Bad Faith

18

As she waited in the Memphis office of Dr. Charles Aronberg, Marlene browsed about, looking at the items hanging on the wood-paneled walls. There were the usual impressive college and medical school diplomas, including one for pediatric oncology, as well as a dozen photographs of a fit-looking man she assumed was the doctor climbing mountains, skiing, scuba-diving, and otherwise enjoying life.

However, there was one wall that particularly grabbed her attention. It was covered with dozens of snapshots of children and childish art drawn in crayons, colored pencils, and felt-tipped markers with small, heartfelt messages of thanks. One framed photo of a girl who appeared to be about twelve years old reminded her of Lucy at the same age. It was signed “The Drummond Family,” thanking Aronberg “for the gift of time.”

“She was a beautiful child,” a man’s voice behind her said. “I still grieve that I couldn’t save her, and that was ten years ago.”

Marlene turned to see the man whom she recognized from the photographs on the wall. He was fiftyish, tall and tan, with silver hair and gray-green eyes that were shiny with tears even now. “That must be incredibly difficult for a physician,” she said.

Chuck Aronberg studied her for a moment and then nodded. “It is,” he admitted. “It’s one of those things they don’t teach you in medical school, particularly in oncology, and that’s how to cope with knowing that a large percentage of your patients are going to die no matter what you do. And when you choose pediatric oncology, they die far too young.”

“How do you let it go?” Marlene asked.

The doctor shrugged. “You don’t,” he replied. “In fact, early on I got to the point where I nearly got out of this particular field and thought about going into family medicine, where I could treat colds, mend broken arms, and warn my patients about the dangers of cholesterol. To be honest, I was seriously depressed.” He walked over and stood next to her, looking at the wall, then reached out to touch the photograph of the Drummond girl. “It was about the same time I lost the fight for Abby,” he said. “I was sitting at my desk, numb, when her parents came by to thank me for giving them the time to say their good-byes. I remember her mother, Sherri, in particular saying that even a few months had been a tremendous gift and they hadn’t wasted an hour or a day. It gave me a whole new way of looking at my work, so here I still am, ten years later.”

As he spoke, the doctor’s voice grew husky and Marlene could feel the depth of his grief. He turned and walked over to a couch, pointing to a chair next to it. “Please, have a seat,” he said, and when she was settled, went on. “So my secretary says that you wanted to talk to me about Micah Ellis. I’ve wondered what became of him.”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he died last November,” Marlene said as gently as she could.

Aronberg hung his head. After a moment, he nodded. “I was afraid of that,” he said. “Can you tell me where he died? Where was he being treated?”

Marlene explained the circumstances around Micah’s death without going into what had happened since; she wanted to hear what the doctor would say first.

Aronberg’s eyes flashed with anger. “Since when are prayers and medicine mutually exclusive?”

“They’re not in my book,” Marlene said. “Can you tell me about his treatment and prognosis?”

Aronberg shook his head. “I would love to, but I’m afraid there’s not much I can say,” he said apologetically. “I’m sorry, Ms. Ciampi, but I’m sure you’ll understand that I cannot discuss a patient’s medical history, not without a subpoena.”

“I’m an attorney, so I do understand privileged information,” Marlene replied. “I was just hoping that because he died, you’d be able to tell me.”

“Again, I’m sorry, I truly am, because there’s plenty I’d like to say.”

“Well, can I ask you a few general questions about astrocytomas, which were the cause of death for Micah Ellis according to the New York Medical Examiner’s Office?” Marlene asked.

“By all means,” Aronberg said, and gave her a brief explanation of the disease and the general course of treatment.

When she was finished asking medical questions, Marlene said, “Does the name C. G. Westlund mean anything to you?”

Aronberg shook his head. “Not that I can recall.”

“How about the Reverend John LaFontaine?”

The doctor’s eyebrows shot up. “Now, that name I recognize. A year ago, maybe a year and a half, a Memphis police detective came by the office. He said he was investigating the death of one of my former patients’ fathers. He didn’t tell me much, but he asked if I’d heard of LaFontaine. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help; I didn’t know the name. However, the interesting thing about your bringing it up now is that patient also stopped coming in for treatment and is deceased.” The doctor stopped talking and frowned. “You think there’s something up with this LaFontaine character?”

“He was apparently the minister who talked Micah’s family into forgoing medical treatment for faith healing,” Marlene replied.

Aronberg furrowed his brow. “I don’t like it, and it’s so reckless when dealing with a child’s life,” he said. “But it’s not against the law to preach, I guess.”

“Maybe not,” Marlene said. “But if you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss Westlund’s, or LaFontaine’s, criminality, or lack thereof, until I know for certain what I’m talking about. Do you recall the detective’s name who asked you about LaFontaine?”

Aronberg opened a drawer in his desk and after a brief search took out a business card and handed it to Marlene. “I have no idea why I kept this,” he said. “Dumb luck I guess.”

Marlene smiled as she read the card. “Or divine intervention. Detective Willie ‘Wink’ Winkler? Wink? He goes by his nickname?”

The doctor smiled. “Y’all are in the South, and we sometimes are a little different when it comes to naming our babies.”

Marlene laughed and got up to leave. “Thank you for your time. It’s been a genuine pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure was mine,” Aronberg said, also rising and extending his hand. “I wish there was more I could do. If you have any questions I can answer within the bounds of my oath, please call.”

“Thank you, doctor, I will.”

As Marlene turned to head for the door, Aronberg added, “Ms. Ciampi, get that subpoena and I’ll be more than happy to speak about Micah.”