Genetic Imperfections

by Steve Hadden

  Brayton stared at the folder on his desk. The latest figures showed his restricted shares would be worth half-a-billion dollars, following the successful IPO, and would approach one billion dollars with the clandestine backroom deal he had cut with one of the biggest pharmaceutical companies in the world. He’d clear his mountain of debt and have plenty left over. He’d be on the cover of every business periodical in the country. Surely that old bastard of a father rotting in Lompoc Correctional Institution would hear about it. After all, he’d gotten him into this mess. He dropped the folder into a drawer and locked it. Then he walked out of his office, stopped at the secretary’s desk, and grabbed the single sheet of paper she held out for him.

  “Where’s the meeting?” he said, scanning the document.

  “It’s in the private conference room.”

  Brayton’s jaw stiffened and he poked his finger into the page.

  “I know Penn, but who is this Tori Clarke?”

  “She’s a researcher. She’s been working in the genetics division for about three years now.”

  Brayton ignored her and turned away.

  “Make sure my car is ready to go when I get back. It won’t take long.” Brayton marched out of the suite.

  He wanted to be assured the biggest deal of his career was on track. He knew this deal was a winner, and he needed to win big. Internal estimates for annual earnings from the drug topped one-point-seven billion dollars.

  After extensive negotiations, Brayton had joined Rexsen Laboratories six months ago. While the company was controlled by Adam Rexsen, his son, Prescott, had convinced his father to hire Brayton to help take the company public. Adam agreed, but only if Brayton remained vice president through the IPO, then cashed out. Adam had made it quite clear he didn’t want his life’s work in the hands of anyone besides David Wellington. The old man frequently lectured Brayton and Prescott that his purpose was to save lives, not make ungodly profits. But Prescott Rexsen and Royce Brayton had other plans for Adam Rexsen’s company.

  Brayton stomped into the adjacent conference room and slammed the door. The mahogany sliding panels on the front wall had already been opened and revealed a state of the art projection screen. Benjamin Penn, head of the genetics division, and an attractive young woman with long dark brown hair pulled neatly into a pony tail stood at the front of the room and whispered.

  “Afternoon, Benjamin,” Brayton barked.

  Penn abruptly stopped whispering and his eyes, magnified by his thick glasses, froze on Brayton like prey about to be eaten. The pale thin man scurried around the table to greet him.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Brayton.”

  Brayton reluctantly shook Penn’s quivering hand, and expecting an introduction, he smiled at the attractive young woman. Penn obliged.

  “Mr. Brayton, this is Tori Clarke. I don’t think you’ve met.”

  The young woman, who appeared to be in her late twenties, stood and shook his hand. She was tall and lanky with the firm grip of a former college athlete, probably basketball. Her blue eyes were partially concealed by a pair of black rimmed glasses. She lowered her head to avoid Brayton’s scowl. Brayton took the opportunity to glance at her breasts.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Brayton,” she said.

  Brayton had no time for either one of them. He viewed Penn as weak. Brayton hated wimps, regardless of how smart they were, and he was only interested in women who slept with him. This one wasn’t his type.

  “Let’s get going,” he said as he dropped into the seat closest to the screen. “What’s the subject?”

  He swiveled in the chair at the front of the conference table, turned his back to the pair, folded his arms and waited for someone to step to the front of the room.

  Benjamin Penn stepped forward.

  “Mr. Brayton, the CGT team has made another breakthrough.” His hands shook and his voice warbled. His eyes never left the papers that rattled in his hands.

  “Ms. Clarke has developed a new method for genetic profiling using microarrays. It will allow for the rapid pinpointing of genetic flaws that are the precursors to cancers.”

  So far so good. A new discovery would only enhance the value of the company. He settled back into his leather chair and relaxed a bit. Maybe this wasn’t bad news.

  Penn explained that the research team, headed by Ms. Clarke, had used the DNA samples from the phase three clinical trials for CGT to test the new procedure. Penn stopped and shuffled the papers in his hands. Brayton impatiently tapped his pen on the conference table. Penn fidgeted, obviously searching for the right words. Brayton leaned forward and scowled in anticipation of bad news. He always knew when it was coming.

  Penn looked up from his papers and blurted, “That’s when we found the potential problem. Ms. Clarke is here to explain it.”

  Penn scurried to his seat. It was just like him to leave the bad news to anyone but him. Brayton considered him a wimp, but among his peers, Penn was regarded as a top geneticist.

  Tori Clarke strode confidently to the front of the room. Brayton eyed her long smooth legs. She picked up the remote control and advanced the Power Point presentation to the first slide. Before the young researcher could speak, Brayton interrupted.

  “Ms. Clarke, you can get right to the bottom line here. What’s the problem?”

  She glanced at Penn, who nodded and immediately returned to fiddling with his papers.

  “Well, Mr. Brayton, the process is a great new discovery that will allow the CGT treatment to be even more effective. But we need to make a change. You see, with this technology we can see mutations expressed in the human genome that enable us to predict the development of different forms of cancer well in advance of any symptoms.”

  Brayton slammed his fist into the table. Tori jumped.

  “Damn it! I said what’s the problem.”

  Tori took a deep breath, removed her glasses, and locked eyes with Brayton.

  “The people from the CGT group showed cancer precursors they didn’t have when the trials started.”

  “Wait a minute,” Brayton bellowed, “CGT cures cancer by repairing defective genes. Our trials prove that, and the FDA is approving the treatment on that basis.”

  “That’s still true, sir. But this discovery enhances our ability to identify the genetic expression profiles in each person’s DNA with much greater precision. Until now, we couldn’t detect the very early precursors to cancer at the molecular level. Now we can, and the microarrays I ran show CGT repairs the damaged proteins within the targeted genes. However, in many of the DNA samples we tested, the treatment also damaged proteins at another chromosomal location and that expression profile is consistent with the early precursors to pancreatic cancer. We’ll have to re-run the trials, using this new detection process, to see how serious and widespread the problem is.”

  Brayton clenched his jaw. CGT had already been through the pipeline with the FDA. They’d successfully guided CGT through the clinical trials and the New Drug Application process without any hitches. The division director of the FDA had conducted his review and all questions raised had been addressed. The director would sign the approval action letter early next week, allowing Rexsen to market the treatment. Rexsen had invested $300 million to date in CGT, and the IPO launch date was eleven days away. The underwriters and institutional investors had been sufficiently impressed with the road show where he’d personally presented the prospectus with Wellington and old man Rexsen.

  He was well aware that the last presentation had been held in San Francisco this afternoon. As far as he was concerned, the train had left the station and there was no turning back. Going back to clinical trials now would destroy the entire IPO. He needed to deal with this quickly, but smoothly. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled.

  “Wonderful work, Ms. Clarke. Your breakthrough with these new microarrays will add even more value to this company. It’s the kind of technical leadership we’re looking for.” Brayton paused. Clarke seemed to be puzzled but
adequately pleased with the praise. After all, Brayton rarely gave it.

  “Now,” he pointed at Penn, “Benjamin, I want you to get the data and secure it. I’m placing a call to one of the labs we contract with to accelerate this work. Of course, Ms. Clarke, they’ll confirm your results, and we’ll jump right on the review of CGT.”

  Penn nodded the whole time Brayton was speaking.

  “We’ll get right on it, sir,” Penn said. He gathered the folders in front of him and ushered Tori Clarke out the door.

  The door clicked shut, and Brayton shoved himself away from the table.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  This was a problem, a big one. Less than a week from FDA approval and these assholes were about to screw it up. He wouldn’t let that happen. Hell, he couldn’t let it happen. The formula was simple: no FDA approval, no IPO; no IPO, no money; no money and those he owed would come to collect. And he was certain he’d pay with his life. He knew he’d have to find a way to make this problem disappear—fast—or he would be the one who disappeared.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was 4:45 p.m. on Friday and Royce Brayton stormed past his secretary’s desk, oblivious to her warning that Prescott Rexsen had just slithered into his office. The meeting with Clarke and Penn sickened him. He understood that to win on Wall Street you need three things: a great product, a great plan, and the ability to beat that plan every quarter. In just one fifteen-minute meeting, he’d heard a problem that could destroy all three.

  He knew Rexsen Labs had bet its future on CGT, and with eleven days to the finish line, the biggest genetic breakthrough of the century had an imperfection. In many of the patients it cured of leukemia, it planted another genetic flaw that only Clarke’s new technology could see. That flaw in the human genome would direct the molecules in the patient’s cells to begin a chain reaction that would end in deadly pancreatic cancer. He was certain that was more than enough for the FDA to deny approval for the treatment. And if CGT failed, then the IPO would fail. He’d have no payday and the collateral for the note coming due was his life.

  Brayton slammed his folio on the desk and froze at the sight of Prescott. He was a thin bony man with rounded shoulders, greasy thin black hair, no chin, and a long nose—a man who thought his family’s wealth diminished the need for good hygiene. While only in his early thirties, he looked fifty. Brayton thought he looked like a sewer rat.

  “What can I do for you, Prescott?” Brayton groused.

  Prescott stared at the view of Newport’s Back Bay. When the tide was in, it was a shimmering estuary. But the tide was out and it exposed the mucky mud flats. He twisted around and pointed his craggy finger at Brayton.

  “I want you to tell me we’ll have control within the week. That’s what I hired you for.”

  Brayton ignored the threatening gesture and moved to his chair behind the desk.

  “Everything is on plan. You have nothing to worry about.” Brayton flipped through the stack of messages in front of him.

  “I have everything to worry about!”

  Prescott charged Brayton’s desk and leaned in close enough for Brayton to smell his rotten breath. “I’ve got that jackass of an old man who thinks Wellington is the son he should have had. He also thinks this company is about serving humanity and not making money! He certainly won’t drive up the stock price and make us all rich in a merger. And we meet with the board tomorrow in Monterey.”

  Brayton shot up and his chair slammed into the credenza behind him. Well over six feet tall and two-hundred pounds, he knew he could make short work of Prescott.

  Prescott jumped back.

  Brayton yelled, “Look, I told you it’s under control. So don’t come in here like you’re the only one with something on the line to lose. I told you I’d deliver and I will.”

  Brayton understood what was on the line for Prescott. Prescott was the younger of Adam Rexsen’s two children and one of two heirs to the Rexsen Family Trust. Brayton had just run the numbers. In eleven days the Trust’s value would swell to twelve billion dollars through the IPO. And with the backroom deal cut with the pharmaceutical firm, Brayton would flip the shares and drive the Trust’s total worth to over 20 billion dollars. The old man wasn’t going to live forever, and this little rat he was about to choke would be worth at least ten billion dollars.

  “Okay then,” Prescott whined, “just remember who’s paying your salary.”

  Brayton knew who was paying his salary. All the shareholders he’d make rich. Not just this little rat.

  “And you remember,” Brayton shot back, “you need me to make this deal go. Now I’ve got things to do, if you don’t mind.”

  Brayton retrieved his chair from behind him and resumed sorting through his messages. Prescott huffed and slithered out of the room.

  Brayton was confident Prescott desperately needed him. That’s why he recruited him in the first place. Brayton had taken three other companies public, all smoke and mirror dot-comers. Each time he cashed out before the inevitable drop came, except the last. He got caught long with stock on margin, and it nearly bankrupted him. This would be his redemption. He’d be on the cover of Fortune, Business Week, and Forbes at the same time. And one of those copies would mysteriously be mailed to the old man sitting in Lompoc Correctional Institution, who’d said his son would never amount to anything.

  Brayton was certain he could cover up the problem with CGT. Make it disappear. But he needed help. The kind of help not listed in a Google search. He’d have to rely on help from a contact given to him by the man he had despised most of his life, and who’d taught him everything he knew about backstabbing, adultery, manipulation, and stretching the truth and the law to his advantage. He grabbed the phone and punched the numbers he knew by heart. Brayton understood the methods were wrong by most moral standards, but they got results, at least as he measured results: sexual pleasure and money. He held the phone to his ear, ignoring what was left of his conscience.

  “It’s me. We have another problem.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The black Lincoln Town car darted through the Friday evening traffic slogging around the perimeter of West Hollywood on the Hollywood Freeway. Joe Pirelli, a fifty-three-year-old muscular dark-haired Italian American nervously checked and rechecked his watch. He knew time could be running out for his boss of fifteen years, if it hadn’t already. He raced down the shoulder, giving no thought to the highway patrol eyeing his maneuver from the traffic jam in the opposite lanes, and shot down the exit ramp for Highland Avenue and turned right onto Santa Monica Boulevard. He worked his way through West Hollywood and using his horn to clear the way, he swerved left onto San Vicente at the light. When he turned right on Beverly Boulevard, he dodged a Mercedes, several aluminum light poles and an eclectic mix of pedestrians expected at the edge of West Hollywood and Beverly Hills.

  The ex-Marine turned driver and bodyguard had been waiting patiently at Cypress Jet Service, the fixed based operator for Rexsen aircraft at John Wayne airport, when the call came in. The Coast Guard had plucked David Wellington, unconscious and critical, from the helipad of an offshore oil platform, just north of the Santa Barbara channel. He’d been pulled from the water by the crew of a supply boat dispatched by the platform’s foreman in response to the distress call of the crippled Gulfstream. There were no other survivors.

  Joe yanked the wheel into the parking lot of Cedars-Sinai emergency department, threw the car in park, and sprinted through the automatic sliding doors. His eyes scanned the crowded lobby. An elderly woman, parked against the wall, cradled her head and groaned as if begging for more attention. A frazzled mother sat beside her son, who held his forearm and cried, while she eyeballed the nurse’s aide manning the front desk.

  It’s just a broken arm; stop your whining.

  Fighting the sterile smell of cleaner, Joe trotted to the desk. The young freckled-faced girl appeared frustrated by Joe’s arrival.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, ma�
��am, you can. I need to see David Wellington. A chopper just dropped him here within the last hour.”

  The aide turned to her screen, pecked on the keyboard, and read the information displayed on the silver monitor.

  “He’s critical and the doctors are still working on him. No visitors.” She refused to look back at Joe.

  Joe remained calm.

  “I understand, ma’am. I would like to speak to his doctor as soon as he can give me some news.”

  The girl kept her eyes locked on the screen.

  “Are you family?”

  Family, Joe mused. David Wellington had no real family. His father had been a hard-driving, workaholic criminal defense attorney who’d dealt in the sanitized cesspool of the criminal behavior of spoiled stars and starlets of Hollywood and Beverly Hills, until he died of a heart attack at the age of forty-two. His mother came from money and had attended Pepperdine where she’d met David’s father. But after twenty years of being ignored and cheated on, her money and religious convictions were not enough to stop the bullet she put through her head. Joe had known David longer than anyone and was the closest thing David Wellington had to a friend, let alone family.

  “Yes, I am. I’m his brother.” Joe decided a little white lie to grease the skids wouldn’t hurt. The girl huffed in disgust, shuffled through the pile of papers in front of her and produced a pen.

  “Name?” she said curtly.

  “Joe Pirelli.”

  Joe smiled. The frustrated girl stopped writing and stared at Joe.

  “I’m his half-brother,” Joe proclaimed, still smiling.

  “Whatever!”

  She returned her attention to the page and jotted his name. She pointed the pen towards the rows of chairs cluttered with would-be patients.

  “Wait over there, and the doctor will see you if and when he has time.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, and have a nice day.”