Green Kills (13 page)

New York, October 22, 2013, 3:10 PM

Trying to reach
you
, he read the incoming message from Liah when the phone in his hand
rang.

“I’m transferring David,” Evelyn said sharply, and immediately
after that Ronnie heard the fund manager’s voice barking at him, “I understand
that you won’t be coming back to the office today. I wanted to update you with
another important TDO-related development.”

“Hold on a moment, David. I’m in a very noisy place. Let me find
a spot where I’ll be able to talk to you.” Ronnie scanned the hospital lobby,
trying to find a quiet spot for the conversation.

“Just call me when you can.” The call was disconnected.

Ronnie took a deep breath and shrugged with slight exasperation.
He decided to give up on his plan of taking the subway to Brooklyn and flagged
down a taxi. The moment he sat in the yellow cab, he called his office.

“I’m transferring you to David,” Evelyn answered after a single
ring.

“You asked me whether we had an acquisition offer for the
company,” David continued as if their call had never been interrupted, “so now
we have one. When the company began to encounter financial difficulties, I
started to work on an alternate plan, in case Christian wasn’t able to raise
the required funds.” He stopped for a moment, allowing his last statement to
sink in. “I’ve always believed the safest strategy is to hope for the best, but
prepare for the worst.” He’d begun to speak like a pedagogue again. “A month
ago, I contacted a friend from my school days, Robert Brown, chairman of Mentor
Pharmaceuticals, in an attempt to interest him in acquiring TDO. For the past
two weeks, we’ve conducted countless conversations about the subject,
conversations in which Christian had been actively involved as well. To be
fair, I need to mention that Christian objected to the deal. He agreed to
approve it only if he was certain the fund-raising was so delayed he ran the
risk of running out of cash and not being able to pay the employees’ salaries.
Robert, an experienced manager and quite a shark in his own right, understood
Christian’s tactics and gave us a deadline for providing a final answer, after
which the offer would be withdrawn. Unfortunately, the deadline expired last
Friday. Therefore, when you asked me whether there was a concrete M&A offer
pending, I didn’t know what to answer. This morning, I turned to Robert again
and managed to convince him to renew his offer for an additional week. Robert
agreed but mentioned that in light of recent developments, the price they’d be
willing to pay will be lower. How much lower? I don’t know. I suggest you speak
to him as early as today and try to divine his intentions. Drop everything, if
you need to, and go straight to meet him. I’m a great believer in face-to-face
conversations. Evelyn will send you all the details.”

“And what was the previous offer?”

“Four hundred million dollars.”

“No wonder Christian objected. The moment we resolve the
problems and go on the market with a stable and reliable product, and I’m sure
even your friend is convinced we’ll be able to solve the problems eventually,
otherwise he wouldn’t be willing to pay a single dime for the company, we’ll
earn more than that amount as early as the second year of revenues. And now you
say they’re offering even less? I’ll talk to him, but the chances I’ll agree to
the deal are slim.”

“We’ve got two dead patients whose bodies are still warm, a CEO
who committed suicide, and you’re acting like you’re holding the goose that
laid the golden eggs.” David raised his voice in frustration. “Unless you come
to your senses, we’ll end up with no company at all. Sometimes you need to know
when to let go and make sure that at least the money we’ve invested doesn’t go
down the drain.”

“I’ll talk to the other investors. If they all want to sell at
any price, I’ll close the deal with Robert. If they don’t, I’ll take my chances
and continue to try and build a company that’ll yield us much higher profits in
the future.”

“You’re acting like a lion, king of the financial world, while in
actuality, you’re nothing but a stubborn mule who won’t take advice from
anyone,” David roared.

“You’re not the first to call me a mule, but my stubbornness has
brought me all my accomplishments in life.”

“And now it’ll ruin you, and you’ll be dragging us down with
you. I’m closer than ever to throwing you out of your job and giving back all
responsibilities to Henry, who — unlike you — would’ve closed the deal in an
instant.”

“Why don’t you do that?” Ronnie reacted coldly. “Although I
think neither you nor Henry would especially like to dirty your manicured hands
in the mess that’s been created. It’s much easier to just sit in the office and
criticize me —”

“Ronnie…” David began, but Ronnie didn’t allow him to speak.

“I thought we agreed to work in full cooperation during our last
meeting. I guess I was wrong. Because I’m tired of watching my back for knives
thrown at me from my home court, I expect you to reach a decision about me as
soon as possible. The moment you know whether you want me in the picture or
not, send me an email letting me know I’m fired, or alternatively, an email
authorizing me to be the sole member of the fund in charge of the negotiations
with Mentor. Either way, I’m not going to do anything until I receive one of
the two emails. Goodbye.”

Ronnie hung up, leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to
relax, forgetting all about Liah’s message.

He found David’s sudden urgency to be strange. It was pretty
safe to assume a man in his position had undergone more than a few crises
throughout his business career and would know how to handle them in a calmer,
more professional way.
Something else is hiding behind this behavior
, he
thought.
Perhaps it’s that we’re in the middle of raising money for the
fund, and a resounding failure at the wrong time might just ruin it all. On the
other hand, one would expect him to understand we must work as a team and not
allow pressure to hinder us from making the right decisions. Come to think of
it, why doesn’t he fire me and take the task of selling the company upon
himself, or give Henry that responsibility? What’s the risk involved with the
position I’m holding? Why are they allowing me to lead the process even though
they think the road I’m taking is the wrong one?

Traffic was moving slowly, and even the taxi driver gave up his
maneuvering attempts and allowed the vehicle to crawl with desperation toward
the Brooklyn Bridge. The phone rang. Ronnie glanced at the screen. The call
came from an unlisted number.

“Ronnie Saar,” he answered in an official tone.

“Hello, my name is Sinead Clark, and I'm Robert Brown’s personal
assistant. Mr. Brown is the CEO of Mentor Pharmaceuticals and he’d like to
speak with you. Can I transfer the call?”

“I’m sorry, Sinead, I’m very busy at the moment. When I have a
minute, I’ll ask Evelyn for your phone number and will gladly get back to
Robert.”

The surprised secretary grew quiet,
then
whispered something away from the receiver. “Mr. Brown says the conversation
will be brief and asks to speak with you now,” she said hesitantly. 

“Unfortunately, I’m busy now with other people and need to hang
up right now. Please apologize on my behalf. Either David or myself will get
back to you shortly.” Ronnie couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the
surprised expression on the taxi driver’s face reflected in the mirror.
Either
I’ve just made the mistake of a lifetime, or I’ve forced David to act.
Obviously, it’s no coincidence that right after I asked David to send me an
email clearly defining my status, Robert gives me a call.
For the first
time in days, Ronnie felt back in control.
I’ve finally managed to rock the
boat. Now let’s wait and see how everyone reacts…

The crawling movement of the traffic soon turned into a complete
standstill. Ronnie decided to try and call Gadi again. To his surprise, his
call was answered after a single ring.

“Ronnie, you’re a pain in the ass. Stop calling me so many
times. I’ll get back to you when I can.” Gadi hung up. Ronnie redialed, but
reached voicemail again. He stared at the phone, frustrated, when a message
bearing Gadi’s number came in:
What
you don’t know can’t hurt you. Trust me.

Ronnie quickly typed:
I
need to update you with recent developments. Two patients have died.
Christian’s case was closed for lack of evidence. I desperately need your help.
Call me.

Wow. Looking
for a quiet spot and getting back to you.
Came the answer and
with it, another small grace, the traffic began to flow again.

A moment later, the phone rang.
“Talk.
What’s going on?” Gadi opened, ignoring the need to explain his disappearance.

For the next ten minutes, Ronnie detailed all that’d happened to
him since they’d parted ways. He described in great detail his conversation
with the police detectives, not forgetting to mention the dead ends they’d
reached when they’d checked the origin of the telephone calls Christian had
received the night of his death and the call Christian had made to his wife.
Then he moved on and told Gadi about the two patients who’d died on the
operating table and about the strange coincidence involving both families’
refusal for an autopsy.

“Something is rotten here,” Gadi remarked in his usual
picturesque manner. “It may be a shot in the dark, but I think pretty soon I’ll
be able to see the whole picture. Give me a day or two to check, and I’ll get
back to you. Now excuse me, I need to go work for you. Take care of Liah.”

“Liah?”
Ronnie asked with surprise.

The telephone in his hand went silent. He finally remembered and
called Liah, but his call went straight to voicemail.

New York, October 22, 2013, 5:05 PM

As soon as he neared the family’s address in Borough Park, he saw
hundreds of black-clad mourners filling the street. Ronnie asked the cab driver
to stop and got out two blocks from the house. He stepped into a glatt kosher
grocery store and said, in response to the curious stare of the shop owner,
“Shalom. Perhaps you could tell me where I can buy a yarmulke. I’m on my way to
offer my condolences.”

“Is the gentleman Jewish?” The bearded man gave him an
inquisitive look.

“Yes, from Israel.”

“And the gentleman doesn’t have a yarmulke?” he asked in a
reproachful tone.

“I have one, but I came here as soon as I heard about his
passing. Could you please tell me where I can buy one?” Ronnie repeated the question,
trying to keep the conversation short.

“Please, take one of mine.” The shopkeeper handed him a shiny,
black satin yarmulke, still gazing at Ronnie suspiciously. “And the gentleman
knows the deceased from where exactly?” The interrogation continued.

“It’s a long story. Thanks for the yarmulke. I’ll bring it back
to you when I leave.”

“Keep it, and go to shul when you get back home.” The grocer
cancelled Ronnie’s suggestion with a wave of his hand.

Suspicious stares accompanied Ronnie as he approached the home
of the bereaved family. The
men
who began to gather
for the evening prayer, ceased their preparations and surrounded Ronnie.

“Can I help you, sir?” one of the younger men addressed him,
blocking his way.

“I came to perform the mitzvah of paying the mourning family a
visit and offering my condolences,” Ronnie answered in Hebrew then immediately
said in English, “I’d appreciate it if you could direct me to where the family
is sitting shiva.”

“Why don’t you join us for the evening prayer first” — a prayer
book was shoved into his hands — “then you’re welcome to go into the house.”
The men turned back and Ronnie joined them, thankful that he had made it a
habit to visit the synagogue on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. 

The murmur of prayer filled the street. The sea of people in
black began to move in rhythmic waves, as if obeying the instructions of an
invisible choreographer. Ronnie looked around him and felt a pang of envy in
his heart. He’d never experienced such a sense of faith, deep and devoid of
doubt. He returned his eyes to the prayer book, but his thoughts turned to his
own personal prayer. Then the evening prayer was completed and the street began
to empty out.

“Follow me.” A black-clothed youth whose side-locks curled all
the way down to his shoulders turned to Ronnie then walked with him to a narrow
apartment in one of the nearby buildings. A young woman sat on a mattress,
surrounded by relatives and friends.

“I’m sorry for your loss. May you never know sorrow
again.
” Ronnie lowered his head.

“Thank you. And who are you, sir?”

“My name is Ronnie Saar and I’m from Israel. The company I’m
chairing was involved with the operation during which your husband passed away,
may he rest in peace, and because the tragic outcome of the operation bothers
me deeply, I wanted to come and pay my condolences.”

She stared at him in astonishment.

“It must be a great loss,” Ronnie said with genuine sympathy,
“such a young man…”

“And healthy as an ox” — a tear rolled down her cheek — “if it
wasn’t for the accident, he wouldn’t have seen a doctor for many more years.
His leg broke in four different places in a car accident. It ruined our lives
and our livelihood, now it’s taken him as well.”

“Several operations are normally performed to heal such fractures…”

“Right.
The first operation didn’t
solve all the problems. My Abremale felt very bad for not being able to go to
work, that’s why we pressured the hospital to schedule an earlier date for the
operation. We were so happy when they called us a week ago and let us know
there was a time slot available earlier than anticipated. We didn’t know how to
thank that nice secretary enough. And now he’s dead.” The widow broke into a
fit of crying, and her children echoed her and began to cry as well. “He was such
a healthy man…and now God has taken him away.” She covered her face with a
handkerchief, while her youngest son hugged her tightly.

“I’m sorry to hear that. May the Lord give you comfort,” Ronnie
mumbled, lowered his head and retreated. He sat in the back of the room for a
while, nodding politely to the people coming and going. About half an hour
later, he left.

Only when he was far from the mourners’ house, did he remove the
yarmulke from his head and immediately called Brian. “Do you have the details of
our guy at Jefferson Hospital in Philadelphia, where the second operation was
performed?” Ronnie spoke as soon as Brian answered the phone.

“Yes. Hold on,” came the answer, and the line went silent for a
moment. “Are you writing this down?” Brian was back on the line and dictated
the telephone number to Ronnie. “His name is Moses Lynne, and I’m sure he’ll be
happy to help.”

“Thanks.” Ronnie disconnected the call and dialed the number
he’d just received.

“Moses.” Ronnie heard a youthful voice.

“Hi, Moses.
This is Ronnie Saar, TDO’s
chairman. Can I ask you to check something for me?”

“I’ll be delighted to, Mr. Saar.”

“I’m sure you know which patient I’m calling about. Please check
when his surgery was scheduled and if the patient had a problematic medical
history. Call me back at this number.”

“Mr. Saar, I’ll check when the surgery was scheduled right away,
but regarding the medical file, I’m afraid the hospital is keeping that secret,
and all my attempts in recent days to get information were met by a wall of
silence. What I can tell you though, is that during the discussion that
preceded the operation, we asked the orthopedics department’s manager to
choose, at least for the current stage of the clinical trials, only patients
with no medical history of heart conditions, diabetes, etc. The department
chair promised us this was in line with the hospital’s best interests. This is
a university hospital, and they intended to publish an article about the
operation. I believe they kept their word.”

“OK. I understand. I’ll be waiting for your call. I’d like it if
you could do it right away. It’s really urgent,” Ronnie said while going down
the subway stairs. The ride on the number 4 express was uneventful, and when he
climbed up the escalator leading to 23rd Street, a new message was already
waiting on his phone:
I tried
to call you, but there wasn’t any answer. The knee replacement operation was
scheduled about two months ago.
Couldn’t find anything
unusual in the process of scheduling the operation date.
Hope this is
the answer you were looking for. Moses.

Another dead end.
Ronnie glanced at his
watch. It was too late to return to the hospital or the office. He turned and
began to walk toward his apartment.

He was met with darkness when he opened the door. He shuffled
toward the kitchen, took out a Sam Adams bottle from the refrigerator and threw
himself on the living room sofa. Then he saw a yellow note pasted on the
television screen:
I guess you
were right. My Crohn’s has raised its ugly head again. I’ve been taken to
Presbyterian Hospital. Love you.
Liah.

He hurried off the sofa, turned around, opened the door, and ran
downstairs, praying he’d catch a cab quickly.