by Leslie Wolfe
Alex allowed herself to breathe, while turning onto the street of her destination. There it was, on her right, a three-story, red-brick building with a modern, almost luxurious look. It sat proudly on landscaped acreage covered in the famous Vermont greenery, now winter clad, overlooking Burlington Bay. She circled the massive building, driving slowly and keeping one eye on the rearview mirror until she reached the front entrance again. She took the driveway marked “Patient Parking” and found a spot not very close to the main entrance.
After cutting the engine off, she deliberated a few moments about the best approach to take. Deciding, she dialed a number on her cell, retrieving it with a quick Internet search. A voice picked up the call promptly.
“New Horizons, how may I direct your call?”
“Yeah, hi, I need your help, please,” Alex started to say, “I need to make an appointment with a doctor.”
“Can I have your name, please?”
“Yes, sure, it’s Parker, Jessica Parker,” Alex responded, thinking of one of her favorite movie stars.
“Who would you like to see?”
“Well, I’m not sure. I was hoping you could tell me. You see, I’m here for my mom. She needs a heart transplant, and I need to understand what’s at stake and how to proceed, how to deal with this. Can you help me?”
“Absolutely, Miss Parker. We can have you come in for a consultation with Dr. Kanellis; he’s the director of our Transplant Center. He can answer all your questions. When are you looking to come in?”
“As soon as possible, of course. This is urgent; my mother is very sick.”
“I understand. How’s tomorrow morning at nine-thirty? Will that work?”
“Absolutely, many thanks!”
Alex hung up with a bitter chuckle, her ruse taking her back to the last day she had seen her mother, when she had told Alex she could never come back home again. Her mother’s heart had definitely not been working properly back then. With an effort, she pulled herself back into the present reality. The opening move was executed; the game was on.
...Chapter 41: The Campaign Manager
...Tuesday, February 9, 3:49PM CST (UTC-6:00 hours)
...Johnson Campaign Headquarters
...Chicago, Illinois
“Focus, for Chrissake, just focus, will ya?” Anthony Fischer, campaign manager to potentially the future democratic holder of the highest office in the United States, was losing it again. I’m too old for this shit, he thought, rubbing his forehead in search of some hard-to-find patience. Damn...this man is ignorant beyond belief! But if he gets to the Oval Office, what a masterpiece! What a retirement gift!
“All right, all right, I will,” Bobby Johnson said, pouring himself another stiff one. “Want another shot?”
“No, and you should take it easy, otherwise you won’t remember anything by tomorrow. Let’s start over.” He passed his fingers through his hair, pulling it hard toward the back of his head. The consistent abuse of his signature gesture of exasperation had probably contributed to his receding hairline. His hair was simply giving up on him, just like he felt he should do with this candidate. The man was mostly a moron, at least half the time, yet Fischer never could say no to such a challenge. He took a deep breath and started all over again.
“So, tomorrow you’re going on prime time television to answer questions about what?”
“Umm...my platform, views on economy, healthcare reform, war on terror, and immigration.”
“OK, great! What’s the one-liner for your platform?”
“Umm...America needs peace, stability, and time to heal and grow back into greatness.”
“Drop the umms,” Fischer said. “They make you look indecisive and unprepared. You cannot ask people to follow you, if you aren’t even sure where you’re leading them. Got it?”
Senator Bobby Johnson let out a long sigh. “All right, I got it.”
“OK. Your views on the economy?”
“Yes. We need to strengthen the working class and stabilize the job market, ensuring that our children have gainful employment opportunities available for them after graduation. We need to provide viable alternatives for unemployed skilled workers to reintegrate them into the productive labor force. We will focus on strengthening the middle class, currently under pressures brought by recession, unemployment, and an increasing debt balance.”
For a few seconds, Fischer felt his confidence rise. When Johnson focused and was still sober, he was articulate and had solid principles. Well, for the most part.
“Your views on healthcare reform?”
“That’s a tricky one,” Senator Johnson responded hesitantly.
Nope, still a moron, Fischer thought.
“Keep it simple and general; stick to core principles, such as universal access to healthcare, affordability, and simplification. You’re a Democrat, for Chrissake. Just think what the people would like to have, what you would like to have for yourself and your family when it comes to healthcare. Got it?”
“Got it.” Johnson started to reach for the bottle but stopped in his tracks when he met Fischer’s disapproving look.
“How many did you have today, Bobby?”
“Umm...just one? Two, maybe?”
“Bobby, I told you before, and I’m not going to repeat myself forever. Stop drinking, or I am out of here. One a day, plus a nightcap when you’re between toothbrush and bed and no one can hear you speak anymore. That clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Hope so. War on terror, go!”
“With the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan ending, we’re assisting the peoples of the respective countries in their transitions to peace. We’re dismantling and annihilating any terrorist organizations, whether al-Qaeda, ISIL, or any other new emerging threat. We are committed to maintaining the strongest military force in the world. We will engage to protect, secure, and maintain peace for us and our allies.”
“This is great, Bobby; you did great! You said the right words with the right attitude. Remember that for tomorrow. How come you’re so strong on terror and not really on healthcare? What’s the difference?”
“It’s Dan’s writing; he’s so much better and clearer than Janie. She wrote all my healthcare talking points, and I can’t even remember a single one. But Dan is structured.”
“Is he still here now?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Johnson stood up from the leather couch and opened the door to his front campaign office. “Hey, Danny boy, come on over here!”
A young man, not a day older than twenty-five, came in. “Yes, sir?”
“Did you write the senator’s talking points for the war on terror?” Fischer asked.
“Yes, I did. Anything wrong?”
“No, quite the opposite,” Fischer answered. “Can you slap something together for healthcare too? What’s your background?”
“Sure I can,” he said, displaying exceptionally white teeth in a very wide smile. “I’m pure public relations, sir. I graduated magna cum laude with a PR major. I can write anything about anything, sir.”
“Perfect, go get it done; we need it in an hour,” Fischer said, patting the young man on his shoulder.
“Consider it done,” he said, then closed the door gently on his way out.
“You have a nugget of gold in this boy, Bobby; make sure you keep him happy, you hear me?”
“Don’t I know it?” Johnson answered, resuming his place on the couch.
“Not sure you do. Immigration?”
“My platform calls for the relaxation of immigration rules, allowing a higher number of highly qualified professionals to enter the American job market and build our economy strong.”
“How about unemployment? How about protecting the American laborers? How about the permanent pressure on American salaries due to the constant import of cheap labor from overseas? How would you handle these objections?”
“Well, America was built on immigration. The biggest, strongest economy of the world was built and
thrives on immigration. Today, almost 30 percent of all patents filed are authored by new immigrants or H-1B visa holders. We need to bring this innovation to strengthen our economy.”
“Who wrote this for you?”
“Janie.”
“Okay, it’s not as bad as healthcare, but if Dan has the time he should brush this up too.” Fischer ran his hand through his hair yet again. “There are at least two areas where the public can crucify you. One is healthcare, and the other is immigration. Both are slippery slopes, so refrain from diving in too deep or getting pulled into the weeds.”
“Got it.”
“Then anything involving the current or historical geopolitical environment you should avoid like the leper, unless you’re willing to really take this seriously, study, and understand it well. Until you do that, just try to back out of any geopolitically loaded question you can’t grasp. Elevate the issue, or bring the topic back to something you’re comfortable with, like the war on terror.”
“Got it.”
“Are you ready to do this, Bobby? Will you make me proud tomorrow?”
“Yes, I’m ready. I am the next president. I know it. I can feel it in my heart,” he said, his voice sounding full of unwavering faith.
Maybe there was hope. Fischer stood, ready to leave.
“Oh, almost forgot. You’ll be meeting your new best friend, Dave Vaughn, the Texas oil billionaire. I’m bringing him over in a day or two.”
“I don’t know the guy,” Johnson protested, unconvinced.
“That’s irrelevant; you will know him once you two meet. He wants to throw his money behind your campaign, so we’ll be here, ready to accept gracefully and become the best of friends. He’s your age, so you’ll find something in common to talk about. He’s a nice guy.”
“Yeah, but what does he want? Why is he supporting me?”
Involuntarily, Fischer’s hand passed through the remaining strands of thinning hair, pulling forcefully.
“Bobby, listen to me and listen good,” Fischer said in almost a menacing tone.
The senator nodded quietly.
“You need all the help you can get,” Fischer continued, his anger on the rise. “Do you understand me? All. The. Help. You. Can. Get. And for that help, you’ll do whatever it takes, are we clear?” Fischer’s question was faced with silence. He asked it in a different way. “Bobby, what are you willing to do to become the next president?”
“Oh, anything, anything at all, I promise.”
“Good. Then remember that when you meet with Dave Vaughn.”
...Chapter 42: Mother’s Problems
...Wednesday, February 10, 9:35AM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)
...New Horizons Cardiology & Transplant Center, Office of Dr. Kanellis
...Burlington, Vermont
Alex entered the posh office, following the assistant who held the door for her with a professional smile. A distinguished-looking man, wearing scrubs and the typical buzz cut popular with male medical practitioners beyond a certain age, stood up to greet her.
“Dr. Kanellis? Good morning,” Alex said, “and thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Absolutely, no problem.” The doctor shook her hand. “Take a seat. What can I do for you?”
Why do doctors always have warm, dry hands? Alex found herself wondering for a second, then refocused on the conversation at hand.
“It’s about my mother,” she started to say hesitantly. “She needs a transplant, or so we have been told. I’m afraid I don’t know much of what this entails or how to proceed.” She handed Kanellis the file folder she had brought, where the combined talents of Sam and Lou had carefully constructed her mother’s medical record based on Melanie Wilton’s case parameters.
Kanellis started reviewing, making the occasional uh-huh and aah sounds quietly.
“I’m afraid you are correct, Miss Parker; your mother does need a transplant and without much delay. The severity of fluid accumulation due to her congestive heart failure is what dictates the urgency. Her heart has lost the ability to do its job. We can try managing it with medication until a heart becomes available, but we have to act fast.”
“So what do I need to do?”
“We can start by admitting her here, to the Transplant Center, where I can evaluate her and prepare her case for the transplant committee to review.”
“How hard is it to get approved by the committee?”
Kanellis delayed his answer by a few seconds, dropping his tone from neutral and professional to almost parental.
“I’m not going to lie to you, Miss Parker. Getting a heart is tricky. There aren’t nearly enough available organs for transplant to address the growing needs of our patients. People live longer, healthier lives, so the likelihood of someone needing a transplant during their natural life span has increased tenfold. Despite the growing number of donor card carriers, there are simply not enough hearts to help everyone.”
“What are you saying?” Alex asked. “That she won’t get a heart?”
“I am saying that the transplant committee can decide either way, or even if they do add your mother’s name to the list, her priority on the waiting list might change. For example, if a younger patient is accepted before she gets a heart, she might be bumped down on the waiting list. But let’s worry about getting her name on the waiting list first. What can you tell me about her lifestyle?”
“Well, like everyone else, I guess, less than perfect. A few years back she had a DUI, but she’s not an alcoholic. It was just a mishap, when she and Dad were coming back from a party. Will that disqualify her?”
“I don’t see why it should, especially if it wasn’t recent.”
Alex’s head was spinning. What? DUI is not a disqualifier? I was right...Robert was set up. Bastards!
“How about substance abuse or smoking?” Dr. Kanellis asked.
She had to invent something, so she picked at random.
“She is a smoker, I’m afraid. Will that damage her chances?”
“Definitely, I’m afraid,” Dr. Kanellis replied. “Our center requires that patients are smoke free for at least six months before they can be placed on a transplant waiting list.”
“What if she quits now?”
“Based on what I see here,” he tapped gently on the file folder containing the medical records, “I’m afraid she doesn’t have six months left to live.”
“But there must be something we can do,” she pleaded, almost whimpering. The more she entered into her character, the more she felt sympathy for Robert Wilton and what he must have been through. “You can’t tell me there’s nothing that can be done.” She sniffled, then continued. “We have money. We can raise significant amounts. There’s nothing we won’t do for my mother.”
Dr. Kanellis quietly rejected her argument, raising his hand with his palm facing outward, as if to push her away.
“I’m afraid that money won’t make a difference here, Miss Parker. This selection process and the transplant committee were created specifically to prevent the allocation of organs to be dictated by personal wealth, as opposed to medical reasons and individual merit. The heart should go to the patient who has the best chance of survival, the greatest lifespan ahead of them, the cleanest and healthiest lifestyle. Money doesn’t come into play at any point in this process.”
She let him finish, watching him with pleading eyes.
“The only way money makes a difference,” Kanellis said, “is if you try medical tourism. There are agencies that can send you and your mother abroad, to China most likely, where you can get a heart for a very large sum of money, a couple hundred thousand at least. You also have to not mind where the heart comes from. I personally struggle even mentioning this alternative to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, where do you think these organs come from, in such places? Executed prisoners, most likely. You would buy somebody else’s life.”
She shuddered hearing him explain. Good
thing I don’t really have this dilemma. It’s a shitty one to have, she thought.
“Do you think she can make the trip, though? She’s very weak.”
“Most likely, no. Looking at her file, I wouldn’t advise her to be out of bed more than fifteen minutes per day. A flight to China is twenty hours long. It would completely exhaust her and risk her life. Even if she makes it, she’d be entering the procedure weakened and exhausted, diminishing her chances to survive and accept the organ.”
“Then what other options do I have? How about the black market for organs, here in the United States?”
“We’re not having this conversation, Miss Parker,” Kanellis said firmly. “Organ trafficking is illegal, plus it’s almost exclusively about kidneys, not hearts.”
“So there’s nothing I can do? There’s no hope? I can raise a lot of cash that no one has to know about,” she pleaded.
“Because you’re under a lot of personal hardship I will forget you mentioned that, but I’m afraid our conversation is over, Miss Parker.” He stood up frowning, visibly offended by her blatant bribe offer.
She left quietly, thinking he was a little too offended by an offer he must receive every now and then, considering what he did for a living.
Damn. Back to square one.
In her car, she grabbed her encrypted cell and speed-dialed a number.
“Hey, Lou, how’s it going?”
“Hey, partner, we were just talking about you. How are things?”
“Not impressive, I’m afraid. Need your help.”
“Shoot.”
“See if you can’t snoop around in the New Horizon systems a little. I couldn’t get anything from this Kanellis guy; he just wouldn’t budge. But I’m sure there’s something to be found. Use Melanie’s admission date to help you find the info.”