Stash (24 page)

Stephen ended his call and wrote a few words in his notebook.

“I thought we agreed that I would handle Everson,” he said, not looking up.

“You told me I should consider it off my plate,” Brian said. “And I haven’t spoken to her since then.” He didn’t ask if Stephen had actually done anything to handle Everson, although clearly he hadn’t.

“Then what’s all this threat business about?” He lifted his chin to meet Brian’s eyes.

“There were no threats. When Everson told me about the anorexic tendencies she observed in her patients, I cautioned her against publishing the information. It hardly qualified as a study and she could damage her own reputation.”

“Is that what you told her—she could damage her reputation?”

“I don’t know the exact words I used, but something to that effect. I mentioned it. I wasn’t telling her she’d better not do it or else.”

“Or else what?” Jennifer asked.

“That’s just it, I didn’t say anything to that effect. I definitely didn’t threaten her. It was more like professional counsel.”

Stephen shook his head. He took his turn slapping the newspaper on the table. He stared out the window. Heat waves blurred above parked cars.

He turned back and explained the situation. He’d just gotten off the phone with the FDA. They were sending their guy, Marcus Ward, on Tuesday for a preliminary inquiry. They needed to satisfy Ward; if they didn’t, the U.S. attorney could begin an investigation.

“And how would that turn out?” Stephen asked.

“A federal investigation?”

Stephen nodded.

Brian measured his answer. “Those often don’t turn out very well.”

“You get the picture,” Stephen said. “But in this case, the FDA would find very little to go on. We’re going to satisfy Marcus Ward, and this will come to an end. They will discover that Caladon adhered to standard industry practices and the letter of the law.”

“All of our marketing has been approved by legal,” Brian said. He looked to Jennifer for agreement.

“Do you have documentation to that effect?” she asked.

An alarm inside him went off, to accompany the headache he was already suffering due to a poor night’s sleep. If necessary, he would be sacrificed, no question. If something surfaced that could be construed as illegal or even borderline, Brian would take the fall. He acted independently and inappropriately, they’d say, although it was Wilcox who’d dictated most of the strategies.

“We regularly submit marketing briefs to your department,” Brian reminded Jennifer.

“Electronically or print?” she asked.

“That’s not the point,” Stephen interrupted. “The only documentation you need—print or electronic—is the documentation that shows our ethical marketing and selling operations. You should already have it, Brian. Didn’t you just do the business case presentation?”

“That was different. We only included …”

“I’ll forward you the e-mail from Ward. It has a list of what he wants by Tuesday.”

“Can I explain something?” Brian asked.

“Like why you still think it’s a good idea to seek FDA approval for Zuprone?”

“In fact, yes. The evidence …”

Stephen stood, signaling the meeting had ended.

After he left, Brian turned to Jennifer. “Thanks for throwing me under the bus.”

“This is a serious situation, Brian.”

“For anyone other than me?”

“For the entire company. Do you know what it means if Zuprone is causing anorexia at those dose levels?”

“It means physicians all over the country are prescribing it incorrectly for the wrong indication.”

“And why would they be doing that?”

“Because Caladon implemented an aggressive plan to capture market share, which included stealth publishing a few microtrials, paying doctors to host seminars, and sending reps out to the targeted physician groups.”

“Well, there you have it,” Jennifer said. “And who conceived and managed those programs?”

“I managed them, but Stephen and John Wilcox set the strategy.”

Jennifer folded her notebook and stood to leave. “Like I said, Brian, this is a serious situation for the entire company. I wish you
hadn’t spoken to that reporter. I have a call into Everson. I’m hoping we can get her to retract her statements.”

She left the newspaper behind. Brian took it on his way out. He stopped in his office and checked the stock charts for Caladon to view the insider trading transactions for the past six months. Some options exercised and shares sold by the executive team and board members, which made sense given the stock’s rise over the past year. Nothing unusual. No sudden dumping this morning.

He filled out the online form to exercise the fifteen thousand options he had vested so far, face value of eight dollars per. With the stock today around twenty-four dollars he would net $240 thousand. Another five thousand shares bought through the stock purchase plan at various prices would bring another $120 thousand. He put in to sell that as well. Enough for a soft landing if he was going down.

He had been to the Blue Slipper a few times after work with colleagues for drinks, but never alone in the morning with the sun streaming through the front window to reveal the crud in the corners and dust coating the bottles behind the bar. He claimed a middle stool and ordered a vodka and soda. Two other men sat at the bar, one at either end. The old guy watched horse racing on a television mounted to the wall. The other guy was showing the bartender his fake hand, which he had unscrewed from his wrist and held out to the bartender for a look.

He had started a second drink when his phone rang. Teresa.

“Where are you? We’re meeting with the Frazier folks now.”

“I’m in the Blue Slipper.”

“What should I tell Frazier? We’re going over the campaign budget.”

“Tell them it’s on hold.”

“Because of the article this morning?”

“I doubt we’re going to be seeking a lot of attention for Zuprone right now, even as an antianxiety med.”

The
Times
article only nudged open the disclosure door. There would be follow-up reporting. Every researcher or prescribing physician would pay attention to Zuprone. Everson would shout from the mountaintops and Caladon would be forced to play defense, a game for lawyers and the PR department, not marketers. Whether or not the company planned to submit an application to the FDA, they’d have to conduct extensive trials of Zuprone on their own. It would take three years. It would cost millions. They might as well go for the approval, as Brian had recommended in the business case. But the cacophony of panic among the executive team was drowning out his voice.

Eight years of his life thrown to the pharmaceutical business, specifically to a drug called Zuprone, a laggard that couldn’t grab share in the antianxiety market, but a real fat burner when prescribed off-label in the weight-loss category. Of course they jumped on the opportunity to grow sales.

He could be fired for speaking with the
Times
reporter. He could be fired if the FDA found anything they didn’t like about the marketing of Zuprone. Simply for his association with Zuprone, he could end up leaving Caladon to “pursue other interests.”

And on top of it all, he could end up losing his wife.

He’d been waiting at the kitchen table last night, lights turned low, when she came home at 1:30 in the morning. She jumped and put her hand to her chest when she saw him. No doubt he scared her, but what a dramatic gesture on her part: as if to still her racing heart.

“What are you doing up?” she asked.

“Your phone rang. You left it on the night table next to the bed.”

She came farther into the room. He could see her scrambling for a story. She straightened her shoulders, as if standing up to him, and started talking. She wasn’t going to lie to him, she said. She’d gone to Gull to see Jude with the intent of telling him what had happened and warning him that the police could be investigating him. Brian started to respond but she cut him off. She’d been haunted by the fact that she gave Jude to the police, she said, she’d been unable to sleep, she’d betrayed a trust and broken a promise. She owed him this, at the very least, if she could help him stay out of trouble. But in the end, she didn’t go through with it, she didn’t tell him.

“That’s your story?”

“Well, I hope you understand my point of view,” Gwen said.

Brian raised his voice. “Here’s what I understand: I understand you either want to fuck him or get hurt by him. Which is it?”

“I told you why I went there!”

“Do you realize that you are in trouble with the law, and doing something like this—even being seen with him—is only going to make matters worse? Do you think this is going to help your case?”

“No one else seems to be helping me.”

“You’re only asking for more trouble. Gwen, you don’t owe him a goddamn thing. What you owe is to your family: to me,
and to Nora and Nate. That’s where your priorities need to be. Not to some drug dealer you fucked in the good old days.”

“Fuck you, Brian! I am thinking of my family. Why do you think I walked out?”

It was a phrase he’d never heard her utter to his face:
Fuck you
. It crushed him, as if she’d told him she was in love with Gates, or wanted a divorce, or simply couldn’t stand her life with him.

“I don’t know why you walked out,” he finally said, teeth clenched. “I don’t even get why you went there to begin with.”

Then she started to cry, not just the modest gasps and tears he was accustomed to when she was upset, but heaving, choking sobs that shook her.

Let her cry. He left her standing in the kitchen. Didn’t speak a word or even look at her in the morning.

And now Brian thought he might cry sitting here in the Blue Slipper. He looked up from his drink and glanced around, wondering if he’d made a sound: a moan or whimper. No one had noticed him. He finished his drink and decided to go home and work out what needed working with Gwen.

He was sorting through his money on the bar when the door opened and Teresa walked in.

“I’m glad you’re still here.” She took the stool next to him.

“I was just leaving.”

“I’ll have a drink with you.” The bartender came over and she ordered a gin and tonic and another for Brian.

He sat back down. What’s another ten minutes.

“Cheers.” Teresa held up her glass.

They sat quietly for a moment. She looked at him through the mirror behind the bar.

“Marta Everson would have found an outlet whether you spoke to the reporter or not. And if you had sent the reporter to
PR, they would have declined comment on the accusation of threatening her. Is your denying it any worse than that?”

“You don’t need to do this.”

“I think Everson’s full of it, anyway. I think Zuprone is amazing.”

“You haven’t been taking it for a year.”

“By the way, I appreciate what you told me the other day, about noticing me. I like knowing that you’ve been looking at me.”

Jesus, Teresa. Don’t go down this road. Not today.

She looked around the bar. The dusty bottles. The smeared windows. She said, “This is no place to be during the middle of the day.”

“It’s the first place I thought of.”

“We could go back to my apartment.”

He could feel her staring at him now, waiting for his approval, but he kept his eyes on the bottles lined up behind the bar.

“No one has to know,” Teresa said. “I won’t be the kind of person who makes it complicated.” She put a hand on his arm, her grip unexpectedly firm. “I like you.”

Brian tried to move his arm, but he didn’t want to force the break. “I thought Zuprone was supposed to dull your libido.”

“I happen to tolerate it well. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had sex? I mean with someone else.”

“I don’t need to know.”

He moved half off his stool. Her hand dropped. Brian said, “There are other guys around the office to date, single guys.”

“I’ve tried. They’re dweebs.”

“Online dating services. Get involved with your church. There’s other ways to meet men.”

“Mr. Advice Columnist,” Teresa said. “I know you would like it.”

He probably would. He could go back to her place now and fuck another woman for the first time in nine years; and he believed her when she said she’d be a good sport about it. What an opportunity to get back at Gwen—although he wouldn’t tell her, he’d just do it, which would make the event an inconclusive “If a tree falls in the forest” situation. Not exactly documented revenge.

He said, “Teresa, I’m married. I love my wife. I have a family.”

“Are you going to file a sexual harassment complaint?”

“I’m calling my lawyer right now.” He got up and left without looking at her again. In the car driving home, he did call his lawyer—Roger, who had left a message that morning stating that progress had stalled and nothing was going to happen about dropping the charges this week, but next week they should see some action.

“They’re more determined than I would have expected,” Roger said on the phone. “I guess they want to check out this guy Gates first.”

“We saw Detective Keller at school yesterday—we’re going to be seeing him for the next five years. He said it was out of his hands, he just does the investigating work and has nothing to do with any deal.”