She glanced at the clock. Five minutes until boarding. Making up her mind, she dialed Ralph’s home number.
He picked up on the third ring. In contrast to Tad, he was concerned, not angry. “My God, Marissa, what is going on? Your name is in the evening paper. You’re in serious trouble, the Atlanta police are looking for you!”
“I can imagine,” said Marissa, thinking that she’d been wise to use a false name and pay cash when she’d bought her airline ticket. “Ralph, have you gotten the name of a good lawyer yet?”
“I’m sorry. When you asked, I didn’t realize it was an emergency.”
“It’s becoming an emergency,” said Marissa. “But I’ll be out of town for a day or two. So if you could do it tomorrow I’d really appreciate it.”
“What’s going on?” asked Ralph. “The paper gave no details.”
“Like I said last night, I don’t want to involve you.”
“I don’t mind,” Ralph insisted. “Why don’t you come over here. We can talk and I can get you a lawyer in the morning.”
“Have you ever heard of an organization called the Physicians’ Action Congress?” asked Marissa, ignoring Ralph’s offer.
“No,” said Ralph. “Marissa, please come over. I think it would be better to face this problem, whatever it is. Running away makes you look bad.”
Marissa heard her flight called.
“I’m going to the AMA to find out about the organization I just mentioned,” said Marissa quickly. “I’ll call tomorrow. I’ve got to run.” She hung up, picked up her briefcase and book and boarded the plane.
13
May 22
ARRIVING IN CHICAGO, MARISSA decided to treat herself to a nice hotel and was happy to find the Palmer House had a room. She risked using her credit card and went straight upstairs to bed.
The next morning, she ordered fresh fruit and coffee from room service. While waiting, she turned on the Today Show and went into the bathroom to shower. She was drying her hair when she heard the anchorman mention Ebola. She rushed into the bedroom, expecting to see the news commentator giving an update on the situation in Philadelphia. Instead, he was describing a new outbreak. It was at the Rosenberg Clinic on upper Fifth Avenue in New York City. A doctor by the name of Girish Mehta had been diagnosed as having the disease. Word had leaked to the press, and a widespread panic had gripped the city.
Marissa shivered. The Philadelphia outbreak was still in progress and another one had already started. She put on her makeup, finished fixing her hair and ate her breakfast. Marissa got the AMA’s address and set out for Rush Street.
A year ago if someone had told her she’d be visiting the association, she never would have believed it. But there she was, going through the front door.
The woman at the information booth directed her to the Public Relations office. The director, a James Frank, happened by as Marissa
was trying to explain her needs to one of the secretaries. He invited her to his office.
Mr. Frank reminded Marissa of her high-school guidance counselor. He was of indeterminate age, slightly overweight and going bald, but his face had a lived-in look that exuded friendliness and sincerity. His eyes were bright, and he laughed a lot. Marissa liked him instantly.
“Physicians’ Action Congress,” he repeated when Marissa asked about the organization. “I’ve never heard of it. Where did you come across it?”
“On a congressman’s contributions list,” said Marissa.
“That’s funny,” said Mr. Frank. “I’d have sworn that I knew all the active political action committees. Let me see what my computer says.”
Mr. Frank punched in the name. There was a slight delay, then the screen blinked to life. “What do you know! You’re absolutely right. It’s right here.” He pointed to the screen. “Physicians’ Action Congress Political Action Committee. It’s a registered separate segregated fund.”
“What does that mean?” asked Marissa.
“Less than it sounds. It just means that your Physicians’ Action Congress is an incorporated membership organization because it has legally set up a committee to dispense funds as campaign contributions. Let’s see who they have been supporting.”