“I’m sorry. When you asked, I didn’t realize it was an emergency.”
“It’s becoming an emergency,” said Marissa. “But I’ll be out of town for a day or two. So if you could do it tomorrow I’d really appreciate it.”
“What’s going on?” asked Ralph. “The paper gave no details.”
“Like I said last night, I don’t want to involve you.”
“I don’t mind,” Ralph insisted. “Why don’t you come over here. We can talk and I can get you a lawyer in the morning.”
“Have you ever heard of an organization called the Physicians’ Action Congress?” asked Marissa, ignoring Ralph’s offer.
“No,” said Ralph. “Marissa, please come over. I think it would be better to face this problem, whatever it is. Running away makes you look bad.”
Marissa heard her flight called.
“I’m going to the AMA to find out about the organization I just mentioned,” said Marissa quickly. “I’ll call tomorrow. I’ve got to run.” She hung up, picked up her briefcase and book and boarded the plane.
13
May 22
ARRIVING IN CHICAGO, MARISSA decided to treat herself to a nice hotel and was happy to find the Palmer House had a room. She risked using her credit card and went straight upstairs to bed.
The next morning, she ordered fresh fruit and coffee from room service. While waiting, she turned on the Today Show and went into the bathroom to shower. She was drying her hair when she heard the anchorman mention Ebola. She rushed into the bedroom, expecting to see the news commentator giving an update on the situation in Philadelphia. Instead, he was describing a new outbreak. It was at the Rosenberg Clinic on upper Fifth Avenue in New York City. A doctor by the name of Girish Mehta had been diagnosed as having the disease. Word had leaked to the press, and a widespread panic had gripped the city.
Marissa shivered. The Philadelphia outbreak was still in progress and another one had already started. She put on her makeup, finished fixing her hair and ate her breakfast. Marissa got the AMA’s address and set out for Rush Street.
A year ago if someone had told her she’d be visiting the association, she never would have believed it. But there she was, going through the front door.
The woman at the information booth directed her to the Public Relations office. The director, a James Frank, happened by as Marissa
was trying to explain her needs to one of the secretaries. He invited her to his office.
Mr. Frank reminded Marissa of her high-school guidance counselor. He was of indeterminate age, slightly overweight and going bald, but his face had a lived-in look that exuded friendliness and sincerity. His eyes were bright, and he laughed a lot. Marissa liked him instantly.
“Physicians’ Action Congress,” he repeated when Marissa asked about the organization. “I’ve never heard of it. Where did you come across it?”
“On a congressman’s contributions list,” said Marissa.
“That’s funny,” said Mr. Frank. “I’d have sworn that I knew all the active political action committees. Let me see what my computer says.”
Mr. Frank punched in the name. There was a slight delay, then the screen blinked to life. “What do you know! You’re absolutely right. It’s right here.” He pointed to the screen. “Physicians’ Action Congress Political Action Committee. It’s a registered separate segregated fund.”
“What does that mean?” asked Marissa.
“Less than it sounds. It just means that your Physicians’ Action Congress is an incorporated membership organization because it has legally set up a committee to dispense funds as campaign contributions. Let’s see who they have been supporting.”
“I can tell you one candidate,” said Marissa. “Calvin Markham.” Mr. Frank nodded. “Yup, here’s Markham’s name along with a number of other conservative candidates. At least we know the political bent.”
“Right wing,” said Marissa.
“Probably very right wing,” said Mr. Frank. “I’d guess they are trying to knock off DRGs-Diagnosis-Related Groups-limit immigration of foreign medical school graduates, stop HMO start-up subsidies and the like. Let me call someone I know at the Federal Elections Commission.”
After some chitchat, he asked his friend about the Physicians’ Action Congress. He nodded a few times while he listened, then hung up and turned to Marissa. “He doesn’t know much about PAC either, except he looked up their Statement of Organization and told me they are incorporated in Delaware.”
“Why Delaware?” questioned Marissa.
“Incorporation is cheapest there.”
“What are the chances of finding out more about the organization?” asked Marissa.
“Like what? Who the officers are? Where the home office is? That kind of stuff?”
“Yes,” said Marissa.
Picking up the phone again, Frank said: “Let’s see what we can learn from Delaware.”
He was quite successful. Although initially a clerk in the Delaware State House said that he’d have to come in person for the information, Mr. Frank managed to get a supervisor to bend the rules.
Mr. Frank was on the line for almost fifteen minutes, writing as he listened. When he was done, he handed Marissa a list of the board of directors. She looked down: President, Joshua Jackson, MD; vice-president, Rodd Becker, MD; treasurer, Sinclair Tieman, MD; secretary, Jack Krause, MD; directors, Gustave Swenson, MD; Duane Moody, MD; and Trent Goodridge, MD. Opening her briefcase, she took out the list of partners for Professional Labs. They were the same names!
Marissa left the AMA with her head spinning. The question that loomed in her mind was almost too bizarre to consider: what was an ultraconservative physicians’ organization doing with a lab that owned sophisticated equipment used only for handling deadly viruses? Purposely, Marissa did not answer her own question.
Her mind churning, Marissa began walking in the direction of her hotel. Other pedestrians jostled her, but she paid no heed.
Trying to pick holes in her own theory, Marissa ticked off the significant facts: each of the outbreaks of Ebola had occurred in a private group prepaid health-care facility; most of the index patients had foreign-sounding names; and in each case where there was an index patient, the man had been mugged just prior to getting sick. The one exception was the Phoenix outbreak, which she still believed was food borne.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a display of Charles Jourdan shoes-her one weakness. Stopping abruptly to glance in the store window, she was startled when a man behind her almost knocked her over. He gave her an angry look, but she ignored him. A plan was forming in her mind. If her suspicions had any merit, and the previous outbreaks had not been the result of chance, then the index patient in New York was probably working for a prepaid health-care clinic and had been mugged a few days previous to becoming ill. Marissa decided she had to go to New York.
Looking around, she tried to figure out where she was in relation to her hotel. She could see the el in front of her and remembered that the train traveled the Loop near the Palmer House.
She began walking briskly when she was suddenly overwhelmed with fear. No wonder she’d been attacked in her home. No wonder the man who’d caught her in the maximum containment lab had tried to kill her. No wonder Markham had had her transferred. If her fears were true, then a conspiracy of immense proportions existed and she was in extreme jeopardy.
Up until that moment she’d felt safe in Chicago. Now, everywhere she looked she saw suspicious characters. There was a man pretending to window-shop she was sure was watching her in the reflection. She crossed the street, expecting the man to follow. But he didn’t.