Due Diligence

by Michael A. Kahn

  He seemed startled at first, but then his features hardened. We stared at one another, both of us motionless. By now, all my fear was gone. Vanished. For the first time in weeks, I felt invincible. There was nothing more he could do to me. After a while, he seemed to realize it. His shoulders sagged a bit and he reached to open the door.

  I stepped in. He moved back to the kitchen table.

  “Tea?” he asked in a hollow tone.

  I shook my head. “No, Senator.”

  Slowly, almost painfully, he sat back down. Taking his cup in both hands, he looked up at me with tired eyes.

  “You changed your hair,” he said dully.

  “Did you think I was dead?” I demanded. I could feel my anger build.

  He said nothing. He sipped his tea, his eyes steady.

  “You know what’s almost the worst part?” I said.

  After a moment, he shook his head.

  “The negligence,” I said. “The pure stupid negligence. Right from the outset. It’s unforgivable.”

  He frowned. “Negligence?”

  “The way you and your cohorts tried to conceal what killed those poor women. You botched the coverup from the outset, didn’t you? You thought you could eliminate all links to those women by destroying the Primax files. But that wasn’t enough, was it? You failed to destroy all the key documents. You overlooked some, and Bruce Rosenthal found them, didn’t he?” I shook my head in disgust. “Negligence. If you’d done it right the first time, Bruce would be alive. Karen would be alive. David would be alive.” I was shaking with angry frustration. “As if those poor dead women weren’t bad enough, three more people died because of your negligence.”

  He studied the pattern on the saucer.

  “It had to be more than that list of names from the nursing homes,” I continued. “Bruce found something else, didn’t he? The list wasn’t enough. For him to understand the real meaning of that list he’d have to have found something else, too. Right?”

  After a moment, he nodded.

  “What was it?”

  Armstrong leaned back in his chair. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stared down at his tea cup in silence. “When I came back from Costa Rica,” he said in a slow cadence, “I brought two species of the Peloto plant—one that grew on the Pacific Ocean side in the Monteverde Cloud Forest, the other from the Caribbean side, near Tortuguero.” He picked up the saucer and turned it over to read the writing on the bottom. “A tribe of Indians lived near each species, and the local women ate the tubers from their version of the plant. None of the women in either tribe suffered from rheumatoid arthritis.”

  “What’s the point?” I said impatiently.

  He looked at me. “The fact that there were two species.” He paused. “That’s the whole point,” he said, the intensity returning. “That was the essence of our dilemma. We had a choice. We had to choose.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “We isolated the active ingredient in each plant. We named one of the drugs Phrenom, the other Primax. We started conducting animal tests to see which performed better.”

  “What did Bruce find?” I repeated.

  He shook his head, staring down at the saucer. He turned it back over and placed it on the table.

  “Senator, what did he find?”

  He continued on, as if he hadn’t heard me. “We did animal testing on both drugs.” He paused again and slowly shook his head. “We must have overlooked the earliest animal test files for Phrenom.”

  “That’s what he found?”

  He looked up and closed his eyes for a moment. “Apparently,” he said. He opened his eyes and looked at me. “He must have found cross-references to Primax in some of the old Phrenom files. That’s what must have made him curious.”

  I stood there, seething. “It’s your fault.”

  He leaned forward, his right fist slowly clenching and unclenching. He stared at me, his eyes narrowing. “I assume that you fully understand those women were not supposed to die.”

  “But they did.”

  Armstrong breathed in deeply and exhaled through his nose. “There was no way to predict that.” He spoke slowly and deliberately. “Can you imagine my horror when I realized what was killing those women? Can you imagine a more cruel irony—a wonder drug with a fatal flaw: it cured the disease but killed the patient.” He frowned and shook his head. “There was no way to suspect that flaw. The animal tests showed no adverse reactions whatsoever. None.” He stared at me for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was filled with emotion. “Do you think if I had had even the slightest inkling of any risk that I would have ever used the drug on those women? Good God, Rachel, we were looking for a cure to a terrible, crippling disease. We were saviors, not killers.”

  “Not anymore,” I said with disgust. “And don’t try to rationalize what you did to those women. Properly conducted phase one tests on healthy people would have detected that reaction. That’s the whole purpose of those tests: to uncover hidden flaws. Healthy young people would have recovered. You killed fourteen innocent women, Senator.”

  He sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. He shook his head as he stared at the table. “We never suspected it could happen. Never.”

  “Why?”

  He looked up and frowned. “Pardon?”

  “Why break the law? Why secret tests?”

  He gave a patronizing chuckle. “Why? The world isn’t black and white, Rachel. Surely you’re old enough to understand that.”

  “Then you help me understand,” I answered angrily. “You did it. You tell me why.”

  He sighed. “When I returned from Costa Rica, I brought back two possibilities for easing the pain and suffering of millions of women. I had no idea which version would make the better drug. That was the problem. We had to choose. Unfortunately, we didn’t have the luxury of making a mistake. We were a tiny company. We couldn’t start both drugs through the FDA approval process. It takes tens of millions of dollars to bring a new drug to market. We had barely enough money to finance one. We had hoped that the animal tests would make the choice for us, but they didn’t. We were back where we started. We still had to pick one. Can you grasp our predicament? If we guessed wrong, we’d run out of money and never bring any drug to market. It was all or nothing—for us, and for all those women.” He paused, his gaze narrowing. “Since we were going to have to bet the entire company on one drug, we had to find a way to pick the right one.

  “So you cheated.”

  “We bent the rules.”

  “You cheated, Senator, and you killed fourteen innocent women in the process.”

  He seemed to think it over. “Perhaps,” he conceded with a smile. It was a stern, unapologetic smile. “But let’s not pretend this is Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. Fourteen women died. Was it worth it? Of course it was. Look at the big picture, Rachel. I had the courage to push the rules, and because I did, I was able to keep my company alive long enough to bring a drug to the market that has significantly improved the lives of millions of women. The price to make the drug possible? Fourteen elderly women lost a year or two off their lives. Balance that cost against the benefits. Millions of women versus fourteen old ladies in a nursing home. I think that equation more than balances.”

  I shook my head fiercely. “You don’t have the right to make that equation, Senator. You don’t get to decide who lives and who dies.”

  He gave me an indulgent look. “Rachel, I’m not claiming a divine right. I’m just telling you to take a broader view. Did we have the right to drop the bomb on Japan? Those who say we did point to the millions of lives that were saved by terminating the war. Did we have the right to invade—”

  “Spare me your philosophy,” I said angrily. “What about Bruce Rosenthal?”

  He shifted in his chair but said nothing.

&
nbsp; “What about Karen Harmon?” I continued. “What about David Marcus? What’s the cost-benefit analysis there? The lives of three innocent people to preserve one man’s presidential ambitions? If that’s another one of your moral equations, Senator, believe me, it doesn’t balance anywhere in this world.”

  He stared over my head toward the wall behind me. “Obviously, none of those three should have died. That was terribly wrong. Tragic. Unfortunately, certain individuals, acting out of a misguided sense of loyalty to me, got carried away by their own zeal. They did stupid things.”

  “Stupid?” I repeated, outraged. “You call three cold blooded murders stupid?”

  “I totally condemn their conduct.” He lowered his gaze to me, his eyes narrowing. “I did not plan the deaths of those fourteen women, and I regret each one. I certainly did not plan or authorize the deaths of those three young people. I learned of all three after the fact. I abhor what was done.”

  He paused.

  I waited.

  I could hear the ticking of a clock somewhere in the kitchen.

  “Rachel,” he said, almost casually, “you understand what’s at stake?”

  I looked at him like he had lost his mind. “What?”

  “I’m boxed in. I can’t bring the killers to justice without destroying myself in the process.”

  “So what?”

  “Life goes on. I can’t bring the dead back to life. If I could, I would. If I could make the killers change places with the victims, I would. But I can’t. Neither can you. What’s done is done. All we can do is honor their memories.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “There are more than two hundred and fifty million Americans out there.” He waved his hand dismissively. “For a moment, put aside sentiment. We are poised at a crucial point in the history of our country and the world. I can make a difference. These are not the ravings of a loony megalomaniac. You know it’s true.” He paused. “But to achieve what I can achieve, I have to be president. It can’t be someone else. There simply isn’t anyone else on the national scene. Look at the polls. You know it, and I know it.”

  “So?”

  He stood. “You can be part of it, Rachel. You can have an impact on this country beyond your wildest dreams. I can make it happen. Name your position. A federal judge? A position in the cabinet? Perhaps you’d like to be attorney general?” He stared at me intently. “Help me become president, Rachel, and whatever you want you can have. I can put you in position to make a difference in the lives of hundreds of millions of people.”

  I’d heard enough. “Forget it,” I said. I turned toward the door.

  “Wait,” he called.

  I stopped, my hand on the doorknob. I looked back.

  “Why not?” he asked, obviously baffled. “Consider my offer. Consider the impact you could have.”

  I stared at him, unmoved. “We’re different, Senator. When lives are involved, I don’t believe in cost-benefit calculations. In my religion, we’re taught that he who saves one person saves an entire universe.” I opened the door and paused to look back. “Senator, you’ve annihilated enough universes for one lifetime.”

  Flo was waiting in the car. She started the engine as she saw me approach.

  “Thank God,” she said as I got in. “I’ve been dying out here.”

  I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the portable tape recorder. I popped the casette into my hand and looked over at Flo.

  “Well?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

  I nodded solemnly. “He’s finished.”

  ***

  The Trib’s Washington bureau chief didn’t take any chances. We drove straight to the airport from Armstrong’s house, arriving at quarter to three in the morning. Waiting for us there was a chartered jet and an armed guard. Four hours later, Flo and I were safe inside the Trib’s D.C. office on L Street, where we remained for the next twenty-four hours. I organized documents and outlined facts, Flo wrote the story, and her bureau chief edited the first of what eventually became a series of thirteen exclusive front-page stories.

  They faxed us that first front page directly from the printing plant in Chicago. I remember staring in amazement at the huge bold headline that covered the top third of the page:

  U. S. SENATOR ARMSTRONG TIED

  TO ILLEGAL DRUG TESTS,

  CRIMINAL CONSPIRACY, AND MURDER

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Benny looked grim. “We got big trouble here.”

  I glanced around. “Not necessarily.”

  “Rachel, these fuckers want to kill us.”

  I gave him a plucky smile. “We’re still alive.”

  The umpire stepped out from behind home plate and yanked off his mask. “Come on!”

  That was all the encouragement the testosterone-crazed runner on first base needed. “Yeah, let’s move it, you wussies!”

  Benny looked over at him with disgust and turned back to me. “I can’t stand that obnoxious turd.”

  I banged the softball into my glove. “We’re up by a run. All we need is one more out.” I gestured toward first base. “Go on back there.”

  As Benny walked back to first base, the batter called time and stepped out of the box. He signaled to the guy on first, who trotted halfway back to the plate for a strategy huddle.

  I looked around the infield and outfield to check everyone’s positions. I felt a slight pang as I looked at our right fielder. The last time we had played these macho maniacs from Crowley & Gillan, David Marcus had been out there in right field.

  It was hard to believe that so much had happened during the two months between that game and this one, which was the first round of the league play-offs.

  Flo’s articles on the Armstrong conspiracy—a scandal which quickly, and predictably, got labeled “PrimaxGate”—astounded the nation and triggered a massive criminal investigation. The FBI moved in fast, and within days the lower-downs started fingering higher-ups. To paraphrase William Butler Yeats, the center of the conspiracy could not hold. Things fell apart, and they fell apart quickly. Eventually, someone implicated Armstrong’s long-time attorney and confidant, Sherman Ross. By then, to borrow again from Yeats, the falcon could no longer hear the falconer. Darkness dropped.

  Douglas Armstrong resigned from office. Lee Fowler was found dead in his garage from a self-inflicted gun shot wound. His suicide note admitted his role in the original coverup of the nursing home deaths and implicated others. Last week, Sherman Ross and four other men had been indicted for numerous criminal acts including three counts of first-degree murder for the deaths of Bruce Rosenthal, David Marcus, and Karen Harmon. The Douglas Armstrong investigation continues. In Vegas (according to a front-page PrimaxGate graphic in USA Today), the odds are 6–5 on whether he’ll do hard time.

  Meanwhile, Flo has become the front runner for a Pulitzer Prize, and her series may finally eclipse the Chicago Tribune’s other moment in the center ring of twentieth-century journalism, namely, its banner headline proclaiming Thomas E. Dewey’s decisive victory over Truman in the 1948 presidential election. Not surprisingly, Flo herself became the celebrity of the moment. The feature story in People magazine (“Say It’s So, Flo”) included pictures of her in a Georgetown bistro, at the Trib’s office, and jogging past the Jefferson Memorial with her big St. Bernard, Max. “The Tribune has given us Woodward and Bernstein combined,” commented a dour Ted Koppel on Nightline. But when Hollywood agents starting calling with proposals and packages for the next All the President’s Men, Flo changed her phone number, bought two plane tickets to Bermuda, called Benny Goldberg long distance, and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. They weren’t in love yet, Benny confided to me when they returned, “but we’re definitely in lust.”

  While they were down in Bermuda, I flew out to Arizona to visit David’s grave and say kaddish for him. I met his
parents at the cemetery, and they invited me back to their house for dinner. We looked through old photo albums and scrapbooks until after midnight. I saw more of David in his mother than his father, but I liked them both. The trip was good for me. It helped finally close that chapter of my life. When I returned from Arizona, I was ready to move on.

  “Play ball!” the umpire shouted.

  I glanced over at the runner on first base, who represented the tying run. A stocky redhead, he stared at me defiantly.

  I looked at Jacki, who was crouched behind the plate. She hadn’t had much luck at bat today, but she was a superb catcher—a position she had played for years on one of the steel mill teams during her days as a Granite City man. Although she had on too much makeup and lipstick for a softball game, she had wisely elected to add a pair of baggy Umbro shorts to her tight Spandex outfit in order to conceal certain decidedly unfeminine bulges that would have otherwise been quite visible in her turquoise bicycle shorts and leotard.

  The batter was digging in at the plate and wagging his bat. His teammates were shouting. Behind me I heard my infielders start the chatter: “Hey, batter, hey, batter, hey, batter.” Jacki gave me a target and I lofted the first pitch toward her.

  “Ball one!”

  The other team started whistling and chanting.

  “Ball two!”

  More noise from the other side.

  Then a pop foul back and over the backstop.

  Then a line drive foul down the first base line.

  The count was two balls and two strikes. Two outs. Bottom of the last inning.

  “Hang in there, Rachel,” Jacki shouted from behind the plate. “Just one more.”

  I glanced over at first base. The runner glared back. I looked around the infield and then back to the batter. Jacki was giving me a target. I took an underhand windup and arced the ball toward home. The batter swung hard.

  Crack.