Strong Medicine (51 page)

brokerage transaction slips. His hands were shaking as he picked it up,

then followed with the other papers, inspecting.them one by one and clearly

with equal recognition. As he progressed, his face went ashen and his mouth

worked spasmodically. Lord wondered if Mace would have a stroke or heart

attack on the spot. But instead, putting the papers down, Mace asked in a

whisper, "Where did you get these?"

"That isn't important," Lord answered briskly. "What matters is: we have

them and are considering making them available to the Attorney General and

probably the press. In that event, of course, there will be an inquiry, and

if you've been involved in more incidents of the same kind, those will come

out too."

From Mace's increasingly frightened expression, Lord knew his last random

shot had hit home. There were more incidents. Now each of them knew it.

Lord remembered something he had once said to Sam Hawthome in foreseeing

what was happening now. "When the time comes, let me do the dirty work. "

Then he had added silently, I might even enjoy it. Well, now that it was

happening, Lord realized, he was enjoying it. It gave him pleasure to wield

power over Mace, to behold an adversary so expert in dishing out

humiliation now experiencing the same, and suffering and squirming.

"You'll go to jail, of course," Lord pointed out, "and I imagine there'll

be a big fine which should clean you out financially."

Mace said desperately, "This is blackmail. You could be . , ." His voice

was nervous, thin and reedy. Lord roughly cut him off.

"Forget that! There are plenty of ways of handling this so our company's

involvement isn't known, and there are no witnesses here, just you and me."

Lord reached over, gathered up the papers he had shown to Mace, and

returned them to his briefcase. He had remembered, just in time, that his

own fingerprints were on them; no sense in taking a chance on leaving

evidence behind.

Mace was a broken man. Lord saw with disgust there was spittle

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on the other man's lips which bubbled as he asked feebly, "What do you

want?"

"I think you know," Lord said. "I guess you could sum up what we would

like as 'an attitude of reasonableness.' "

A despairing whisper. "You want that drug approved. Montayne."

Lord remained silent.

"Listen," Mace pleaded, half sobbing now, "I meant it when I said there

is a problem . . . that Australian case, the doubts about Montayne . .

. I truly believe there may be something there . . . you ought to . . ."

Lord said contemptuously, "We've already talked about it. Better people

than you have assured us the Australian case was meaningless."

Again a silence.

"If it happens . . . the approval?"

"in certain circumstances," Lord said carefully, "the papers from which

the copies I have shown you were made would not be given to the Attorney

General or the press. Instead they would be handed over to you with a

guarantee that, to the best of our knowledge, no other copies exist."

"How could I be sure?"

"On that, you would have to take my word."

Mace was attempting to recover; there was savage hatred in his eyes.

"What's your word worth, you bastard?"

"Forgive my mentioning it," Vincent Lord said calmly, "but you're in no

position to call anybody names."

It took two weeks. Even with Gideon Mace impelling them, the wheels of

bureaucracy needed time to turn. But at the end of that time, approval

of Montayne was afait accompli. The drug could be prescribed and sold,

with FDA approval, throughout the United States.

At Felding-Roth there was joy that the company's February marketing

target would now be met.

Taking no chances on the mail or another messenger, Vincent Lord traveled

to Washington and delivered the incriminating papers personally to Dr.

Mace.

Lord had kept his word. All additional copies were destroyed.

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In the privacy of Mace's office, with both men standing, a minimum of words

passed between them.

"This is what was promised." Lord proffered a brown manila envelope.

Mace accepted the envelope, inspected its contents, then tumed his eyes

toward Lord. In a voice dripping hatred, he said, "You and your company now

have an enemy at FDA. I give you my waming: someday you'll regret this."

Lord shrugged, made no reply, and left.

10

In November, on a Friday afternoon, Celia visited Dr. Maud Stavely at the

New York headquarters of Citizens for Safer Medicine.

The visit was an impulse decision. Celia was in Manhattan anyway, with two

hours free between appointments, when she decided to satisfy her curiosity

about an adversary she had never met. She did not telephone in advance,

knowing that if she did, Stavely would almost certainly refuse to see her.

That kind of turndown had been experienced by others in the pharmaceutical

business.

Celia remembered something which Lorne Eagledon, president of the

Pharmaceutical Manufacturers Association in Washington, had told her not

long before. Eagledon, genial and easygoing, had been a govemment lawyer

before his present trade association job.

"As head of PMA, representing all the major drug companies," he said, "I

like to keep contact with consumer groups. Sure, we oppose each other, but

sometimes they have useful things to say, and our industry should listen.

That's why I invite Ralph Nader to lunch twice a year. True, Ralph and I

don't have much common ground, but we talk, and listen to each other's

viewpoints, which is a civilized thing to do. But when I invited Maud

Stavely to have lunch for the same reason-oh, boy!"

With prompting from Celia, the PMA chief had continued, "Well, Dr. Stavely

informed me she had plenty to do in her full-

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time fight against a thoroughly bad, immoral industry--ourswithout wasting

her valuable time on a big-business lackey with unacceptable opinions-me.

Furthermore, she said never mind lunch-she would choke on a chocolate bar

paid for with drug firms' tainted money." Eagledon had laughed. "So we

never met, which I regret."

A dreary rain was falling as Celia's taxi stopped at a dingy sixstory

building on Thirty-seventh Street near Seventh Avenue. The building's

main floor was occupied by a plumbing supplies store whose front window

had been broken, then patched with tape. From a dowdy hallway with

peeling paint, a tiny, arthritic elevator grumbled its way to the top

floor and CSM.

As Celia left the elevator she faced an open door and, in a small room

beyond, an elderly white-haired woman seated at a battered metal desk.

A card facing outward read: Volunteer: Mr& 0. Thom. The woman had been

pecking at an Underwood typewriter circa 1950. Looking up as Celia

entered, she announced, "I keep telling them I won't do any more work

here unless this wretched machine is fixed. It's the capital '1' that

never works. How can you write to people without an '17'

Celia said helpfully, "You could try using 'we' every time instead."

Mrs. 0. Thom snapped, "What about this letter, then? It's supposed to go

to Idaho. Should I rename the state Wedaho?"

"I do see your problem," Celia said. "I wish I could help. Is Dr. Stavely

in?"

"Yes, she's in. Who are you?"

"Oh, just someone interested in your organization. I'd like to talk to

her."

Mrs. Thom looked as if she would ask more questions, then changed her

mind. Getting up, she walked through another doorway and out of sight.

While she was away, Celia caught glimpses of several other people working

in adjoining rooms. There was a sense of busy activity, including the

sounds of another typewriter clattering and brisk phone conversations.

Closer to hand, brochures and leaflets, some prepared for mailing, were

piled high. A stack of incoming mail awaited opening. Judging by

appearances, though, CSM was not burdened with excess cash. The office

furnishings, Celia thought, were either someone else's discards or had

been bought at a junk dealer's. Long ago, the floors were carpeted, but

now the carpeting was worn so thin it had almost disappeared, and

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in places bare boards were visible through holes. As in the downstairs

lobby, what was left of the paint was peeling.

Mrs. Thom returned. "All right. Go in there." She pointed to a doorway.

With murmured thanks, Celia did so.

The room she entered was as shabby as the offices outside.

"Yes, what is it?" Dr. Maud Stavely, seated at another dented desk, looked

up from a paper she was reading as her visitor entered.

After her impression of these surroundings, coupled with what she had heard

about the person she was facing, Celia was surprised to see an attractive,

auburn-haired woman, slim and well groomed, with carefully manicured hands,

and probably in her early forties. The voice, though incisive and

impatient, was cultured, with a slight New England accent. The clothes she

had on-a maroon wool skirt and a pink tailored blouse-were inexpensive, yet

worn stylishly. The eyes-Stavely's strongest single feature-were blue,

direct, penetrating, and conveyed to Celia that an answer to the question

was overdue.

"I'm a pharmaceutical executive," Celia said. "I apologize for barging in,

but I wanted to meet you."

There was several seconds' silence. The eyes boring into her had hardened,

Celia thought, and were making an appraisal.

"I suppose you're Jordan."

"Yes." Celia was surprised. "How did you know?"

"I've heard of you. There aren't many women executives in that rotten

industry, and certainly no one else who has sold out decent womanhood as

much as you."

Celia said mildly, "What makes you so sure I've-as you put itsold out?"

"Because you wouldn't work in the selling end of the drug business if you

hadn't."

"I worked originally as a chemist," Celia pointed out. "Then, like others,

I moved up through our company."

"None of that interests me. Why have you come here?"

Celia tried countering antagonism with a smile. "I meant what I said about

wanting to meet you. I had an idea we might talk, hear each other's

opinions. Even if we disagree, we could both gain something."

The friendliness achieved nothing. The other woman inquired coldly, "Gain

what?"

Celia shrugged. "I suppose, some understanding. But never

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mind. Obviously it wasn't a good idea." She turned away, prepared to go,

unwilling to accept further rudeness.

"What do you wish to know?"

The words were a shade less hostile. Celia hesitated, uncertain whether to

go or stay.

Stavely pointed to a chair. "You're here, so sit down. I'll give you ten

minutes, then I've other things to do."

In different circumstances Celia would have expressed herself forcefully,

but curiosity caused her to remain low-key. "One thing I'd like to know is

why you hate the pharmaceutical industry so much."