by Chris Fabry
“I remember Davidson telling me I would always be this way.”
Miriam cocked her head. “Treha, we don’t know that.”
“The damage was done before I was born. There is nothing you can do to reverse that.”
“That could be true. But there may be something we can do. We can’t really know until there are tests.”
“Tests cost money. I don’t have health insurance.”
“Don’t worry about that. Let’s just get you better. The good news is, now we know what happened. Mr. Davidson will be able to talk with the doctors and tell them what you were given and how it may have affected you.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to change.” The girl took a bite of toast and crunched it, the crumbs falling on her hospital gown. She didn’t brush them away, just kept chewing. “It’s not so bad knowing.”
“What do you mean?”
Treha stared out the window, chewing the toast, focused on nothing. “The stories I read. My favorite books. There is always someone looking for something else. Something more. Reaching for a goal. And I’ve wondered if I could do that. In some ways I didn’t know I was asking the question.”
“What question, Treha?”
“Can I get better? Will I always be . . . the way I am?”
“There is so much we can try. I think once the doctors look at you and begin to understand—”
Treha interrupted her. “It’s better like this. It’s better to know there will be no change. I can live with that. Move on with my life.”
No emotion. No screaming or yelling. Just total submission.
Instead of arguing, Miriam sat back. She thought of her own life, her own circumstances.
“What are you thinking?” Treha said.
“That maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s better to give up. Just go along with whatever life hands you. Life deals the cards. You take them and don’t ask questions. It’s much easier that way, isn’t it, Treha? Not to have to fight or struggle anymore. I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.”
Miriam rose and walked to the door. “I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting to stay with me. Now that you’ve discovered this. You’ll want to go back to your apartment. Find another cleaning position. Something that will pay the bills.”
Treha didn’t answer.
Miriam stopped at the door and turned. “I have a confession to make. I went to your apartment. I had lunch with Du’Relle and his mother. I didn’t plan any of that; it just happened. They’ve had a loss in the family.”
“What loss?”
“Du’Relle’s father was killed. He’s not coming home.”
Treha stared at her as if she couldn’t comprehend the news.
“This is what life does, Treha. It deals the cards. We can’t choose that. We can only choose what we do with them.”
“Why did you go there?”
“I went looking for answers. I thought I might find something about you. That’s my confession. I went into your apartment and looked around. I used your key to get in. You can sue me if you’d like. I’m guilty. I wouldn’t blame you.”
“I don’t want to sue you.”
Miriam smiled. “I didn’t think you would.”
“I want to pay you for the broken glass.”
“You just gave Charlie a project to work on. I never liked that door. We’re replacing it.” Miriam took a step toward her. “I did find something. It fell out of one of your stories, one of your books. A woman named Kara. Do you remember her?”
No recognition on Treha’s face.
“You met her when you were about five years old. She took you to buy a pair of shoes. Anyway, I made contact. I asked questions. And last night, while you were speaking with Mr. Davidson . . .”
“You had a phone call.”
“Yes.”
Treha sat up a little higher.
“If you’ve decided this is your life, that it can get no better, you probably don’t want to know what else I discovered.”
Treha pushed the tray from the bed.
“We’ve located your mother.”
The eyes moved back and forth over the landscape of the room, and Miriam wondered what was going on behind them. After a few moments, Treha spoke.
“Where?”
“She’s in Arizona. Not far from here. I haven’t called her. And I won’t, if you decide you don’t want to see her. I can understand that decision.”
There was a knock at the door and Devin stepped inside with a small bouquet of flowers. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
He had no idea what he was interrupting.
“Come in,” Miriam said.
He handed Treha the flowers. “You look good. Are you feeling all right?”
“Better.”
“I’m glad. You had us scared.”
“But Jonah got some good video, I’m sure.”
Devin smiled. “We’re shooting more with Mr. Davidson. He’s explaining more about the drug you were given when you were a baby. And how the students at that school got sick from it.”
“Is he still here in Tucson?” Treha said.
“He’s staying at our house,” Miriam said. “Until he feels well enough to go home.”
Treha ran a hand along her injured arm and spoke toward the wall. “Mrs. Howard just told me she’s found my mother.”
Devin turned. “Seriously?”
Miriam nodded.
“I want to see her,” Treha said.
Miriam smiled. “All right. We can arrange that.”
Devin’s head moved from Miriam to Treha and back again. “I have to get that . . . I mean, is there any way you’d allow me to film that?”
“Let’s get her well enough to leave here before we decide,” Miriam said.
“Right,” Devin said. “Well, there’s something else that’s come up I wanted you to know about. I’m sure you won’t be able to join us, but—”
“What is it, Devin?”
Miriam listened as Devin described what he and Jonah had planned. Treha’s eyes wandered, but Miriam thought she could see a flash of resolve on the young woman’s face.
CHAPTER 37
DEVIN HELPED JONAH carry the equipment into the Phutura Pharmaceuticals media room. It was here that they announced breakthroughs, new FDA approvals, and held conference calls with investors. And there were many investors in Phutura. After a sluggish few years and a hit from the competition, the stock had doubled each of the past two years and the company had bright prospects for the future. Any good news about the lawsuit and the stock would jump. But from what Devin could discern, investors might be jumping ship soon.
The company offered its own camera and equipment to use, but Devin wanted to keep the footage consistent. The interview that would’ve normally taken months to set up had been hastily arranged by Calvin Davidson. The old man’s history with Hollingsworth carried extra weight. Devin hadn’t actually lied about the content of the questions, but it was clear that Phutura believed this would be a sympathetic interview that would help any damage done to their sterling reputation. His hope was to get Phutura on camera for use in the documentary. And something even better.
An aide was sent to see if everything was prepared, and soon after, Ezra Hollingsworth strolled into the room. The man exuded presence as if he were royalty and everyone should bow or curtsy, though it was clear he tried to be unassuming as he acknowledged Jonah behind the camera and shook Devin’s hand.
“Thank you for agreeing to this, Mr. Hollingsworth,” Devin said. “This is going to add so much to our production.”
“I’m glad to accommodate. Tell me again about your documentary. I understand you’ve been interviewing people who have used our medication.”
Devin held up a piece of paper so Jonah could white-balance the camera. “We’ve mainly been collecting stories from older people who live at Desert Gardens in Tucson. As a filmmaker I try to follow the stories we gather, and several people have
mentioned Phutura as a thread we wanted to follow. I think you’ll be fascinated.”
“I look forward to seeing it.” He glanced at his watch. “Why don’t we get started. Do you have an idea of how long this will take? I have a meeting in—”
“Fifteen minutes, tops,” Devin said.
“Perfect.” He sat in the overstuffed chair strategically positioned in front of the Phutura logo. An identical chair waited across from him, as well as a small table with a tasteful plant in the center.
“I just need one more thing,” Devin said, looking around. He brought a stool from the other side of the room and placed a smaller camera on it, aiming it at the empty chair. A cable ran from both cameras to some equipment in front of Jonah. Devin hit the On button on the smaller camera.
“That’s good,” Jonah said. “It’s out of the shot.”
Hollingsworth studied the smaller camera.
“This is for the two-shot, so we can do a cutaway in editing if we need to,” Devin said.
Hollingsworth waved a hand. “Understood. I’ve done a few of these over the years.”
“Yes, I’m sure you have.” But none like this, Devin thought.
Hollingsworth signaled the control room at the back with a twirling finger. “I hope you don’t mind if we film as well. We like to keep a record of everything for our files. Just in case there are any discrepancies.”
“Of course,” Devin said, fitting him with a microphone. Jonah tested it and signaled he was ready. Then Devin walked toward the door. “Our interviewer is Treha. She’ll be asking the questions.”
A pause. “I was under the impression that you were going to be—”
Devin walked out, hearing Jonah say something to Hollingsworth, reassuring him. Laughing a little and lightening the mood. Jonah had his downsides but he was able to work on the fly better than anyone, as long as someone wasn’t holding a gun on him or tossing his phone out the window. His editing on the documentary in the past week had been incredible. Give the guy a case of Mountain Dew and some potato chips and he was good for several days. The footage of Dr. Crenshaw they had taken months earlier now took on deeper meaning. Conversations that had seemed rambling and incoherent from early in their shooting suddenly made sense with the Phutura revelations.
Devin found Treha in the lobby sitting on a plush couch, her fingers typing away. The receptionist stared at her, mesmerized. Treha wore a pantsuit and a long-sleeved blouse and kept pulling at her collar as if it scratched her. Miriam had taken her to a salon, and her hair framed her face in a way that made her look thinner.
“Are you ready for this?” Devin said.
Treha nodded, gathering her three-by-five cards and following him to the room. Hollingsworth stood and shook hands with Treha, glancing at the bandages that were slightly visible underneath her sleeves. She gave a practiced smile, something Jonah and Devin had worked on as they drove to Phutura. It looked more like the expression of a pet that yawned or panted in a way that looked like a smile.
The two sat and Devin fitted Treha’s microphone, then took his place, behind Treha but out of the shot, his stomach swirling, heart racing. Deep breath. Jonah gave him a thumbs-up.
“All right, Treha, we’re ready when you are.”
She paused a long, uncomfortable moment, and Devin was about to tell her again to go ahead, thinking she hadn’t heard him, when she spoke.
“Mr. Hollingsworth, I understand you have worked with Phutura for some time.”
“That’s correct.” A big smile. He crossed his legs and Devin thought he could see his reflection in the man’s leather shoes.
“You must be proud of what the company has accomplished over those years.”
Just as they had practiced, an easy first question to get him talking, get him comfortable with her staccato delivery and style.
“Yes, I’m quite proud of the people we’ve helped. It’s easy to get caught up in the numbers, but a company like ours does not gauge success in dollar signs or units sold or anything of the sort. Success is changed lives. Just like our company motto—‘Changed lives for your future.’ Success is the heart patient who gains freedom from implanted devices and begins to live a normal life. Success is . . .”
Hollingsworth gave more examples of success, which sounded hollow given the information Devin knew. But it was the perfect setup for what was to come.
Keep talking, he thought.
“But the help you’ve given people comes at a cost,” Treha said.
“Yes, absolutely. For every medication we develop, there is much research, hard work, and frankly money expended. Many of our projects never reach the shelves. For many years I worked with research in the company and I think this knowledge has helped me lead. Someone who has been there and knows the ropes, so to speak. I know the struggle of developing a new medication, something we think will help people, only to find we can’t go further. Some would say that money is wasted, but I don’t feel that way. Everything works together; every success is buoyed by some mistake, some research that fails, and we learn and we grow and we get back on our feet and move forward. That’s the hallmark of this corporation. We will not be defeated by temporary failures in our research and development. We will learn and help people change their lives.”
Devin had given Jonah the progression of the documentary—where they would begin, each transition, each musical cue—but now he could see everything falling perfectly into place. Even the future interview with Treha’s mother, the emotional reunion that would bring tears to viewers. But this would be the crowning moment, when the injured, innocent young woman faced the man responsible for her injury. They would build up to this section and work it into the whole as a crescendo. Finally the little guy confronting the big guy.
The sound track in Devin’s mind began playing the requisite music—electronic, fast-paced, edgy, chance-taking chords propelling them forward. Treha asked one more innocuous question, which Hollingsworth caught and ran the length of the field with, then spiked in the end zone, a Cheshire cat smile plastered on his face. He looked like he had just been named most valuable pharmaceutical executive of the year.
Treha checked her notes, then looked up, her head swaying. “A spill occurred two years ago that your company took responsibility for.”
“Yes, that’s true. I don’t see what this has to do with—”
“And the EPA approved the cleanup of the spill. You did everything required.”
“Quite right.”
“But you didn’t tell the EPA about the experimental drug that was mixed in with the other material in that spill.”
The man blinked hard and uncrossed his legs. He looked at the camera, deliciously vulnerable. Devin raised his eyebrows and shrugged, lifting his hands as if he had no control over the force of nature that was Treha.
“Do you remember the development of a drug for depression that you could give to pregnant women?”
“How do you . . . ?” He lowered his voice. “I would be careful how you accuse, young lady.”
“The students near the spill have developed mysterious illnesses.”
“None of which has any connection—”
“Illnesses that mimic the side effects of the drug you were testing.”
“There is not a shred of evidence linking us with those . . .” Hollingsworth grabbed the microphone and began to unhook it. “This interview is over.” He looked at Devin. “You misrepresented yourself.”
“We have information about the students,” Treha said, her voice growing stronger. “Documented by the researcher who worked for you. Calvin Davidson.”
Hollingsworth tossed the microphone to the floor. “That old crackpot’s testimony would be laughed out of court after the first question.”
“We have information that Dr. James Crenshaw gave an experimental drug to a pregnant woman with the full knowledge of Phutura officials.”
Hollingsworth got to his feet, shrugging off the accusation. “I have no idea who or w
hat you’re talking—”
“With your full knowledge,” she said.
“You have nothing,” he spat, pointing a finger at her.
“And we have the child,” Treha said softly.
Hollingsworth stared. “What did you say?”
“We have the child.” Softer now, almost to herself. “We have the child. The one the drug affected.”
He drew close, scowling. “You have no such thing because there never was a human test.”
“We have the child.”
He moved to leave, but Treha stood and blocked him from the doorway. “We have the child.”
Hollingsworth squinted, trying to follow her eyes. Then a look of recognition. “There was no child,” he said.
“Yes, there was. I was the child. I am the child. My name is Treha.” Her jaw set and she raised her voice, the veins in her neck jutting, her head swaying in time to some different drummer. “My name is Treha Langsam and I was the child.”
Hollingsworth studied the girl with equal amounts of fascination and derision. Finally he looked at someone in the control room. “Call security! They don’t leave the building with this video.”
“You won’t be able to stop us,” Devin called after him.
Hollingsworth turned.
“You can take our video, take our equipment, but you can’t take the truth away. It’s going to come out.”
There was a visible sneer on the man’s face. Jonah followed Hollingsworth with a tight shot.
“What do you want? Did you come here to threaten me? To threaten the company with these hollow accusations?”
“We came for the truth. We came to show you what you did to her.” The emotion in his own voice surprised Devin.
“I am the child,” Treha said softly.
Two security officers arrived. Hollingsworth ordered all of their equipment confiscated. The men took the camera Jonah was holding as well as the smaller camera on the stool.
“The plaintiffs in the court case are seeing the video we have of Davidson confessing to what happened,” Devin said.
Hollingsworth ignored him. “We’ll return your equipment, but not the video. Now take this freak and leave.”