CHAPTER 1
My office is across the street from the side entrance of theBergen County Superior Court, within eyeshot of the countyjail. "George T. Baxter, Attorney At Law" is freshly painted onthe front window facing Hudson Street. I rubbed the "G" withmy thumb vigorously, just to see if the friction would erode it.My thumb never quite stopped smelling of varnish. HudsonStreet begins where Main Street ends, just past Callahan's bailbondsmen office, the bus stop, a World War I memorial and a fewpublic benches. The benches are usually occupied with jurors andcourthouse staff having their lunches. The doors of the nearbygrocery store are covered almost entirely in lottery posters withcurling edges.
I check my watch and hasten my pace up the stairs, skippingtwo steps at a time. The fabric of my pants tightened aroundmy knees with each step. The mailman left the mail wrappedin a rubber band on the floor, since I have no receptionist. Theflorescent ceiling light flickers with a clucking noise beforeit begrudgingly agrees to stay on. The two rear windowshave one-inch thick iron bars on them, and face a neighbor'sundernourished backyard and pigeon coop. I head straight forthe coffee maker, which sits like a rooster on top of a re-paintedteal filing cabinet.
I rinse out the glass coffee pot and fill it with water in themen's room sink down the hall. It's an old, pre-war building withboxy sinks that are almost a prank on my large, awkward hands.The coffee pot clanks against the sides of the sink and I have tomaneuver it under the water tap. I check the time again, lookaround and clear the files from the two chairs in front of mydesk. I'm 32, a couple of years out of law school, and building apersonal injury law practice. I sit back in my chair with my handson my desk, the way I saw presidents sit in photos of the ovaloffice. Except my office is quiet. There have not been any clients.
"Mr. Baxter?" A woman calls from the front door. I break outof my reverie to walk out to the reception area. It's Roslyn Snyder,the noon appointment. We spoke on the phone the day before.
"Mr. Baxter?" She repeats my name, looking around, asthough wondering if she is in the right place. Roslyn is about 5'5", late-fifties, wears no makeup and does not color her gray hair.Her eyes scan past where I'm standing but she keeps lookingaround the room anyway, as though she is expecting the realGeorge Baxter to jump up from behind a filing cabinet and yell"surprise!"
"Hi, I'm George Baxter."
"I'm Roslyn Snyder, and this is my husband Bill." Billis smaller than Roslyn. The skin on his face droops from itspronounced bone structure and he looks painfully tired. He iswearing an Anheuser-Busch work jacket and wrinkled khakipants that obscure all but the pointed tips of his shoes. The pantsare too loose for him, and I can hear them trail on the floor aswe walk to my office.
"It's a pleasure to meet you." Roslyn and I shake hands. Herhand is thick and rough, like someone who works with them."Come inside and have a seat." I offer them the chairs I had justcleared off. I notice a stray paper clip in one of the chairs andquickly flick it away before anybody could notice.
"Mr. Baxter, you said on the phone you do not charge forconsultations."
"That is right—and please, call me George."
"Because we do not have money to pay a lawyer."
"I understand. Don't worry. Personal injury lawyers don'tcharge for consultations."
"So we will not be billed for this meeting then?"
"No. There is no fee unless I win you a settlement. Then, Itake a percentage."
"All right."
I glance over to the top of the filing cabinet. "That is freshcoffee brewing." The smell of fresh coffee makes the frail officefeel more comfortable. "Would you like a cup?"
"Bill, do you want some coffee?" Roslyn asks Bill, as thoughshe is interpreting for me. He nods yes.
I reach for the package of Styrofoam cups behind thecoffeemaker, but it is empty. "I forgot to pickup cups." On thedesk is a ceramic Marine Corps mug, with the emblem of theThird Marine Amphibious Division proudly displayed on itsfacade. It is the only memento I have of my time in—shortlyafter I had dropped out of high school at age sixteen, until mytwentieth birthday. It is an ornament that has never been used.I fill the mug with Maxwell House coffee and hand it to Bill. "Becareful, the mug is hot."
"Thank you." Bill takes a few sips then puts the mug down onthe desk. I realize I forgot to offer the powdered creamer I hadbought earlier just for this meeting.
"What is that noise?" Roslyn looks around the office, tryingto pinpoint the sound.
"The pigeon coop." I try to be nonchalant, but the pigeonsare cooing louder than usual. Bill and Roslyn look at each other,then me.
"Lets start from the beginning and see how I can help you."
"Well, Bill had shortness of breath that started after heretired from Anheuser-Busch, so we saw this cardiologist."
"What did he tell you?"
"That Bill had this blockage of his arteries. He sent us to seea surgeon at St. Joseph's—"
"What did the surgeon tell you?" Quit sounding so eager, Iscolded myself.
"He says the reason Bill is tired all the time is because ofthe blockage. He says that bypass surgery will make Bill feelbetter and that it is routine these days. So we trusted him andwent ahead. Then we moved down to Florida with the twins. Weplanned to enjoy what were supposed to be our golden years.""Twins?" They look too old to have young children.
"Bill and I adopted twin boys when they were babies, and itturned out they have brain damage."
"You didn't know they were brain damaged when they wereadopted?"
"No, but we love them. They're twelve now." Bill and Roslynwere in their mid-forties when they adopted the boys.
"Bill, what happened after the heart surgery?"
"I got this letter here from the hospital telling me to betested for AIDS, because the donor whose blood they gave mewas infected." Bill takes out the tattered letter that he musthave shown to a dozen lawyers. "So I got tested at Halifax downin Florida." Bill looks scared and ashamed, and cannot talkabout it. Instead he slides it down the table towards me. I readthe letter.
"I'm sorry, Bill." There's a silence, filled in by the pigeons.
"We can't tell anyone," Bill hisses.
"Nobody can know, not even our family." Roslyn says, almostas a condition.
"We have to protect our boys." Bill is adamant about this.
"What do you mean, Bill?"
"Are you kidding? Look what they did to those boys in thenext county over from us."
Bill is referring to the August 29, 1987 burning of the Rayfamily home in Arcadia, Florida. The Arcadia school board votedto keep three hemophiliac brothers—Richard, 10; Robert 9; andRandy, 8—from attending school because they were infectedwith AIDS from contaminated blood products. Arcadia's mayor,George Smith, and other parents had taken their children out ofschool and enrolled them in private school to keep them awayfrom the Ray boys. Clifford and Louise Ray, the boys' parents,challenged the DeSoto County School Board's ruling in FederalCourt. The federal judge ordered the school board to allow theRay boys back into classes. This ignited hysteria in Arcadiaagainst the Ray family that included bomb and death threats.
One evening, while the family was away, an arsonist set fireto their home. The fire started in the boys' bedroom and theiruncle, who was in charge of them for the weekend, was pulledfrom the burning house and almost died from smoke inhalation.When Clifford and Louise looked over the charred remains oftheir home, they were driven away by shouts: "Next time theywon't be so lucky," and "Get out of Arcadia! Get out of town!" Ata news conference, Clifford and Louise announced it was timegive up the fight and leave Arcadia.
The Rays held the politicians and school board responsiblefor the panic that overtook the town and drove them out. OtherArcadia residents told reporters that homosexuals brought this"plague" about: "They should quarantine everyone one of 'em,isolate them just like they would do with measles or chickenpox." The same board of education committee that kicked theRay boys out of school offered the family donations of food andclothing. People wanted to be charitable, but charity stopped atthe point of fear about their own personal safety. They providedsupport at an arm's length, helping victims with what looked likecharity on camera but treating them like animals that would bitethem if they got too close.
This new, mysterious disease that killed everyone whocontracted it revealed ugly social prejudices. Emergency roomphysicians in New York who saw gay men come in with skinlesions and die soon thereafter referred to it as W.O.G. ("Wrathof God") syndrome. AIDS was a queer's disease, God's retributionagainst them for deviant life-styles. The Reverend Jerry Falwelland his Moral Majority, a new political force in Americanpolitics at the time, proclaimed AIDS had been prophesied asthe precursor of the last days. National figures like PatrickBuchanan, a Republican presidential candidate, proclaimed,"The poor homosexuals—they have declared war upon nature,and now nature is exacting an awful retribution."
The nightly network news frightened people with images ofemaciated gay men who were dying, their bodies covered oozinglesions and skin tumors. The demands to quarantine AIDS patientsfrom society by rounding "them" up and shipping them off to someremote Pacific island were real. AIDS had a social stigma worse thanleprosy when Bill came to see me. It was a time when legislatureshad to enact laws to protect AIDS patients from discrimination.I knew that if people found out I was fighting an AIDS case, thatsomebody with AIDS sat in my office, nobody except other AIDSpatients would come to see me. I had to ask myself the question:"Do I really want to be known as an AIDS lawyer?"
"Do you have to disclose Bill's name?" Roslyn asks. "We'reafraid that if we sue, it'll come out about Bill."
"I can use a 'John Doe' for Bill's name in the complaint, butI can't promise your identity won't come out. It'll be news, andpeople will be interested because it's a new AIDS case." Bill's casewould be the first AIDS-transfusion lawsuit in New Jersey filedby a patient, and it is bound to create a stir.
"We can't risk it," Roslyn insists. "I just don't want anyoneto take it out on my boys. They have the bodies of young men,but they have the minds of children. They wouldn't understand."
After a minute of silence, all I can say is: "It is something youneed to consider."
"They lied." Bill said, breaking his stupor of silence. "Theyjust lie to you and get away with it."
"Who lied, Bill?"
"They told me the blood was safe, that I would feel betterafter the surgery."
"Who told you this?"
"All of them: my doctors, the hospital, and the blood bank."Bill's anger fades to fatigue before my eyes at an alarming speed,like a deflating beach ball. Within minutes the blood drains fromhis face, his body shrinks inward, and his complexion turnsashen.
"You spoke with people at the blood bank?" I thought it wasunusual.
"Yes." Roslyn jumps in.
"Tell me what the blood center said and how it came up?"
"We were starting to hear things."
"What kinds of things?"
"You know, things about blood not being safe."
"What did you say to the blood bank?"
"Bill has friends at the brewery who were willing to donateblood for him if he needed it. We didn't want blood fromstrangers. I asked if Bill could use his own donors."
"What did the blood bank say to that?"
"They told me that there was nothing to worry about, thatblood is safe. They wouldn't allow us to use our own blooddonors."
This is called designated donors. It's common practice todayfor family members to donate blood for each other in electivesurgeries. The blood industry was against it then because it wasan inconvenience. It messed with their procedural flow andoverall control of the blood system.
"Everyone kept saying that there was nothing to worryabout." Roslyn looks at Bill like she let him down.
"Look at me now." Bill had punched new holes into his beltto hold up his khaki pants. "I have diarrhea all the time, and mymedications make me sick."
"Bill, are you all right?" Roslyn tries to calm him.
"I have to use the men's room." Bill tries to hold back tears,but can't.
"Here, you'll need the key." I hand Bill the key and he leavesfor the men's room. Roslyn watches Bill until the door shutsbehind him, and quickly turns to me.
"If something happens to Bill, I won't be able to handle theboys alone. I'd have to institutionalize them."
"How is Bill with the boys now?"
"They love him. He makes their lunches with them; he'sbetter at helping them with schoolwork; and when Bill tells themto go to sleep at night, they listen. Even though Bill is tired mostof the time, the boys still listen to him."
After a few minutes, Bill returns and I grab the legal padfrom my desk and begin taking notes. "When did you have thesurgery, Bill?"
"Four years ago, on August 23, 1984." My pen screeches toa halt.
"Bill, New Jersey has a two year statute of limitations forpersonal injury law suits. It begins to run from when you findout you are injured. You didn't know you were infected from thetransfusion until the blood bank sent the letter to you, right?"
"I got the letter six months ago."
"All right." A narrow miss.
"It's about the boys," Roslyn adds.
"Roslyn, if blood banks weren't testing for AIDS when Billwas transfused because there was no AIDS test yet, then thereisn't a case." I want to stay detached, as I was told to do by somany professors and law textbooks, and did not want to bedistracted by emotions. A lawyer should never let his clientsbelieve they are going to win. The best way to make sure clientsdon't get their hopes up is to bore them with terminology. "Iknow what's happened to you is awful, but there are two aspectsto a personal injury case: Damages and liability. Liability is likefault. I have to prove it is the blood bank's fault that Bill gotinfected. Even though the blood infected him with AIDS, I amnot sure the legal system can help you."
"You mean they can just get away with it?" Bill says.
"I can get your hospital records and see what I can find?" Idon't expect more than a settlement, at best.
"What's your fee for taking the case?" Roslyn asks, lookingaround the office.
"I would take your case on a contingency. If I win, I wouldretain one-third. That is the standard contingency fee."
"Will you take less?" It is a surprise that Roslyn negotiates thefee. Clients never try to negotiate me down on a contingency fee.
"One-third is standard."
"Yes, but this happened to Bill and me."
"This is a difficult case. It will take a lot of time and I willhave to advance the expenses too. And, if I don't win, then thereis no fee. It is a big risk for me, Roslyn." I stop short of tellingher it may not be a case at all. Bill and Roslyn stand up to leave.Roslyn wants a reduced contingency fee. They don't take meup on the offer and decide to shop around for another lawyer.Roslyn and I are indifferent and noncommittal. I am not sureit is a bad thing, because I am queasy over shaking Bill's hand.
Bill leaves my battalion coffee mug on the edge of the desk.I throw it into the metal wastepaper basket. It makes a loadclank and dents the inside of the can. The nightly news hasshown too many of those frightening, scarecrow-like images ofemaciated gay men dying from AIDS. The alarming body countand new theories of person-to-person transmission dominatethe airwaves. I think about my wife and daughter, and decide Ican't risk it.
I realize I am late for a court settlement conference again.I grab an overstuffed red expandable legal file from the floor,turn off the lights, and lock the door from the outside. I makea quick pit stop in men's room on the way out, like I have donedozens of times. This time I remember Bill used it earlier. I rollout a few feet of tissue paper and cover the toilet seat, but thendecide that is not safe enough and leave. People still wonder ifthe AIDS virus can survive on a toilet seat.
