Robin Cook - Host

Monday, April 6, 2:53 P.M.

For almost a half hour Michael stayed where he was on the park bench, staring at the Shapiro Institute and mulling over the realities of his childhood that had been awakened by thinking about Ashanti Davis. He was truly amazed at how lucky he’d been to escape the near hopeless, self-fulfilling web of poverty in which he and his friends had been enmeshed and the self-destructive methods that had evolved to deal with it.

Suddenly Michael sat bolt upright. In his direct line of vision, a man emerged from the single Shapiro Institute door. Considering the time of day, it was a rare sight and rarer still because the man was by himself and wasn’t wearing the typical white outfit Michael had seen before. Instead of white scrublike clothes, this man was “flamed up,” sporting a black leather suit jacket over expensive-looking jeans.

Surprising himself to a degree with his spontaneity, Michael called out, “Hey! Sir! Hold up!” Using his hands to restrain the collection of pens and other paraphernalia in his pockets, including his digital tablet, Michael ran toward the man, who was walking quickly, parallel to the building, apparently en route to the parking area on the other side. “Excuse me!” Michael added as he fell in alongside. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

The man stopped and regarded Michael. He had on sunglasses and Michael could not see his eyes. He was a white, muscular fellow with heavy features and dark, lank hair. He had a goatee not dissimilar to the kind Michael had been tempted to grow on occasion. He was wearing earbuds with the wire looping down and disappearing inside his jacket, and carrying a laptop computer in his right hand and a soft leather briefcase in his left.

“I saw you came out of the Shapiro Institute,” Michael said, slightly out of breath. “I’m a fourth-year medical student, Michael Lamar Pender. I have always been fascinated by the place.”

The man took out one of his earbuds, and Michael could hear jazz at a not insignificant volume. The man cocked his head with a frown. Michael repeated his comment. He hoped a little friendly chitchat would open the man up as a potential source of information, but no luck. Not only did the man not say anything, he kept frowning.

“We medical students visited the institute during our second year. We learned a bit about the place but...”

Michael trailed off, hoping for some response. There wasn’t any. “Do you work in the institute?” he added in desperation.

“No,” the man said finally.

“Were you just visiting?” Michael persisted. “Do you have a relative who is a patient?”

“I don’t understand question,” the man said with a strong accent. “I am computer programmer. I fix problem.”

“Cool,” Michael said, and he meant it. Michael was suddenly more interested as he recognized the Russian accent. Over the years a number of Russians had been hired by the Mason-Dixon Medical Center to staff the Department of Clinical Engineering, which included IT. Michael had spoken with a couple of them on a number of occasions and found them generally friendly and very competent.

With the sizable computer servers associated with the hospital’s electronic health records and all the other hospital equipment that were essentially computers, such as the anesthesia machines, MRI units, CT scans, and the like, the hospital needed a team of truly computer-savvy individuals. And Michael knew that Russians generally were talented with computer code. They had even become somewhat infamous of late with their involvement with high-frequency trading on Wall Street. Some of the hospital team had even been recruited from there.

“So you work here in the main hospital?” Michael said, speaking slowly and loudly, gesturing over his shoulder toward the main eight-story hospital tower behind them.

“No,” the man said without elaboration.

“Cool,” Michael repeated, nodding as if agreeing. It suddenly occurred to him that the man didn’t speak nearly as much English as the Russians he had spoken with in the main hospital. Yet Michael didn’t want to break off the conversation. Meeting this dude popping out of the Shapiro seemed so serendipitous, considering his sudden interest in finding out about Ashanti Davis. He thought that the chances were better than good that the man had administrator status with the Shapiro’s computer system. He’d have to, if he was working on it.

“Is the computer fixed?” Michael asked to make conversation. If this guy was a computer admin guy, he could be very helpful if he was inclined. Michael was well aware that people, like himself, who had reasonable access to the main hospital system could not access the Shapiro Institute’s. He knew it because he had tried several months back when he briefly attempted to find out about Ashanti.

“Computer not yet fixed,” the man said. “But it work okay.”

“Cool!” Michael repeated yet again, trying to figure out how he was going to get on this guy’s good side. He was encouraged by something he had learned from hanging with the Russians in the hospital, namely that Russians generally admired black men and black culture. It had to do with the ambivalence Russians harbored about America, giving weight to the adage, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. It was common knowledge in Russia that the United States historically had not done right by its African American citizens. “I have met some Russians in the hospital,” Michael added, again speaking slowly and loudly. “Who do you work for?”

The man quickly glanced around as if concerned someone might overhear. Michael took it as encouraging behavior, as if they were sharing a secret between them, but then the man did something Michael didn’t expect. Instead of answering verbally the man put down his laptop and briefcase, then took out his smartphone. He opened an app and began typing. When he was done, he held the phone out toward Michael so that Michael could read what was on the screen. On the upper portion was a paragraph in Cyrillic. Below, presumably a translation: “I work for Sidereal Pharmaceuticals in North Charleston.”

Michael nodded. It made sense. It was common knowledge that there was an ongoing relationship between Sidereal Pharmaceuticals and Middleton Healthcare. Not only had Sidereal funded a large portion of the Shapiro’s construction, there was talk about Sidereal, with its deep pockets, gaining a controlling interest in the hospital chain.

Michael took the man’s phone and quickly figured out how to type a message in English and have it appear below in Russian, and they began an electronic conversation:

Michael: My name is Michael Lamar Pender. I’m a fourth-year medical student. What’s your name and where are you from?

Vladimir: My name is Vladimir Malaklov. I am from Yekaterinburg, Sverdlovsk Oblast, Russia.

Michael: How long have you been in the United States?

Vladimir: Short time. I came to New York and then here three months ago.

Michael: Were you brought over here for a specific reason?

Vladimir: I am a specialist in the MUMPS computer language. The system here is coded in MUMPS.

Michael: It must be hard for you being here to communicate.

Vladimir: English is a struggle. I studied some in Russia before I came, but it hasn’t helped very much. I am trying to learn, but it is difficult.

Michael: Do you know any of the Russians who work in the hospital?

Vladimir: Yes. I know several from the same university where I trained. I am staying with one of them, which is difficult. He says that after all day he is tired of talking English, so I do not get to practice.

Michael: I’m about to finish medical school and have some free time. Maybe I can teach you some black-talk.