David Klein

by Stash (v5)

  But what about the fact that Dr. Everson had accepted consulting arrangements from Caladon for hosting medical education seminars about weight-loss therapies?

  “I was duped, just as you were,” Everson said. “I want to right a wrong.”

  No one had duped Brian. On the other hand, it was never too late to do the right thing. He said he would consider her proposal, knowing he had the upper hand now. Without him to blow the whistle on Caladon, Everson had no substance to her claims. But there might not be any substance, anyway. Brian didn’t believe Caladon had crossed the line into illegal off-label marketing. Maybe because the line wasn’t a line at all, not in the traditional sense, but a blurry landmined zone you could navigate if you knew where to step and what to avoid—and if you had an army of crack attorneys ready for triage if anything exploded in your face.

  He flew back that afternoon and discussed his options with Gwen.

  “If you do this, aren’t you admitting you were involved in something illegal?” Gwen asked.

  “Not necessarily, but I was following orders. I read about some other cases, and the whistle-blower is typically granted immunity.”

  “That’s an awful expression—whistle-blower. It’s like being a tattletale.”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “I endured my own dark period of tattling recently and it wasn’t pleasant.”

  “That was coerced out of you,” Brian pointed out. “This is just one option for me.”

  “You shouldn’t do it for the money,” Gwen said. “And it doesn’t seem like a good career move, since you’ll lose your job and like you said get shut out from the industry. So the only reason to do it is if Caladon is purposely practicing deception or recklessly harming people. If that’s the situation, you need to step up and I’ll support you all the way.”

  “I don’t know if that’s the situation. I’d like to think it wasn’t.”

  And now, heading into Stephen’s office, Brian still hadn’t made up his mind what to do. With her limited sample of patients, Marta Everson had a weak basis for a lawsuit against Caladon—unless she allied with Brian as the insider who could expose Caladon’s intent. Except Caladon’s intent remained murky.

  But, as Stephen said, consumer watchdogs and regulators had placed a target on their industry, which is why the Times article raised such an uproar and put Brian in peril. If Stephen tried to fire him today, Brian could mention Everson’s offer and see how it played.

  Teresa caught up with him as he walked toward Stephen’s office.

  “Everyone’s been asking if I knew where you were,” she said. “I heard they even sent someone around to your house. People were thinking you committed suicide or something.”

  “I hope I didn’t disappoint anyone.”

  She tugged his sleeve to stop him, turned so they were face-to-face. “They’re sending me back to Jersey. I’m working on a new project to redevelop our sales territories. We’ve had multiple reps calling on the same doctors, fighting over who has what account, and even complaints from doctors.”

  “The fighting’s going to get worse before you’re done realigning the territories,” Brian told her.

  She shrugged. “I can take it.”

  “I’m sure you can.”

  Teresa started to speak, stopped, then started again. “Anyway, I want to apologize for the other day in the bar. You know, the way I threw myself at you. I shouldn’t have done it, and you were right to turn me away.”

  “It wasn’t as easy as you might think.”

  “Thanks, but I know you weren’t that interested.”

  Brian nodded; Teresa was right. “When are you going back?”

  “I start tomorrow. Today’s my last day here.”

  “It could be mine, too,” Brian said. “I’ll stop by and see you before I leave.”

  No one with Brian’s talent or ambition kept the same job or career path for long, and he was prepared to make a move as need or opportunity dictated. What Brian could never prepare for was losing Gwen, because he’d a glimpse of that and the view was bleak. The night Gwen was missing he lay awake for hours stroking his children’s cheeks and hair and swallowing back the dread that he’d never see his wife again. He played over and over again the worst-case scenarios. At one point he moved from Nate’s bed to Nora’s after having been kicked too many times by his sleeping son. He dozed in and out but the dreams were as bad as being awake, and he surfaced from one of the bad ones when his phone rang and woke him, while the kids slept on and morning light filled the windows.

  Her voice—quiet, a single note from breaking—telling him she was safe. Like getting a call from God and ever after you are blessed with faith. Later, when Gwen told him how she’d gotten lost—the call with Jude, losing her direction, the horrific and freezing night in the wilderness—he did not chastise her or erupt in anger or jealous conniption. He comforted her and himself by holding her and whispering how she was his one true love, the only one, and please don’t ever leave him like that again.

  Shelly told Brian to go right in, Stephen was waiting. She kept her face neutral, even though she knew what was about to happen: whether he was a goner or not. The executive assistants, they always knew; they held more inside information than the chairman of the board.

  “Brian, sit down.” Stephen rose from his chair and shook Brian’s hand, as if Brian had come for an interview.

  Brian sat in one of two leather chairs facing Stephen.

  “We were getting a little worried about you. Thought maybe the FDA had snatched you up.” Stephen laughed, making light of his own comment.

  “I was away with my family on a trip we’d been planning for some time.”

  “Well, good, welcome back. I’ll get right to the point. We have to do something about Zuprone, and I know you’ve been working on it for a long time. So you understand the current situation. We’re going to make some changes, starting immediately.”

  Here it comes.

  “We’re going to issue a statement to the FDA and the media recommending that Zuprone not be prescribed for weight loss except in clinical trials.”

  “What clinical trials?”

  “We’ve evaluated your business case and conclusions and have decided to apply for FDA approval for Zuprone as a weight-loss drug.”

  Brian sat speechless.

  “That is still your recommendation, isn’t it?” Stephen asked.

  “Yes, but what about the reports of anorexia?”

  “We think those are isolated incidents, but we’re going to find out—without putting Caladon at risk.”

  “Invest that kind of money to find out about a potential side effect?”

  “Well, there’s more to it than that, Brian. You see, we believe Zuprone is safe and effective, and don’t want to subject ourselves to lawsuits, fines, and the like—which might end up costing close to what the clinical trials and FDA application will, according to the numbers you presented.”

  “We might be able to wrap the further studies the FDA ordered into the new drug application,” Brian said. “That would save some money.”

  Stephen showed his signature move, a nod to his chin while raising the eyebrows. Almost sheepish, yet a conclusive statement: letting you know you’ve got the picture.

  “You’ve been a huge part of Zuprone’s success, although I can see why an outsider looking in, Marcus Ward from the FDA for instance, might question tactics.”

  So he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

  “We both know many decisions regarding those tactics came from Wilcox. He was nothing if not opportunistic and aggressive. That’s why he was able to build such a strong sales organization. We’ll miss him.”

  “Miss him?”

  “Resigned yesterday. We’re completely overhauling the sales force and have brought in Blair McFarland from Roche. He’ll be heading up sales and marketing for all of North America. You know Blair?”

  “I know who he is, but I don’t think we’ve met.”


  “He’s up here today if you get a chance to say hello. Going back to Jersey tomorrow. See what you miss when you’re gone for a few days?”

  “Sounds like more than a few days in the making,” Brian said.

  “But you won’t be working with Blair. I want you back on the clinical side, coordinating the Zuprone trials. You’ll report directly to me.”

  Brian’s eyes widened.

  “Who’s the MD?”

  “Alice Conners.”

  Brian nodded. Well-respected physician from the California lab.

  “This is a promotion,” Stephen said. “In retrospect, you handled yourself well with Everson and the Times reporter. She could have done a lot more damage. And I admit none of it would have happened if I’d kept up my side of the bargain and dealt with Everson.”

  “She might be a problem yet,” Brian said. He paused for a moment, deciding, then added, “She asked me to initiate a whistle-blower lawsuit against Caladon.”

  No surprise registered on Stephen; he simply shrugged. “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “It wouldn’t be easy, but with the right people working on her side an effective case could be made.”

  “But you declined her invitation?”

  Brian said nothing.

  “Or you’ll decline it now?”

  Brian nodded.

  “The lure of qui tam,” Stephen said. “Like a siren’s song.” He stood. Meeting ended.

  Returning to his office, Brian saw Teresa outside a conference room, in conversation with Blair McFarland, her new boss. He was about to stop and introduce himself but neither of them noticed Brian. Blair’s eyes were locked on Teresa while she spoke, subtly moving up and down to take her in. Brian knew that look: a man with his eyes on a lush prize. Teresa knew it, too. Brian almost felt the heat shimmering off her as he passed. She stood posed like statuary, oblique hip, cocked head, only her hands moving with her words, her fingers fanned out, a gesture away from embracing Blair McFarland. She’d be much happier back in New Jersey.

  Quiet and Busy

  Gwen didn’t plan to attend the memorial service for Jude, not after her experience getting dumped on by daughter Sheila at James Anderson’s funeral. She had heard the news of Jude’s death from Roger; he called, and the first words out of his mouth were “Jude Gates is dead.” She spent the next hour fighting pain in her abdomen, chewing her lower lip, but finally her stomach heaved and she ran to the toilet and vomited, unable to control the convulsive reaction.

  Thank God the kids were asleep. But Brian wasn’t. He followed her into the bathroom, wet a washcloth, held it to her forehead. She let him comfort her but could not look at him, or at herself. Acid burned her nose and throat. She sobbed and her husband held her. What more could she ask for in a partner? He hadn’t thrown a fit that she’d put herself in danger sneaking off to call Jude. He had stood firm when the police suggested Gwen wanted to be missing with Jude Gates; he wouldn’t accept that reasoning. He trusted her, even though she had let him down. It was Jude he distrusted, but no matter now.

  Although Brian had advised her against going to James Anderson’s funeral, he suggested she attend the service for Jude, and went with her.

  It was a simple event. There was no casket, no cemetery, no priest. It was held at Gull, presided over by the chef, Andrew Cole, who spoke quietly of his long friendship and professional relationship with Jude. The tables in the dining room had been pushed to one side and the chairs arranged in rows with an aisle down the middle. Gwen recognized only two people: Dana, who sat in the first row of chairs with a young woman and man about her own age on either side of her, and Detective Keller, who stood scanning the crowd from the back of the room. After Andrew spoke, a woman read a Shakespearean sonnet that Gwen remembered from a college class years back. Someone else played the guitar and sang. One of the waiters got up and said Jude had always shown him respect and given him opportunity. Gwen wasn’t surprised—even a man gunned down in a drug deal gone bad can be loved. Even that man can be a father, and terribly missed, as evidenced by Dana’s drawn, stunned face. Even that man can hold allure.

  When the service ended, waiters walked the room with trays of hors d’oeuvres. A bartender started making drinks, and the music system was turned on. Conversations started. Brian went to the bar while Gwen made her way and waited in line to speak to Dana. When it was her turn, she started by saying “You probably don’t remember me …,” but Dana interrupted and said she did: “You used to help me with my homework in the restaurant.”

  She added, “My father mentioned you recently. He said you came here to see him.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  She’d grown tall, like her father, and Gwen recognized Jude’s eyes and his nose that tipped downward.

  Dana introduced her friend, Steve, and her roommate at college, Jen, and Jen’s parents, who stood behind them. She explained she was moving some of her things to their house near Boston, which would become her home base now during semester breaks.

  “If this happened last year, my legal guardian would have been my dad’s sister in Seattle. I would have had to move there. I mean, she’s not even here today. His sister. I think my father expected to live forever, although now I have to wonder why.”

  She clenched her jaw, and her eyes stared hard at Gwen.

  “Did you know?” Dana asked.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Did you know what my father did for a living? And I don’t mean running a restaurant. I’m asking everyone; I need to find out.”

  Gwen met Dana’s gaze and told her the truth. “No, I didn’t know.” Not for sure.

  “Then why did you see him?” Dana demanded.

  She answered with more care. “We reestablished our connection. I thought we were becoming friends again, your father and I.”

  “I’ve been through a lot this week.” The girl’s eyes were wet, but no tears spilled out. “I’m so mad at him. How could he have done this?”

  Dana looked ready to reach out and hug her, and Gwen braced for it, but nothing happened. Gwen wanted to tell her that the answers were not always easy, things not always black and white, a platitude that wouldn’t be helpful now, so she kept it to herself.

  While Gwen had experienced an instinctual and physically violent reaction to the news of Jude’s death, followed by a sleepless night and a day of fog, after the second day a sense of relief and finality eased her pain, as if a relative suffering a long illness had finally, thankfully, passed. She no longer had to wonder if Jude would continue to pursue her. She didn’t have to worry about Jude’s response to knowing she had informed the police, or what that might have led to. She didn’t need to fulfill her promise of never having contact with Jude again, for any reason.

  But now, seeing Dana, grief bloomed once more, a weary ache spread through her. She felt prematurely old and helpless. Wasn’t there something Gwen could do for her? The orphaned daughter. She had an urge to tell Dana how to contact her, if she ever needed anything.

  In the end she just told Dana how sorry she was about her father and moved away for the next person waiting to speak.

  She found Brian in the bar, drinking a Bloody Mary and speaking with Detective Keller. She helped herself to his drink, sucking through the straw.

  “I was just telling your husband how it’s the kids who end up suffering the most when the parents go wrong,” Detective Keller said.

  Gwen measured the comment: Was it meant for her? Did Keller believe she was a parent gone wrong?

  Keller sensed her discomfort. “I’m referring to Mr. Gates,” he added.

  “Do you think she knew?” Brian asked.

  “The daughter? Probably not. Kids are so wrapped up in their own lives, how many really pay attention to what their parents do?”

  “That’s true, although yours does,” said Gwen. “Nate tells me that he and Andy are playing police detectives every day at recess.”

  “I heard they’re getting
to be good buddies.”

  “I hope your wife doesn’t mind,” Gwen said. “Nate’s a good kid.” But she knew Patty Keller did mind, because one afternoon Nate came home and asked Gwen why she did drugs.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Andy. He said you did drugs. I thought drugs were bad for you and people who do them go to jail or die.”

  “You’re right. They are bad for you. Did you and Andy have an argument? You know how sometimes when people are angry they might say something mean just to be hurtful?”

  “We had the fight after he said it.”

  “Tell him to stop talking that way. If he won’t stop, you should find someone else to play with.”

  “I like playing with him.”

  So far, Gwen had deflected Nate’s requests for an after-school play date with Andy Keller, knowing Patty Keller would not approve.

  “Tell Andy he’s mistaken in what he said,” Gwen told her son.

  At least that explained the source of a few looks she’d gotten. Not looks of condemnation, more of curiosity. A parent here and there must have found out from Patty Keller and told someone else, and so on. And so all the worry she’d endured regarding the word getting out about her arrest had amounted to nothing. The word was getting out anyway, slowly, although no one dared open their mouth and accuse her of anything, not with half the town living in some type of glass house. Perhaps people in Morrissey were more compassionate and tolerant than she had given them credit for.

  Brian turned to Keller. “Have you found out for sure who shot Jude Gates? The newspaper mentioned it might have been someone from the military who worked for him.”

  Keller nodded. “At this point, no charges have been filed. We’re still looking in to the matter.”

  “I know—you can’t comment about an ongoing investigation.”

  “That’s right,” Keller said. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m done here. If I stay any longer I’ll want one of those Bloody Marys.” He made a last scan of the room. “I’ll see you around school.” He shook hands with Brian and then Gwen and walked out.