for Genentech Hall, Karl asked to see her in his office.

  “I’m late, Karl. Can’t it wait for another time?”

  “Please,” he said, with a smile limited to his lips. “This will only take a moment.”

  Lisa shrugged then entered his office. When he walked to the door, closed and locked it, she felt an icy chill.

  “We’re requesting that you cease your research at the university until we complete this phase of our studies.”

  “Who’s making that request?”

  “Kendall Labs.”

  “I’m sorry, Karl, but my employment agreement is specific. Kendall must allow me the time to complete my Ph.D. Who knows when we’ll be done with this phase of the research.”

  “Kendall’s a business, Lisa. They’re having financial difficulties and have banked a lot on your studies. They’re reasonable and have authorized me to increase your stipend and perhaps even sweeten it more if you’ll cooperate.”

  Lisa felt her anger rising. “First, Karl, you have no basis to believe that I’m anything but a loyal employee. The company has made its position clear and although I have misgivings, I’m going along. If for some reason, I cannot, you’ll have my resignation.”

  “We don’t want your resignation. You’re too valuable to us. Just hold off on UC for a while. That’s all we’re asking.”

  “I’m sorry, Karl. I’m too close to completing my studies and getting my Ph.D. I’ve worked too hard and too long to let anything get in the way.” She stood. “I’m late.”

  When she reached the door, it was locked.

  “Karl?” she said.

  He walked to the door, slipped his key into the slot and said, “You don’t want to disappoint me or Kendall, Lisa. I think you’re making a terrible mistake.”

  While driving over the Bay Bridge to San Francisco, Karl and the whole Kendall philosophy troubled and angered Lisa.