The judge read them in detail.
“And this is the adopted mother, I presume,” said Judge Pelligrino, capturing Cathryn’s attention.
“Indeed it is,” said Patrick, “and she is understandably concerned about maintaining the proper treatment for the young girl.”
Judge Pelligrino scrutinized Cathryn’s face, and she felt herself blush defensively.
“I think it’s important to emphasize,” added Patrick, “that there is no marital discord between Charles and Cathryn Martel. The only issue is the wish to maintain the established method of treatment advocated by the appropriate medical authorities.”
“I understand that,” said Judge Pelligrino. “What I don’t understand or like is the fact that the biological father is not here to be cross-examined.”
“But that’s precisely why Mrs. Martel is asking for emergency temporary guardianship,” said Patrick. “Just a few hours ago, Charles Martel rushed away from a meeting with Mrs. Martel and Michelle’s doctors. Mr. Martel expressed the belief that Michelle’s treatment, which is her only chance at survival, be stopped, then left the conference. And, off the record, the attending physicians are concerned about his mental stability.”
“That sounds like something that should be part of the record,” said the judge.
“I agree,” said Patrick, “but unfortunately that would require Mr. Martel seeing a psychiatrist. Perhaps it could be arranged for the full hearing.”
“Would you like to add anything, Mrs. Martel?” asked the judge, turning to Cathryn.
Cathryn declined in a barely audible voice.
The judge arranged the papers on his desk, obviously thinking. He cleared his throat before he spoke: “I will allow the emergency temporary guardianship for the sole purpose of maintaining the recognized and established medical treatment.” With a flourish he signed the form. “I will also appoint a guardian ad litim on the petition for guardianship to serve until the full hearing on the merits, which I want scheduled in three weeks.”
“That will be difficult,” said the Assistant Register, speaking for the first time. “Your schedule is fully booked.”
“The hell with the schedule,” said Judge Pelligrino, signing the second document.
“It will be difficult to prepare for a hearing in just three weeks,” protested Patrick. “We’ll need to obtain expert medical testimony. And there is legal research to be done. We need more time.”
“That’s your problem,” said the judge without sympathy. “You’re going to be busy anyway with the preliminary hearing on the temporary guardianship. By statute that must be in three days. So you’d best get cracking. Also I want the father apprised of these proceedings as soon as possible. I want him served no later than tomorrow with a citation either at the hospital or at his place of work.”
Cathryn sat bolt upright, stunned. “You’re going to tell Charles about this meeting?”
“Absolutely,” said the judge, rising. “I hardly think it fair to deprive a parent of his guardianship rights without telling him. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
“But…” blurted Cathryn. She didn’t finish her statement. Patrick thanked the judge and hurried Cathryn out of the judge’s lobby, back into the main room of the Probate Court.
Cathryn was distraught. “But you said we wouldn’t use this unless Charles actually stopped treatment.”
“That’s correct,” said Patrick, confused at Cathryn’s reaction.
“But Charles is going to find out what I’ve done,” cried Cathryn. “You didn’t tell me that. My God!”
Ten
Although the sun had set on schedule at four-thirty, no one in New England had seen it go down, including Charles, who was parking at the base of Main Street in Shaftesbury at the time. A heavy bank of clouds had moved in from the Great Lakes. The New England meteorologists were trying to decide when the front was going to collide with a flow of warm air from the Gulf of Mexico. They all agreed it was going to snow, but no one could decide how much or when.
By five-thirty, Charles was still sitting behind the steering wheel of the Pinto parked in the lee of the row of deserted old mill buildings. Every so often he’d scrape off a bit of the frost on the inside of the windshield and peer out. He was waiting until it was completely dark. To keep warm he started the engine every quarter hour and let it idle for five minutes. Just after six he was satisfied that the sky was a uniformly dark blanket and he opened the door and got out.
Recycle, Ltd. was about two hundred yards ahead as evidenced mainly by the single light they had near the office door. It had started to snow with large flakes that settled like feathers in short swooping arcs.
Charles opened the trunk and collected his gear: a Polaroid camera, a flashlight, and a few sample jars. Then he crossed the snow to the shadow of the empty brick mill and started to trudge toward Recycle, Ltd. After leaving Cathryn at the hospital, he had tried to sort through his confusing emotions. He could not come to a decision about Michelle’s treatment although intuition still told him that the child was not going to go into remission. He couldn’t get himself to deny her treatment, but he couldn’t bear to see her suffer more than she had to. He felt trapped. As a consequence, he welcomed the idea of heading up to Shaftesbury and trying to obtain some hard evidence of benzene dumping. At least that satisfied his emotional need for action.
As he came to the end of the building, he stopped and looked around the corner. He now had a full view of the factory that had taken over the last abandoned mill building in the long row.
With the Polaroid and flashlight in his coat pockets and the sample jars in his hands, Charles rounded the corner and headed toward the Pawtomack River, initially moving parallel to the hurricane fence. Once he could no longer see the light over the factory entrance, he cut diagonally across the empty lot, reaching the fence close to the riverbank. First the flashlight, then the sample jars were gently tossed over to land in the snow. With the camera slung over his shoulder, Charles grasped the mesh and began to climb. He teetered on the top, then leaped for the ground, landing on his feet but tumbling over onto his back. Fearful of being seen in the open lot, he gathered his things and hurried over to the shadow of the old factory.
He waited for a few moments, listening to the familiar sounds coming from inside the building. From where he was standing, he could look across the mostly frozen Pawtomack River and make out the trees on the opposite bank. The river was about fifty yards wide at that point. When he had regained his breath, he struggled along the building, heading for the corner facing the river. The going was difficult because the snow covered all sorts of trash and debris.
Charles reached the side of the building facing the river and, shielding his eyes from the lazy snowflakes, he looked down at his goal: the two metal holding tanks. Unfortunately, they were close to the opposite end of the building. After a short pause, Charles set out climbing through the rusted and twisted remains of discarded machinery, only to find himself barred from further advance by a granite-lined sluice about ten feet across and five feet deep. The sluice came from a low arch beneath the building and ran toward the river bank where it was dammed with wooden planks. About midway in the opposite masonry wall was a connecting channel to a large lagoon. The fluid in the sluice and in the lagoon was not frozen and it had the unmistakable acrid smell of discarded industrial chemicals.
Immediately adjacent to the factory, Charles saw that two stout planks had been laid across the sluice. Putting his sample jars down, Charles flipped the planks over to rid them of their veneer of snow and ice. Then, with great care, he struggled across the makeshift bridge holding the sample jars under his right arm and using his left to support himself against the building.