by Mike Lawson
“Don’t cry, my daughter,” the old woman said in Bantu. “Everything will be all right.”
33
Orson Mulray looked at the page one headline on yesterday’s Washington Post—MULRAY EXPERIMENTS ON DISASTER VICTIMS—and smiled.
Celia Montoya was a clever reporter—able to report the facts accurately yet twist them into something alarming and sinister—and Mulray Pharma was portrayed as this awful, evil corporate entity that would do anything to make a buck. She made it clear that Mulray Pharma was taking advantage of poor, uneducated people to test some unspecified new drug and that clinical trials were being conducted in “total secrecy” so no one would know if any of the test subjects had been adversely affected. She reported that a number of people had died in the Warwick Care Centers—“a statistically higher than normal number”—but was careful not to accuse Mulray Pharma of killing anyone. She made much ado—much ado about nothing—regarding the implantation of RFID chips in the subjects. The article concluded by saying that the Justice Department and the FDA had told the Post that they were “considering” investigating Mulray Pharma.
Orson also noted that Mulray Pharma’s stock plunged after the story was released—and this made him smile too.
He looked at himself in the mirror and was pleased by what he saw. He knew he wasn’t a handsome man—he was a bit heavy and there was more than a hint of German Bürgermeister about him—but he looked … solid. Yes, that was the word.
His barber had trimmed his hair that morning, after which he had a facial to make his skin tight and glowing. He was wearing a dark blue Savile Row suit, a plain white shirt, and a maroon silk tie. He had thought about conducting the press conference with his sleeves rolled up—like an executive who had been busy working and had just stopped for a moment to deal with the latest media nonsense—but decided against that. He didn’t want to give the impression that he was the least bit harried.
He turned away from the mirror and asked Fiona, “How do I look?”
“Fine, you look fine,” she said, her fingernails raking her left forearm.
“Is Ballard here?” Orson asked.
“He’s waiting in your conference room, and I have someone watching him to make sure he doesn’t wander off.”
“And how does he look?” Orson asked.
“Like he always does. He needs a haircut and his pants are too short. Oh, and he’s wearing white socks.”
“Perfect,” Orson said.
“Are you sure you want to address the media yourself?” Fiona asked. “As your lawyer, I advise you not to. Everything you’re about to say can be said by a spokesman, and later on—if it’s necessary—you can say the spokesman was confused and misrepresented your position.”
“I’m sure, Fiona. I’ve been waiting for this moment for five years. By the way, I’d suggest you buy as much Mulray Pharma stock as you can afford this morning. I expect that after the press conference the price will double.”
Orson Mulray looked out at the mob of reporters standing in front of him. There were at least fifty people in the room, and it seemed as if half of them were holding cameras. All the networks were present, as well as the major cable stations. He assumed the scruffy folk in the crowd were print media people.
The reporters were clearly astounded that Orson was addressing the media himself, and addressing them only twenty-four hours after the story broke in the Post. They had all expected that Mulray’s PR flack would issue a bland written statement to the effect that while Mulray admitted to no wrongdoing, the company had no comment on Montoya’s story due to the possibility of pending legal action. They were in for a surprise.
He glanced over at Simon Ballard, who was standing to his right and slightly behind him—in the background, where he belonged. Ballard seemed bewildered by the reporters and stood completely still, as if frozen in place, the proverbial deer caught in the headlights. After the press conference, Orson would have Ballard taken someplace where the media couldn’t find him, and there he would be coached extensively on how to deal with the media in the future—not that Orson had any intention of allowing Ballard to ever be alone with a reporter.
Orson stepped up to the podium and tapped on the microphone to make sure it was working; four people in media relations would have been fired had it not been. He stared out at the crowd, unsmiling, his face serious, and waited until there was complete silence in the room.
“Let me begin by saying that Ms. Montoya’s article in the Washington Post is essentially accurate.”
A collective gasp issued from the crowd, and Orson glanced down and saw two reporters look at each other, the expressions on their faces saying: Can you believe he just said that?
“That is,” Orson continued after the room was silent again, “Ms. Montoya has most of her facts correct, but the implication that Mulray Pharma has done anything illegal or, for that matter, immoral, is incorrect.”
He gestured toward Ballard. “Standing to my right is Dr. Simon Ballard. I approached Dr. Ballard approximately five years ago when I discovered he was pioneering a cure for one of the most horrible diseases affecting mankind. This disease affects some people in a devastating way, but it affects all people to some degree.”
“What disease?” a reporter shouted out, one of the scruffy ones.
Orson ignored the question. “Dr. Ballard conducted all the necessary experimentation and laboratory testing to prove the efficacy and safety of a drug to treat this disease, and then Mulray Pharma set about doing clinical trials consistent with international law and sound medical practice. Because of the potential value of this drug, these clinical trials were conducted in such a manner as to prevent our competitors from learning of its existence. That is, we were secretive about what we were doing—as all drug companies are secretive when developing a new product. We were not secretive, however, because we were attempting to cover anything up. We also chose to perform clinical trials outside the United States because, quite frankly, this is a drug that mankind desperately needs, and if we had followed the FDA’s procedures it would have taken approximately twice as long—maybe three times as long—to make the drug available.”
“What is this drug used for?” a reporter cried out.
Orson acted as if he hadn’t heard the reporter. “Our primary clinical trials were conducted in Thailand under the supervision of a Harvard-educated Thai doctor and in accordance with drug testing requirements in that country. Furthermore, as Ms. Montoya stated in her article, we selected a number of test subjects who were also victims of wars or natural disasters. We did this because we could help these people by providing them food and shelter while they participated in the clinical trials, and they were fully informed they would be taking part in the trials. We used interpreters to make sure they understood this, and all the participants signed documents stating that they agreed to participate, understood the risks, and were in no way coerced. In return for their participation, these people—who are poor and homeless and have no one to care for them—were placed in assisted living facilities.”
The skeptics in the crowd began to grumble—and, being reporters, they were all skeptics. Orson held up his hands. “There is nothing unusual or immoral about paying people to participate in drug trials. We do that in the United States all the time, and we paid the people in Thailand to participate. And all test results have been fully and properly documented.”
A number of questions were shouted out by the reporters, but Orson simply stood there until they stopped. He was not going to lose control of the news conference.
“Beginning this month, we are going to begin treating people for this disease in Thailand, where we’ve completed all required clinical trials. At the same time, we will begin submitting our test results to the FDA in the United States as well as to the equivalent of the FDA in other countries. I would urge Americans to write their congres
smen and senators and tell them to do everything they can to ensure that the FDA acts in a timely manner. Every day we delay giving people the drug is one more day the disease will progress.”
“Are you ever going to tell us what the damn disease is?” a reporter cried out, a man with a booming voice.
“Yes, sir,” Orson said. He was enjoying this; he felt like a stripper peeling off her clothes at an agonizingly slow pace. “But first I wish to address a couple of points in Ms. Montoya’s article. She notes that people had RFID chips implanted so we could positively tie test results to specific subjects. She said this was like ‘tagging animals in the wild’ and made it sound as if we were doing something cruel and unusual. Ms. Montoya chose to ignore the fact that implanting these small chips is a safe and painless procedure. More important, she also failed to mention that RFID technology is commonly used today in medical and biological applications because this technology prevents errors in record keeping which simply can not be tolerated when dealing with people’s health.
“Second, Ms. Montoya noted that some of our test subjects died, and this is also true. The majority of our test subjects are elderly people, and these people were, in many cases, subjected to considerable trauma before we took them under our care. So the fact that a few elderly people died is tragic, but not really unusual or unexpected. All the people who did die were given autopsies to verify the cause of death and to prove their deaths had nothing to do with Dr. Ballard’s drug, and all autopsy results have been documented, along with all other clinical data. And, by the way, these people were given funeral services in accordance with the customs of their religion and culture. Now, as to the disease.”
“Finally,” someone said.
“Dr. Ballard has developed a drug to prevent Alzheimer’s. This drug will not, unfortunately, reverse the course of the disease for people who already have it, but what it will do is prevent the disease from progressing. More important, if administered early enough, Dr. Ballard’s drug will keep people predisposed to Alzheimer’s from getting the disease.”
Orson paused for a long beat to let the reporters absorb the significance of what he had just said, then looked directly into one of the cameras—into the eyes of the TV viewing audience. “I’m only fifty-eight years old, and I’m already starting to experience those occasional moments when I can’t put names to faces or can’t remember if I’ve seen a movie or read a particular book. And that scares me. And I remember my father so often saying to me ‘I don’t think I’ve told you this story before’ when in fact he’d told it a hundred times before, and I wonder if I’m doing the same thing. And that scares me. Most often, though, I think of my favorite uncle. He was a brilliant man—he taught international law at Cornell. But I remember the first time he went to a store a block from his house and couldn’t find his way home, and how he cried when my aunt had to go pick him up. And I remember when he stopped bathing and would wear the same food-stained shirt for a week, and I remember him at the end, his eyes vacant, his mouth hanging open, literally being held prisoner in a vigorous body by a brain that had ceased to function. My memories of my uncle don’t scare me—they terrify me. And I’m sure all of you, particularly if you’re about my age, share my fear of the future, wondering if one day you will become like my uncle. Well, thanks to Simon Ballard, we no longer need to fear.”
Orson stopped speaking and stood for a moment looking down at the podium, as if caught up in the emotion of his own recollections, then once again looked out at the reporters, who were finally silent.
“In conclusion, Mulray Pharma has developed a drug that billions of people will eventually take to prevent Alzheimer’s, and, contrary to Ms. Montoya’s wild accusations, the testing performed to develop this cure was done in a completely legal and ethical fashion and all test results and test protocols will be submitted to the FDA. And, as I said earlier, I urge all of you to contact your elected representatives to expedite the use of the drug in this country. Thank you.”
Emma, DeMarco, and Christine had watched Mulray’s press conference in Emma and Christine’s suite at the resort in Hilton Head. Emma turned off the television as soon as it was over, then just sat there scowling.
DeMarco didn’t know what to say, either.
But Christine did. “My God! A cure for Alzheimer’s. My grandmother has Alzheimer’s. It’s horrible. She doesn’t even know who I am when I visit her. And I’ve been worried about my mother, too. It seems like every time I call her, she mentions losing her glasses or house keys or something. I mean, what Mulray did is horrible, but if there’s a drug …”
Emma said, “I’m going to get that smug son of a bitch. I’m going to get him if it takes the rest of my life.”
When Emma called Celia Montoya, the reporter didn’t sound particularly pleased to hear from her.
“Before the press conference, my editor ran around the office telling everybody I was the next Bob Woodward. Today, he won’t look at me, and now all he can talk about is the possibility of the paper being sued by Mulray. Before we published, the paper’s lawyers said that Mulray had no grounds for a suit, but now they’re waffling.”
“Your article was correct,” Emma said. “Your editor needs to back you up.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll be sure to tell him you said that. You know, if you’d be willing to talk about that guy trying to kill you in Peru, it could help.”
“I’ll think about it,” Emma said, “but I’m not sure it would help all that much. Although I’m certain Kelly was going to kill me, I can’t prove it. I also can’t prove Nelson was in that liquor store to kill DeMarco. And even if I had proof, Kelly and Nelson work for Lizzie Warwick, not Mulray Pharma.”
“I’m positive Lizzie had no idea about the drug testing,” Montoya said.
“How could that be? How could she not be aware of what was happening in those places?”
“I don’t know what lies Lambert told her, but she told me she was never involved in the medical end of things, and I believed her. After she hooked up with him, she focused totally on the nonmedical stuff—water, food, clothing, et cetera—while he handled the medical supplies and treating the victims. And the care centers were totally Lambert’s bailiwick. She told me she was worried at one time about the cost of the centers because she could see it took a lot of money to operate them, but Hobson told her the centers were being funded by Lambert’s European donors and that these same people were funding other things she was doing. In other words, Hobson basically told her not to rock the boat and she was satisfied with his explanation. In fact, she rarely visited the care centers. She’d been to the one in Peru but had never even seen the one in Uganda, near Lake Victoria. She didn’t have time to go there, and she had no idea Mulray Pharma was subsidizing her foundation to the degree it was.”
“I don’t know,” Emma said, still skeptical. “I find it hard to believe she could be so clueless.”
“All I can say is that if you’d been with me when I interviewed her in Africa, I think you’d be convinced. Maybe she’s the best actress since Meryl Streep, but I think she’s just a sweet woman who put her trust completely in Lambert and Hobson, and they kept her in the dark.”
Following the press conference, Orson Mulray took the elevator to the roof of the building and walked out and stood at the railing, looking eastward. He felt like the captain of a great sailing ship as he looked out toward the Atlantic, scanning the horizon, looking for his first glimpse of some New World. He wished he had someone to share this moment with—someone other than Fiona, that is. In an odd way, and as much as he had despised the man, he wished he could share it with his father.
He had taken an enormous risk—and it had paid off. And people had not even begun to grasp how much money the drug was worth. He did sincerely regret, however, that a few elderly people had to die—he wasn’t a sociopath like Fiona—and if he had been able to produce the drug in a reaso
nable time frame following more traditional methods, he would have. But the fact was that people often died developing new cures for old diseases. That was one of the dirty little secrets of medicine that folks usually chose to ignore, and the number that died in this case was really quite small. He wasn’t sure of the exact number, but it was certainly less than a score—and millions, if not billions, would reap the benefits. And not only would mankind benefit medically, his achievement would result in thousands of new jobs and a more vibrant global economy. Furthermore—and not far in the future—he would establish the Orson Mulray Foundation and would become known worldwide for his great generosity.
He looked skyward and said out loud, “What do you think about your boy now, Dad?”
34
Lizzie Warwick flew from Kampala to Philadelphia the same day Celia Montoya’s story was released in the Washington Post. She wasn’t aware of the article, however, until her plane landed and she saw the headlines on the papers in the terminal. She dropped her carry-on bag onto the ground and pulled a newspaper from a rack without paying for it and started to read. As she read, she muttered, “No, no, this can’t be.” The lady running the newsstand asked if she was going to buy the paper and muttered curses in Hindi as a dazed Lizzie dropped the paper on a stack of Philadelphia Eagles T-shirts and walked away.
Her lawyers were surprised when she showed up in their offices. Not just surprised that she was there, but also surprised by her appearance. She was still wearing the same white blouse, khaki pants, and scuffed boots that she’d been wearing when Montoya interviewed her in Uganda—except that now the blouse and pants looked as if she’d pulled them from the bottom of a laundry hamper. And it wasn’t just her attire; she looked absolutely wild-eyed.