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Untangling the Black Web

Page 7

by T. F. Jacobs


  “Actually, I think I will let you two be. I can come back later.”

  I hand the hotel card to the congressman while eying my phone to ensure that they are both in the picture.

  So far they haven’t noticed.

  “Oh and, Congressman, the American True Care bill for vaccines?”

  He watches me. I know I am being too blunt, but I need the camera to capture it.

  He reluctantly takes the envelope. My eyes glance to the right to make sure I get footage of him taking it.

  He puts it under his armpit, then presses the keycard into the door.

  “Ah sorry. One more thing. Miley, here is the money I owe you.”

  I pull the $300 from my pocket, then hand it to her.

  The congressman watches but doesn’t say anything. Miley takes it and slides it into her purse.

  I glance again at my phone to make sure I’m still recording. My heart is beating through my chest.

  “What’s that?” the congressman asks.

  I look up.

  He’s staring at my phone, and it’s pointed directly at his face.

  Shit.

  I turn it away from him, then rack my brain for possible excuses.

  “Looks like a call. Thanks, Congressman,” I lie.

  He watches me.

  I put it to my ear and turn around.

  The hallway is absolutely silent.

  I can feel his eyes glaring through the back of my head.

  “Come on,” Miley says impatiently.

  A second later, I hear the door open.

  I wait another moment, then turn back around to make sure I’m in the clear.

  They’re gone.

  I let out a deep sigh of relief.

  I pull the phone away from my ear and stop the recording. I can’t help but smile inside. The whole thing actually worked.

  Riding the elevator back down thirty floors, I’m alone with my thoughts. I try to decompress, but my emotions are torn between two extremes. Part of me is through the roof at my success, and part of me is utterly disgusted at myself for what I’ve done. The line between right and wrong feels blurrier than it ever has before, and I need to keep reminding myself of what this is all for.

  Lexi.

  Chapter 7

  I’m back home, and my plan is working.

  My chess pieces are moving into place. But I’m going to need as much help as I can get. Alex Nadar, the chubby, mustached pharmacist who came to my defense online, returned my Facebook message. Told me he was willing to speak, but only in person. I reached out to Dominique Alvarez again, because as crazy as she sounds, if she’s right, her story will make waves. If she’s wrong, then at least I haven’t left a stone unturned.

  What I need is someone who might be able to corroborate her story.

  Finding someone at a hospital willing to spill secrets may not be that easy. But I keep thinking back to one of Lexi’s nurses. The Asian one with the fringe cut.

  The day she told me about the surgery, she seemed like she wanted to say something else. To warn me of something. I never gave it much thought, but I know I wasn’t imagining it.

  I head to my kitchen counter, then pull out my drawer and look through the pile of business cards.

  There it is.

  Aly Fushinara.

  I dial her.

  It takes two rings, but she picks up.

  “Hello, this is Aly with Dr. Constance’s office.”

  “Aly, this is David Higgins. Lexi’s husband.”

  A pause.

  “Hi, Mr. Higgins. What can I do for you?” Curt and to the point.

  “I have something I was hoping you might be able to help me with. That day you told me about Lexi’s surgery you seemed hesitant. Like you wanted to tell me something. I’m not asking you to do anything you aren’t comfortable with, but as you know, American True Care screwed us out of coverage. I’m hoping you might be able to meet, discreetly of course, so that I can ask you a few questions.”

  Another pause.

  “Mr. Higgins, I’m sorry for what happened to Lexi, but I’m not sure I can be of much help.”

  “Aly, Lexi was wronged by a corrupt system. I’m going to fight it, and I have the capability to make a very good case, but I need help. I saw something in your eyes that day that tells me you’ve seen some things.”

  “Mr. Higgins, I apologize, but I really should be going.”

  “If you change your mind, meet me this Saturday at Arcadia Senior Community Center. Noon.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Higgins. Have a nice evening.”

  Not what I hoped for, but I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. People want to keep their jobs, so they look the other way when shady things go down. Simple as that.

  . . .

  I shut the door to my Volvo S60, the upgrade of a car I bought just before the cancer diagnosis, and turn to face the building I never got to see the outside of last time. It’s a drab brick-and-stucco community center that clearly doesn’t see much action. The white van from the night of my initiation is parked at the entrance.

  I make my way through a hallway, past a series of doors, and stop in front of an opened one at the end.

  Hushed voices are talking inside.

  I step through the entry, and the voices come to a halt.

  They stare, eyes glaring.

  “Hi, David.”

  I recognize the British accent. This time there is a face behind the voice.

  She’s young, probably late twenties, with sharp cheekbones and short auburn hair tied back into a ponytail. She’s thin, but she looks like she works out often. I can’t tell whether her black leather jacket is part of a grungy façade, or a fashion statement.

  I step in.

  “I’m Rob,” another man says. I recognize the figure, but not the face. It’s the tall, slender one. He’s in a skinny gray suit, sporting a buzz cut and what appear to be lightly mascaraed eyes.

  He notices my gaze linger on him for a moment longer than it should have.

  I finally nod.

  “I’m Brit,” the woman in the leather jacket says. “And I’m not saying that to be ironic because I’m British. My name is actually Brittany.”

  “Noted,” I say.

  Before anyone can say anything else, two more people walk in behind me.

  I turn.

  “David?” asks a deep-voiced, overweight man wearing a sun-faded black suit as he strides through the door. I recognize the mustached man with thinning brown hair. “I’m Alex.” He looks just like his Facebook picture.

  He too offers his hand.

  When I take it, I notice his hand feels more like mine, rough and unwelcoming.

  The last person to walk through the door is a muscular African American woman wearing a vibrant pink dress and bright-red lipstick. I recognize her straightaway.

  “I’m Dominique,” she says, her voice scratchy and raw.

  We shake hands as well.

  “Let’s all have a seat,” I announce.

  A moment later, we find our places.

  “Thank you all for joining me today.” I stop when I hear footsteps coming down the hall.

  “Expecting anyone else?” I ask the group.

  Their heads shake.

  A petite Asian woman, maybe half-Japanese, half-white, walks into the room. She has rosy cheeks, and her jet-black hair is pulled into a bun with chopsticks.

  I recognize her.

  “Aly?” I ask.

  She nods. Turns to the group. “I’m Aly,” she says with a polite smile.

  After our conversation, I was definitely not expecting to see her here, and I can’t help but feel slightly on edge by her presence. It’s not because of her but rather Brit and Rob.

  Based on the extreme precautions they took with me, I worried about what they might try to do if any of the others that I brought in were uncooperative. After the conversations I had with Alex and Dominique, I didn’t think it would be a problem. As for Aly—well, I didn’t t
hink she’d even show.

  The others introduce themselves to her, and she takes a seat. I try to push the worry away because everyone is here and it’s time to start.

  “Okay, great. Not really sure what the protocol is for this type of thing, but as Brit pointed out the last time I was here, this is a secure room. No signal. If we are going to work together to build up a case, we need absolute discretion from everyone. Understood?”

  Alex puffs out his lips in fascination and nods. He seems like a bit of an odd fellow.

  “The plan is to build up enough evidence of corruption inside American True Care to not only go public with, but to bring them to court. These fuckers get away with murder, and the government looks the other way. It’s time they pay for what they’ve done, but we need to be smart about it. I studied hundreds of whistle-blowing cases in law school, and if they find that we aren’t telling the truth, or if they find anything in one of our backgrounds to make us look insane, they will paint us and our case that way. They will also file every cross-claim known to man. But if we are smart and build a case the right way, we will be heroes, and they’ll be exposed. Think about Enron or BP, and then go even bigger.”

  Brit, Dominique, and Alex are nodding. They’re in. Rob is expressionless, and Aly looks concerned. I need to make sure she feels safe.

  “Why don’t we do a roundtable on our backgrounds and what we can add to the case?”

  “I’ll start,” Brit says. She stands. “I do IT security for American True Care. I moved to the states to be with my dying American mother. Midway through treatments, she lost her insurance after her former employer went through ‘budget cuts.’ I tried hacking the hospital to see if I could finagle her bloody bills, but I got caught by a guy—code name of Lincoln. Turns out he worked for the hospital but was willing to let it slide so long as I helped him on some side projects that the hospital didn’t condone. I did, and that was when he started to open my eyes to the corruption. We uncovered e-mail correspondence from American True Care and other insurance companies denying claims left and right for one shady reason after another. After my mom passed, I met Lincoln in person. I wanted to take it further. I wanted to get back at the bastards that did this to my mother. So we found Rob. He got our attention as a local writer for the Post putting out opinion pieces on the healthcare industry.”

  Rob nods, then stands.

  “They scared the heck out of me at first,” he chimes in. Judging a book by its cover, I’d guess he’s gay.

  “So dramatic,” Brit adds.

  “Am I dramatic if I feel that hacking my computer then taking over my webcam while I’m sitting in the nude is scary?”

  She raises her hand to brush it off and rolls her eyes.

  “I guess this is where I start my background.” Rob picks up the story. “So I was a rookie with the Post, focusing on California politics, as Brit mentioned. I started doing the opinion pieces after my boyfriend died. I’ll spare you the details, but he didn’t have insurance, and mine couldn’t cover him because we weren’t married. Gay marriage wasn’t legal at the time. There was a possibility of insurance if we became domestic partners, but when we attempted it, he was declared too sick to be capable of consenting to the partnership. The insurance companies had loophole after loophole. When we tried to buy him his own insurance plan, he was denied because of his preexisting condition. Well, it didn’t matter for much longer, because he died. And of course, we couldn’t afford a life insurance plan, considering he was so close to death, so I had to cremate him. I wanted revenge, and I got it by writing. The problem was that I didn’t have any good sources. So when Brit and Lincoln approached me, as much as I didn’t care for their tactics, I knew I had to join them.”

  Tears fall from his eyes. Aly puts her hand on his shoulder.

  “And where is this Lincoln guy?” I finally ask.

  No one says anything. Gazes drift toward Brit.

  “Lincoln worked at the hospital as their IT guy. Then he joined an insurance company, the Inner Medical Association. But he’s gone now.”

  Now I understand.

  I consider pressing her for more details, but decide against it. It’s clearly a subject of distress, and her implications are clear. He’s dead.

  “I guess I should go next,” Dominique says, interrupting the moment. Her deep-red lips are both enchanting and distracting. “I own the Hidden Meadows Cemetery.”

  “Lovely place,” Alex says.

  “Thanks.”

  She repeats the story she told me about the bodies left at her cemetery and the nurse who told her they were on American True Care’s low-income program but were denied coverage, then carried out by the cops.

  When she’s done, I look to Aly.

  But she’s silent. Now she understands why I asked her here, but clearly she isn’t comfortable with it.

  I push her. “Have you ever heard of anything like that, Aly?”

  “Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea,” she says.

  I glance over at Brit, whose stark expression I'm not able to discern.

  “Aly, if you want to be a silent source, we will respect that. But you’ve heard what American True Care has done to us. Surely you’ve seen things too. My wife is dead, and now I have over four hundred grand in medical bills. Surely you see this is bigger than us.”

  She doesn’t meet my eyes.

  “If I help you, I need assurance I’m protected. You can’t use my name.”

  “That isn’t a problem. We just want to know what you know. You’re safe here.”

  She takes a long breath.

  “Fine,” she says shyly. “Yes, there’s an unspoken rule with some of the criminals we get. If the patients are alone and close to dying, sometimes they will be denied coverage. Not by us, but by their insurance. So the cops come and supposedly take them to another hospital. The thing is, I’ve never seen anyone come from another hospital to be put in our care. Get what I’m saying?”

  “You’re saying Dominique might be right?”

  “Do you have proof?” Brit asks.

  “It’s not the type of thing that gets documented. Phone calls and conversations.”

  “But surely the hospital records your calls?” Brit asks.

  “Only inbound. Required by law, I think. Nothing outbound.”

  Holy shit.

  “See, I told you!” Dominique shouts. “I ain’t crazy.”

  This is exactly what we’re looking for, but we’re going to need proof.

  “Have you seen anything else?”

  “I see things all the time, but I don’t know if they have much to do with American True Care.”

  “What do you mean?” Brit asks. It’s great she keeps asking questions, but it feels an awful lot like she’s trying to compete with me. Like she wants to be the one in charge.

  “Well the biggest one is with entering procedure codes. If someone comes in for a fifteen-minute checkup, we will put them down for thirty. Sometimes we will duplicate services to make it look like a glitch when really it isn’t. You would be astounded by how many people never even look at their bills and blindly pay for them. We tell patients to come back for checkups in three weeks when really they don’t need to come back at all. I used to e-mail the doctor, asking him what he wanted to add, because I didn’t feel comfortable being responsible for it myself. On many of them I’d purposefully forget to change them, and I’d claim ignorance when he caught me. Eventually that happened too many times.”

  My blood is boiling. As she speaks, I think of Lexi. I know she was taken advantage of. We showed up for any treatment they told us to, whenever they told us to, because we were scared. Nothing worked, but we kept on going. We received the BS bills on the daily. After that many bills, I stopped checking them for the procedure codes and inaccuracies.

  My chest hurts. It’s heavy.

  I look up. Aly is watching me.

  “Sounds an awful lot like what might have happened to Lexi. Was this what you wer
e trying to warn me of?”

  She’s silent.

  Then, finally, she nods.

  My fingers clench, leaving my knuckles white. I want to drive straight to the hospital and bring Dr. Constance into the parking lot to beat the living hell out of him.

  “Sorry,” she says.

  My blood is boiling, but I need to collect myself. Stay calm. Focus on the goal.

  “Why don’t you go next, Alex,” Brit suggests, breaking the tension.

  “Okay, great. I’m a pharmacist. And working as a pharmacist, I see it all day long, you know. Ever heard of tiered pricing?”

  Everyone shakes their heads.

  “It’s like a pyramid. Insurance companies say that in order to cover all drugs, they need to do it in tiers, you know. At the bottom of the pyramid there is a set of drugs that they can cover at one hundred percent. It’s the largest part of the pyramid. Well, the farther up the pyramid you go, the smaller the percentage the insurance companies will pay. It’s basically a subsidy, you know.”

  “Okay.”

  “So at the bottom of the pyramid are name-brand drugs for everyday use, like colds and birth control, but they aren’t the ones saving lives, you know. There are all kinds of deals made with Big Pharma to make sure drugs are on those low tiers . . . but that’s another story, you know.”

  I can’t stop noticing his penchant for the phrase “you know,” and it’s making my insides want to scream.

  “Well the top-tiered drugs are more expensive and far more necessary. Like for HIV or cancer treatment. And because they are so expensive, companies like American True Care put them on a higher tier, which means that they only cover maybe thirty percent of the cost, you know.”

  There it is.

  “Gotcha,” I interrupt. I believe him, and it royally pisses me off. But I can’t stand the way the guy talks. And if I can’t stand it, I have to guess a jury will feel the same way. He’s not a good witness for us.

  He nods his head, then smiles.

  “So you are saying the sick ones are discriminated against? And insurance companies purposefully don’t help them?” Brit asks.

  “Exactly.”

  “And then the sick ones die, and insurance companies don’t have anything else to pay for. Right?” I say, surprising myself.

 

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