Chapter 10: Starbucks

Vanessa came home, chatted with Gloria. In English. She took a quick shower and joined us for dinner. Slipped a Mendocinas to Hobo. The Proper Villain was on the prowl. Pilar poured him some dry food, added a little empanada juice from the cast iron pan. Gloria watched with interest.

She had a grown daughter, but, so far as I knew, lived alone in LA and New York. Maybe being around a family was refreshing.

Gloria reached over, patted my hand, “So, how are you?”

“Pretty good, considering. I’m still a little low-energy. Lethargic. But I’m on the comeback trail. Headaches are mostly gone.”

“When will you be ready to work?”

I was conscious of the kids’ sudden, self-imposed immobility. They were curious. Worried about me, but wanting things to return to normal at the same time.

I said, “Next week, starting Monday.” Just as if that were a real, medically-approved timetable. Sanctioned by the Surgeon General. Or at least his receptionist.

The truth was, Dr. Epstein had told me, “Every patient, every brain surgery, is different. Yours was as low-key as any I’ve done. But it’s still a serious operation. Monitor yourself, your body will let you know.”

In fact, I was a step slow. Maybe two. But I needed the work. Anything would be better than sitting around thinking about what my poor head had been through. Plus I wanted to Charles Bronson those two fuckers in the garage. And whoever had sent them.

INTERNATIONAL INNOVATIONS INCUBATOR, had, so far as we knew, shut down their PTSD operation. The ZB8687 wing was closed.

We didn’t believe it for a second. If they were willing to experiment on National Guard soldiers, men and women who had served in Iraq ... well, Macklin was capable of almost anything.

And, they had an even larger lab / research facility in India. Indore. Who knew what they would be up to with the poor wogs over there.

The Macklin press release had been purposely bland. “Our patented neuron blocker showed some early promising results in our search for PTSD relief. However the safety profiles do not yet meet our standards. We are re-evaluating the drug and other promising alternatives.”

Two ‘promisings.’

The Macklin raid had refocused Drake Fowler. He would now know that the ditzy dame who broke into his driver’s apartment was connected to ZB8687. Not opioids.

Constance gave me the bad news, “No way to tie that Missouri medical unit to Macklin. They arrived in their own vehicles, left the same way. It was weeks before anyone thought to connect the Guard illnesses with their visit.”

I had my own bit of news, “Dr. Samantha Rowley transferred into the New York office. So Fowler has her nearby. As far as our ... research can tell, most of the ZB8687 clinicians are still on the payroll. Some were sent to Indore; others transferred to different divisions.”

“What about Barton Diller’s friend?”

“She’s gone. Macklin apparently closed down the drug-naming section.”

“It’ll resurface. The pharmaceutical game is full of setbacks. Full of dead ends; Macklin is used to it.”

I wanted to ask about the CDC, about the seized documents and devices. But I’d wait for Constance to volunteer. It’s a new thing I’m test-driving — patience. Maturity, like that.

I watched the moving vans at the Triple-I lab. Backing up to loading docks. Men dollying out cartons and cartons and cartons. On impulse, I followed one of the trucks. A storage facility with large units in Hillside, NJ.

Better to know than not.

I thought about my Barbara Reynolds ID. A complete set, meticulously crafted. Useless to me now of course. Now that Fowler’s boys had seen it. Seen me.

Still, I hesitated to toss it. A gift from Matt. I shook my head, scoffed. Reached for the scissors. Why keep the one thing that Fowler could use to link Barbara Reynolds to Winter Jennings?

Sentimentality stops at Death’s Door. Or whatever that saying is.

Vanessa and Pilar kissed Walker on the cheek. Started crooning softly,

“You’re so vain You probably think this song is about you You’re so vain, I’ll bet you think this song is about you Don’t you? Don’t you?”

Walker sat there like a pasha. One of these days, I’ll need to teach him to respect his betters. Ungrateful pup.

It was like Constance could read my mind.

She had just told me, “Macklin played it very cute. The boys at CDC are convinced that he experimented on humans. More than just the one in that chart.”

“But?”

“But it’s nothing they can prove in court. A few documents point to it. But the Macklin team has the conclusive results hidden somewhere else. What we found — a lot of what we found — tiptoes right up to the edge of proof. But doesn’t quite cross the line.”

“So, no trial.”

“Not yet. Oh, maybe they’d prevail. Right judge, right circumstances. It’s just not worth it though. We returned everything to Macklin.” She smiled a mirthless smile, “After we copied it of course.”

She saw the look on my face, “No, Winter, don’t second-guess yourself. We didn’t jump the gun. Once Harper heard about the 214th Battalion ... well, we were going to do something. And that raid was as good as anything.”

She reached over, patted my hand, “Macklin was no better than the Public Health Care bastards who conducted the Tuskegee syphilis experiments. No better than Mengele in Auschwitz. No, Harper was going to act, with or without you.”

The raid still failed.

“So ... they just waltz?”

She smiled at me, fondly this time, “Why? Are you and Gloria giving up?”

“No. But...”

“Get your game face back on. We know the company is rotten. Go back to work.”

I’d been giving a lot of thought to those human injections of ZB8687. Though diabolic, I could understand the ruthless logic with the National Guard. But why me?
 There wouldn’t be much scientifically useful data had they found Barbara Reynolds and tested me for a tumor. Only theory I could come up with was that I’d annoyed Drake Fowler with that tracker. He’d show the fucking snoop. Because he could. And because he just didn’t care. Just didn’t care.

There was a two-pronged assault on Hugh Macklin’s company.

The larger battle was on the opioids front. Amos Alonzo Washington’s team was headquartered in New York. Although there were also prosecutors from all fifty states involved.

Macklin knew about this operation; too many people, too many moving parts to keep it off the industry’s radar. And, overall, several Big Pharma companies were worried. They had all seen what happened to the tobacco industry. Massive fines, permanent changes in advertising, public shaming. Stock nosedives for a while.

The second battlefront was confined to Triple-I. Here, the search for truth was led by Gloria Allen. While she had a major New York office, the PTSD team was headquartered in LA. Winter Jennings, the exception.

I gave the kids an overview, “Okay, there’s a backlash against part of the pharmaceutical industry. Ignited by the opioids epidemic. There’s an amazing coalition of attorneys, prosecutors, media companies ... they’re going to find justice.”

Walker said, “But you’re not involved in that.”

“No, I’m part of Gloria’s team. We’re focused on Macklin’s PTSD drug.”

Pilar said, “ZB8687.”

Vanessa patted her hand.

I said, “That’s right, honey. We know — believe anyway — that they’ve been experimenting on humans. Can’t prove it yet; that’s where I come in.”

Vanessa said, “How could they ever hope to get that drug to market? I mean if they did those illegal experiments?”

“Macklin will deny, deny, deny. Plus, if they ever do refine that neuron blocker — get it to the point where it doesn’t cause tumors — well, the country is hungry, desperate for relief.”

Pilar muttered, “Fuckers.” She personalizes stuff like this. So do I.

I said, “You can be sure that when they go through the FDA approval process, every lab test, every result ... everything will meet and exceed even the most exacting standards.”

I didn’t mention the inside game that Macklin played. The moles, the spies, the bribes, the threats. Nor did I go into the built-in distribution network that Macklin already had in place. The opioids blueprint that was already a proven winner. And, we had no doubt that they’d continually refine their plans to meet evolving laws and regulations.

I decided, unilaterally — which means I didn’t ask anyone for permission — to become more active in this Macklin imbroglio. Much more active. Proactive, you might say.

I told Vanessa, “Legally, we’re stymied. We know — Constance knows, Gloria knows — that Macklin is still conducting human experiments.”

“And you know.”

“And I know. Not where, not who, but I know.”

She patted my hand, “This sounds like a declaration of war.”

I started to speak, didn’t. Thought for a few moments. “I’m trying not to make this about me. But those fuckers...”

“Didn’t care if they gave you a malignant tumor.”

I sighed, “We keep having these meetings. LA and DC. We’re all in agreement that something has to be done. But nobody knows what.”

Vanessa smiled at me, “I bet someone knows.”

“I’m going after those cocksuckers.”

“Tell me. Tell me your plan.”

The first operational change I made was to formally engage Sullivan & Sullivan Research. It might annoy, even anger, Gloria when I turned in my expenses. But I wanted my new attack mode to be as independent from her LA operation as I could make it. I was going to ignore several laws. Multiple times. Which, unfortunately, was turning into sort of business as usual for me.