Law and Addiction

by Mike Papantonio

  92 reach down into the dirt and feel it with his hands, then let the soil spill back from between his fingers. He didn’t think much of West Virginia’s chilly climate, but the dirt didn’t lie. It was capable of producing great things.

  Guillo hadn’t told many people about his dream for the future. He kept quiet, mostly because he was afraid of jinxing it. When he did open up about his dream, though, he liked to say it had been predestined by his last name. Flores meant “flowers” in Spanish. And growing flowers was what Guillo wanted to do. With the proceeds from his West Virginia job, he hoped to return to Jalisco with enough money to buy his own plot of land. He was a man with a plan, and there was a woman who shared his vision. Waiting for his return was his Bella. In Spanish, bella means “beautiful,” and his eighteen-year-old fiancée was as beautiful as her name.

  Under the watchful eye of Bella’s abuela, her grandma, the two of them had often discussed their dream.

  “I will build you a rainbow,” Guillo promised, “and every day I will bring you a bouquet of flowers.”

  “Every day?” asked Bella.

  He had nodded. “You will know when the flowers are blooming. The breeze will bring to you their perfumed fragrance. And I will look for just the right flower for you to place behind your ear.”

  “I would like that,” she said.

  And sometimes her abuela would pretend to look away, and that’s when Guillo would kiss Bella.

  It was only for his dream, and for Bella, that he was in the U.S. Here, he was making far more money than he ever could in Mexico. In another year or two, he hoped to return home with enough money to buy his plot of land and start his family with Bella.

  The ringing of his burner phone interrupted Guillo’s daydream. Without even looking at the display, he knew Miguel was calling. The only calls he ever received, except for wrong numbers, were from his dispatchers. Even though there was no one driving behind him, Guillo pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the engine. He knew the use of a handheld cell phone was illegal in West Virginia, so he didn’t want to do anything to catch the eye of the authorities.

  The conversation with Miguel was brief. Both of them avoided specifics, speaking in a code that identified another delivery. Miguel was the primary dispatcher for Guillo’s territory. In the years he’d lived in West Virginia, Miguel’s Mexican-accented English had taken on the same mountain twang heard through much of Appalachia. Like the locals, Miguel said “ain’t” instead of “isn’t,” “bin” instead of “been,” and “thar” instead of “there.” Guillo remembered how on one occasion his car had been disabled with a dead battery. When he’d called Miguel to advise him of the situation, the dispatcher had suggested Guillo pronounce it bat-tree so that the locals would know what he was talking about.

  Guillo put away the phone and started the car. He did a lot of driving in his job. Before coming to the U.S., the only vehicle he’d driven was a small tractor. He was clean-cut, had no tattoos, had never used drugs, was a devoted Catholic, and knew nothing about the product he sold. “Jalisco boys” like him were considered the perfect employees by the cartel. They worked hard, were polite, didn’t complain, and did as they were told. None of them skimmed from the top or used the product they were selling—after all, the young men didn’t only represent themselves; they represented their families back home.

  Thus far, Guillo’s life in America had been uneventful. He and several other Jalisco boys shared an apartment with blow-up mattresses, futon chairs, and a twenty-five-inch TV with rabbit ears. To improve reception, they wrapped tinfoil around the antenna. Their life consisted of working and sleeping. They kept to themselves.

  A black-and-white car came up behind Guillo. Policía, he thought, tensing up. The man behind the wheel was familiar to Guillo, a deputy referred to by the Jalisco boys as Pintar, or “Paint.” Even though the policeman hadn’t put the mordida—the “bite”— on any of the Jalisco boys, Guillo still didn’t feel comfortable. Inside Guillo’s mouth, secreted in his cheeks and lower lip, were half a dozen balloons filled with black tar heroin. One of the hardest parts of his job was getting comfortable carrying the balloons that way. At first he’d been afraid of inadvertently swallowing them and had felt like a chipmunk with too many acorns in his mouth, but in less than a week, he’d grown accustomed to carrying the drugs that way. Guillo’s mouth grew dry being in the policeman’s line of sight. He was under strict orders to swallow the balloons if pulled over by the police.

  Guillo offered up a silent prayer as the deputy stayed on his tail. He tried not to keep looking through his rearview mirror, but every few seconds he felt compelled to do so. The deputy was wearing dark glasses. Pintar seemed to be enjoying Guillo’s unease, but after tailing him for several blocks, the cop sped up and passed him. Guillo sighed in relief. He and the other Jalisco boys had been assured there was an “arrangement” with the local police, but no one really knew this for sure. Guillo did his job with no questions asked.

  With the cop now out of sight, Guillo continued with his deliveries.

  vvv Vernon Johnson was a regular customer. Guillo wasn’t sure what Vernon’s “disability” was, but Mr. Johnson often referenced the word. The first time Guillo had gone to Vernon’s house, he’d been surprised by all the American flags on display. Now it no longer seemed unusual to him. West Virginians loved flying their American flags.

  Mr. Johnson usually greeted him with a big smile and asked, “How are you?” The first time, Guillo had tried to be thoughtful in his answer. After a few more days in West Virginia, he’d realized that no one really expected him to answer that question. In America, smiles didn’t necessarily mean a person was being friendly. And though it might seem that Americans were considerate about one another’s welfare, most of their questions were just a way of saying “Hello.”

  For at least twelve hours every day, Guillo delivered balloons of heroin. His customers were always relieved to see him, but Guillo could see that the drugs didn’t make them happy. He had always thought people took drugs in order to be happy, but that clearly wasn’t so. It almost felt as if he were delivering medicine, and that his customers were treating some kind of fatal sickness. One thing he knew is that they were always relieved to get his deliveries.

  It was why Guillo was kept busy, very busy, although he would have been much happier delivering flowers of his own creation.

  12

  WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . . .

  Less than a month after Nick Deketomis committed himself and his firm to work with Jake Rutledge and Paul Vogel, the attorneys general for the states of West Virginia and Ohio filed a motion arguing that the small counties that Jake had named in his complaint had no legal right to initiate a lawsuit on behalf of the citizens living in those counties. Their argument was that they alone as state attorneys general had the exclusive standing to sue opioid distributors on behalf of the citizens of Ohio and West Virginia.

  Deke didn’t know if there was a cause and effect between his firm’s coming aboard and the AGs filing their case, but it did seem more than a little coincidental.

  “Am I wrong in thinking that what’s going on doesn’t pass the smell test?” Jake asked soon after the filing. Deke had gotten on a conference call with him and Paul. “I took a look at the case law, and it’s almost unheard of for state attorneys general to act in such a way. In fact, you can say it’s about as rare as a politician with a real job.”

  Deke felt sorry for the kid—he was so earnest in wanting to save others from his brother’s fate, but he hadn’t been practicing long enough to realize that the law wasn’t set in stone; it was always

  97 being challenged. He tried to lighten up the situation. “It’s kind of like this,” he said. “In 1986 Ronald Reagan said the ten most terrifying words in the English language were ‘I’m from the government, and I’m here to help you.’”

  Paul laughed at the gallows humor. Jake still seemed too wound up to relax.

  “Thes
e state attorneys general are saying, ‘This is my ball, and my rules, and we’ll play my way or not at all.’ The good news—or at least it’s not bad news—is that the appellate courts in both states are split on whether I have the right to sue without the state attorneys general.”

  “They’ll do their best Bigfoot with the judges,” said Paul. “While trying to stomp us into the ground, they’ll act like they’re the best and the brightest, and they’ll say, ‘We got this.’”

  “And while the two state attorneys general are acting like they’re the smartest people in the room,” said Deke, “I seriously doubt they’ll point out that neither of them has ever tried a real lawsuit in their entire legal careers.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Jake.

  “Hard as it is to believe,” he said, “I am not kidding. And I’m not at all surprised by this maneuver. Why should I be? Both these AGs have had their campaign coffers filled by the same people we’re suing. And that’s only the start of it. However, you can be assured that in the courtroom we’ll get our chance to detail the altogether-too-cozy relationship between Big Pharma and their distributors, and these two state attorneys general.”

  “You sound like you’re looking forward to that,” said Jake.

  “You are a perceptive young man,” Deke said.

  Jake started laughing, and Deke thought, Mission accomplished.

  “Before I start feeling too good about this,” Jake said, “don’t we need to be worried?”

  It was Paul’s turn to speak. “We certainly need to prepare,” he said. “If they win on their motion, then they win the case.”

  “And the citizens they’re supposed to represent, lose,” said Jake. “What’s with these attorneys general? What’s stopping them from doing the right thing and letting us help their constituents?”

  “Some seem to understand that duty,” said Deke. “Unfortunately, some AGs look at their position as a stepping-stone to the governor’s mansion. And to that end, they do favors for the people who can write them fat campaign checks.”

  “That sucks,” said Jake.

  “I can’t tell you how many times my firm has put in years of work,” said Deke, “only to have some half-wit attorney general come in at the last minute and gum up the works. What really hurts is when they’re ready to settle for pennies on the dollar just so they can claim ‘victory’ on behalf of the people who voted for them. They take a win-win situation and turn it into lose-lose. There have been situations where drug companies have scammed hundreds of millions of dollars from a state’s Medicaid program, and when the state AG gets a paltry hundred grand back for the taxpayers, that attorney general acts as if it’s a huge accomplishment.”

  Over his speakerphone, Deke could hear Jake whisper to Paul, “Does that really happen?”

  When he didn’t hear Paul responding, in his mind’s eye Deke could imagine him glumly nodding.

  “Welcome to the show,” said Deke. “But I don’t want you to waste your time worrying about this, Jake. You now have a band of brothers and sisters who have your back.”

  “If that’s the case, I’ll take all the brothers, sisters, and even family twice removed, and welcome them all,” he said. “And I’d also like to say I feel damn lucky to have you and Paul working this case. With the two of you around, I don’t feel like I’m in over my head. Still, I don’t feel like I should be the lead on fighting city hall.”

  “Locking heads with state attorneys general is a dance I’m all too familiar with,” said Deke. “Do either one of you have a problem with me taking the lead on this?”

  “I’d be happy if you would,” said Paul. “This isn’t what I would call my bailiwick, or my firm’s.”

  “That sound you just heard was my sigh of relief,” said Jake. “Still, what can I do to help you?”

  “I’m going to need a short-term apartment rental in Charleston starting tomorrow,” Deke said. He started typing out an email to Diana at the same time; there were plans to be made. “It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, but I’ll need it to be three bedrooms, preferably with a huge master bedroom. I’d like each of us to have our own desk in there. What would work best is if there is room enough left over for a conference table.”

  “Tomorrow?” said Jake. Deke wasn’t one for letting the grass grow under him.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll be flying in tomorrow afternoon with two paralegals. Those paralegals will be working full-time on this case, and at least at the onset living in the apartment. Bennie will also be earning frequent-flyer miles helping out with legwork and locating witnesses and the like. For the foreseeable future, I’ll be spending half my workweek in West Virginia.”

  “What else do you need me to do?” asked Jake.

  “Start working with my office on putting together the best briefing possible on the issue of standing,” Deke said. “The focus needs to be on the constitutional arguments that are on our side. I want our team taking the prior cases where the appellate courts have ruled against the attorneys general in favor of the cities and counties. Study the arguments that were used, and make those positions fit our case.” “Are we going to win this, Mr. Deketomis?” asked Jake.

  “Deke,” he said. “Mr. Deketomis was my father. And I never sign up to try a case with anything less than an attitude toward winning. And lest you think I’m sounding like a politician, Jake, what I can promise you is we’re going to be in one hell of a dustup. We’ll be making some noise and having some fun, and all the while we’ll be doing the right thing.”

  “If that’s the case,” said Jake, “it sounds like we can’t lose.”

  “My point exactly,” said Deke. “I’ll see you two gentlemen tomorrow.”

  13

  WHISTLER’S WIFE

  In West Virginia, few faces were as prominently displayed as Eva Whistler’s. She could have been a model if she’d chosen to, but instead she held the high-profile job of prosecuting attorney for Davis County. Her decade-old union with Danny Whistler had brought two prominent old West Virginia families together. And even with her demanding job, she found time to be a mother to her two fine-looking children, a boy and a girl.

  Naturally, some were envious of her. In West Virginia, the prosecuting attorney for the county was an elected position, and at the age of thirty-five, Eva was already halfway through her second fouryear term. Most were certain that her next elected position would be governor, or maybe U.S. senator. After all, she had won her last PA race with almost 80 percent of the county vote. Still, there were some detractors. Despite Eva’s down-home ways—she liked to remind voters that she was “descended from bootleggers”—a few in the media chose to portray her as a “steel magnolia.” Being perceived as tough didn’t bother Eva—that’s what you wanted in a prosecuting attorney. What she didn’t like was the nickname of “Mother Whistler,” which was what her enemies were now calling

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  her. She pretended to be amused by the name, but the truth was, she detested it. It was Danny’s fault, of course. Her husband was ten years older than she was but still acted like a child. His grandfather had been called “Old King Coal,” and had owned and operated some of the biggest coal mines in the state. Not content to live off the family fortune, Danny had set up what he called “skilled nursing facilities” throughout the state. These nursing homes were very profitable—or at least had been because of the way Danny operated them.

  There was overcrowding and minimal staffing. Danny tried to get by with a rotating selection of visiting doctors (instead of learning their names, he called the lot of them “Dr. Dopers”) who believed in keeping their elderly patients in a drug-induced state. In Danny’s facilities, lots of vitamin A (Ativan), vitamin H (Haldol), and vitamin X (Xanax) were prescribed. And looking after the residents were a lot of LPNs, or what Danny called “low-paid nurses.”

  All had been going well with Danny’s empire until Health and Human Resources conducted what was supposed to be a surprise audit of one of hi
s facilities. An hour before the inspection, Danny got tipped off to what was about to occur. He raced over to the facility in Davis County and made a series of frenzied calls. Additional staffing showed up just before the inspectors, and some of the more egregious violations were avoided. What they could put lipstick on, they did. A dozen residents had been conveniently transported to the local hospital for a variety of conditions, but that didn’t completely solve the nursing home’s overcrowding. Ten residents were shuttled to out-of-the-way storerooms, a desperate attempt to make the facility’s overcapacity less obvious. The hope was that the investigators wouldn’t insist upon looking into those storerooms.

  Unfortunately, they had. The staff stonewalled, pretending to not have the keys, but they couldn’t hide the voices calling from inside the storerooms. That was bad enough, but what was worse was that the inspectors found a confused elderly woman in one of the storerooms who repeatedly identified herself as Mrs. June Whistler. And what Mrs. Whistler couldn’t understand was why her son, Danny, had ordered her to be taken away on a gurney and then left in a dark closet.

  The picture of Danny’s eighty-seven-year-old mother being removed from the storeroom, with tears running down her face, became front-page news. Danny’s treatment of his mother had made him notorious throughout West Virginia, and Eva couldn’t escape the guilt by association. She’d been given the nickname “Mother Whistler.” There was even a cartoon that had circulated, which Eva had found particularly hurtful. It was a parody of American Gothic in which she had been identified as Mother Whistler; her husband, holding a pitchfork, was Whistler; and her abused-looking mother-in-law had been Photoshopped into the painting in the form of Whistler’s Mother. It was Eva’s vanity that had been hurt the most. She might have been the mother of two, but she was young and vibrant, and she didn’t like being associated with an old, puritanical-looking bat.