Law and Addiction

by Mike Papantonio

  ADDICTION

  ALSO BY MIKE PAPANTONIO

  FICTION

  Law and Disorder

  Law and Vengeance

  NONFICTION

  Closing Arguments: The Last Battle with Fred Levin and Martin Levin

  Clarence Darrow, the Journeyman: Lessons for the Modern Lawyer

  Resurrecting Aesop: Fables Lawyers Should Remember

  Air America:

  The Playbook with Robert F. Kennedy et al.

  ADDICTION

  A Novel

  MIKE

  PAPANTONIO

  Copyright © 2019 by Mike Papantonio www.mikepapantonio.com Law and Addiction is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events described are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual incidents and persons, living or dead, stems from an amalgamation of many characters and incidents in the imagination of the author.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019 ISBN-13: 978-1-939116-46-8 print edition ISBN-13: 978-1-939116-47-5 ebook edition ISBN-13: 978-1-939116-49-9 audio edition

  2055 Oxford Ave.

  Cardiff-by-the-Sea, CA 92007

  www.waterside.com

  To all the mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers who have lived through the opioid nightmare.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wish to thank my team of outstanding trial lawyers, who are putting it all on the line in this case.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  As I write these words, somewhere in America an individual is dying of a drug overdose. During the next twenty-four hours, there will be at least 115 deaths from the same cause. In 2017, more than 72,000 people in the United States died of a drug overdose. To put that in perspective, during our seventeen-year involvement in the Vietnam War, there was a total of 58,220 American casualties.

  When I was first approached about representing plaintiffs in an action against the major corporate opioid distributors, I knew little about the opioid epidemic. There was part of me, I suppose, that preferred to look the other way. It was only when I started peeling back the opioid onion that I had no choice but to confront its ugliness. The more I discovered, the more outraged I became. The opioid crisis didn’t occur as some kind of happenstance, but as a direct result of corporate greed.

  That isn’t my opinion, and that isn’t hyperbole. My legal team has documented these claims . . . and more. We have roomfuls of paperwork showing that these distributors knowingly and willfully opened Pandora’s Box, and the evils and misery that sprang out of that box are still plaguing our society. Over the last twenty years, thousands of children have grown up without parents (a result of

  ix

  x / L A W A N D A D D I C T I O N parental death, neglect caused by drug abuse, and/or incarceration). The human toll has been terrible; the collateral damage, heartbreaking. Still, people often forget that although all seemed lost when Pandora opened her box, the last thing to emerge from her box was hope. There are lots of people fighting for hope, and I’d like to think I am among their ranks. These days many communities ravaged by the opioid epidemic are bereft of hope. We must change that, and we must make sure these communities get back some of that which was taken from them.

  In my more than thirty years of working as a trial lawyer, I have never been as passionate about a case. The more I learned about the opioid epidemic, the more outraged I became. It became a personal cause for me, and then some. I have visited desolated communities, and talked to too many people who have lost loved ones to opioids. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have been busy. Too busy. Anyone who visits areas blighted by this epidemic can see the wake left by these four riders of conquest, war, famine, and most of all, death.

  Just as I was initially reluctant to take up this legal gauntlet, neither did I want to write about this subject. I was hoping to write about a different and more uplifting theme, with good triumphing over evil. I started working on that book, but I kept finding my thoughts returning to this topic. Ultimately, I felt compelled to write this novel.

  One of the misconceptions about opioid addicts is that they’re “lowlifes.” That simply isn’t the case. The truth is that many opioid addicts were unwittingly hooked by their own doctors. For every addict, there’s a story. Opioids have claimed victims, and continue to claim them, from all walks of life.

  In this novel, I have created many composite characters. Their stories bespeak the tragedy that has befallen too many. I have also

  xi / M i k e P a p a n t on io cribbed from my professional life. When you read about subjects such as the ARCOS data, that is not something I made up. (Unlike what occurs in my novel, there was no trial to obtain that data, but the metaphor remains all too valid—getting information from the corporate drug distributors has been a daunting task.) The “death map” that Deke introduces—which tracks drug deaths throughout the country—does exist. If you ever want to see a sobering series of snapshots of our country, just watch a time progression of that map. I introduced that map in one of the depositions I was involved with, and as people watched the epidemic overtake our country, you could have heard the proverbial pin drop.

  My hope in writing this fictional account was to both edify and entertain. I wanted to provide readers with a front-row account of this epidemic, but not bludgeon them in the process. While I didn’t try to gloss over the human suffering, I still remain a believer in the power of the human spirit to prevail. At the same time, I am hopeful about getting meaningful justice out of this terrible and sad epidemic caused by corporate greed. I hope this novel does spark outrage in readers. As a nation, we need to be outraged.

  In my legal career, I have been a trial lawyer in cases ranging from asbestos to tobacco litigation to litigation of harmful chemicals and products that have maimed, killed, and injured far too many. That said, I can say in all certainty that the opioid catastrophe has created a class of suffering all its own. The opioid epidemic is an American tragedy, but it is one we must examine so we never repeat it again.

  — Mike Papantonio, April 9, 2019

  PROLOGUE LITTLE BLACK TRAIN

  Blake snuck a glance over his right shoulder, trying to see into the darkness. There were three of them—no, now there were four. He vaulted over a streambed and raced up the hillside. That didn’t deter them. Their pounding footsteps marked their close pursuit. So far, he hadn’t been able to shake them, nor had they shown any sign of giving up their chase.

  His shoes dug into the dirt path, pushing hard with each step. The way was slippery, and for a moment Blake lost traction. He fought for balance, and with a sharp intake of breath, steadied himself. He didn’t dare slip. They’d be on him if he did.

  Blake reached the top of the rise and began sprinting. There was no way his pursuers should be able to keep up with him. Blake was fast. Few individuals could stay with him in a footrace. So how was it that he couldn’t shake them?

  He shifted his head and dared another quick look behind. The pack seemed to be gaining on him. Blake yelled, “What do you want?”

  Their silence was more frightening than an answer. He knew then that he was running for his life.

  “Help!” Blake screamed. “Help!”

  xiii No one responded to his screams. Maybe they’d heard too many screams just like his. They were afraid to try and help, and for good reason. Oakley was looking more and more like a ghost town, especially at night. The citizens hunkered down when it got dark. Except for the ghosts and ghoulies. They came out
at night.

  The streetlights were few and far between. Most were in disrepair. Blake ran through the darkness, trying to find the light. Even though he’d grown up in Oakley, it was hard to figure out exactly where he was. The darkness muted the colors, offering up a stark black-and-white landscape. The shadows had to be playing tricks with his eyes. The once-familiar roads and woods and hollows seemed to have changed. Skeletal branches from trees reached for him, snagging his clothing.

  The whistle of a train made him start. The sound was alien and out of place. You didn’t hear trains in Oakley. The nearest train tracks were ten miles to the west. That didn’t explain the whistle he was hearing, or the music. A man with a deep bass voice was singing. Blake could hear the words through the pounding footfalls of his pursuers.

  “There’s a little black train a-coming, better set your business right . . .”

  Blake realized the singer must have a toy whistle that sounded like a train. The whistle sounded again.

  “Help!” he screamed, but the man just kept on with his song.

  Blake thought the lyrics sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place them. The whistle screeched again. Now it sounded as if it were directly behind him, almost like it had joined the pack trying to run him down.

  Run, run, run. He couldn’t slow down. They’d catch him if he did. But the race was taking its toll on him. His breath was getting ragged. He dared not stop. Death was right on his tail, and death didn’t even seem to be winded. The train whistle sounded once more, and it was accompanied by the singer’s words:

  xv / M i k e P a p a n t on io “God sent to Hezekiah, a message from on high, you better set your house in order, for you must surely die.”

  “Little Black Train,” thought Blake. He’d grown up hearing that tune. But why was someone singing that song so late at night? And where was the singer?

  The shadows finally opened up enough for Blake to see that just ahead was the turnoff to downtown Oakley, marked by a familiar sign that read Welcome to oakley. The sign had been around for all of Blake’s twenty-five years, but someone had defaced it the year before. The word Oakley had been X’d out with spray paint and replaced with Zombieland.

  Blake was in the race of his life, yet he felt disembodied, no longer in control of his person. He needed to run, but he could never outrun what was chasing him.

  Flight hadn’t saved him. Maybe he’d do better to fight.

  Blake slowly turned to face his pursuers. There was a part of him that was afraid to see exactly what was there. It was as if he knew it would be worse than he could even imagine. The pack was on all sides of him now. They were getting closer. He gasped at what he saw, at what was reaching for him. There was no wind in his lungs for him to scream.

  Zombies.

  Their faces were white, with huge dark circles, and their heads hung to the sides, jerking straight and then going slack, as if they were in between waking and nodding off. Eyes without pupils, and with no souls behind them, stared at him. Fingers with blue nails were aimed his way. The zombies reeked, and itched obsessively.

  Blake knew there was something off in all of this. How had these lumbering zombies been able to run him down?

  The train whistle called, and the singer called to him: “Death’s dark train is coming, prepare to take a ride.”

  Blake knew he should grab a weapon or pick up a rock or branch, but he couldn’t move. He swayed back and forth; it was all he could do to not fall. As he steadied himself, he had a moment of clarity. The zombies didn’t exactly disappear, but they morphed—into the bodies of the four people sprawled around his own living room.

  Everyone was wasted, including Blake.

  He saw their pinpoint pupils and pale skin, watched them scratch at imaginary itches with blue-tinged nails, and forced himself to take a deep, shuddering breath. What a nightmare, he thought. He raised an unsteady hand up to his face. His nose and mouth were wet with a frothy fluid that had the consistency of snot.

  Shit, thought Blake. He’d taken what he thought was oxy, but it must have been fenny. Maybe that explained him imagining the zombies. Or maybe the reality of his life was even worse than his hallucination. He’d heard from others who had experienced the willies that you could have an opioid-induced hallucination.

  The train was whistling again.

  Blake sank a little lower into his chair. He needed to get off this shit. It was time to clean up his act. In just a few days he’d be going to Jake’s graduation. Luckily for him, Jake had visited only once in the last year. Blake had done his best to hide his addiction; he didn’t want to worry his brother or take Jake’s eyes from the prize. Good old Jake had done it. He was going to be a lawyer.

  In his stupor, Blake smiled. He was so damn proud of his twin brother.

  The thought of Jake’s success eased Blake’s mind. His panic subsided, as did his pain. He no longer heard the train whistle, no longer felt compelled to try and outrun the zombies, no longer strained to catch his breath.

  Blake’s lungs slowed to a stop, but his mind didn’t know it.

  “Jake,” he tried to whisper, but didn’t even have breath enough for a last word.

  1

  WELCOME TO ZOMBIELAND

  Out of habit, Jake Rutledge kept glancing beside him for Blake. The fraternal twins had been inseparable for most of their lives

  and had relied on each other growing up in Oakley, West Virginia.

  They’d had to. When they were boys, their father had succumbed to

  his years working in the coal mines and had died when they were

  nine. Their mother had held on until their eighteenth birthday; the

  doctor said she’d died of a brain aneurysm, but Jake was of the opinion that it was despair and tiredness that had done her in. Mom had

  held on just long enough for her sons to graduate from high school. He and Blake had talked of leaving West Virginia, but it wasn’t

  the Rutledge way to cut and run. They were the fourth generation to

  call the Mountain State home, and their Appalachian ties were deep.

  Blake, in particular, seemed bound by the Rutledge roots. Their family, now small as it was, was everything.

  “I got your back, brother,” one would say to the other. “I got your back, brother,” was always the reply.

  Jake steered his car onto the exit from State Route 19. The sign

  that Jake had grown up with that said Welcome to oakley had been

  defaced so that it now read Welcome to Zombieland.

  1 Growing up, he and the other kids had often referred to Oakley as “Smokeley.” That was usually good for a wink and a snicker. After all, there was a lot of dope smoking in town. And it was kind of an inside joke, because even the adults sometimes called it Smokeley—a nickname that didn’t refer to weed but to the time when coal stoves and fireplaces had blackened the winter sky. But now the name Smokeley seemed almost quaint, especially in light of its new nickname.

  Still, Jake wasn’t surprised. Even before he’d left town for college, then law school, the long death throes of the coal industry had been pushing Oakley toward the edge of poverty. But the town had held on. Jake had grown up with a downtown that had its Ma-and-Pa businesses and restaurants. They’d even had a small movie theater. Over the course of a decade, though, more and more businesses had failed. Oakley’s infrastructure had crumbled along with the closings. The local library had cut its hours and days, and then shuttered altogether due to budget cuts. It had been the same with the park service. Even the Elks Club was gone.

  Now, more than half of Oakley’s downtown storefronts were empty. Only the drugstore seemed to prosper. Of course, there were fewer than five thousand residents in Oakley, so it was no wonder it felt small, but that wasn’t the only thing. The town felt dispirited, and dark. Bruce Springsteen’s song “My Hometown” seemed to describe the place perfectly—everywhere there were signs of troubled times.

  Jake drove past the Rutledge home,
not ready to stop there just yet—he had another destination in mind. Fresh in his thoughts was the memory of the day he’d graduated from Marshall and was accepted into law school.

  “Imagine that,” Blake said. “You’re going to be a lawyer.” “That’s a long way off,” said Jake. “How are you going to pay for it?” asked Blake. “Half this house is yours. We can sell it to help with your schooling.”

  “Not on your life,” Jake said. “WVU is offering me a partial scholarship. Still, there’s nothing keeping you here. If you want, we could share an apartment in Morgantown.”

  “That sounds like a great idea,” Blake said.

  It was a great idea that never materialized. Blake stayed in Oakley. He worked in what he said was “construction,” but mostly it was parttime demolition. There weren’t any new buildings going up in town.

  The good thing about law school and his part-time jobs was that the three years passed quickly for Jake. The last time he’d gone home to visit Blake had been just a month before graduation. Jake was concerned about his brother; it was at least the third time that year Blake had gotten sick.

  “Don’t worry,” said Blake. “It’s just stomach flu. Wild horses couldn’t keep me from your graduation. I’ll be the one in the audience screaming the loudest. I got your back, brother.”

  “I got your back, brother,” Jake said.

  The twins weren’t carbon copies of each other. Blake was darker and stockier, an inch taller than Jake, and the older brother by twenty minutes. That was something he frequently pointed out to his “little brother.”

  Both were good students, but it was Jake who put a real effort into academics. Blake was more happy-go-lucky. He’d settle for a B, when only an A was good enough for Jake. And so, it came as no surprise to anyone when Jake ended up the valedictorian of their class at the five-hundred-student Midway High School.