by Tim Tigner
Luther wanted to throw this guy out, toss him out on his ear. But something had him hooked. He knew what it was and the knowing made it bitter. Greed.
“You know,” Arlen continued, in his increasingly annoying lilt, “I spoke to a tort attorney friend of mine who told me that for national medical torts like that, the lead attorney can expect to shell out ten to twenty thousand dollars per plaintiff in recruiting costs—given all the advertising and testing required to sort the diamonds from the rough. Ten to twenty thousand per. And my researchers tell me that you had three thousand plaintiffs. That means the not-guilty verdict cost you in the neighborhood of forty-five million out of pocket—versus what, the seven hundred million you would have won with guilty? Now that must have hurt. And that was what, two months before the twenty million you had invested in Aridon went up with Landis’s team and their facility in a big ball of fire? I pity your accountant that year. Sixty-five million in the red. Sixty-five.”
Luther did not take the bait. He left the ugly numbers sitting on the table like candied Brussels sprouts.
Arlen pushed on without missing a beat. “According to the GQ article Luther Kanasis, the California Bar Association’s flamboyant Man of the Year, you only cleared forty million on the Iprophine tort that made your name. By my calculations that left you with a twenty-five million dollar hole.
A hole like that can put a lot of pressure on a man. Could force him to take steps that he might never otherwise consider … drastic steps.”
Luther felt his stomach turn somersaults as Arlen dissected his past with the cold surgical precision of a veteran coroner. Arlen had pulled everything from the air. He had no proof, could not convict, but he was spot on. Luther did not like where this was going. That was exactly the point, of course. Arlen wanted him to feel helpless and afraid. Arlen wanted Luther to tip his hand. “Forgive me, Arlen. But if you have a point, I would prefer that you get to it.”
“Or what? You’ll brush me off to get back to your thriving law practice? To servicing your clients? According to my sources—and I have impeccable sources—the fresh UCLA grads you have slaving away downstairs do all the work, and then it’s only enough to make Kanasis look legitimate to the IRS. You asked about my point. My point is this: I know that you make all your money using Aridon’s technology to rescue people like Bogart from impending crises. I know that you took a goose egg, added a dash of desperation, and turned it golden. And you know what?”
Luther could not resist biting. “What?”
“I think that’s brilliant. I think that makes you exactly the kind of guy I want to do business with.”
Luther tried to keep his face impassive as a granite bust, but he could not help cracking. Ever since he blew up the Aridon complex with all staff inside to secure exclusive alternative use of the failed Alzheimer’s compound, blackmail scenarios like the one Arlen was surely about to propose had been among his worst recurring nightmares. A second whale was about to hop on his already overburdened back, and there was nothing he could do about it. “If you’re so sure of your preposterous claims, why the dog and pony show? Why all the speculation? Why not just come out and tell me what you want?” Luther strained to convey casual indifference in every word, if not each facial expression.
“It’s called courtship, Luther. I thought it appropriate, perhaps even necessary. You see, I’m not here for blackmail. Nor am I here to propose a penny-ante job like the one you did for Bogart. I’m interested in something big.”
Chapter 42
Fritz
TROY STEPPED REFLEXIVELY between Emmy and the stranger, shielding her, even as the thrill of hearing his name coursed through his body. The man who confronted them by name wore a dark brown Kangol cap that matched his stylishly scruffy beard. Both the cap and the beard looked out of place, given the warm weather, and the thought that they were probably worn to hide a balding head crossed his mind. Perhaps Emmy’s talents were rubbing off on him.
Kangol was a couple of inches shorter than Troy at about five-ten, but much broader. He projected the solid meat-on-bones look of a rugby player. Kangol’s most notable feature, however, was his reptilian irises. They were the strangest coppery color and shimmered with an almost metallic sheen. Troy empathized with the stranger’s ocular plight, but did not drop his guard.
“Whoa,” the stranger continued, holding up his hands in surrender and offering what seemed to be a genuine smile. “Didn’t mean to startle you. But I did, didn’t I?”
Troy did not answer.
“Look, you guys came to me, remember?”
“No,” Emmy said. “We don’t.”
Kangol’s face took on a concerned expression. “Oh my god, it really happened. Didn’t it? You lost your memories, just as you feared?”
Emmy nodded while Troy just studied the man.
“Wow. That changes things. Where do I begin?”
The question was rhetorical, but Troy answered anyway. “How about giving us your name and telling us what you’re doing here.”
“Yeah, sure. My name is Fritz. Fritz Morgan. I’m a reporter with the Miami Herald. We ran into each other a few times while doing similar research. Familiarity led to chitchat and eventually we became friends. These last few weeks we’ve had a contest going over who could find the best rum drink. Each night we hit a different bar. Last time we met you asked me to come find you if you ever dropped off the grid.”
Troy thought about that for a minute. “So you think we’re fellow reporters?”
Fritz weighed his words. “More like private detectives.”
“How did you know where to find us?” Emmy asked.
“That’s a longer story. I’ll be happy to give you all the details and answer your other questions, but not here. I think someone has been following me. Why don’t we go down to the West Bay marina? I’ve got a small yacht docked there. We can take her out where no one can overhear us and talk till dawn. You guys must have loads of questions.”
Troy looked at Emmy. He wanted her read of this guy. She beckoned off to the side with her head. “Give us a minute, Fritz,” he said.
“Yeah, sure. Whatever. I’ll be right over there,” Fritz said, pointing to a bench at the center of a nearby garden alcove.
Troy put his arm around Emmy’s shoulder and they turned to walk in the opposite direction.
“What do you think?” he asked, as soon as they were out of earshot.
“I don’t know. He’s nervous and is definitely holding something back. That may be explained away by the situation, but there’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t like rum.”
“I’m not a fan either, or at least I wasn’t last time I remember. I guess it all boils down to one question: Can we trust him?”
“Do we have a choice? His story sounded plausible enough within the context of our situation. In any case, it’s great to meet someone who knows our names and isn’t shooting at us. I’m dying to hear what he has to say.”
“Yeah, me too.”
They rejoined Fritz and Troy said, “Sorry about that. We’re a bit jumpy these days. We’d love to talk.”
“And we appreciate your doing as we asked. Finding us, I mean,” Emmy added.
“No problem. Do you have your own car, or do you want to ride with me?”
Troy was about to confirm that they had their own car when Emmy said, “We do have a car but we’ll ride with you. I just need a minute to get a few things.” She thrust her hand into Troy’s pocket, withdrew the car keys, and was off.
Troy looked over at Fritz as they turned toward his car, searching for the hints of nervousness that Emmy had found so apparent. All he saw was a mask of concern.
“So what’s the last thing you remember?” Fritz asked.
Troy saw no harm in answering truthfully. “Afghanistan. 2001.”
Fritz sucked in breath. “Seven years. That must have been one rude awakening.”
“You have no ide
a,” Troy said, wondering if Fritz actually did. Troy did not elaborate. He did not want to relive the joys of waking up locked in a dark trunk with a corpse. Fritz seemed to understand this.
They completed the walk to his Citroen in silence. Emmy showed up a minute later carrying the two beach bags that held their clothes.
“So how did you find us?” Emmy asked, once they were headed for the marina.
Fritz did not answer for a good thirty seconds, so Emmy repeated the question.
“I think we’re being followed,” Fritz finally replied, his voice low, his eyes on the mirror.
“Is it a man on a black scooter?” Troy asked, turning with Emmy to look out the back window into the night. No sooner had Fritz said, “Yes,” than a side window blew out, sending glass everywhere.
“Duck down!” Fritz yelled. “He’s got a gun!”
Troy pushed Emmy into the foot-well and lay down over her as Fritz accelerated and began weaving in and out of traffic.
“Stay down. I think I can lose him.”
They complied, winding up face to face on the floor as Fritz continued to bob and weave. Emmy had a splotch of blood on her cheek. When Troy wiped it away and found no scratch, he realized that his own face was dripping blood. Emmy put her lips to his ear. “I don’t trust him. I’m not sure why; it’s just instinct. But on the other hand a yacht is exactly what we need—especially if he’s heading for Miami.”
“I was thinking the same thing—about the yacht,” Troy whispered back. “There’s no way we can go through the airport with our faces on wanted posters.”
“Do you think it’s safe?” Emmy asked.
“Getting on a boat with Fritz? I think so. I was skeptical before someone shot at us, but that erased most of my doubts. Besides, he could have shot us the moment he had us in the car if he wanted to.”
“I hope you’re right, but I have the nagging feeling that you’re wrong.”
“Why did you want to leave our car?”
“I wanted the chance to study him further before we got on the boat. That’s a point of no return, so to speak.”
Fritz brought the Citroen to a screeching halt. “I’ve lost him for now,” he said. “But it probably won’t take him long to spot the car. Let’s make sure we’re on the Lady Jane before he does.”
Troy gave Emmy an inquisitive look as he straightened up. She just shrugged an I-don’t-know.
Chapter 43
USSC
“BEFORE WE GET TO THE SPECIFICS of my proposition,” Arlen said, “let me give you some background.”
“All right,” Luther said, pleased to shift the topic from his own woes to someone else’s.
“Vitorol, Savas’s blockbuster oral insulin and only product, is set to go off patent in December 2012. Vitorol’s original patent actually expires next year, but thanks to a Hatch-Waxman extension, we’ve got another three years.”
“A Hatch-Waxman extension?”
“Yes. Back in 1984 Senators Orrin Hatch and Henry Waxman sponsored what has become the defining patent legislation for the pharmaceutical industry. It includes provisions for granting patent extensions to corporations who perform the costly clinical trials required to safely extend a compound’s approved indications to classes that would not otherwise be served. In Vitorol’s case, we got a three-year extension for obtaining both a pediatric indication, and for proving Vitorol’s safety and efficacy in a form of diabetes prevalent only among Native Americans.”
“So without Hatch-Waxman, Vitorol would go off patent next year?”
“Eleven months from now.”
“And since you are telling me this, I presume that your extension has come under scrutiny?”
“That’s correct. It has been challenged by Braxton, the generic manufacturer who holds the patent on the buffering agent we use to get the insulin past the stomach to where it can be absorbed in a pH neutral environment.”
Luther was not interested in the chemistry. He needed to know who the key players were, and how much money was involved. “How big a deal is this?”
“Do you have any idea what happens to a drug when it goes off patent?”
“I assume the generics move in to steal market share.”
“When it’s a blockbuster like Vitorol, they swoop in like rabid vultures. We will lose between sixty and eighty percent of our sales in the first year off patent. By the end of the second year, Vitorol’s sales will be less than ten percent of their patent-protected level.”
“So basically, once you go off patent, it’s all over? Savas is kaput?”
Arlen nodded. “There are a few games we can play to squeeze more out of the lemon, but you’re essentially right. That’s it.”
Luther did the math in his head. It was not tough. At twelve billion a year, every additional month of patent protection was worth a billion bucks. Three commas. Nine zeros. The three years Hatch-Waxman got them were worth a staggering thirty-six billion in sales, virtually all of it pure profit, no doubt.
Luther would have liked nothing more than to take a thick slice of that pie. In fact, this was exactly the kind of opportunity he had been waiting for. But alas, he could not solve patent problems with 456. Laws did not have memories. “I’m not confirming any of your earlier rampant speculation by telling you that my specialty is criminal law, particularly those rare instances where witness testimony is the lynchpin of the prosecutorial case. Your case is about as far from my center of competence as they come. I’m sorry, Arlen, but I really can’t help you.”
Rather than rising, Arlen leaned further back into the couch and spread his arms out along the top as if he owned the place. “You know, I spent a lot of time thinking about what I would have done if I were you, if I had complete control of 456. I think I would have adopted a strategy very similar to yours. I would have made secrecy my absolute first and highest priority. After all, there may be a lot of wiggle room for the rich in this great country of ours, but overly greedy or careless millionaires can still wind up in jail.
“As far as I can tell, you have managed to conduct your nefarious business for over three years now without a whiff of scandal by operating like a micro-mafia. You work only with known entities, and only by strict bona-fide referral. Your clients are people of means who have no bigger legal challenges hanging over their heads. And you only work with people whom you’re sure you can get off, so they won’t later point the finger your way in exchange for a reduced sentence. Nonetheless, you keep your clients completely in the dark as to your methods. And it works.
“Bogart did not have a clue that you were using a drug. As with everyone, I suppose, the notion did not cross his mind because he assumed that if a memory-erasing drug had been invented, he would have heard of it. Rumor would have gotten out. Yet it has not. Not a peep.”
“Again, I have to ask you if this is going somewhere,” Luther said.
Arlen smiled. He appeared to appreciate directness. “My point is this. Your adoption of an ultra-conservative business model has caused you to overlook what we in the pharmaceutical industry would call a major line extension.” Arlen crossed his legs, giving pause to emphasize what came next. “Shall I tell you what I have in mind?”
Luther found himself staring at a fork in the road. He could either walk away now and end their meeting with his façade intact, pretending that Arlen’s conclusions were nothing but wild speculation. Or, he could tacitly acknowledge that the pharmaceutical executive was batting a thousand, and learn more. Arlen had obviously put a lot of thought into this, just as he had said. Furthermore, his insight was little short of miraculous—judging by the clients, attorneys and judges Luther had worked with who had not a clue. Among outsiders, only Sebastian Troy had suspected the truth, and Luther had neutralized him before he got within three thousand miles.
Arlen might only be here because he was familiar with Jeff Landis’s research, but he was here, and that meant he had serious needs. One way or the other, Luther had to deal with him.
Arlen’s eyes flashed with the satisfaction of a chess master whose opponent made a long anticipated move. He got straight to the point, to the line extension. “You have focused exclusively on the witness stand. I want you to turn your attention to the bench.”
Luther’s jaw dropped and he gave up all pretense of control. “You want what?”
Arlen remained silent, allowing him to process.
Luther thought out loud. “If the judge loses all memory of evidence and testimony presented, all you get is a mistrial.”
“Keep going,” Arlen urged.
“A mistrial buys you time, perhaps months … months at a billion per.”
“You’re getting there.”
“The exact outcome seems unpredictable. Is there any precedent for this?” Luther asked, certain that Arlen had checked.
“There is some. Judges have died, had strokes, or otherwise become disabled in the middle of trials. In a few cases a replacement judge has simply stepped in. But in the vast majority, a mistrial had to be declared and the whole proceedings restarted.”
“How much time are you expecting to buy?” Luther asked, trying to gauge his fee for this new line of work.
Arlen shook his head. “You need to back up, Luther. You still haven’t asked the critical question.”
“Critical question?”
“By switching from the witness stand to the bench, you’re only halfway there. You need to make one more leap.”
Luther squirmed uneasily in his chair. He did not like having his intellect put on the spot like this. After a minute of drawing blanks, he got up and stared into his waterfall, determined not to give in. Arlen sat quietly while Luther tried to let his mind run free before the cascading wall of water. It took two minutes, a full hundred and twenty seconds, but the right question came. He turned around slowly. “Is your case already on appeal?” he asked, not bothering to hide the trepidation in his voice.