by Jay Begler
Rebecca acted as the interrogator. “Can you describe what sensations you felt or are feeling right now?”
Gone was the man most everyone was used to seeing, a mumbling corpse who rarely put over two sentences together. He was John DuPont, the educated banker from Chicago. “It’s a little hard to articulate, but it seems to me this drug differs greatly from other drugs; not different in degree, but different in kind. The closest drug might be Ecstasy-MDMA- but when I took that, I had a relaxed, euphoric state. This is different. When it takes hold, you get a delightful sense of euphoria, but nothing overwhelming like crack-cocaine. It’s not like I became smarter, it’s just that I seem to see everything with total clarity. So, I think the name for the drug is apt. Clarity in a way produces a wonderful calm and sense of peace and serenity I hadn’t felt before, or at least since my past life”
Rebecca, posed this her most important question. “And your memory, did you see any change in your memory, that is your ability to remember things?”
“Funny you should ask that Rebecca. For some inexplicable reason I culled up a very vivid memory of my second birthday which I could remember in great detail. I seem to have a keen understanding about my life and the circumstances that brought me here. Interestingly, I never could remember how I got here, but now I recall all the details of that sad journey.”
Rebecca said to members of her team, “My God, we really need to try this on Alzheimer’s patients.”
After two hours of questioning, Du Pont said, “Well Mr. Morales, if we are finished, I’d appreciate it you could arrange some transportation for me”
Morales replied, “I understand that you want to go home, but need you to stay on two more weeks; then you will be free to go. We will pay for your tickets home and give you $50,000.00 for your trouble. Take the drug two more days and double the doses, then we want you to stop for a week to observe. After that, you will be free to go.
Back at the hacienda, the entire team attempted to understand the mechanism of the drug, It was Isabella who offered the best explanation. “The answer may come from Vedic meditation texts. The ultimate result of deep meditation is to experience what the texts call ‘infinite consciousness’ or what they call an ‘unbounded awareness.’ The Vedics meditate to the point where they seem to view the world with total clarity and the meditative state that they are in is so powerful that nothing else matters to them. They give up all of their worldly possessions and do nothing but meditate. It’s a little like crack cocaine addicts where nothing matters but the effect of the drug.”
Morales did not particularly care for an explanation of how the drug worked. His big question was whether the drug was addictive. For the next two days, DuPont continued to take Clarity. He wrote letters of apology to his family and his former wife, though he knew they would never be mailed. He read newspapers and magazines to understand what was happening in the world, prompting the first joke he made in a decade. He said to himself, “Kind makes you want to take drugs.”
The following week, he no longer had a supply of Clarity. The door of the Roach Motel was padlocked. Cameras were installed to observe his behavior. He thought that the whole exercise was absurd. On the third day, however, symptoms appeared. He became distracted and unable to focus. Two days later, he lapsed into depression. On the seventh day he tried to kill himself by overdosing on the drug that a year earlier killed all the other tenants, which he had stashed away for likely future use.
Not everyone on Rebecca’s team realized the significance of DuPont’s behavior. Rebecca understood immediately, however. Alone with Morales in his study and watching DuPont on a television monitor, Rebecca said, “I suppose this is the result you hoped to achieve, isn’t it? Those who can’t get or afford Clarity will turn back to regular drugs, which will boost your sales. And it looks like users will do anything for the drug. It seems perfect. You don’t even have to add your addictive portion. Clarity is highly addictive on its own.”
While this was good news, it alarmed Morales. He promised her she would not take part in making an illegal drug, but that’s exactly what she and her team created. He said, “Rebecca, I hope this was not too much of a blow for you. I know I promised that the drug you and your team would develop would not be illegal. None of us knew how this would turn out.”
She did not seem bothered in the least. “I understand that, Hector. It is rather remarkable, incredible, actually. I don’t blame you. And I need to see how this turns out. I will help in any way I can. I only ask one thing.”
“Anything.”
“You must test the drug much more extensively. I would feel horrible if people started dropping dead after a month. And please Hector; test the drug on those who have Alzheimer’s.
“I promise. And the last thing I would want is people dying.” He laughed slightly. “That would be bad for business.” And then he added with his deepest conviction, “I love you so much.” She didn’t reciprocate in kind, but touched his arms and said, almost sympathetically, “I know.”
Once DuPont was out of the hacienda’s infirmary and fully dosed up with Clarity, Rebecca and her team met with DuPont.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine.”
“We’d like you to share your experience with us once you went off the drug?”
John replied, “I’ve been an addict for a long time, but the hunger for Clarity was so deep and strong it was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. On the last day, I thought to myself, “I have the perfect solution to my problem; I’ll kill myself. It wasn’t out of remorse. It was that my thought process seemed to be totally skewed. I thought I was thinking rationally, yet my rationale thought process was totally off kilter.
Louisa interrupted. “Did the thought of killing yourself bother you?”
“No, not at all. I thought it was the logical solution to my problem. It was almost as if I constructed a syllogism: Committing suicide relieves suffering, I am suffering, and therefore committing suicide will relieve my suffering. It is logical on its face, but crazy all the same. But that’s how I began to think. Now, if we’re finished, I’ve held up my end of the bargain and would like to leave.”
Morales replied, “Well you know there is a condition for you leaving and living and that is you can’t breathe a word to anyone about us.”
“You have my word.”
The house boss approached and gave DuPont an envelope filed with $50,000.00 and a small satchel. He opened the satchel to reveal five plastic vitamin supplement containers.
Addressing DuPont, Morales said, “Each of these containers holds 500 doses of Clarity. Be careful because they are very small. This is for your personal use only. Please do not sell any of the Clarity pills.” There were handshakes and hugs and some tears as well.
“Carlos, here will drive you to the airfield and a helicopter will drop you outside of Mexico City. The rest is up to you. Good luck.” Rebecca, with one arm around Morales’ waist, waved as the Jeep drove off.
The Jeep carrying DuPont drove three miles from the hacienda, turned off the road. “Where are we going?” John asked.
“I have to pick up your passport. Our team finished that last night.”
The car stopped near a large barn like building. Saying nothing further, the driver turned and with a pistol in hand, shot DuPont between the eyes. He honked the horn twice. Two men with shovels approached. In the distance, Carlos saw that they had already dug a grave. He sent a one-word text to Morales, “Done.”
Twenty-Six
•
Prison Life
Daniel prepared for his entry into prison as best he could, at least the psychological rigors associated with the event. Miriam introduced him to several former inmates, white collar types, whose only exposure to prison life before their incarceration was via the movies.
An older former inmate told him, “For me it was like the classic five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.” Except for the bargaini
ng aspect of the stages, Daniel experienced all of these emotions. While he knew he would enter prison he just couldn’t conceptualize it happening. It was only after the entry door to the prison closed behind him and he walked between two stone-faced prison guards, that the totality of the rest of his life struck him. Something akin to a pain washed over him and he said aloud, “Oh my God!” The guards didn’t acknowledge his words. They had heard them or words like them many times before as new prisoners came to understand their futures.
After Daniel came to terms with his new life, he sought to make friends with some inmates. These were mostly his own kind, white, heterosexual men, over forty. He knew three of the inmates on the outside. There was a prominent insurance broker who sold over thirty million dollars’ worth of life insurance but pocketed the premiums, a partner in a prestigious accounting firm, and the treasurer of the town next to Sands Point who gambled away all the town’s money, and an inmate named Aaron Markowitz. Before his incarceration Markowitz was characterized by the press as a “Baby Madoff.” He was forty-one and serving twenty-five years for defrauding investors out of four billion dollars. Markowitz became Daniel’s best friend.
Daniel spent much of his time in a well-stocked library, one that contained the latest fiction and non-fiction and twenty-five desktops where inmates could send emails and receive emails using a confidential sign-in mechanism. Inmates could also use Google but with parental style controls to exclude pornography. Each computer had FaceTime and Zoom capability which enabled the inmates to see friends, relatives or loved ones on a more frequent basis. Daniel would have brief weekly Zoom encounters with his daughters, both of whom commented on how well he looked. He never told them how awful he felt. Miriam visited him every week.
The library had two small conference rooms for meetings and discussion groups. At the urging of Markowitz, Daniel joined a book club led by a PHD from Harvard who forged letters allegedly from Winston Churchill and sold them at Sotheby’s. The club’s choice in his first week of attendance was an older book, An Officer and a Spy, by Robert Harris. The novel was a detective story of sorts, based substantially on fact, about the wrongful conviction of Alfred Dreyfus, a cause célèbre that divided France in the late nineteenth century. What resonated with Daniel were the passionate letters written by Dreyfus to his wife, Lucie, while he was serving his prison term on Devil’s Island.
He decided to write to Rebecca even though he was certain she would never receive his letters. Writing would provide catharsis. His first inclination was to email her still active email account, but decided that a hand-written letter would be more personal and more in keeping with Dreyfus.
“My Darling Rebecca
I always thought the criminal justice system moved slowly and maybe it does, but not in my case. Twelve months from the day of your disappearance, I find myself in prison.
How can I describe my time here? Perhaps the words “suffering through” works. That’s pretty accurate. Intellectually, it’s hard to come to grips with the fact that I’m in prison. I’m not alone in feeling this way. We have a support group where we can air our feelings and most of the inmates feel the same way, even those who admitted their guilt. I find it interesting that without exception, white-collar criminals don’t view themselves as criminals.
The only thing that keeps me going, that keeps me sane, is knowing that someday you will return to me. Hopefully, you’ll keep your promise, and return soon. You said that you’d be back in six months, but it’s been so long that I’m starting to believe that you are unwilling or unable to return. I try not to speculate about your situation because it’s too terrifying. And, gnawing at me, is that when we spoke, you said that you killed the thugs. You even laughed a little. Frankly, that seems impossible and so unlike you.
From time to time, I use the computers here to look at hotels and restaurants in the Marais section and plan a trip for us when you come back. That may sound ridiculous, but I am convinced that you are alive. I spend a good part of my day on the computer doing searches that might reveal where you are or give me a clue as to what happened to you. I’m certain that someone abducted you, but who and for what purpose?
I often wonder what would have happened if we got that funding from the Mexican Group. Our drug had so much promise. If only that group had more foresight.
Be well my darling, wherever you are
With all my love,
Daniel
Twenty-Seven
•
The Safari
The formal testing of Clarity was to be among four groups: people with early and late-stage Alzheimer’s, those with psychological problems such as depression, high school and college students that were casual drug users and hardcore junkies. Given Morales’ hospital affiliations and his public persona, it was easy to get COFEPRIS, the Mexican counterpart of the FDA, to approve Clarity for limited human testing. The Cartel also had a coterie of therapists on their payroll that would dole out its drugs to their patients. Volunteers for the new drug, both casual and regular drug users, responded to coded advertisements in various social media outlets, illicit drug blogs and even in Craigslist. Except for the Alzheimer’s group, each user would receive a twenty-day supply with dosage instructions, and after twenty days the Cartel would cut the supply off. The Alzheimer’s group would receive the drug for 60 days, and then a decision would be made whether to keep members of this group on the drug.
At a party for the entire research team, Morales addressed his guests and said, “This morning, as most of you know, we began widespread testing of Clarity. None of us know what the results of the tests will be, but as politicians say, we are cautiously optimistic. So, on behalf of our organization, I want to thank you for your efforts.” Without prompting or instruction, all the guests raised their champagne glasses. Addressing the geezers, Morales said, “Now gentlemen, if you follow me.” He took them to a room called the “Salon,” one furnished with plush old-fashioned furniture and populated by four beautiful, scantily clad women.
“Sorry I couldn’t find any seventy-year-olds. You’ll have to make do with these youngsters; fifty-year-olds.”
Sheepishly, Katz asked, “Uh boss, any Viagra Plus?”
Each woman held up two large blue pills.
Later in the evening Rebecca said to Morales, “So now what? Just hang around and wait?”
Morales replied, “Not at all. I think we should take a brief vacation; you, me, Isabella and Louisa. Have you ever been on a safari?”
“No, but it’s something I always wanted to do.”
“Neither have I. Isabella is working out the details.”
There was a slight note of concern in her voice. “You are not going to shoot any animals, are you?”
Morales laughed. “Not to worry. I only kill people. By the way, Stannie asked Isabella if he and his colleagues could leave and I told her it was OK, unless you feel that you want them to stay until the test results come back. If the drug works, but needs tweaks, Johnson’s people can do that. If the drug doesn’t work, the project is over. Isabella told them its ok to leave and they are departing in forty-eight hours. We fly out the following day, so get down to our make-up and prosthetic departments. I doubt anyone will know you where we are going, but we can’t take chances.” Rebecca agreed.
Rachel McLeay, Anthony Clarke, and Sanford Lemay were standing by a van when Rebecca approached them. “I’ve come to say goodbye.” There was no response until the group realized that the woman speaking to them was Rebecca. Rachel asked, “Rebecca?”
“It’s the new me; short black cropped wig, blue contact lenses, some capped front teeth, and an imperceptible pin that lifts my nose ever so slightly. I finally got the nose job that I wanted as a teenager.”
McLeay was dumbfounded. “I didn’t recognize you at all.”
“That’s the purpose. We are taking a little trip; I can’t tell you where, but I’m going incognito.”
There were the usual hugs and kisses along w
ith the promises to keep in touch. The van’s driver said, “We’ve got to go folks; plane to catch.” Two miles down the road, with the helicopter pad in sight, the driver said, “Sorry, I just need to pick up a package for the pilot to drop off in Mexico City. It will only be a minute.”
The trio paid little attention to where he was going as they were all attempting, with no success, to send emails on their smart phones, and continued doing so when the van stopped. The driver turned and shot Stannie first. McLeay and Clarke never heard the actual noise of a suppressor, except in movies and on television. Both looked up, but in the fraction of a second before they could comprehend their fate, the driver shot them dead. He honked the horn twice, signaling men with shovels to come forward. His text to Morales contained the same word as before: “Done.”
As Morales’ Gulfstream 850 reached cruising altitude, he handed Rebecca a passport. It listed her as Celeste Morales, age 39, residence Fort Worth, Texas. The photo used was taken directly after the make-up department transformed her looks. Seeing her new name for the first time, she said, “So Hector. Now I’m a Morales. Am I your wife or your sister?”
“I wish my wife, but for now you’ll have to be my sister.”
She started laughing, “Good thing I believe in incest. And what do you mean ‘for now?’”
“More wishful thinking.”
In Africa, they were anonymous tourists who did what most tourists do, taking selfies on their cell phones and photos with their expensive cameras. They climbed the 1200-foot sand dunes of the Namibian desert and explored the country’s “Skeleton Coast,” a harshly beautiful place populated with abandoned and rusted shipwrecks and elephants that frolicked in the ocean.