“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eileen said. “This was a highly malignant tumor. He didn’t have a chance. Nobody would.”
“But I saw it a month before the first biopsy. If we had removed it then...”
“Don’t do this. Nobody does a biopsy on ordinary moles. You couldn’t have known.”
“Then why do I feel so guilty?”
Eileen grasped Terri’s hand. “Put your doctor’s hat on for a moment. You’ve seen it in your sick patients and their relatives. They always search for someone or something to blame. Does blame somehow give meaning to disease? That’s like seeking sanity in an asylum. Don’t do this to yourself, or to Abbie.”
“You’re a good friend. You always know what to say, but guilt always gets the best of me.”
“That, plus a compulsive personality, and your drive to succeed. Thank your genes and your father for that.”
Terri looked toward the heavens. “If he could only see me now.”
“He’d be proud, Terri. I know he’d be proud.”
Whenever Terri faced the impossible, she remembered her father, Tommy Russo.
“You can do it,” Tommy said.
“No, I can’t,” said the eight-year-old Terri as she stood on the end of the low balance beam.
Dr. Thomas Russo took two hours from his busy schedule to visit his daughter at Belmont Gymnastics on Long Island. Terri’s mother played bridge. She was always playing bridge.
Terri loved how her father talked with her as an adult. “None of this was my doing, Teresa. You had the aptitude for gymnastics, you begged for the opportunity, and now you want to quit?”
“I don’t want to quit. I just can’t get the balance beam. Even the low beam scares me.”
“You and everyone else who tries it. I’m no expert, but your coach is, and she says you have all the skills needed to compete at the highest level...maybe the Olympic level.”
Terri felt alone as she lowered herself onto the beam. She looked up at her father with tears streaming down her cheeks. “I don’t want to disappoint you, Daddy.”
Tommy hugged his daughter. “You couldn’t disappoint me if you tried. You’re my girl and I’ll always love you no matter what.” He broke away, held her in his enormous hands and said, “Would it help you if I came for your balance beam sessions for the next few weeks?”
“You can’t do that, Daddy. You’re too busy. Your patients need you. I can’t ask you do that.”
“Would it help?”
“I love you, Daddy,” she said hugging him.
Her mother split her time between bridge and caring for Betsy, Terri’s younger sister, a sweet, happy little girl with Down’s Syndrome.
Terri missed her mother’s attention, but thanked God for her father.
When Terri announced she was going to Columbia University and on to medical school, Tommy brimmed with pride. “Come join your old man in practice. That would be great.”
Their dream never came true. Tommy went to bed one night and never awakened. In a week, he would have been fifty-six.
Chapter Three
In the days and weeks following Richie’s death, Terri Powell bristled at the well-intentioned platitudes from friends.
None of them were worth a damn.
Six months later, some of that friendly advice lingered in her mind because it reflected elements of universal truth about the human experience of loss, pain, guilt, opportunities lost, and worst of all, regrets. Friends and relatives bought into the delusion that words had the power to make things better, when all survivors needed was for them to be around.
She felt empty and so drained of energy that at times she thought, I can’t go on this way.
Her daughter, Abbie was moody and angry with her father’s death. She said little.
Terri needed to focus on Abbie’s problems, but that left little time for her own emotional needs. The “when is Daddy coming home” questions subsided in the first few weeks, but then Abbie began having trouble sleeping.
One night as Terri tossed in the twilight of sleep, she sensed her daughter’s presence. She looked up to see Abbie standing by the foot of her bed. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
Abbie studied her pink rabbit slippers.
“Do you want to come into bed with Mommy?”
Abbie nodded, yes.
At first, Terri tried to keep her depression from her daughter. When Abbie found Terri crying, that upset the little girl even more.
“What’s the matter, Mommy?”
“I miss your Daddy very much. It makes me sad.”
“Me too. I want him to come home.”
“I understand sweetie, but you know he can’t, don’t you?”
Abbie clung to her mother like a life preserver.
It’s hard to remember the last three years, Terri thought as she and Abbie stepped out of the morning fog and into the gym in the Piedmont section of Oakland.
With Abbie safely in child care, Terri began to work out—her Prozac.
Terri had gone forty-five minutes at level thirteen and her pink leotard was sweat-stained. She grabbed her towel and wiped down her hands and face as she stepped off the treadmill. She pulled the matching pink sweat band from her chestnut hair, picked up the antiseptic bottle, and sprayed the treadmill’s handles and the control panel and wiped them down with a disposable towel.
“You put us all to shame,” said the gym’s exercise physiologist, a woman in her 20s, as Terri sat drinking from her bottle of ice water. “You train like a professional athlete.”
“I was heading that way in my youth. I did gymnastics and competed in a few local and state events. They thought I might have Olympic potential, but nature had something else in mind for me.”
“Something else?”
“They never figured on my growth. My parents were pretty short, but somewhere deep in their DNA were tall genes and out they came. When I spurted to five feet ten inches, my gymnastic career went down the drain. My folks and the coaches were more upset than I. Frankly, I hated the long hours and the boring repetition.”
“Well you look just great.”
“I played volleyball and swam. I did reasonably well. After someone raped a girl at school, I began martial arts, Tae Kwan Do. I did well and enjoyed it before I discovered the pleasures of other indoor sports with the guys.”
“Were you any good?”
Terri laughed. “At the indoor or the outdoor part?” She paused. “Let’s put it this way—when I walked with a boyfriend through dark alleys, he insisted I go first.”
“You must be good.”
“Good enough. By-the-way, who’s that attractive guy on the elliptical machine in the corner? He’s been smiling at me. Do I know him?”
“That’s Matt Hollis, Mr. Most Eligible.”
“Eligible for what?”
“Look at him, Terri. Handsome, fit and with a smile to die for...all the women talk about him.”
“Okay. What’s the scoop?”
“You name it. This is what we know. He worked with the Emeryville Police for years then stopped. I think it had something to do with his partner. She was killed in the line of duty. Now he works as a part-time consultant to the Oakland District Attorney on high profile cases and rides patrol on occasion.”
“Part-time? What does he do with the rest of his time?”
“Do you know the Matt Collins series of detective novels?”
“Yes. I read a few.”
“That’s he.”
“Who?”
“That’s Matt. He’s the author. He made lots of money on his novels, so he works for the DA because he wants to, and because it provides material for his books.”
“It sounds like you know a lot about him.”
“Not enough,” she said smiling. “I tried, but coffee is as far as it got. He’s a good guy, but I think he hates being the target of so much female attention, and,” she whispered, “fantasy.”
Terri studied Matt—something was familiar.
“Did he always have a full beard?” asked Terri.
“No, and the buzz cut, that’s new too. He really has a head of brown-red curls...I loved them.”
Terri stared back. Could it be?
It was two years ago in the Safeway parking lot in Emeryville. Terri had just raised the hatchback to put her groceries in her BMW X3 when someone grabbed her from behind and pulled her toward the open door of a commercial van.
Terri felt his strong, hairy arm compressing her throat. She managed to twist her neck to the side so she could breathe then delivered a two-inch heel into his instep. He screamed and released her.
Her attacker was a large man, well over six feet, and with a huge layer of flab overlapping his belt line.
“You fuck’n’ bitch,” he yelled, moving toward her.
Terri dropped to the fighting position, took a deep breath and waited.
He bared his brown-stained teeth and rushed at her with extended arms. At the last second, Terri turned and threw her elbow into his face. She heard the hard contact and the crush of bones as she connected with his face. He grabbed his nose as it erupted with blood.
He looked at his bloody hands, wiped his nose with his arm. “I’m gonna kill you.”
Terri remained oddly calm as she prepared to meet his charge. She ducked under his arms and lifted up as he passed over her shoulders. He flew into the air and landed on his back with a grunt. When he staggered to his feet, Terri was ready and delivered a roundhouse kick to the side of his head. He swayed for a moment then fell flat on his face.
Terri sat on the pavement next to her car. She took deep breaths to steady her nerves and used her cell phone to summon the police. They arrived seven minutes later.
Two uniformed officers approached—a tall man and a woman. The female officer examined the attacker and placed him in handcuffs.
The tall man offered Terri his arm to help her stand. “Are you all right?”
“What?” she responded.
“Are you injured?”
She examined her chest, arms and legs. “No. I’m fine.”
He smiled. “You really did a job on him. Maybe you want a job with the Emeryville P.D.?”
Terri looked up at the man, stared into his cool grey eyes, and burst into tears...
Terri looked back at Matt and recognized his grey eyes and his now greyer hair.
Yes, it was the same man.
Abbie was busy playing with a boy about her age and didn’t see Terri when she entered the child care section of the club. Terri watched her daughter’s smiling face...her look of innocence and felt blessed.
“Time to go, Sweetie.”
“Do I have to?” she pouted. “Me and Darren were having fun.”
“Sorry. Mommy has to get to work.”
Three years after Richie’s death, Terri completed her oncology residency and they offered her a staff position at San Francisco General Hospital. Although she had misgivings about working in the city, the offer was too good to refuse.
One day after work, she was sitting with Eileen, her best friend, in a coffee shop near the Rockridge Bart station. “I spend half my time with the teaching program and conducting clinical trials. What time remains, I spend at Genentech Hall’s huge facility in Mission Bay. I do basic research on BCG, a vaccine against tuberculosis, and its potential use in treating cancer, especially malignant melanoma. They make the BCG or Bacillus Calmette-Guérin s vaccine from a weakened strain of the cow or bovine tuberculosis.”
“I understand your interest in melanoma,” Eileen said. “As your friend, I’m wondering if that’s the best use of your talents.”
“Of course some of this is personal, but the risk of developing a malignant melanoma in the U.S. has skyrocketed to one in eighty-seven.”
“That’s frightening. I’m investing in sun screen.”
“Good idea,” Terri said, smiling.”Unfortunately, it’s a real increase, not one due to better screening. Epidemiologists think that the incidence will continue to rise for the next ten to twenty years.”
Chapter Four
Greg and Amanda Wincott started People for Alternative Treatment (PAT) after the tragic death of their son from a rare genetic disease for which there was no treatment. They devoted their lives, their considerable skills, and their fortune in the search for drugs to treat orphan diseases, illnesses affecting, by definition, less than 200,000 people in the United States. No major drug company would spend money on developing medications that affected so few people when they made billions with pain killers, anti-anxiety medications, antidepressants and drugs like Viagra designed to pump up penises and profits.
PAT had nearly gone bankrupt following the premature and illegal use of a genetically engineered drug by one of their scientists. The company survived only by accepting the offer of Kendall Pharmaceuticals, a worldwide company, to become a subsidiary.
The troubled marriage of convenience between PAT, a company motivated by altruism, and Kendall, an aggressive commercial enterprise, showed itself from day one when the Kendall board of directors voted to shut down 50 percent of PAT’s orphan drug research programs, saying, “We’ll never make a buck on any of these drugs, even if you can get them approved.”
Greg shook his head in disgust. “The search for orphan drugs is the whole reason we started PAT.”
“You’re not the boss anymore, Mr. Wincott. I’d close all that research down if our contract with PAT didn’t prohibit it. Kendall Pharmaceuticals is in the big time now. Do you know how much money is at stake?”
“From what I understand,” Greg said, “Kendall won’t be applying for public assistance.”
“Here’s something for you to think about. In the year 2002, Pfizer made 9.1 billion dollars in profits, while Wyeth made a mere 4.4 billion. If Kendall gets anywhere near those numbers, you’ll have more money than you need for orphan drug research.”
Afterward, Amanda turned to Greg. “But, would you buy a used car from any Kendall rep?”
Greg smiled. ”We have an obligation to stay with PAT for two years...I hope we can stand it that long. We can start again. We did it once with PAT. We can do it again with another company that supports orphan drugs.”
Lisa Gomez sat in PAT’s research library with books and journals spread before her. She rubbed her thumb and index finger over the base of her nose lifting her Coke-bottle glasses.
She’d been at it for two hours, but only completed three articles in this month’s Journal of Clinical Investigation. Reading journals as a research associate was an entirely different experience from the casual perusals by scientists who just wanted to keep in touch with their field of interest. Now, she microscopically dissected the methodology and the analytic tools to seek truth in detail. Then she could complete the final steps, looking at the data and the author’s conclusions.
“You look like you could use a triple cappuccino,” Lisa’s research tech said.
Lisa had grown up in Harlem, the product of a Cuban father and a black mother. In the midst of inner city chaos, her parents dedicated themselves to their children’s education.
It was the spring of Lisa’s last year of Jr. High School when her mother brought the letter bearing the Specialized High School Admission Test’s name and logo.
Lisa stared at the envelope. “I can’t open it.”
“Go ahead,” said Luis, her father. “It’s April 8th, your birthday. That’s got to be good luck.”
Lisa carefully inserted her nail into the envelope and ripped it open. She extracted the folded letter and cried.
“I’m so sorry,” said her mother Christina. “We’ll try again next year.”
“No, Mama,” Lisa said, handing the letter to her mother who read it, then embraced her daughter.
Lisa had the city’s second highest score, and an invitation to Brooklyn Technical High School. From there, she went on to Harvard, the University of California, Berkeley, and then to UC San Francisco, where she worked with deter
mination for her Ph.D. in molecular biology. She did her research at Genentech Hall, and supported herself by working part-time at PAT.
Lisa was a brainy, mixed race, bespectacled girl who looked a bit like Olive Oyl of Popeye fame. She never fit in. In spite of the jibes...nerd...geek, she never became bitter. The little free time she managed was devoted to church and progressive political action groups.
Lisa felt lucky to get the job at PAT.
She worked in the virology division headed by David Birch, a university superstar. What she didn’t know at first was that David had yielded to his narcissistic predilection and had departed from academia for a commercial biotech company. The new position fed his ego by providing him with spacious research facilities and his wallet with a generous compensation package. Moreover, his contract gave him the opportunity for a proprietary share of any products forthcoming from his research. It had been an offer a man like David couldn’t refuse.
David Birch returned from a year at the Virology Laboratory at the University of Cambridge to complete his Ph.D. at Purdue. The Brits found him as obnoxious as did the Hoosiers.
He had grown up in King’s Point, New York where he excelled from day one at school. He graduated at fifteen, then on to Columbia, and finally, sick of the east coast, to Indiana.
“It takes more than smarts to make it in academia,” his Ph.D. advisor said. “You must get along with people.”
“Frankly, like Rhett Butler, I don’t give a damn. If they don’t like me here, I can go just about anywhere.”
After completing his degree, David continued his research, published several dozen papers, and won many awards. When he presented his work at the American Society for Virology meeting, he received offers from universities, the National Institutes of Health, and several pharmaceutical companies. The one drawing his attention was Kendall Pharmaceuticals. Richard Kendall, its CEO, offered David the key to the door of his narcissistic fantasies.
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