Wearing the Spider (A Suspense Novel) (Legal Thriller) (Thriller)

by Schaab, Susan

  “I think that’s obvious. They’re staring down a multi-million dollar lawsuit. They gratuitously benefit from a seemingly independent assault on her reputation in the press.”

  “I’m sorry, Joseph. I’m not accusing Evie of anything, I just don’t want to see you—”

  “Ari, you know I love you, but you’re a pain in the ass sometimes. I told you, she saw this coming. She said she thought Levenger was going to try to link her to the Senator as part of his scheme to smear her with this shit he’s into.”

  “So, if that’s what’s going on here, it means that Alan is throwing darts at Senator Arbeson’s campaign himself.”

  “I don’t think Levenger would hesitate to sell out anyone who threatened his objectives. I think his loyalty to the Senator is as illusory as his firm’s resolve to find the truth.”

  “This is unbelievable. I knew Alan was bad news, but I had no idea what he was capable of.”

  “I’m headed back to Weber’s office. You should take a car back to Connecticut, Ari, I’ll call you if we find her.”

  ~~

  “Mr. Levenger, there’s someone here who’s asked to see you.”

  “Who is it?” asked Alan into the speaker on his telephone.

  “He says he’s looking for representation. He’s with a company called Para … Para-pee-yay. Yes, I think that’s how you pronounce it. His name is Joe Barton.

  “Uhhh. Okay, I can squeeze him in. Call Mary to come get him.”

  After a few minutes, Mary appeared at his office door, announcing his visitor and a tall, well-built man dressed in a navy suit with dark wavy hair, stood in Alan’s doorway. Alan stood and gestured for him to take a seat in one of the chairs opposite his desk. Joe walked into the office and closed the door behind him, taking off his jacket and draping it over the back of a visitor chair.

  “Joe, is it?” said Alan, eyebrows arched as he watched Joe make himself at home in his office.

  “Joe Barton.”

  “Parapier? I’ve heard of your company. U.S. headquarters in L.A., right?”

  Joe stayed silent for a moment as his eyes took in every detail—the location of windows, the configuration of the furniture and the weight and degree of fitness of the man he was staring at. He was calm, but his blood was hot.

  Alan ignored Joe’s silence and asked, “And you’re looking for a New York lawyer?”

  “Specifically, I’m looking for you.”

  “Me? Well, yes, I do have a reputation.” Alan stretched back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head. “What kind of representation are we talking about? Have you got a legal problem or are you doing a deal?”

  “Actually, I’ve been following a deal you’ve been doing.”

  “Really. Which deal’s that?”

  “Gerais Chevas.”

  Alan brought his arms around and gripped the armrests. He nodded slowly as he curled his lips in. A few seconds of silence passed as his knuckles went white and his salesmanship stare turned into a glare.

  “Who are you?” Alan asked in an acidic tone.

  “I told you who I am. I’m here because I want some information from you. If you give it to me, I’ll consider walking out of here without making a scene. If you don’t, I’ll have to do some damage.”

  “Listen, asshole. I don’t know who you think you are … Hey, did you send me an email from a hotmail account? Goliath or some such shit?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you, some kind of hacker or corporate spy?”

  “No.”

  “Are you FBI?”

  “Okay, listen carefully,” said Joe. “Here’s the question: Where’s Evie?”

  “Evie who?”

  “Let’s not play games, okay? I don’t have a lot of time. Where is she?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’m about to call security.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Get the hell out of my office,” said Alan as he picked up the receiver.

  In a split second, Joe was over the desk and his body slammed into Alan’s, the leather chair spinning, tilting then toppling over. The force of Joe’s movements caused an avalanche of objects from Alan’s desk. As paper, files, an ashtray and other items scattered, Alan’s body broke through one of the armrests, aided by the impact of Joe’s full body weight, fueled by anger.

  They crashed to the floor and Alan started swinging wildly into the air. Before they hit the ground, Joe’s palms were cupped around Alan’s throat, one of the heels of his hands on Alan’s windpipe. Alan twisted his body in voluntary spasms like a beheaded snake, in an attempt to knock Joe off balance and force the release of the pressure. Joe squeezed tighter, the strength in his hands nourished by a profusion of rage.

  Gasping for breath, Alan clawed at the fabric on the back of Joe’s shirt, but was unable to shake off the pinch. He threw punch after punch at Joe’s head and body, but couldn’t make contact. A guttural gagging sound escaped through Alan’s compressed vocal chords just as Joe released his grip.

  “Okay, Levenger,” said Joe. “No more games. You and I both know you ordered a kidnapping and had her taken somewhere. Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?”

  “I … uhhh … haah … kahh … uhh … fuck!” coughed Alan. “You motherfucking choked me! Get the fuck off me!” Alan yelled as he squirmed and fought. He swung hard with his left hand and landed an awkward punch against Joe’s ribcage, but his attacker didn’t flinch. Alan’s hand searched the floor and found a small brass figurine of a woman that had fallen and he slammed its base into the side of Joe’s chest. Made of solid brass, the block of metal landed with a crack against Joe’s bulk. His positioning shifted and he groaned. Alan crashed the brass object into the same spot a second time causing Joe’s body to jerk in the opposite direction, as he let out a low moan.

  Alan arched his back and knocked Joe off balance, using the leverage from the floor to swing a third time with the figurine. It landed hard against Joe’s shoulder, almost ejecting him from his perch, but Joe regained his strength, took the brass figurine from Alan’s hand and flung it off to the side of the room. His right fist landed hard against Alan’s left jaw. Alan yelped and cursed. As Joe began to rise from his position on Alan’s chest, Alan attempted to knee him in the groin, but Joe shifted his body out of range and jabbed his elbow into Alan’s stomach. Alan cried out and struggled for a breath, as Joe again hovered over him in dominance.

  Just then a rapid knock was followed by a swift thrust of the door into the room and Steve Buniker stood in the opening. He yelled for Mary to call security and entered with purpose saying, “It’s finally happened, buddy, you finally pinched the wrong ass.” Alan strained to turn his head and issue a plea with his eyes as he flailed his arms.

  Joe looked up at Steve as he approached.

  “Just step away,” he said through labored breathing. “This has nothing to do with you. It’s between me and Levenger.”

  Steve stood for a moment seemingly trying to decide what to do. Physically, he was the smallest man in the room. Joe turned his attention back to Alan, still underneath him, and asked again, “Time’s running out. Where did you take Evie?”

  With those words and the recognition of the name, Steve stopped in his tracks and stood watching the two men on the floor.

  Alan slapped at Joe’s face, trying to poke at his eyes. Joe swung his right arm out to the left and backhanded Alan’s head with his closed right fist. Alan groaned and cursed and spit, his body continuing its attempt to summon the strength to knock Joe over.

  “I … don’t … know,” he managed to sputter. “I … don’t … know … where … she is.”

  Suddenly, two uniformed men rushed into the room and one of them said, “Okay, you’re taking a one-way trip, mister,” as they each grabbed one of Joe’s arms and began lifting him off Alan, whose breathing immediately accelerated. Joe offered no resistance as the men pulled him into a standing position. Joe
took a slow, painful deep breath and the two men escorted him out of the room.

  “I’m pressing charges!” yelled Alan as they began walking. He was painfully pushing himself off the floor into a standing position, extending his limbs, dusting himself off, rubbing the side of his face and cursing in a low whisper.

  “I’ll look forward … to our next meeting,” said Joe in a calm voice as he walked between the uniformed men out of the office and toward reception where two New York police officers had just appeared.

  ~~

  When Evie woke again, she was covered in a sticky sweat and moist clothes. She had won her fight with the fever, but her mind was swimming in pea soup. A wave of nausea prompted her to look for a bathroom. Her stomach churned and lurched, followed by a series of cramps. After finding a marble bathroom, she held tight to the sink as she swerved and swallowed. For a brief moment, she wished she were dead. She vomited into the toilet and collapsed onto the floor.

  Five minutes or more went by as she let the marble floor cool her skin and steady her dizziness. She sat up suddenly, thinking she heard someone coming into the apartment, but after counting seconds, she was convinced it was just street noise. She stood slowly and splashed water in her face. It was reviving and cleansing.

  She found the front door and turned the knob, expecting the resistance of a lock, but it opened. I have to find a police officer, and get to the Four Seasons or Michael’s office or the hospital …

  When she found her way to the street, the intensity of the sun gave her a moment’s clarity, but flashes of overwhelming weakness continued to come in waves. The drug had disengaged her senses. She could feel her face flushing and her body heat rise again. A woman scowled at her as she walked passed. Somewhere in her state of awareness, she knew she must look a mess—sweaty, dirty face, messy hair, rumpled, stained clothes and irregular movements. This must be how homeless people feel, she thought.

  She kept walking, looking for a police officer, or a friendly face who might help her find one. There was no restaurant within view that would have English-speaking staff and she did not have the stamina to do much explaining. Her head was spinning again and her mouth burned. She felt an overwhelming thirst and her stomach churned. She forced herself to focus her mind and she collected all her energy to make each step look as normal as possible. A few more minutes of walking and the faces that passed started merging into one another as if they were wet paint—one in blues, the next like the veined red of stained mahogany.

  A man stopped and asked her if she was okay. She tried to form words with her mouth, but she couldn’t talk and she couldn’t swallow. Her voice didn’t work and her motor control was dissipating. She didn’t see the lamp post of the street light until it collided with her head and she fell in a heap on the sidewalk, right in front of the man. A few other curious New Yorkers clustered around, one frantically dialing 911 on her cell phone.

  36

  Okay,” Michael was saying, “but what did you really accomplish by that little stunt? Did you really expect this idiot to tell you where she is?”

  “No. I didn’t. But it did feel good to pop him,” said Joe, wincing as he shifted in his chair.

  “I bet.” Michael shook his head, paced the room and frowned at his newest client. “You know, you really should get yourself looked at. Did you see a doctor yesterday?”

  “No. There’s nothing they can do for broken ribs. I’ll live.”

  “So did Alan tell you anything?”

  “I figured he’d deny everything, but that wasn’t really why I was there. I really went there to find out which office was his and get a look around.”

  “Why?”

  “So I could go back and do a little purging of files for him,” Joe said as he handed Michael a stack of papers clipped together with a black binder clip. “After you sprung me yesterday, Greg and I made a little reconnaissance visit to the offices of Howard, Rolland & Stewart. Amazing how gullible the night shift is, especially after nine-eleven.”

  “Well, I can see your case is going to be a challenge,” said Michael, taking the stack of paper and shuffling through the pages. “What’s this?”

  “Looks to me like a stack of purchased FDA approvals,” said Joe.

  “What does this have to do with Gerais Chevas and Project Neon?”

  “Nothing. I went there looking for something more to tie him to that, but I found these. He’s apparently leveraging his relationship with another U.S. Government insider.”

  Michael looked more closely at the first document. It was a letter on the official stationery of the Food and Drug Administration, granting an expedited approval for a drug called Hepaprex pursuant to CFR 56.105 of Title 21. It looked official and was signed by the chairman of an institutional review board. Michael flipped through the stack. There were thirty-seven letters in the stack, twenty-two of which were approvals, with handwritten notes in the margins of each copy, detailing the application’s history, its date of origin, the number of interactions with the FDA and a series of dollar figures. The ones that weren’t approvals were professional looking inquiries and responses, with approval looming on the horizon. On most of the letters, there were scribbles and doodles around the FDA logo, as if decorated during a telephone conversation.

  “How do we know these are not legitimate approvals acquired through the proper procedure?” asked Michael.

  “There are only something like seventy new drugs approved in a typical calendar year by the FDA, that have progressed legitimately through all the phases of testing. I would be very surprised if that many legitimately pass through a single attorney.”

  “These monetary amounts—the final number seems to be a percentage of this larger number. The larger number seems to be a multiple of some number of years times EPY? What do you think that is, estimated profit per year?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I think. I think that final number is the payoff for expediting the approval process. By rushing the drug to market years ahead of its natural introduction to the market, the profit is exponentially increased. I think Levenger’s taking a piece of that action.”

  “I don’t know much about how new drugs are approved. Why would a drug’s approval be expedited?”

  “I know a little bit about this,” said Joe, “from some people I know who hold medical patents. It normally takes a drug manufacturer ten to fifteen years to navigate from the lab to the American patient. Drug approval is a pretty lengthy and very expensive process. There are pre-clinical trials, at least three phases of testing on humans, independent review, and hearings. If a drug has the potential to treat a particular type of patient, say one who’s terminally ill, or if it’s deemed to carry little or no risk, an institutional review board can use an expedited review process, which may be conducted by the chairman or senior members alone.”

  “Then, it could mean quite a bit of money to an unscrupulous manufacturer to bypass that whole process,” said Michael.

  “And it would be worth a nice little ‘administrative fee’ for the attorney streamlining the process and the IRB chairman making it happen,” added Joe.

  “I remember reading about a House Government Reform Committee criticizing the FDA for routinely allowing scientists with conflicts of interest to serve on influential advisory committees that make recommendations on drug policy.”

  “Well, I’m sure there are some honorable people in charge of the pharmaceutical industry, but it only takes one bad guy to do a lot of damage. I haven’t had a chance to look through the whole stack there, but there’s got to be over twenty-five different drugs represented there.”

  “Retranoin, Honuflex, Neolactin …”

  “Did you say Neolactin?” asked Joe. “Where’s that file you had? Those copies of the contents of Evie’s file?”

  “Here,” said Michael, handing a file folder to Joe.

  Joe opened it and flipped through the pages.

  “Look at this,” he said. “Neolactin was one of those trademar
k requests that Evie flagged for Paul as having been questioned by their client, Finley Regent. Apparently, those requests didn’t come from who they appeared to. They must be from some nameless drug manufacturer that Alan was doing approvals for under the table. He had Evie securing trademarks for these illicit drugs without her knowing that they were going to be introduced into the American drug market before being properly vetted by FDA procedures. Evie said she didn’t see the final forms filled out for these so she wouldn’t have known the applications weren’t really for Finley Regent.”

  “You’re on to something here. I think we’ve got another dirty government official … and a nice little illegal drug pipeline.”

  “Hmmm. Wellvex, Bylinion, Interium.” Michael continued reading from the bundle of paper.

  “Bylinion is a drug my Dad’s been taking,” said Joe.

  “And Wellvex I know is controversial. There have been calls for the FDA to revoke its approval. It’s too addictive apparently.”

  “There’ve been quite a few news stories lately about drug side effects. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them are represented here.”

  “Selling drug approvals. An insidious little business. Sickening and killing how many hundreds … or thousands?” He began to dial Agent Weber’s number, but stopped when his colleague, George, appeared in the doorway with a stunned look on his face.

  “You’ve been tied up,” George said looking over at Joe. “CNN is reporting that Senator Arbeson’s been murdered.”

  “What?” asked Michael and Joe almost simultaneously.

  “They’re not saying much. His campaign manager said he was found this morning … gunshot wound. They don’t yet have any suspects. There’ll be a press conference, but they’re not going to release many details for obvious reasons. The investigation is already in full swing.”

  Michael and Joe stared, first at George, then at each other.

  “I thought you’d want to know,” said George in Michael’s direction. He nodded at Joe and left.

  The two men stayed silent for a few weighty seconds, and Michael spoke first, “Joe, Evie’s alive. I know it.”