"2,635," he says.
"You been bitin'."
Daniel Kramer
Albert Kalas had a relative who needed a kidney. Corey says Kalas offered him $10,000 and then $15,000 for his kidney, before bumping the offer to $20,000.
Mike Giglio
The day after Corey's plans to sell his kidney fell through, he says he was paid $500 for his effort.
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Mary is 29 and homeless, with five young children in the state's care. It's not clear that Corey likes her. She's black; he says he's racist. He just needs the company. And once a month Mary gets a disability check in the mail.
Corey is chipper today. He believes he aced the donor screening at St. Luke's. Pending some more lab work and additional blood pressure tests, he expects to be on the operating table by the end of the month. It's Monday. The donor coordinator presents his case to the medical review board on Wednesday.
"I was an ex-co-worker of [Kalas's relative], and I'm technically a friend of his — that's the line," Corey says. "See, I don't know the guy exactly, so I can't really say I'm just doing it because they told me to, because if I do they'll ask me why, and if I tell them I'm getting paid, then they'll stop it."
Corey met with a financial adviser first, to go over how the recipient's insurance would foot his bill. Then he was evaluated by a nephrologist, or kidney doctor. His primary foe during the screening was the social worker.
"She pretty much wanted to make sure I'm in the right state of mind — I'm not crazy, nobody convinced me to do it," Corey says. "So I had to convince her. I pretty much had to explain that to her without being riddled into a confession."
Corey believes he can manipulate almost anyone. One day during a fight with Mary, he convinced her he is really a 30-year-old man named Gary Chillings. Gary is the love of Mary's life. He appeared one day on the playground when she was a child, kissed her and vanished. Mary believes they've been reunited.
Mary has been in and out of the local psychiatric wards, and she may have even run off once or twice. Her claim to fame around the local homeless community is biting a Metro cop. She becomes frantic at the drop of a hat. She threatens suicide.
Corey's own mental history stems from a horrifically abusive childhood. He's been off his medication for over a year. He believes it makes him into a "zombie" — which is "what the government wants." He has post-traumatic stress disorder, and he's bipolar. He also has a "schizotypal" personality, a less serious offshoot of schizophrenia that sees him withdraw from the real world and into his own fantasies.
On Wednesday, after he and Mary share a lunch of canned sausages, peanut butter crackers and chocolate cake, he picks up his cell phone and calls Marta Zeledon, his donor coordinator at St. Luke's.
The only place where the hospital almost stopped him, Corey says, was his blood pressure. It was too high. He attributed it to nerves, and was instructed to do follow-up tests, which St. Luke's allows patients to administer on their own. Corey used the blood pressure machines in the tunnels beneath the library. He had planned to lie if they were too high, even though he suspected that, with just one kidney, high blood pressure could kill him.
"You live, you die. There's no meaning, there's no reason," he had said. This is one of his favorite maxims.
Now he decides against lying. In a different mood, he acknowledges that the money will be no good to him dead. Zeledon records the results, which are still a little high. She will meet with the board later in the day and let him know.
Corey says that Kalas has promised to pay him just before the surgery, by taking him to the bank, helping him to open an account and writing him a check. Corey fantasizes about outsmarting him. He takes the money. He freezes his account. He gets on the operating table. At the last minute, he tells the doctors he can't go through with it. Then he makes off like a phantom and disappears forever.
He knows this will never happen.
Corey says Kalas has offered a raise on the promised $15,000 if he moves quickly through the process. He calls to make sure.
Kalas: Hello?
Corey: Hey Albert, this is Corey.
K: Yeah, Corey, what's going on?
C: Um, I talked to the doctor earlier today, and I did both the blood pressure things, and they...
K: Uh-huh.
C: ...said they were going to talk to the board and call me back later.
K: Great, great.
C: Um, question —
K: Uh-huh?
C: Remember when I was talking to you earlier and you said that I was pretty close — er — if I did it quickly, that you would increase it to 25...
Corey's voice weakens. He's nervous.
C: ...Er — not 25, but a bonus for the 15? My bad...
K: Yeah.
C: Am I doing it quick enough?
K: Yeah.
C: All right.
K: So from 15 to 20, that's what it is. Okay?
C: All right.
K: All right.
And Kalas ends the call.
_____________________
Dr. Arthur Matas thinks people should be paid for their kidneys.
The director of renal transplants at the University of Minnesota is the de facto leader of a growing pro-compensation contingent. When he began advocating for it six years ago, he says, his proposal was met mostly by shock and anger. He still tries to avoid public forums and the popular passion they can encourage. Slowly but surely, though, the medical community is coming around — at least to the idea of trying it out.
