The Trial

by Larry D. Thompson

  Luke listened to the additional terms of probation and thought that maybe something good would come out of this after all.

  21

  Even though it was spring and flowers were blooming in San Marcos, there was still a chill in the air at the Vaughan house. That chasm that Whizmo had discussed when Samantha was in jail was even wider now. Luke and Samantha rarely talked. It was as if they were two roommates who shared the same house but nothing else.

  Since Samantha could no longer associate with her goth friends, she spent more and more time with Whizmo, who always seemed to be working in the garage when he was home. Samantha had been rocking on the front porch when she heard Whizmo’s Harley rounding the corner. When he turned into the driveway, he waved at her. As soon as he cut the engine in front of his apartment, Samantha motioned to Cocoa, who bounded down the steps and around the corner. By the time Samantha caught up, Whizmo was sitting on his steps, scratching Cocoa.

  “Hey, Sam. How you doing, girl?”

  Samantha sat on a step below Whizmo and replied, “Not so good, Whiz. I’m counting the days until I get to spend my last summer at Camp Longhorn and then head away to college. I’m ready to get out of this house.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been hearing from your dad that things are pretty frosty in there. Still, I don’t know why the two of you can’t talk. From where I stand, there’s plenty of blame to be shared.”

  “Come on, Whiz.” Samantha’s eyes flashed. “All I did was have one problem with driving.”

  “Sorry, Sam, but I gotta disagree. That one problem was a DUI, and you’ve been close to stepping out of bounds ever since I’ve known you. By the way, I like the color of your hair. That’s one thing that Judge Nimitz got right.”

  Both remained silent as they listened to two mockingbirds chirping to each other. Then Whizmo spoke. “Speaking of college, you still making good grades?”

  “I haven’t made a B in all of high school.” Samantha smiled.

  “So, where are you going, Texas or A&M? Both first-class schools. Personally, I’d like to get you to Texas State, but I know you’re ready to get out of San Marcos.”

  “Whiz, there’s no way I’d go to Texas. That would mean I would be following in my father’s footsteps, and that’s not going to happen. I’m going to be an Aggie, hullabaloo, caneck, caneck and all that stuff.”

  “You told your dad?”

  “Yeah, we had that discussion a couple of months ago, after I did my weekend in jail. He’d rather have me going to Texas, but he’s okay with A&M.”

  “You thought of a major?”

  “Nope. I figure there’s time for that. One thing for sure is that it won’t be prelaw.”

  22

  School ended, and Samantha graduated second in her class of two hundred. Luke attended the graduation, and in spite of his problems with Samantha, he teared up when she crossed the stage. Then it was off to Camp Longhorn for one last time.

  When he got back to the house after dropping Samantha at camp, he went to the kitchen for a Bud Light. Beer in hand, he and Cocoa went outside, where he sat in a rocker on the porch while Cocoa chased squirrels in the yard. As he sipped his beer, he sized up his life. Not exactly what he had anticipated when he graduated from law school. He’d made a decent living in Houston but never got rich. In hindsight, his ulcer was probably a good thing since it slowed him down and likely added twenty years to his life. He loved San Marcos. Looking back, he couldn’t fathom why he ever left in the first place. His law practice was okay, and it didn’t require him to work nights and weekends as a trial lawyer regularly did. Sue Ellen was now more than just a friend. He conceded he was in love and relished the emotion. Since Samantha was going to be off on her own, he vowed to focus on his relationship with Sue Ellen. They were on the road to a lasting relationship, yet for some reason he had avoided talking marriage. Sue Ellen didn’t seem to mind, but he knew that once Sam was in college it would be time for a commitment. Then there was Whizmo. What a character, and what a delightful person to sit around and swap stories with.

  Luke’s face grew somber as he thought about the major failure in his life, his daughter. How could that have happened? He loved her. He always wanted to do what was best for her. He wanted nothing but happiness for her. In spite of all that, he recognized that he had failed her. Maybe it was best that she move away. Maybe the distance would mend the gap between them. He could only hope.

  As he finished his beer and watched Cocoa trying to coax a squirrel out of a tree, he heard a familiar rumble, and Whizmo turned into the drive. He stopped beside the porch and took off his helmet. “You got another one of those I could buy off you?”

  “Come on up, Whizmo. I’ll go retrieve a couple more.”

  He went inside as Whizmo climbed the steps and settled into the second rocker. Cocoa abandoned her squirrel hunt to beg Whizmo for some scratching behind her ears. Luke kicked open the door and came out with a small cooler, containing six beers.

  “I got nothing better to do, so I figure you and I can sit out here and get a little mellow.”

  “You missing Samantha already? I saw you loading her up for camp this morning.”

  “I couldn’t admit it to her, but the answer is yes.”

  “Well, counselor, just why can’t you admit it to her?”

  “Good question, Whiz. When I come up with an answer, you’ll be the first to know. I’ve been sitting here, contemplating my life. My law practice is pretty good, but I’m bored. I guess I need a hobby. Maybe I should take up woodworking.”

  “If you want to learn, I’m your man. Spending a few hours in a woodshop is guaranteed to clear the mind.”

  Cocoa had retrieved a stick from the yard and dropped it at Luke’s feet. He picked it up and pitched it almost to the street. Cocoa bounded down the steps, retrieved it, and was back in fifteen seconds. Luke threw it again. “Now look what I’ve started. She wears me out every time. You know, Whiz, what I really think I’d like to do this summer?”

  “Not a mind reader, Luke. Tell me.”

  “I think I’m old enough to ride a Harley. If I buy one, will you teach me?”

  Whizmo gulped down the last of his beer and popped open another. “I’ll go you one better. I’ll tune up that blue Harley and you can learn on it.”

  Luke shook his head. “I can’t do that, Whiz. That was your wife’s. What would you do if I wrecked it?”

  “Don’t worry, Luke. Cheryl’s gone and I’ve accepted her death. That bike’s just sitting there. She’d probably like it if someone would ride it on occasion. We’ll start in the school parking lot, and when you’re ready, we’ll get you a license. We can explore the Hill Country.”

  Starting with the parking lot behind the history building, in three weeks Whizmo had Luke riding the streets. Once he got his motorcycle license, Whizmo started leading him on weekend rides into the Hill Country, where Luke discovered that once he spent an hour maneuvering the hills, valleys, curves, and low water crossings he forgot everything but the pleasure of the ride. I should have done this years ago, he thought.

  23

  Ryan Sinclair watched as his dad sank a fifteen-foot putt. Ryan tapped his in from four feet away, and they walked to their cart.

  “I’ve got a problem, Dad.”

  Maxwell Sinclair looked at his son with concern. “At home or work?”

  “Not at home. Couldn’t be going better with me and Sara. It’s work. Your friend Alfred Kingsbury and his company have submitted a new antibiotic that I think is a bad drug.”

  Maxwell Sinclair got in the passenger seat, and Ryan drove to the next tee. “I thought you would be in a position to stop something like that.”

  “So did I, only Boatwright has taken a personal interest. I intended to block it at the advisory committee, but Boatwright wouldn’t let me give them my recommendation. He pushed for a clinical trial instead. So now Ceventa has come up with a protocol that wouldn’t get third place in a high school science fair. On top of t
hat, I’ve been looking at the list of clinical investigators. I wouldn’t let most of them touch my dog.”

  Ryan approached the tee, placed his ball, sized up the fairway, and let loose a drive that came close to three hundred yards.

  “Well,” Maxwell said, “I’m certainly glad those golf lessons I paid for when you were ten turned out to be worth the money.”

  “It’s all your fault, Dad. If you had only started me when I was six, I’d be on the pro tour instead of having to deal with the FDA and drug companies who don’t give a damn about anything but their bottom line. I feel like I wimped out at the advisory committee. I had been asked my opinion about the damn drug, but before I could say anything, Boatwright jumped in the middle of it. I deferred to him since he’s head of the whole damn division. Bottom line is I didn’t do my job.”

  “This is that new antibiotic, isn’t it? What’s the name again?”

  “Exxacia.”

  “Yeah, I remember now. Kingsbury told me about it, bragged about how much money it was going to make for Ceventa. Told me if I bought their stock now, I’d triple my money in two years.”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it, and I will. Fortunately the clinical trial stands between Ceventa and approval. I’ll have another chance to kill it, and I won’t be so timid next time.”

  “It really is that bad, is it?”

  “Damn right. The number of cases of liver failure and death is ten times higher in Europe than with any other antibiotic.”

  Maxwell lined up his tee shot, took a couple of practice swings, and hit one right down the middle, where it stopped at the 250 yard marker. After his shot, Maxwell walked up to his son and tapped the handle of his driver into Ryan’s chest as he spoke. “Son, you watch your backside on this one. Something tells me the stakes are high.”

  24

  Crowley, Louisiana, is in the heart of Cajun Creole country. There are still families there that speak only a French dialect, and gumbo is considered a staple. In fact, folks there take such pride in their family gumbo recipes that they are handed down from generation to generation and only by word of mouth. To put such a treasure in writing could mean it might be stolen and turn up on a neighbor’s table. One of the best of the gumbo chefs was John Paul Batiste, DO, an osteopathic physician who officed in a small house on the highway leading to Baton Rouge.

  Under six feet tall, he weighed three hundred pounds. In spite of his weight, he had a sign in front of his office that touted his specialty in weight-loss medicine. His size didn’t bother his patients, mostly women. When they entered his office, the smell of gumbo drifted from the kitchen in back to fill the entire office. After he examined his patients, he took them to the kitchen, where he dished them up a bowl, whispering to them that while the pills he gave them would take off some weight, the secret ingredients in his gumbo would do more to help them shed pounds than any pill.

  It was three o’clock one afternoon, and, as was his custom, Dr. Batiste took a bottle of vodka from the credenza behind his desk. He went to the kitchen and returned with a tea glass full of ice and poured the vodka up to the rim. He then leaned back with the glass in one hand and a magazine called Louisiana Medicine in the other. He flipped through the magazine until he ran across an ad from Ceventa, seeking clinical investigators for a new antibiotic. A smile crossed his face. He had been such an investigator too many times to count, enough times that he had learned how to manipulate the system to minimize his efforts and still fatten his pocketbook. He kicked his feet off his desk and turned to his computer to log on to the Ceventa Web site. In ten minutes he completed the application, and the message said to expect a packet of materials and drugs by FedEx within two days. Now he just had to start lining up subjects for the study, who were supposed to have one of the bacterial infections that the drug was developed to combat. Then he smiled as he thought that all of his plump patients almost certainly had the sniffles that could be caused by sinusitis. Certainly that would be his diagnosis.

  25

  Rudy Kowalski, Ceventa’s officer in charge of the Exxacia clinical trial, was the first to notice. Ceventa had enrolled several hundred doctors, and they were approaching twenty thousand subjects. Kowalski was pleased at how smoothly the trial was progressing. He thought they should easily meet their deadlines as mandated by Dr. Kingsbury. He printed off an Excel spreadsheet to get an idea of the sites and physicians involved. As he studied the list, he was sipping a cup of coffee. Then he spotted a problem, not just one problem, but a lot of them. He put his cup down so hard that some of the coffee spilled onto the desk. He grabbed some Kleenex and wiped off the spreadsheet and then studied it some more.

  The protocol called for no more than fifty subjects to be evaluated by any one investigator. He started talking to himself as he evaluated the information. “Here’s one with seventy. More than approved, but not too bad. Here’s one with a hundred and twenty-five. And, crap, here’s some doctor named Batiste in Louisiana who’s got four hundred and forty-three.” He started writing down the names of the investigators who had more than fifty subjects and the numbers of patients. Finally he turned to the phone.

  “Dr. Kingsbury, please. Rudy Kowalski calling. I only need about a minute of his time.”

  “What’s up, Kowalksi? Make it fast,” Kingsbury said.

  “Sir, I’m a little alarmed by our study. We’ve got eighty-three doctors who have anywhere from seventy to over four hundred subjects enrolled in the Exxacia trial.”

  “How the hell did that happen, Kowalski? That’s eighty-three red flags for the FDA. Why didn’t you have someone monitoring this kind of thing?”

  “I did, sir. She’ll be looking for another job this afternoon.”

  Kingsbury thought for a few seconds. “Well, hopefully there’s no problem we can’t handle. We damn sure aren’t going to start this study over. Get someone to do a site inspection on that doctor with four hundred patients. We’ll start there and do random checks of others, depending on what you find.”

  26

  The car was loaded. Samantha hugged Cocoa good-bye and climbed into the passenger seat. She was ready for college. She was also ready to get out from under Luke’s thumb. After all, she was now a woman.

  Luke got into the driver’s seat, and after he buckled his seat belt, he handed Samantha a piece of paper with numbered paragraphs. “Here, Sam. I’ve drafted ten rules for succeeding at A&M. Take a look at them and we can talk as we drive to College Station.” Samantha took the list and skimmed down the page before wadding it up and sticking it in her purse. Instead of having a discussion, they again drove in silence.

  Once they arrived, they joined other parents and students who were unloading vehicles and carting the contents to dorm rooms. After the Sequoia was unloaded, Luke and Samantha stood awkwardly at the door to the dorm. Neither knew what to say. Then, much to Luke’s surprise, Samantha stepped forward and gave him a hug. In return he kissed her on the cheek.

  “Do good, Samantha.”

  “I will, Father.”

  Luke smiled and turned to walk to the car.

  When he returned to San Marcos, Luke checked his e-mail and phone messages. Finding nothing that wouldn’t wait until the next day, he went upstairs to change clothes, then came down again. Whistling as he went out the back door, he got what he now called his Harley and rode to pick up Sue Ellen. She was waiting on the porch.

  “Hi, handsome. I haven’t been on one of those since college. You sure you know how to ride it?”

  “Had the best teacher in town, Whizmo’s Riding Academy. Put this helmet on, and I’ll take you out in the hills to a biker bar Whizmo showed me. Best cheeseburgers in the Hill Country.”

  It was Luke’s first time to have a passenger, so he took it easy. Keep it under the speed limit, he thought, and watch for gravel on the curves. They got to the edge of town, went down a hill, crossed a low water crossing, and were on their way. The sun was slowly disappearing, mixing shadows with beams of light as
they climbed a hill and cruised down the other side. The road followed the curve of a river as it wound through the hills, and finally they came to a bridge over the river with a ramshackle house and a parking lot full of motorcycles on the far side.

  As they went around the house to the back porch, Luke said, “Just so you’ll know. There are a few of the old bikers that hang out here, but most of the customers are modern-day professionals just trying to relive their youth.”

  When they stepped onto the porch, the bartender hollered, “Hey, Luke, who’s your old lady and where’s Whizmo?”

  “Whiz is in San Antonio seeing his grandkids. This is Sue Ellen. Give us a couple of cheeseburger baskets and Bud Lights.”

  Luke and Sue Ellen settled into chairs at a table overlooking the river and watched the sun disappear behind the hills as Christmas lights that were strung from tree to tree were flicked on by the bartender.

  “So, Luke, how’s it feel—I mean, to be an empty-nester?”

  The bartender brought their beers.

  “Little too early to tell. I’m just glad I got her out of high school and into college. Hopefully she does well, and hopefully not living under the same roof will make it better for both of us.” Luke reached across the table and took Sue Ellen’s hands in his as he gazed into her eyes. “And it means I’ll have more time for the second love of my life. Well, maybe the third if we count Cocoa.”

  The comment drew a poke in the arm from Sue Ellen. “I’ll be willing to fight Cocoa for that number two spot. May the best girl win,” she teased. “Actually, I’ll be facing the same thing you are in a couple of years. Josh is determined to go to Texas and start at quarterback. I’ve told him that the Longhorns get their pick of the best prospects in the country. He just says, ‘Bring ’em on.’ He’s a good kid. Maybe not as smart as Sam, but he makes up for it by busting his butt in everything he does.”