Untangling the Black Web

by T. F. Jacobs

  I can tell that people are expecting me to get emotional. They want me to turn this around into a parable about how everything is great, and God is good. But that isn’t what they are going to get.

  I straighten my stance and take a deep inhalation, then bring the microphone back to my lips.

  “The American healthcare system is the single largest fucking sham conspiracy cover-up in modern history, and I vow on my life that I will be the one to bring it down.”

  Audible gasps of shock can be heard all around me. People are appalled. They’ve come to grieve over the loss of this far-too-young woman, not to hear her husband rant about a ludicrous conspiracy of her death. They’re trying to decide what to do. I can feel the collective judgment being cast on me. Evan looks as though he’s ready to stand up and bring me down from the podium. I notice a couple phones in the crowd pointed at me, filming.

  I continue. “Lexi is just one of the many victims. It starts with the doctors living in expensive beach houses, enjoying luxury sports cars and countless vacations around the globe, claiming they are here for our better good. In fact, we have one with us today. Dr. Constance in the back.” I pause as Dr. Constance’s eyes become glued to mine.

  “Why don’t you stand, Doctor?” I say.

  He does, but not without hesitancy.

  The crowd turns to face him.

  “Dr. Constance is the one who killed Lexi,” I say.

  More gasps. I know they aren’t at him but rather at me for making this accusation. People are looking at their neighbors, unsure of whether they should speak up, leave, or keep listening.

  “The last-minute procedure he got her to sign off on while she was heavily sedated ended up killing her. And the kicker? It costs fifty-six thousand dollars.”

  People are starting to turn back to me. They are completely mortified by my behavior, but I’ve got their attention.

  “That’s right. I am going to pay fifty-six thousand dollars for the procedure that killed her. All the while, Dr. C will be driving off in a brand-new Porsche.”

  I grab the water bottle and take another swig.

  Evan comes to the podium and reaches for the microphone while putting his arm around me.

  I swivel my hips and thrust him away. “No, I’m okay. Let me finish. I have a point to all this.”

  Evan is reluctant, but he returns to his seat.

  “See, the doctors insisted on one procedure, then another, then another, then another. All the while, Lexi got sicker. In fact, she got worse faster. And in getting worse, she had to have more procedures and pay more money.” I stall. I should have been a fucking courtroom lawyer.

  “I want to invite another person to stand. My boss, Stan Hurschwitz.”

  Stan’s eyes go wide, and again the crowd turns around. Stan stands for a brief second, then sits back down. He’s nervous, and he deserves to be.

  “Stan the man. See, Stan is also part of the problem, and for that matter, so am I. American True Care.”

  I nod my head for emphasis. People are whispering to their neighbors now, conspiring on whether or not to take action to bring me down.

  “American True Care is just one of many insurance companies that doesn’t care about you or me or Lexi. In the last two years, I went from paying two hundred dollars a month to fourteen hundred. All the while, my deductible went from one thousand to ten. On top of that, almost none of the cancer treatments or medications we went through were covered. Why?”

  People still can’t believe what they’re hearing, but they’re listening. I wait for them to guess before I give them the answer.

  “I’ll tell you why. It’s because the treatments are too modern. It’s because there haven’t been enough tests. Let me ask you this, though. Have you ever heard of a cure for cancer?”

  Many of them are at their wit’s end now. But others are trying to understand what I’m getting at.

  “Sure there’s chemo and radiation, but is there a true cure? No. That is why so many new treatments come out. They work for some, but for others they don’t. Because these treatments haven’t been proven for the ‘mass market,’ we have clauses in our insurance contracts that exclude them. Essentially this means that we exclude every procedure deemed ‘too expensive.’ So if our insurance isn’t paying for the innovative and expensive stuff like we all expect it would, what is it paying for?”

  People are connecting the dots. It’s working.

  “Look. The industry charges whatever they want and we pay it because we don’t want to die. Their profits are astronomical and there is no transparency of costs. No one is regulating it. The government pretends to, but in reality, they look the other way because they are taking cuts as well. One dirty politician takes a bribe from a lobbyist and another does and so on and so on. They get rich while legislation is passed allowing all of this bullshit to continue. Doctors get rich, insurance moguls get rich, politicians get rich, and we all pay for it to happen. And this is the result.”

  I gesture to Lexi’s casket beside me. I survey the faces and take note of the horror splashed across them. I’ve never seen Stan look angrier than he does today.

  “In Lexi’s name, I vow to bring it down, starting with American True Care. It needs to be stopped, and I am going to take it to court.”

  I drop the microphone and walk back to my seat.

  A few claps can be heard, but mostly just loud whispers. I don’t look back again as I sit. Beside me, Evan and my mother stare at me with disbelief. I don’t say anything, and instead I simply nod.

  I’ve said what I needed to say.

  Chapter 3

  After Lexi’s casket and body are sent into the ground, I put on my acting face to exchange pleasantries with many of the patrons, some who don’t know what to say and some who say they enjoyed my remarks.

  My buzz is wearing off.

  I look around to find Stan to tell him I’ll be going public with what I know, but he seems to be gone.

  I say goodbye to my inconsolable mother. She always loved having Lexi over. They often got pedicures or lunch together. Lexi adored my mom, which is one of the things I appreciated most about her. Lexi went out of her way to give my mother compliments on her hair, makeup, or figure, and my mother soaked them all up.

  My dad approaches me, shakes my hand, and consoles me for my loss. A minute later, he’s gone.

  Evan and his wife, Christie, drive me home in their white Audi A7.

  Evan lives in Orange County now, which really isn’t that far, but with LA traffic, we don’t get to see each other as much as we’d like.

  “Some speech,” Christie announces from the passenger’s seat.

  I sit in the back with my nephew, Timmy, who’s munching on Cheez-Its.

  “Thanks,” I return. I’ve always liked Christie okay, but I feel she is too controlling of Evan. She’s some big-shot day trader, and Evan is just a writer for the local newspaper. Because she makes more money than he does, she feels that Evan needs to be the one to cook, clean, and care for Timmy. They make it work, and it isn’t really my business, but it’s always rubbed me the wrong way. There was even one time a couple of years back when I had tickets to a Clippers and Lakers game, and Evan was supposed to come up and join me. Last minute he called to cancel, because Christie had some important business meeting she needed Evan home for so that he could make sure the house was clean.

  The car begins to slow as we approach an intersection.

  “That was something all right,” Evan adds as he turns onto Grand Avenue. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it went viral by tonight.”

  “I should be so lucky.”

  Evan turns around as the car comes to a stop. “Look, man, I understand you are hurt and angry, but before you quit your job, just take a few days to really think about it.”

  Is he for real?

  I snap. “Evan, I am of sound mind. I know what I need to do. If you don’t agree, you can screw off.”

  “David, we are on your side. Eva
n just wants the best for you,” Christie chimes in.

  “I’m good on the advice, Christie, thank you.”

  We pull up to my French-style apartment in South Pasadena a few minutes later. Cobblestone walkways line the tan-and-gray modern concrete building.

  “Would you like some company, big guy?” Evan asks as I open my door.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  I shut the car door before anyone can respond. Timmy watches me from the back seat. He’s too young to remember any of this.

  The car reluctantly rolls forward and eventually out of sight.

  I take out my keys and scan my fob to get into the building.

  . . .

  I’m sitting on my vibrant yellow couch that Lexi picked out last year. I let my bare feet rest against the cold hardwood floors.

  I stare at the empty apartment. We sold most of our belongings and furniture to cover the medical expenses. It doesn’t matter, though. Even if we had sold the rest, we still wouldn’t have enough to cover all the bills.

  I focus on the blank television.

  I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch anything since the cancer started. Lexi used to love watching reality shows like The Bachelor, mostly to make fun of the BS everyone spoke about love and “right reasons,” when in reality most contestants were aspiring actors, singers, and bloggers simply looking to get their fifteen minutes of stardom to jump-start their careers.

  I’ve already emptied my vodka-filled water bottle, but the buzz is gone.

  I contemplate refilling it but instead continue to sit and stare.

  My thoughts flood in.

  Am I doing the right thing?

  What would Lexi have done? I know that she was just as fed up as I was. She wanted to end her life months ago, but she didn’t because of me. She knew how much it would hurt. Because she stayed around for me, I tried to do everything I could to make her happy. As unpredictable and easy going as she was, I knew that she was scared and that she wanted to hold on to as much of the life she knew as she could. That’s why I always wore the same thing, styled my hair the same way, and brought the same flowers.

  I miss her.

  I wish we were sitting on the couch eating takeout and complaining about our shitty jobs. Wish we were on a jog together through the city, each trying to outrun the other. Wish we were holding hands, sitting through an indie movie just so that we could trash it with our critiques afterward. Wish we were playing in the waves at the beach, she in her yellow polka-dot bikini, because she wanted to be cliché like that. Wish we were strolling together through the bookstore, looking for the next read that would keep us up all night. I even wish I were sitting next to her in her hospital bed while she napped.

  But that’s all gone.

  Now that I’m sobering up, my left temple aches.

  And I can think clearly.

  What I did earlier was stupid.

  The majority of the whistle-blowing cases I studied in law school failed, because most whistle-blowers don’t get any traction when they come out alone. The world deems them crazy people. No creditability. Whatever company they come out against can usually silence them within days, either by settling or by filing a cross-claim. The successful whistle-blowing cases are the ones where multiple people come forward. High-profile lawyers get involved.

  I’m not high profile, nor do I have the money to hire someone who is. I’m a lone wolf.

  And my drunken rant will play into exactly how they will try to paint me: crazy.

  I need to get my stuff together and focus on how I can really make some noise.

  Maybe I should be curled up in a ball crying inconsolably. Maybe I should be lying in bed reading a Bible, trying to cope.

  But all I feel is anger.

  These bastards need to pay for what they did. Why sit and cry when I can make them suffer?

  The more I think about it, the more I realize that if I’m going to build up a solid legal case, I need others.

  Others with inside information.

  I lie down and let my eyes close. I wait for sleep to come, but it doesn’t. Instead, I’m engulfed by a great nothingness. Just blackness and silence. Alone, without Lexi at my side.

  . . .

  Something chimes in my pocket.

  Outside the window it’s dark now. How long have I been lying here?

  I pull out my phone.

  A text from Evan.

  Told you.

  Below the message, there’s a link.

  It opens to a Facebook post by an African American woman I don’t recognize named Dominique Alvarez.

  A video materializes, and it takes a moment before I realize that it’s me. My tie is loosened, my blond hair disheveled, and I’m standing at a podium with gray clouds behind me.

  I press play.

  “The truth is that it’s all a lie,” I say in the video. I watch as I straighten my posture, then bring the microphone back up to my lips.

  “The American healthcare system is the single largest fucking sham conspiracy cover-up in modern history, and I vow on my life that I will be the one to bring it down.”

  I stop the video.

  Swallow the lump in my throat.

  When I told Evan I would be lucky if the video went viral, I was wrong. I knew it, but I wasn’t going to admit it to him. If I want any chance of successfully blowing the whistle, I need to get this taken off the Internet.

  I scroll down to the stats.

  Forty-six likes, seven comments, and six shares.

  Greg Trimert: OMG

  Bert Sims: This is going viral

  Alex Nadar: This isn’t funny. It’s serious. This guy lost his wife, and he’s right, you know. There are some big issues with Big Healthcare. Good for him. I’m here to help!

  Jessica Farst: He’s cute. Poor guy. Too bad he’s drunk off his ass.

  Jose Lopez: Even if he’s right, ain’t nothing gon change.

  Ernie Carter: Make American True Care pay! Those bastards should burn in hell. Screwed my sister out of fifty grand in coverage. Fuck ’em!

  Grace Merkel: I’ll cheer him up ;)

  Seven comments in half an hour isn’t groundbreaking, but it’s something.

  This needs to be taken down.

  I click into Dominique’s profile. Her hometown is Pasadena, California. A local.

  The only post visible is the one of me standing at the podium. The rest is private.

  I send her a message.

  Dominique, I am not sure who you are, but I need you to take the video of me down. I’m a lawyer and will sue you if you don’t. My wife just fucking died. Have some respect.

  It ain’t Shakespeare, but it should get the point across.

  I stare at my screen, waiting for a reply.

  But it doesn’t come.

  Glancing back through the comments, I come across Alex Nadar’s again.

  This isn’t funny. It’s serious. This guy lost his wife, and he’s right, you know. There are some big issues with Big Healthcare. Good for him. I’m here to help!

  I click into his profile to see an overweight, balding man with a thin, brown mustache and a toothy grin.

  Alex Nadar. Pharmacist. Los Angeles area.

  Interesting.

  I message him.

  Alex, you serious about helping tackle the issues of Big Healthcare? Do you have any insights that might be of use?

  I get up to try to force down some old bread I find in the fridge.

  A chime draws my attention back to the phone.

  A message.

  Dominique Alvarez: Sorry. I only put it up because I agreed with what you said and felt it needed to be heard. Took the video down. Were you serious about what you said in the video? I think I might be able to help.

  I click back into her profile and confirm the video is gone.

  Then I write back.

  Meant every word, but I shouldn’t have done it that way. How can you help?

  It isn’t even a minute
later when I receive a Facebook video call from Dominique Alvarez.

  I answer.

  A woman with an Afro and bright-pink lips appears on my screen.

  “Hello?” she asks. Her voice sounds scratchy and raw.

  “Dominique?”

  There’s an awkward silence.

  She looks familiar, but I can’t place where from.

  “I guess I should start by saying I’m sorry for your loss or some shit like that.”

  Real genuine.

  “Thanks. Look I don’t want to be rude but—”

  She cuts me off. “You trying to take it to American True Care or some shit, right?”

  I nod.

  “I own the Hidden Meadows Cemetery.”

  I cock my head. Hidden Meadows is the cemetery Lexi was buried at today.

  She curls her lips into a smile. She sees that I’ve connected the dots.

  “Yup. Fate or some bullshit like that.”

  “I’m sorry, but how is this fate? Filming your grieving patrons is both unethical and against the law.”

  “Like I told you, I only did that because I wanted to help. Got it?”

  She’s got some spunk, I’ll give it to her, but she needs to get to the point already. I’m not in the mood for this.

  “What information do you have about American True Care?”

  “So a few years back some black suits who said they were with the FBI approached me about burying bodies, but they wanted no questions. They offered me two hundred thousand dollars. I agreed, because they said there were only three bodies, and I figured they were legit, being with the government. Well, they ended up having eight bodies and left me with cash. By the time I counted it, there was only one hundred and fifteen thousand.”

  Her story is intriguing, but what the hell does this have to do with American True Care?

  “Dominique, I’m sympathetic, but again, how does this connect to me?”

  “Will you just let me finish? Damn. As I was trying to say, all the bodies were black men. I wanted to find out who these men were, since I’d been screwed, so I went to the hospitals to try to identify them. Turns out they’d been in fights, and when the hospital tried their insurance companies, they were denied. Said they’d have to pay out of pocket. These were mostly gang members, estranged from their families, they told me. Nurse said they were on that American True Care low-income program, you know? Well, she said the men were escorted out by the cops. Said this type of thing happens all the time.”