Death by Plastic and Revenge, Oh Dear!

By James D. Beeson MD

Rose Parker passed quietly one night, never having required custodial or hospice care. The support Ray received from his father and his adopted son, Manny Morris, was admirable.
Erin and Miller weathered the gossip and had three normal children and a wonderful life together.
Gaye and Jay were married and gloried in their second lives, based on
(of all things) love.
Nora and Jaque did not marry but continued to love each other. Vanessa hadnt asked if Jaque were her biological father. When and if she did . . .
Gino Capetti declined to press charges against his captors. Before his trial was to begin, he feigned the symptoms of acute appendicitis. Though in a lock ward at the hospital, his visiting doctor looked enough like Gino that Gino rendered him unconscious, changed into the doctors clothes, and was released unknowingly. Ten minutes later, when the doctor stumbled out of the room, Gino had disappeared. Ginos guard was given a new assignment, walking a beat in an obscure part of town.
Ginos plan was to get to Mexico, have his face changed, and return to Jacksonville to repay the Ortegas for their hospitality. Before leaving town, he managed to get an old bicycle, which he left at the gate entry to the Ortega complex. Nora correctly interpreted the implication.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483696614

James D. Beeson MD

JAMES D. BEESON, MD is an anesthesiologist with a prestigious career of over four decades, spanning three hospitals and holding several leadership positions with the American Society of Anesthesiologist. Now enjoying his retirement. Dr. Beeson is actively involved in the Rotary Club and includes philately, poker and wine tasting among his hobbies.

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CHAPTER ONE

About fifty years ago, a referendum was presented to the Duval County, Florida, electorate, which was to consolidate the county and city (Jacksonville) governments. A few small municipalities opted out, but otherwise, it passed.

In passing, Jacksonville became the nation’s largest city from an acreage standpoint. The economy of scale played strongly into its success. Much duplication was eliminated.

The downtown of the old Jacksonville had suffered, as many cities had, from the large migration drain to the suburbs, leaving behind a distillate of an ever-increasing percentage of citizens from the lower socioeconomic levels. In some quarters, there was trepidation over the prospect of the old city government being taken over by the remainder, to the detriment of the area. How many positive votes this fear generated is unknown, but the economy of scale seemed to be the main selling point.

This is ancient history, and the black minority has not only had continuing participation in the political process, but Jacksonville has had a black sheriff and a splendid black mayor recently.

Jacksonville’s contemporary sheriff came up through the ranks. He was a homicide detective when the incumbent sheriff needed to retire for family reasons. Incomplete terms required a replacement appointment by the city’s mayor. The outgoing sheriff recommended Larry Garret, and the mayor concurred with his choice. The sheriff’s position in Jacksonville is an elected one otherwise.

Larry Garret had the support of the vast majority of people both in and out of the Department. When he chose to run for election and then reelection, he was unopposed.

He was honest and fair—a policeman’s policeman.

Among the few who were not in that vast majority was a city councilman by the name of Marion Maple. He had tried unsuccessfully a few times to change Larry’s opinions on some minor matters. Mr. Maple was wealthy and accustomed to getting his way, and where he could intimidate, he would. He had a twenty-year-old son, Mickey, who was also used to getting his way, with a doting mother acting as an enabler many times.

One night, Mickey ran an overtly red light and barely missed a collision with another car which had the green light. The motorcycle policeman, who witnessed this, pulled him over and gave him a well-deserved ticket along with a lecture. Mickey kept a supercilious smile on his face and came close to being taken directly to jail.

Mickey came whining to his parents, saying that the light was yellow, and as usual, they believed him. If he would have said that the light was lavender, his mother would have believed it.

Sheriff Garret? Marvin Maple here. How are things going with you?

Larry knew that Marvin couldn’t care less about how things were going but responded. Fine, and waited for the real reason for the call.

"Larry, my son Mickey ran a yellow light last night, and one of your officers gave him a citation. Mickey told us that if he had applied the brakes when the light changed, he’d have come to a screeching halt in the middle of the intersection.

Could you do me a big personal favor, Larry, and look into that for me?"

Mr. Maple, I’ll be glad to do that. My men are usually very lenient with ‘yellow lights,’ but they do take a dim view of red lights. You may recall that less than a month ago, at Beach and University, a young man who was texting and driving ran a red light and hit another car broadside. There were no fatalities, but there were severe injuries.

Yes, I read about it, but here, nobody was hit or injured. And besides, the light was yellow. Anyway, see what you can do. The boy’s never had a ticket before.

Larry, in his capacity as sheriff, had experienced only two other instances where someone had essentially asked him to fix a ticket for a family member. Both were crying mothers about their wonderful teenaged sons. He declined with regret.

Why can’t boys use testosterone the way it was intended instead of using reckless driving as a marker for would be adulthood? Larry wondered.

Larry spoke to the motorcycle cop who had ticketed young Mickey after a brief search of the logs to find out who he was.

No, sir. It was red and had been so for a full five seconds. The perpendicular car with the green light came within a hair of being hit. The kid gave me his best ‘I don’t care’ look and paid no attention to my lecture. I hope he’s not a friend of yours, the officer said.

If he were a friend, my response would be the same. Obviously the kid’s home training didn’t include safe driving or respect for authority. Thanks. Keep up the good work.

When he had a few spare minutes, Larry asked his secretary to get Councilman Maple on the phone. Mr. Maple, I spoke with the ticketing officer. He gave out only one other ticket that night. Your son was mistaken about the ‘yellow light.’ It had been red for all of five seconds. Also, he barely missed broad siding a car that had the green light. It should have been an important learning experience for Mickey. He saw what tragedy might have happened but didn’t. A standard fine is a very inexpensive way to prevent big problems.

I see. So you can’t do anything about it? Marvin asked.

No, sir. I wouldn’t if it were my own son.

Marvin abruptly hung up. No goodbyes, much less any thank-yous. Lost another vote for next time—if there is a next time, Larry thought.

CHAPTER TWO

One of the Jacksonville City Council members, Barry Brewster, attended the same church as the Garrets. Though not socially intimate, they were friends.

One Sunday morning after the service, Barry came up to Larry as Betty Garret was busy talking to three other church ladies.

Hey, Larry, how’s crime?

High enough to ensure job security, Larry responded.

Your buddy, Marvin Maple, is trying to make waves at the council meetings which might affect your men. He’s making an issue over the policemen who are allowed to take their patrol cars home at night.

The public approves of that resoundingly—at least those in the neighborhoods involved. Crime stats are down by 80 percent in the immediate areas and down 40 percent in adjacent areas, Larry stated.

Marvin wants the policemen who do this to pay so much per mille for the ‘privilege’ as he puts it.

It’s the cheapest crime prevention tool we have, Larry persisted.

Oh, I don’t think he convinced anybody—certainly not me. Does he have a beef with you?

Apparently so. His son was ticketed recently for running a red light, and Marvin wanted it expunged, which I couldn’t do. That’s all I can think of.

He also has taken aim on the early police retirement benefits which he contends the city cannot afford. He has more traction there, Barry said.

The city and the Police Union made the covenant years ago, which became one of the factors that gave our department a wider selection of candidates. The Union’s position is that the city should face up to the obligations that were contractually created.

Lastly, he tells us you have too many supervisors and not enough Indians on the streets.

Just short of anger, Larry responded, We have the best ratio of supervisors to patrolmen in the state! Either he didn’t bother to find out the facts, or he’s just being vindictive.

We like you, Larry, and respect what you’ve done and are doing. Didn’t want to upset you, just watch your back, Barry said.

I thank you for that. If I thought his was a majority thought, I’d retire. I don’t believe it is.

Nor do I, Barry said as they parted.

CHAPTER THREE

On their way home from church, Betty asked Larry, What were you and Barry discussing so seriously?

What makes you think it was serious?

Neither of you was smiling.

And those three ladies you were talking to, they thought they had your full attention, did they?

My antenna goes three-sixty all the time. I thought you knew that.

Sorry. Forgot. You can send and receive concurrently. Well, it seems Marvin Maple is put out with me because I wouldn’t expunge his son’s red light running ticket. He’s mounted a small attack in the Council on the Department. Complains about our officers taking their patrol cars home. Then he’s for reducing the retirement benefits for us and, finally, saying we have too many supervisors in their offices and too few officers on the street.

Why-that-that-word I never use! a thoroughly angry Betty proclaimed.

He doesn’t have much of a following. Barry’s my mole in the Council.

Maple’s son drives a big Corvette, I heard, Betty said.

And? Larry prompted.

Last week, one of my friends got to talking about this Council member’s son. Painted him as a bad actor.

He’s an actor? Larry asked.

Bad behavior, Larry. The Maples live close to her, and the kid has come close to running over my friend’s dog on two occasions with his big red machine. She says he’s smart but lazy and self-centered.

Can’t all be Tebows, Larry said.

No, I guess they can’t, she agreed.

I think the City Council members are mostly levelheaded. I don’t feel threatened. At the worst, I’ll retire, Larry offered.

You’ll retire on your own terms, not on some old son of a bitch’s timetable!

Hmm. I may just have to turn my Kraken loose on him, Larry said.

New name for me? she asked.

No, but it defines capabilities.

Didn’t the Kraken eat virgins or something like that? she asked.

Okay, I’ll let loose my Dragon Lady on him.

Better.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ovarian cancer is often occult, with 60 percent of the cases having metastases by the time the diagnosis is made. If the horse is out of the barn, cure is not possible.

The usual way the tumor spreads is by flecks of cells from the cancer being shed and finding success by implantation in the peritoneal cavity.

In the early stages of ovarian cancers, the tumor is confined to the ovary. Simple excision is curative in these cases. Routine exams by the gynecologist can often—not always—discover such a tumor before dissemination occurs.

Chemotherapy can be employed where metastatic disease exists, but it has limited success in most cases.

The crusty old chauvinistic doctor who espoused I never saw an ovary good enough to save or a testicle bad enough to take out had a point. The lifetime incidence of ovarian cancer is one in fifty women.

Once past the child-bearing age and with estrogen production well in decline, only bad things can happen to an ovary: to wit, cancer. Women can lead normal lives without their ovaries.

Rose Parker’s clothes had begun to feel tight on her, especially around her middle. Her weight had not changed.

Her previous regular physical checkups had been uneventful. This time her doctor felt a change.

Might not be anything, but we need to do a transvaginal ultrasound test to clarify the situation, he said.

Rose agreed, and the doctor then performed the test in his office.

Rose, there’s a baseball-sized mass in your right ovary. It can be benign, or it could be malignant. We need to do a laparoscopic procedure to get the diagnosis.

She agreed, and it was scheduled three days hence.

A laparoscopy is a minimally invasive method of getting up close and personal with the intraabdominal contents. Rose had hers as scheduled. The mass was verified, and a biopsy was taken from what appeared to be a tumor implant on the omentum, which is an apron of fat on the top of the peritoneal cavity. Immediate microscopic examination of the tissue proved it to be an ovarian metastasis.

The horse had left the barn.

CHAPTER FIVE

It had been Ray Parker with the health problems in his family. Diabetes, kidney failure, renal transplant, antirejection drugs—Rose, his wife of forty years, had been a pillar of strength and good health, until now. A chain is as strong as its weakest link.

Rose had experienced minimal morbidity from the laparoscopy and, along with Ray, went to her doctor’s office for a prearranged visit two days after her surgery.

It is ovarian cancer, Rose. It has seeded in your abdominal cavity. It is not curable, but there are chemotherapy drugs that often help. The five-year survival of all ovarian cancers is 47 percent currently, with new drugs coming in the pipeline. If you don’t have a personal preference as to an oncologist, I consult with a group that I have full confidence in. As with most all cancers, the rate of progress varies from person to person.

Whoever you recommend, Ray volunteered.

Rose had become eligible for and enrolled in Medicare a few months before her surgery. Imperfect though it may be, Medicare would be with her for the duration.

Both Rose and Ray were practicing Christians. Their faith would help them cope with the ordeal that was to come.

Being in the hospital so briefly, Larry and Betty didn’t have a chance to visit her there. They did bring dinner to the Parker house the second evening after her surgery.

One phenomenon of a major cancer diagnosis is that it helps to separate your friends from your acquaintances. There are those that step up to the plate, and then there are those who leave the stadium.

Many people have a problem with what to talk about with a friend who has incurable cancer. A perceptive friend would not have boundaries and would let the afflicted set the pace and the spectrum. Don’t leave anything important unsaid.

After her diagnosis was confirmed, Rose made a vow to herself: I’m not sitting and waiting for the grim reaper. He’ll have to catch me!

She would be steadfast for Ray, and he would be steadfast for her. Not an obliteration of the feelings—just a studied moderation.

Will you still love me if I lose all my hair? she asked Ray.

Well, I’m nearly bald, and you still love me, so I’d give that a provisional yes.

CHAPTER SIX

When Manny Morris heard of Rose Parker’s cancer diagnosis, he was greatly impacted. It was Ray Parker who almost single-handedly led him from his miserable homeless state all the way to security company presidency. Manny had as much emotional attachment to the Parkers as any dutiful son might have for his own biological parents—perhaps even more.

He contacted Rose on the day he first heard of her illness. Could he visit? Anytime. This evening? Fine, come for dinner. Manny’s wife was named Rose also. Bring your Rose and the kids. School night. Come alone.

Manny had never before been faced with a doomed loved one. Both of his parents had died only months apart while he was in Afghanistan. Somehow, he had never felt close to them and had a feeling rather like detachment at their passing.

At this point, Rose Parker felt good. Her navel was a little touchy, being the site of the laparoscope insertion. Otherwise, the clothes were still tight.

Manny held her in a prolonged hug when he arrived at her house. No tears, but he couldn’t entirely mask his worried and concerned look.

Cheer up, Manny. This is going to be a long process. I feel fine and will likely remain so till those doctors start their poisons.

Seeing the quizzical look on his face, she added, Chemotherapy.

These doctors, when they’re talking about cancer statistics, like to focus on what they call a ‘five-year survival rate.’ With my diagnosis, half of us are alive after those five years. What she didn’t say, but knew, was that this 50 percent included those cases with an assured cure. The stats for the five-year landmark where metastatic disease was known were grimmer. Let it ride.

You look, well, normal, Manny said.

Is that the nearest thing to a compliment you can muster? she chided.

He took it in the spirit it was presented. Hey, normal’s not so bad. Remember, I was subnormal for a couple of years, he said.

And look at you now! Company president. Remarried, complete with children. You’ve come a long way, baby, she said.

Wasn’t that ‘long way, baby’ in an ad for something or other? he asked.

Yes, and they stole it from me. My solicitor is busy filing a copyright infringement suit.

Ray, who hadn’t been able to get a word in edgeways, said, And how are you, Ray?

Sorry. How are you, Ray? Manny asked.

Just fine. I just wanted to be asked.

The three of them were all smiles by then. As Rose headed toward the kitchen, she called back, And no, I don’t need any help. And under her breath: Yet.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Larry’s secretary, Betsy Martin, wasn’t quite as bouncy after she had married Officer Martin and had a set of twins. The twin boys were in school now, and Betsy had resumed her spot in Larry’s office. His secretaries over the five years of her hiatus were competent and all that good stuff, but they weren’t Betsy.

The secretary immediately preceding Betsy’s return left town when her husband was promoted and transferred. This saved Larry from having to agonize over whether to terminate a perfectly good secretary or forfeit Betsy. On occasion, doing absolutely nothing can be a great plan.

Jeff was popular among his peers. Honest, hard-working, tolerant, trusting—sometimes too trusting.

Some people in cars with heavily tinted windows simply want their privacy. Others have it in an attempt to camouflage their criminal intent or activity.

Jeff had stopped a car whose windows were so dark that they could have played a part in a blackout game. Too tinted to be lawful.

He tapped gently on the driver’s side window. As the window was rolling down, he got a fleeting glimpse of reflected light from a metal object. Fleeting because a bullet smashed into Jeff’s abdomen, sending him crashing to the ground.

As the car sped away, Jeff was able to call for backup and give a description and license number of the car just before lapsing into unconsciousness.

The police department is never as focused and active as when a fellow officer is attacked. Within five minutes of the shooting, fifty patrol cars were scanning every vehicle within sight, seeking the culprit. Also, within five minutes, the backup and ambulance had reached him. A few people had gotten out of their cars and were hovering over him—that’s all they could do.

He was whisked away with one of his fellow officers in attendance while the officer’s partner had set off in the hunt. The partner almost prayed that he would be the one to find the shooter and, if so, please let him put up resistance!

CHAPTER EIGHT

It’s lonely at the top, Larry heard almost at once about Jeff Martin being shot. Betsy was not ten feet away from him, working at her desk.

Betsy—

"Yes, sir. What can I