James Sheehan - The Law of Second Chances

“There is a mass in your uterus, which by its size and shape I strongly suspect is malignant. That’s not the worst part, however.” Pat squeezed Jack’s hand. He felt like he was in a dream-a nightmare. “There are other tumors in your lungs and liver.”

They were both stunned. Jack was normally a realist, yet he could make no sense of Erica Gardner’s words. He wanted to protest, to tell the good doctor there was some kind of mistake, that other than a little pain once in a while Pat was the picture of health-hell, they ran every night. All you had to do was look at her. Instead, he sat there silently, his arm around his wife, wishing they were someplace-anyplace-else.

“What does this mean?” Pat asked after a long silence.

Dr. Gardner took a deep breath. “The outlook isn’t good,” she began. “But there is always hope. Miracles happen every day.”

Miracles? Jack thought. Pat’s life is dependent on miracles?

“My cousin, Estelle,” Dr. Gardner continued, “is a gynecological oncologist here in Miami. I have already called her and made an appointment for you to see her this afternoon. I’ve discussed your case with her and I’m sending your films over right away. She will discuss all available options for treatment with you.”

Jack could not say anything. Pat, on the other hand, was able to focus on the doctor’s words and question them.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean by ‘the outlook isn’t good,’” she said.

“You have what we call stage four cancer, which means that in most cases it is terminal,” Erica told her. “That doesn’t necessarily mean that your case is terminal. You’re young and you’re healthy. Your chances of tolerating heavy doses of chemotherapy are better than most. If your tumors can be reduced and controlled, they can possibly be removed. But the cancer has spread through your system and it’s already in three places. That is not good.”

They left in a daze, stopping for lunch before heading over to Estelle Wright’s office, although neither of them was the slightest bit hungry. Jack was devastated. Pat was his rock, his world. He couldn’t remember his life before she’d come into it, and he certainly couldn’t contemplate a future without her.

Estelle Wright was very nice, but she didn’t have any better news for them. She took a needle biopsy of the tumor in Pat’s uterus and explained to her the joys of Carboplatin and Taxol, the two drugs that were going to be used in her chemotherapy regimen.

“We haven’t confirmed the diagnosis, but I’m going to go ahead and schedule you for chemotherapy based upon an educated assumption that you do, in fact, have cancer,” Dr. Wright explained matter-of-factly. “You’ll come in once a week. The chemo will be administered intravenously. It’s not a traumatic process at all.”

Jack could tell from her use of just the right words that Dr. Wright had given this little speech quite a few times in the past. He tried to concentrate as she continued with her description of what lay ahead. “You may become very tired and listless,” she said, looking directly at Pat. “Some people don’t. You may experience nausea, constipation, diarrhea-and your hair may fall out. You may have a loss of appetite. You may develop sores inside your mouth. You may need a blood transfusion from time to time. If anything gets too bad, call us immediately and we will admit you to the hospital. Do not hesitate to call. Someone is available twenty-four hours a day. I will meet with you every six weeks so we can discuss your progress.”

They didn’t say much to each other on the ride back home, partly because they didn’t have the energy to talk. Jack drove with one hand and held Pat’s with the other. Ever since they’d first heard the news, he hadn’t let go of her-not even through lunch. He wanted to tell her everything was going to be all right, but he couldn’t. This was out of his control. What he could do was be with her every moment of her fight.

“You’re not going to quit Henry’s case,” Pat suddenly said to him after many minutes of silence.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, refusing to acknowledge that she had read his thoughts.

“I’m talking about what you’re spinning in your mind right now.”

“I’m just thinking that I don’t want to be away from you for one second. They can get somebody else to pick up Henry’s appeal.”

“Jack, honey, it’s three weeks to Henry’s execution. You can’t drop his case. You will never forgive yourself. I don’t want you to.”

“Sweetheart, I’m going to be with you. We’re going to fight this together. That’s the end of it.”

“No it’s not, Jack. We’re going to fight this together, but you are not going to let Henry go, and neither am I. His fight is our fight. That’s the way it has always been with us, and we’re not changing now.”

He looked across at her in the darkness as they drove along the back road that led to Bass Creek. Even now, with all they had been through this day, maybe now more than ever, she was magnificent.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Tony Severino was lost in that world between deep sleep and first waking-the world of light dreams. He and his old partner Joe Fogarty were rousting some lowlife in the South Bronx for information. He was in Narcotics at the time, and this particular lowlife sometimes-though not very often-had information to give or sell. They found him in a bar in the middle of the afternoon, the only customer in the place.

Joe Fogarty walked up to the man, put his arm around him, and cuffed his neck in a pseudo headlock. “How ya doin’, Benny?” he asked. “Got anything for us?” Benny looked at the two of them. Tony saw his face, his eyes. Reality penetrated through his dream state. He sat up in bed.

“That’s him! Benny-what the hell was his last name? Joe Fogarty will know.”

“What are you talking about? Who’s him?” his startled wife, Frances, exclaimed from her side of the bed.

“Our murderer-I just remembered where I’ve seen him before.”

“Well, I’m happy for you, honey. Just try to be a little quieter the next time you find a murderer in your dreams. Some of us are still sleeping.”

Tony ignored the remark as he pulled off the covers and stepped out of bed. He checked the clock. It was 6:10 in the morning. There was no need to call Nick; he’d see him soon enough. He decided to get dressed and head for the office, then call Joe Fogarty at eight to see if he remembered Benny’s last name.

Tony caught Joe Fogarty at his precinct before he headed out for the day.

“Joe, I’m going to fax you up an artist’s sketch of a perp we’re looking for. Call me right away and let me know if you recognize him.”

Joe called him back immediately. “That’s Benny Avrile. You remember him, don’t you? He was one of our snitches. He’s still one of mine, although I haven’t seen the skinny little bastard in a while. Benny has these brief periods when he tries to go straight. Unfortunately, nobody will hire the poor son-of-a-bitch.”

When Tony told Joe why they were looking for Benny, Joe didn’t believe it.

“Benny a murderer? C’mon. Is there something in the water down there in Manhattan? This guy is harmless. I don’t think he even knows how to shoot a gun. Don’t get me wrong. Benny’s a lot of things, but he’s not vicious or violent.”

“I’ll keep your thoughts in mind, Joe, in case we need a character witness for Benny. Right now we just need your help finding him.”

“What I wouldn’t do if I were you is show up here and start asking questions in the neighborhood. If word gets out that you’re looking for him, Benny will disappear. If we see him, we’ll nab him and I’ll give you a call.”