The Suicide Effect

by L. J. Sellers

  Rudker plopped down at his desk with its familiar piles of papers. His resume, his life, his power base, was about to change. As part of the merger deal, he had asked for a seat on the board of directors in addition to the executive vice-president position. He was confident he would get what he wanted. JB badly needed a blockbuster like Nexapra and he held the cards.

  Rudker’s skin tingled thinking about the numbers. The global mental health market was a bottomless pocket, and Nexapra could become the best selling drug ever. Bigger than Prozac. Bigger than Prilosec. They should give it a brand name that started with Pr just for luck. Preva. Precor. Preven. No, Preven sounded too much like prevent. FDA would never allow it. He made a mental note to check with Prolabs’ marketing director to see if they had started testing brand names with focus groups yet.

  If they could get the drug approved in the next eighteen months, it could hit peak sales by mid 2013—just in time to prevent a bloodletting from the drop in sales after Altavar went off patent. The merger was happening just in time to keep Prolabs from going under. JB Pharma needed a new blockbuster and Prolabs needed a new source of R&D cash.

  In fact, it needed a whole fresh start. Rudker would be glad to see the name Prolabs disappear. The company had been through its share of problems since he came on board in 2003. The manufacturing irregularities, the FDA fines, and the privacy invasion lawsuits over some foolish marketing tactics—it had been one fiasco after another. To keep the company afloat while they developed Nexapra, Rudker had put in sixty- and seventy-hour weeks for years.

  It hadn’t been enough. He and Neil Barstow, the company’s chief financial officer, had been forced to create two phony holding companies that allowed Prolabs to borrow from itself. They had also given themselves sizeable stock options that had never been declared as a business expense. Without a merger, Prolabs would eventually collapse on itself from the weight of all its debt. Rudker could feel the twinge of a migraine coming on, but he couldn’t stop thinking about his situation. Prolabs was on the edge of the abyss, but the white knight was in sight. He just had to hang for a while longer.

  If only he hadn’t borrowed so much money for personal projects—especially the llama ranch in Lorane that was intended to keep his new wife happy. It had cost him nearly $2 million. For fucking llamas! Now those loans were overdue and he couldn’t shuffle the paperwork to hide the debt much longer.

  If Nexapra was FDA-approved by the time JB’s accountants sorted out the bookkeeping mess, his transgressions wouldn’t matter. The new owner would write it all off as a merger expense. If the product was delayed, or the merger fell through, he would be financially devastated. Maybe even unemployable. He could not let anything slow Nexapra down.

  Rudker rubbed his temples. He would have to deal with Warner. She could be trouble. He suspected he had not heard the last of her genetic test idea. Warner was a neurologist who had come over to the pharma industry out of the frustration of not being able to help her patients. She thought like a doctor, not an MBA. He wondered if she had any dirty secrets he could use against her.

  Rudker reached for his Imitrex. He washed down two tablets with the bottled water he kept at his desk. And that damn PR person! How much had she heard? He had been so startled to find her standing there. Maybe she would have to go away too. He could not take any chances.

  He took another swallow of water, then logged on to the company’s enterprise software system and entered the clinical trial database. Only a certain level of R&D employees could access the information, but as CEO he had right of entry to all the systems—sales, marketing, patient registries, and pipeline progress. He entered 1299, the drug’s R&D number, into the search field, then scanned down the page for the Puerto Rico research site.

  In a few minutes, he located the files of the patients who had died. They had signed up for a study in San Juan that had ended last year. Actually, that section of the trial had never really got going. Right around the time of the suicides, the clinic’s lead investigator had quit because of family problems. The research center had been having a difficult time recruiting patients, so they abandoned that arm of the trial. The suicides had never even been reported, and the results from the parallel studies in Eugene and Portland had provided enough positive data for FDA to greenlight the large Phase III that would lead to approval.

  Rudker scanned the data. Both subjects had been diagnosed as clinically depressed and had tried a total of seven medications between the two. Miguel Rios was forty-one. His cousin Luis, thirty-four. An image of the two of them, sitting at a picnic table in a backyard filled with family, food, and noise flashed in his brain.

  Rudker deleted the image, then deleted the first file.

  Gone. As if Miguel Rios had never been in the study. Before Rudker could trash the second set of data, a popup screen notified him that another system user was trying to access the file.

  Warner! It had to be. Damn her. What was she doing? Looking at the data again? Rudker waited for the message to disappear, then quickly erased the file. Of course, there was a paper back-up somewhere in the R&D building, and there was probably another set of paperwork in the clinic in Puerto Rico. Eventually, he would find and destroy all of it. At the moment, he had a million things to do before he left for Seattle tomorrow. The first was to prepare for a meeting with JB’s board of directors. Rudker buzzed his secretary.

  Minutes passed. The wait made him irritable and he began to pace. A voice in his head began to rant about the stupidity and slowness of the average person. It caught him off guard. He usually only heard the voice when he was driving, or sometimes when he worked late. Rudker reminded himself to take his daily dose of Zyprexa as soon as he got off the phone.

  He hated the damn stuff. It made him feel sedate. It also kept his paranoia in check and his relationships civil. Most people couldn’t handle his natural energy and directness. He’d learned that the hard way in his early twenties. After doing a few months in jail on an assault charge—which wasn’t his fault—he’d made himself swallow his meds and keep most of his thoughts in check.

  Chapter 3

  As Sula hurried toward the employee parking lot, her anxiety dissipated a little. A warm sun peeked through the clouds—perfect for an hour in the park. She climbed in her purple Dakota and sped out Prolabs’ long entryway. From Willow Creek, she headed down West 18th Avenue to Westmoreland Community Center.

  She got to see Tate for only an hour every other week, but the community center had a lot of activities. Sometimes they played ping-pong or basketball. Today, they would goof around on the swings and the jungle gym and soak up the sun. Walking away from her sweet little boy after only an hour crushed her every time. But it was better than not seeing him at all.

  Sula pulled into the parking lot the center shared with Jefferson middle school and shut off the truck. Knowing she was a little early, she leaned back and closed her eyes. Sound bites from the conversation she’d overheard at work began to play in her head. Sula tried to block them out, not wanting to think about Rudker right now.

  At exactly four o’clock, Tate’s foster parents, Emily and John Chapman, pulled up next to her in their shiny silver Toyota Prius. Sula figured it had cost them about a third of the value of the house she lived in. She got out of her truck and waited for Tate, who was getting last minute instructions from his guardians. They were thirty-something, attractive, and perfectly nice people. Sula tried not to hate them.

  In a moment Tate joined her on the grass. The first two minutes of every visit nearly overwhelmed her. Seeing him was such joy…and such longing, all rolled up in one raw explosion. Tate looked like his father. Blond, blue-eyed, and a smile that could light up the sky. He was good natured too and rarely complained about anything.

  She gave him a big grin. “Hey, Tate. What’s new?”

  He smiled back and shrugged. “Not much. What are we gonna do today?”

  “I thought we’d stay outside, play on the swings and stuff.”

/>   “Okay.” He held out his hand. Sula’s heart melted. She took his little boy fingers in hers and walked toward the swings. In a moment, he started to pump his arm and make engine noises. She joined him, and they ran for the playground.

  For the next hour, she was a kid: climbing, sliding, running, and laughing. At times, Sula even forgot that Emily and John were sitting in the parking lot, watching them. At one point, they rested and Tate talked a little about preschool and T-ball, but mostly they played. She always made sure he had a good time with her. Her greatest fear was that her boy would decide he didn’t want to see her anymore.

  What would be left in her life then?

  Sula had a court-ordered visitation right, but Tate didn’t know—didn’t remember—that she was his mother. Or maybe he did. Even after a year and a half apart, he had taken right to her. Emily and John referred to her as a “friend of the family,” but Tate called her Aunt Sula. She had lost custody of him before his first birthday, and the guilt and shame were never far from her heart.

  When he was born, she had been a kid herself, only eighteen and still grieving for her father, mother, and sister. Part of her had believed that a baby would make things right by giving her a new family. After his birth, her depression had deepened and she had no one to turn to. The baby’s father, James, had come and gone in her life in the space of one blurry month, and her mother’s family had long ago rejected the whole Moreno clan.

  The Relief Nursery had helped her with daycare but it wasn’t enough. She had been so lonely and so overwhelmed by Tate’s constant needs that she tried to medicate herself into a state of numbness. Eventually a combination of pain pills and alcohol landed her in the hospital. She’d woken to the news that the state had taken custody of her little boy.

  Losing him had spun her even farther into despair until a friend had suggested she try taking antidepressants. Prozac had changed her life. Not overnight, but in time. She began to see that she had a future, that she could find a reason to get up each day. She started seeing a therapist. Eventually she quit drinking, started classes at Lane Community College, and wrote daily in a personal journal. After a year of sobriety, she petitioned the court for visitation and was granted it.

  The bi-monthly contact with Tate, who was walking and talking by then, had given her hope that she could fully reclaim her life and eventually bring Tate back into it. Yet she knew she couldn’t raise him by herself, take journalism classes, and work full time. It just wasn’t possible. Not for her. Some people seemed to be able to do it all, but she struggled every day just to keep going.

  Even if she had been superwoman, it wouldn’t have been fair to the boy. If he had lived with her during college, Tate would have spent all his time in daycare. Sula wasn’t selfish enough to do that to him. Not when he had great full-time care from Emily and John. She could have given up her education, but she hadn’t trusted a judge to give custody to a single mother with a recent history of substance abuse. She worried that her Native American name and heritage would work against her too. Yet deep in her heart, Sula had also been scared that she wasn’t ready and that she would fail as a mother.

  She’d earned a degree, landed a great job, and took parenting classes just for good measure. When she felt confident the state would see she was ready, she’d filed a petition to regain custody. In response, John and Emily had filed their own petition seeking to terminate her visitation. They would all end up in court in a few weeks.

  Sula glanced over at them, the perfect couple reading behind the glass of the windshield. Emily taught first grade at McCormick Middle School and John was a chiropractor. They had taken good care of Tate; she could tell by how happy and kind he was. Sula hated to be pitted against them, but what else could she do? He was her son. They were meant to be together.

  “Aunt Sula?”

  She turned back to Tate. “What honey?”

  “Are you my mother too?”

  Sula’s heart stopped. None of them, not her or the Chapmans or the social workers, had expected this question until he was older. She smiled and squatted to look him in the eye. “Yes I am. We can’t talk about it right now, but we will someday, I promise. I love you, never forget that.”

  “I love you too.”

  The radio blaring an upbeat pop song to keep her from crying, Sula drove up Chambers. She recited her mantra: Every moment I have with him is precious, and I will see him again.

  After a left turn on 24th, traffic slowed. Sula pressed her brakes. Her purse tumbled off the seat, dumping its contents on the floor. She made a quick grab to retrieve it.

  When her eyes came to the road, she saw the car in front of her had stopped. Sula slammed the brakes, sending the purse and her notebook back to the floor. The front end of her Dakota tapped into the bumper of the white Mustang.

  Oh hell. This was the last thing she needed. The guy in the Mustang stared at her in his rear view mirror. He seemed oddly familiar. The Mustang pulled into the Healthy Pet parking lot. Sula waited for the light, then followed him in. She parked next to his car, where he stood waiting.

  “I’m so sorry.” She apologized as she got out. “I took my eyes off the road.” She stopped and stared. It was a guy from the parenting class she had recently completed. “I’m Sula Moreno. We had a class together.” She held out her hand.

  As he shook it, she was reminded of how attractive she found him. Tall, with short dark hair and beautiful white teeth, he was one of those mystery people, like her, with a dark exotic look that refused to betray their heritage. His only flaw was his slightly crooked nose, but his green eyes lit up when he smiled.

  “Aaron DeSpain. Nice to meet you, officially. Although I wish it were under different circumstances.”

  “Me too. With my luck, I’ll be taking driving classes next.”

  He laughed, then paused for a moment. “Do you have insurance?”

  “Of course.” She had the paperwork in her hand. She copied her insurance information on the back of a business card and handed it to Aaron.

  “Thanks.” He stared, as if he was going to say something more. “Maybe–”

  Sula cut him off. “Sorry for the damage. Let me know if my insurance company gives you any trouble.”

  She waved, got in her truck, and left the parking lot. If her life had been different, she would have gladly gone out with him. He would be a lovely distraction from all the negative strangeness at work right now. The timing was wrong though. What if the guy had a criminal record? And the Chapmans’ lawyer pointed it out to the judge? With the custody hearing only weeks away, she had too much a stake. She had to keep to herself and not take any chances. She had stop thinking: If my life had been different…

  By the time she reached the little two-bedroom house on Friendly Street with its warm red/brown paint, the sky was nearly dark. She had rented the cottage a couple of months ago in preparation for Tate coming to live with her. The owners had offered her a sweet deal. If she bought the house within two years, all of her rent would be applied to a down payment. Sula couldn’t wait to sign the papers. Now that she had a garage and a backyard, she couldn’t imagine living without them again.

  At the moment, she was a little shy on furniture, but she could not bring herself to prepare a room for Tate until she knew for sure he was coming home. If she lost the hearing, seeing the room ready, but lifeless would be devastating.

  Sula opened a can of chili, dumped it in a bowl, and added a healthy dose of green Tabasco sauce. While it heated in the microwave, she dug the newspaper out of the recycling. She was a decent cook when the occasion called for it, she just hadn’t had an occasion in a long time.

  The Willamette News kept her company while she ate. When she’d started at the University of Oregon, she’d had hopes of landing a job at the newspaper someday. Then Craigslist had killed the classified section, and the recession had gutted display advertising. The paper had started laying people off and was now down to a skeleton crew. Sula accepted that she
would probably work in public relations for most of her career. She wasn’t leaving Eugene. Not as long as Tate was here.

  Sula read through the meager help wanted ads. Switching jobs right now wouldn’t be a good custody move, unless the new position paid much better. Yet she didn’t know how much longer she could work for Rudker. He had always intimidated her, but now he disgusted her too.

  What if Rudker fired her? Where would she work that would pay enough to provide for her and Tate? The judge wouldn’t take her seriously if she was unemployed, or even underemployed. The thought of standing in court and hearing him deny her custody made her heart race. Sula’s counseling kicked in, and she began to breathe from her stomach. Still, she couldn’t stop her mind from playing an image of Tate walking out with Emily and John, never to be seen again.

  Unable to calm herself, Sula got up and began to pace. She thought about taking a Xanex, then changed her mind. She tried to save the mild tranquilizers for when she had serious anxiety episodes in public situations.

  Sula pulled on a denim work shirt and headed out to the garage for her own brand of therapy. The unfinished room was almost empty except for her metal-working tools. The one she used the most was her cutting torch, which she was still making payments on. In the center of the limited space was her work in progress: a six-foot tall metal sculpture of a twisted form, part human and part alien. Just seeing it made her feel better.

  The frame, which had once been part of a plow, didn’t look feminine yet, but she would round it out later with some motorcycle fenders she’d picked up at a yard sale. The next step was to use the mig welder to attach a piece of metal tubing that fanned out at the end like a hand. First she clamped the tubing in place at the body’s shoulder, then set her mig welder next to the sculpture. Next she attached the ground clamp—which looked like the end of a jumper cable—to the base of the sculpture. She studied the seam for a minute to get a feel for its flow and depth.