Chapter 6 - The Clinical Trial
By Tuesday afternoon, the fifty thousand dollar grant had cleared, and I was officially wheeled into the oncology research wing of Mercy General. The clinical trial consisted of an advanced targeted immunotherapy drug designed to recognize ovarian cancer cells and prevent them from returning. It was grueling work—hours of IV drips, nausea, and intense fatigue—but every time I felt like giving up, I remembered the faces of the people who had stood up for me when my own family had cast me aside.
Chloe stayed by my side through every single treatment session. She brought puzzles, books, and home-cooked meals that she forced me to eat to keep my weight up.
"You're a celebrity on the internet right now, you know," Chloe laughed one afternoon, showing me her phone. "The local news segment about your recovery and the fundraising scandal has over a million views. People are sending cards to the hospital from all over New England."
"I just want to be normal again, Chloe," I sighed, leaning my head back against the pillow. "I want to go back to work. I want to walk in the park without getting out of breath."
"You will," she promised, squeezing my hand. "Dr. Lawson says your blood counts are improving every week."
While I was fighting for my health in the clean, quiet research wing, my mother was experiencing a very different reality at the federal detention center in Rhode Island. Unable to afford the hundred-thousand-dollar bail set by the judge due to being labeled a flight risk, Janet was forced to sit in a gray concrete cell, wearing a coarse orange jumpsuit.
Her high-priced defense attorney, a man she had hired using the remaining savings in her personal account, sat across from her in the visitor’s room with a grim look on his face.
"Janet," the lawyer said, sliding a plea agreement across the table. "The prosecutor has a paper trail that looks like a highway. They have the forged invoice, the IP address matching your home computer for the wire transfer, and the dealership contract signed by you using the exact dollar amount stolen from the fund. If we go to trial, you will lose, and the judge will give you the maximum ten years."
"I am her mother!" Janet shouted, her voice raspy from days of crying. "I had a right to that money! I spent twenty-seven years raising her! She owed me!"
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"The law doesn't care about your sense of entitlement, Janet," the lawyer said coldly. "Sign the plea deal. It guarantees you four and a half years in a minimum-security facility, with mandatory restitution of the eighty-two thousand dollars. If you don't sign, they’re going to indict Brandon next week as a co-conspirator."
Janet looked at the signature line, her hand trembling. Her grand plan to secure Brandon’s luxury future had resulted in her own imprisonment and the complete destruction of their lives. With a heavy sob, she signed the paper.
