Genetic Imperfections

by Steve Hadden

  After Claire out drove Prescott and Walters, Brayton covered another chuckle, and the four headed for the carts.

  “You see, William, the problem is the lack of edge and focus,” Brayton commented, dropping his driver into the blue bag strapped to the rear of the cart. “It’s been that way for a while. But, as you both know, going public will require that Rexsen clean house and reorganize. The entire process from research to marketing has to be streamlined. The time to market has to be cut significantly.”

  After placing their clubs in their bags, both Armstrong and Walters paused and listened intently. Brayton had been leading the conversation toward this point since the first tee. He’d explained the competitive market for gene therapy treatments, outlined the competition, described the investors’ needs and suggested how they would not be happy with Rexsen Labs’ performance going forward. He’d given the appropriate credit to old man Rexsen and Wellington, but also subtly questioned Wellington’s ability to return to health and lead a publicly held company. It was now time for the punch line.

  “Claire, you know it’s nearly impossible for insiders from a private, closely held company to do what’s necessary to restructure a company they built. I can name company after company that has failed to perform because of that lack of objectivity and willingness to change or get rid of their life’s work. And besides, David Wellington is near death in the hospital.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, Royce, and the changes you’ve outlined make sense. But we need to be realistic here. In order to make the changes, the Trust would need to support your position.”

  Prescott Rexsen had the opening he needed. “I can guarantee you my family will support the action that will deliver the greatest value to our investors. Once public, my sister and I will support Royce on this one. That’s enough ownership to get the majority behind Royce’s plan. And we all know his track record. He’s made shareholders and board members at his last three companies very rich.”

  “Shall we play on?” Brayton led the group into the carts, and they glided to the next hole.

  The play continued while Brayton skillfully outlined his plans to reorganize Rexsen and then merge with a major pharmaceutical company. With their marketing muscle and pull with the FDA, other drugs in the pipeline would only increase in value, and the investors would view the merger with great favor. The change of control provisions for the board and its executives would be triggered and result in millions of dollars in cash payments to the elite group. In addition, significant bonuses would be paid upon successful completion of the merger.

  “I understand the value proposition here,” Walters said, as the group prepared to tee off on the seventeenth hole, “but your plan would require the deal be completed just after we went public. Not to mention the hundreds of Rexsen employees who would be laid off in a merger. You’d have to add to your group of bodyguards to protect us from the employees. We already told them no layoffs.” Walters pulled his driver from the bag and stepped to the tee.

  “I have to tell you, Royce, I’m with William on this one,” Claire agreed and reached for her driver. “It’s a risk to permanently replace Wellington just after we go public. I know the investors pretty well, and they’re a jittery, suspicious bunch.”

  Brayton protested coolly. “David Wellington is in no position to lead this company, and, as you’ve heard, I have full support of the Trust. That’s a sixty-one percent block of stock once we go public, so I have the support. This is about shareholder value and how to maximize the value of this company for its owners.” Brayton paused as Walters hit a low line drive about 150 yards down the left side. Satisfied he missed the beach on the par three, he retrieved his tee with a smile. Armstrong out drove Rexsen and Walters again, then rejoined the group at the carts.

  Brayton pressed on. “The reason I wanted to talk to you two about this plan is to see where you were on the matter. I’ve discussed it with Effingham, Kerrigan, O’Reily, and Moreno and they all said run it by you two. If you see merit in the plan, they’ll support me.” Brayton knew how to play to egos, after all his was the biggest he knew.

  Both Armstrong and Walters shared a glance. Armstrong nodded, and Walters answered for them both. “We’ll support your plan, but it has to be with the full support of the board and the Trust.”

  The foursomes cycled through the course, then settled on the veranda for a late afternoon lunch of ahi tuna, fresh Caesar salad, and of course, a wide selection of California chardonnays, merlots, pinot noirs and cabernets. As the sun dropped behind the clouds prowling the Pacific, they left the Lodge and retired to their rooms scattered around the resort, all under watchful eyes of Brayton’s security team.

  Brayton watched as Prescott gave a warm bon voyage to each of them, shaking their hands, accepting sorrowful condolences and words of support. As they watched the last pair of inebriated board members disappear into the shroud of dusk, Prescott turned to Brayton and extended a hand. Brayton knew he was one step closer to buying back his life. The board had bought it. The vote would take place tomorrow afternoon. And the greasy weasel of a man, whose limp hand he was now crushing, would put the full support of the Rexsen Family Trust behind him in his bid to replace David Wellington as CEO. Prescott showed his crooked yellow teeth as he returned Brayton’s sinister grin.

  “See you at the board meeting, Royce,” Prescott said, hoping to be recognized as Brayton’s newest buddy.

  “Yep, see you there,” Brayton replied and tried to not to laugh at the ludicrous thought of Prescott even thinking he was on Brayton’s level. Prescott spun and disappeared into the lobby. Brayton wiped his right hand on his trousers, disgusted with the exchange. He’s a means to an end, he reminded himself, and the end was worth billions.

  CHAPTER 12

  It was Saturday evening and Priscilla stepped out onto the sprawling deck of the Mediterranean-style Malibu home of the latest Hollywood bad boy, Danny Flynn. She was joined by Brittany Rogers, a thirty-something platinum blonde and her longtime friend and occasional actress. The party inside was going full tilt. Champagne flowed from a center fountain just inside the open sliding doors. Black Sabbath’s Crazy Train blasted from the integrated home entertainment system. The private party in the upper bedroom had become too much. The cocaine use was excessive, and Priscilla knew the sex would be rough. It was time for a breath of fresh air.

  The sea air felt cool and refreshing, and the view from the beachfront estate was relaxing. Priscilla and Brit, as her friends called her, had spent the day at The Grotto, the finest Spa in Beverly Hills. The seven-hour Tahitian Treatment Special had done the trick. The warm oil sugar glow massage, the Tahitian milk bath and collagen treatment followed by a pedicure, a full haircut and style accompanied by island music and champagne had the pair looking sexy and feeling like a million dollars.

  Both women wore tight, short, silk white Versace cocktail dresses that clung to their youthful figures, which were sculpted by the most expensive plastic surgeons in Southern California. Their tanned skin was smooth and soft, and the fragrance of lavender completed the aura and attracted the handsome young actors, lawyers, and moguls in attendance.

  “That Danny is a real hottie, Brit.”

  “So’s his friend Robbie. I’d like to continue our little foursome after the effects of the coke wear off a little.” Brit stuck out her chest and shook her upper body as if twirling a pair of pasties. Both girls giggled and smiled.

  “So what’s up with that hubby of yours? Looks like you’re not as single as you thought you were, girl.”

  “God, I know. That bastard is like a cockroach. That jet fell from 26,000 feet and disintegrated on impact, and he’s still alive!”

  “The miracle man; that’s what they’re calling him.”

  “Oh, bullshit! He’s the pain in the ass man to me.” Priscilla leaned against one of the large concrete pillars that surrounded the pool. “If he pulls out of this, it will cost me millions.”

  Brit leane
d against the other side of the column, stirred her Kahlua and cream with her finger, and licked it through her bright red lips.

  “How’s that? Didn’t you talk to Michael Glick?”

  Brit had recommended Glick’s services as the finest Family Law attorney in Beverly Hills. He’d handled all the high profile splits, including Brit’s three.

  “He makes it so it’s just like breaking up in high school. No pain and you’re on the prowl the day you file.”

  “I talked to him this morning, Brit, but he said under California law, we’d divide up the marital assets in half. He said since my father was killed in the crash and half the Trust immediately passed to me, it would be included in that total. I’m not about to give him half a billion or more, just so I can continue what I do every day anyway.” Priscilla downed her champagne in one big gulp. “Thank God we don’t have any children.”

  “So whatcha’ gonna do, hon?” Brit took a sip and batted her eyes at Priscilla over the rim of her crystal flute.

  “That asshole Brayton said not to worry.” Priscilla crossed her arms and peered into the darkness.

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “I said I like the sex.” Priscilla’s eyes locked on Brit. “He’s just another arrogant asshole. But he’s going to make us rich. So I’ll keep him around until he finishes the job.”

  “Whatever,” Brit said, rocking her head from side to side. “I don’t worry about money. Daddy took care of that for me.”

  Brittany Rogers was the daughter of one of the most powerful producers in Hollywood. Burt Rogers gave his only daughter anything she wanted. He could afford to.

  “My father took care of nothing.”

  The ring from the iPhone in Priscilla’s small white clutch purse interrupted the two. She pulled the phone from the purse, checked the caller ID and shook her head before answering.

  “This is Priscilla.” Brit gave her an inquisitive look. Priscilla covered the phone with one hand and whispered, “The hospital.” She listened for a moment. “Okay, I’ll be there in a little while.” She jammed the iPhone into her purse. “Shit. I told you he’s a damn cockroach.”

  “What’s up?”

  “They say he’s out of his coma and I can come see him.”

  “Now?” Brittany said, nodding to the soft bluish light seeping from the upstairs bedroom window.

  “I’ve got to. It won’t look good if I don’t act like I’m happy he’s alive.”

  “Just all the more for me, Pris.” Brit smiled and returned to the party.

  Priscilla knew she’d miss out on a wild night, but Brit would represent Priscilla well. She was great in the sack, and in their drug-induced horniness, she would easily handle both Danny and Robbie. Priscilla figured Danny would suspect if Brit was that good, Priscilla, with her firm sculpted body and more experience, would be better. She convinced herself he’d be back.

  Priscilla slipped around the side of the estate, found her Mercedes and headed for Cedars-Sinai. She hoped it would be a short visit—followed by a tearful graveside service.

  CHAPTER 13

  It was late Saturday night when David heard the light tapping on the door. Still suffering from the effects of hitting the Pacific at several hundred miles an hour, he’d been drifting in and out of consciousness. The muffled sounds of voices, the mechanical clicks and beeps, his terrifying thoughts of the empty life he’d wasted, all combined into one horrendous nightmare. Stuck somewhere between hell and eternal darkness, nothing seemed real, except the recent visit from the orderly. He struggled to open one swollen eye and saw a figure silhouetted by the soft light from the hallway.

  “David?” He could barely hear the whisper of his name over the hissing of the oxygen rushing into his nose and the steady beep of the Pulsox monitor. He held his eye open, while the figure moved steadily closer and into focus.

  “David, it’s Priscilla.”

  Priscilla. There was a name he wouldn’t forget. It had a strange empty cold ring to it now. The thought of her presence made him shut his open eye. Maybe it was part of the nightmare or his sentence to eternal damnation. Either way, the strain wasn’t worth it. If it really was her, she’d only shown up to look good and circle like a vulture waiting to pick his corpse, and probably his bank account, clean. He decided she might be real, and if so, he’d better respond before she flipped a switch or tripped on a cord and ended his life for sure.

  “What are you doing here?” he said in a dry scratchy whisper.

  “I’m your wife, David. Don’t you remember?” Priscilla replied, while cutting her eyes toward the nurse standing within earshot.

  “Let’s cut the act,” David said, still not opening his eyes. Despite the fact that every word was accompanied by a piercing pain in his chest, he took in another breath and efficiently finished his revelation. “We’ve been acting the part for years.”

  Priscilla kept her eyes on the nurse who kept her back to the pair and pretended not to hear a word. “I’m not sure what you mean, dear.”

  David opened his left eye again and looked at Priscilla. Even through his foggy vision, she looked beautifully sexy. Years ago, she’d dressed that way for him. Now, he knew she’d been somewhere trying to attract her next bedmate. He hadn’t minded much, until now. He remembered how he always used to think about how she looked on his arm. Now, he couldn’t think of a reason they were together. There was none.

  “I mean you and I have no love and no respect for each other. This has just been an arrangement of convenience for both us. There’s no meaning in our lives together.”

  David coughed once and winced in pain. The nurse turned from the bank of monitors and glanced at David. She turned back to the monitors as his breathing settled back into a steady rhythm.

  The look on Priscilla’s face was worth the pain. Her nose was wrinkled, and he swore she was holding her breath as her face began to turn red. She hated to look bad in front of anybody, including the attending nurse. He’d never seen her speechless. After a minute, she exhaled and gathered her composure.

  “David, you don’t know what you’re saying. It must be the medication.”

  “It’s not the medication,” he snapped back. The beeping of the heart monitor sped up quickly. “It’s you.”

  Priscilla recoiled and stepped back from the bed.

  “There’s no need for you to come back. We’re through!” he barked in his hoarse dry voice. The Pulsox monitor was now beeping at twice the frequency from before. David began to cough uncontrollably. The nurse stepped to his side and looked up at Priscilla.

  “You’ll have to leave now, Mrs. Wellington.”

  Priscilla gave her an indignant look and stormed from the room. The nurse raised the head of the bed and injected a clear liquid into one of the IVs.

  David’s respiration and pulse dropped, and he began to slip back into a drug induced sleep. A smile spread across his face. For the first time he’d spoken the truth to Priscilla. Part of the sadness and regret lifted. He wasn’t sure if it was the medicine. Suddenly, a song from his favorite childhood movie echoed in his head. Ding dong! The witch is dead! Which ole witch? The wicked witch …

  CHAPTER 14

  Late the next morning, Prescott Rexsen paced past the marble fireplace, crystal chandeliers, and tall bookcases of the Card Room, the elegant conference facility overlooking the 18th hole and the waters bordering the exclusive Pebble Beach Resort. He stopped at the sliding glass door of the terrace and watched the ominous beginnings of a Pacific storm slam frothy breakers against the jagged rocks as they fought a losing battle against the angry sea. Prescott smiled when he thought of David Wellington, who’d lose his own hopeless battle to retain control of Rexsen Labs in just a few minutes. He enjoyed his newfound feeling of superiority. He watched the golfers who had paid three hundred dollars for a hurried round before the storm broke scurry for cover and curse . Rain, driven by strong gusts of wind, clicked against the glass and began to blur his view.

 
; In a few minutes, he would make the most important speech of his life. He moved his lips, practicing the words that would accompany his slides; words that would lead him to riches and power far greater than the old man ever had. He marched to the head of the mahogany table and dropped into the chair.

  That old bastard was gone, and now it was his show. Prescott now represented the Trust, and he had control of Rexsen Labs. With the IPO scheduled for a week from Tuesday, he had only nine more days until his net worth ballooned to six billion dollars. He’d propose to put Brayton in control, since Wellington was incapacitated by the unfortunate accident. Most of the work had already been done with the board. But he needed the formal approval from the members, including Claire Armstrong and William Walters.

  Representing a large mutual fund and a prominent investment bank, they were the most influential members, brought in by Prescott’s father to bring credibility to the board as Rexsen Labs prepared to go public. With a little pressure from Prescott and Brayton, the other board members had easily fallen in line and agreed to support the change. Although technically they didn’t need Walters’ and Armstrong’s approval, Prescott knew he needed it to preserve his fortune. If they didn’t vote to replace Wellington, Armstrong and Walters had the option to resign just before the IPO. Prescott knew that would put the huge run up in stock price, currently predicted by Wall Street insiders, at risk. With the Rexsen Family Trust holding over one hundred million shares, that equated to a nine billion dollar bet Prescott was not willing to take.

  One by one the dark-suited board members filed into the room. All had been contacted and knew precisely the issue to be decided: Wellington out and Brayton in as CEO—permanently. The meeting began and Prescott nervously droned through his prepared remarks. He described how they were in the quiet period, the time where the SEC would allow no information to be released, other than the prospectus for the IPO. The prospectus could be amended in time to still go public a week from Tuesday. The lead underwriter had quietly contacted the largest institutional investors, and the change to Brayton as CEO, with his reputation to run stock prices up in the short term, actually seemed to increase interest in the already oversubscribed stock.