The Midwife Murders by James Patterson, Richard Dilallo Page B

sewer they call a subway in Manhattan, we take the A train from midtown all the way to the neighborhood that is almost at the northernmost end of the island: Washington Heights.
    Now we trade the chaos of GUH—the guards, the cops, the agents, the nurses—for the chaos of MSS. The guards, the social workers, the pregnant women, the abused women, the homeless women and men, the creepy storefront lawyers. Even Val, a very tough street-smart young woman, is frightened by the sheer noise and confusion of the place. There are, at the very least, nine or ten different languages being spoken here.
    The lines are long. Most everybody, including Val and myself, has complicated, emotional stories to tell. So many of the people and their caregivers don’t have the correct papers, the correct signatures. I’ve been to this place a hundred times before. Most of the people who work at MSS know me as Lucy the Baby Catcher. Most of them like me a lot. But some of them think I’m just a pushy bitch. You know what? Both opinions are perfectly valid.
    I know one of the social workers pretty well. Lateesha Ro is one of the MSS officials in charge of sorting and providing all the
needs approval
applications that Val requires—childcare support funds, infant day care, addiction and alcohol rehabilitation. Without my pushy attitude we could spend the rest of the month in this place. You need application approval before you can do anything else. But since I helped birth three of her kids, Lateesha sneaks me to the front of her line. Needless to say, those folks who’ve been waiting patiently (and impatiently) in line for a long time are none too pleased. Lateesha Ro is, however, tougher than anyone. She announces loudly to the many others waiting that “Ms. Ryuan is a medical official, and she takes complete precedence. This is a medical emergency.”
    One of the guys waiting in line sizes up the situation quite accurately. “That’s bullshit,” he shouts. And for a moment I think he’s going to smack Val or me or both of us.
    Okay, I’d be angry, too, but I don’t let that stop Val and me from cutting to the window where Lateesha stands. We get there without sustaining an injury.
    Val is still shaking, disoriented. I have to remind myself frequently that she is what my mother would often say about some of her teenage mothers:
“She’s just a child giving birth to a child.”
    Yeah, Val’s very frightened. So I do most of the talking. Most of the questions are easy and expected. But there are a few important decisions to be made. I act as Val’s
official advocate
. Lateesha is cool with that.
    For example, I know that one of the best, and also toughest, rehab spots is located in a repurposed Catholic Church in Bushwick, Brooklyn—Our Lady of the Rosary. It’s a live-in program. And I know a few of my mothers have come out of Our Lady of the Rosary pretty clean and ready to go. Of course I also know a few who have not made it work at all.
“The gals with the pin-cushion arms,”
Troy calls these women.
    Val is shaking badly. She’s crying. She’s pulling nervously at her hair. I decide not to tell her that her program will be in a church. We can fight about that when she gets there.
    “Now,” says Lateesha. “Let’s figure out childcare for the kiddies you’re leaving behind, and the new little one.” God, how I wish everyone in this line could be treated as patiently and respectfully as Teesh is treating Val.
    “I don’t have any other kiddies that I’m leaving behind. Plus I can take care of my one and only baby. I don’t need no one,” Val yells. Her voice is loud enough to be heard over the noise and shouting of the packed MSS office. The nearby men and women look at us.
    What the hell is she up to? Is she just about to go crazy on me?
    “You’re gonna be in rehab, honey,” Lateesha says. “Don’t you understand that?” Lateesha isn’t fazed by anything.
    “You’re going to be living at the place, Val,”