Fatal Legislation

by Ellen Butler

  “Do you think the hacker hired Jablonski? Or is he a hired hand too?”

  “That”—he yawned again—“is another excellent question.”

  My mind kept going back to Harper’s assertion that he was working on something that would put S46 to shame. What could it be, and why hadn’t he shared it with my office? He must have known we’d help him with something that would improve healthcare, reduce costs to the consumer, and lighten the paperwork load for clinicians.

  “I wonder what Harper was working on,” I mused aloud, but the only sound that met my statement was Mike’s steady, deep breathing.

  I pulled the afghan across his legs and snuggled closer, drawing on his warmth. Eventually, my brain got off the hamster wheel of questions and slowed enough to fall asleep.

  We woke from our late morning nap to the ring of Mike’s cell phone calling him back to work. By the evening news, I realized why. The national stations were running with the story that Harper’s death was being investigated because law enforcement believed there was foul play. Details were sketchy but the news report made it clear a joint task force investigation was headed up by the FBI.

  The FBI’s response to the media like a broken record. “The FBI does not comment on ongoing investigations.”

  Ten minutes later, Latesha rang.

  “Hi, Tesha.”

  “Karina, are you okay? Oh, my heavens, they’re saying the senator was murdered. I thought you said he had a heart attack. You said you were there.”

  “Yes.” I wasn’t sure what I could tell Latesha.

  “Maybe someone slipped him poison. Was he frothing at the mouth?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Maybe someone gave him a shot that stopped his heart. I’ve read about that. Makes it look like a heart attack. Or maybe he was a Russian spy and they slipped him polonium.”

  “I don’t know about that. The Russian polonium seems a bit farfetched. Um, listen, Latesha, my mom’s calling on the other line. I’d better go.”

  “I understand. Call me tomorrow.”

  “Uh-huh.” I hung up, turned off my cell, and unplugged the house phone.

  On Sunday morning, Mike called—I think to assure himself that I was okay more than anything—because he said nothing new about the investigation, or even much about the press surrounding it. What was clear from my limited conversation with him and from watching the news was that he and the FBI were under a lot of pressure from both Congress and the president to find someone to pin Harper’s assassination on ASAP.

  None of which assuaged my worries. I wasn’t a dummy. No matter what McGill had said, if they couldn’t find Jablonski or the hacker soon . . . I might find myself sweating in a gray box of a room, being interrogated for a crime I didn’t commit, nor had any clue who did. Being a scapegoat because I foolishly took the senator’s phone was not at the top of my list of “Fun Things to do Today.”

  Even if they cleared me, the press would have a field day ruining my reputation before the FBI released me. As it was, I knew, soon enough the press would get a hold of my statement to Officer Leander, or one of the paramedics, or a Capitol Police officer who saw me in the tunnels. I counted the people who knew–Hasina, Rodrigo, Sandy, Latesha . . . too many. Eventually, the press would crack one of them, and Headline News would be knocking on my door for an exclusive. I realized, in the coming days, I’d be looking over my shoulder for reporters. Again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Monday, I found Hasina waiting in my office. I can’t say her visit was unexpected. She wore a kelly-green spring dress with a matching sweater, her long black mane swept up into a French twist. She perused the photos lining the bookcase. They were pictures of me with a variety of senators, congressmen, and two former presidents.

  “How old were you when this was taken?” she asked in her faint Indian accent, pointing to a group photo with a former first lady.

  “High school. We were finalists in a writing contest about the importance of education for women.” I laid my case and handbag on the desk. “I suppose you’re wondering about Senator Harper? Have a seat.”

  Hasina folded herself into the guest chair while I followed suit behind my desk.

  “I had a meeting with the FBI on Friday after the funeral. There’s not much that I can tell you. As you’ve heard on the news, they suspect foul play. Something caused the senator to have a heart attack.” I had no interest in laying the case before my boss and decided it would be in my best interests to provide the bare minimum. “I told them what I knew, which isn’t much.” I shrugged.

  “And you . . .” Those dark eyes scrutinized me.

  I put on a face I called “Interested Neutrality,” something I’d perfected during mock trials at law school. “. . . Am cooperating with law enforcement. As you can see, I’m not under arrest.”

  “Do they have any idea who the perpetrators are?”

  “No clue. The FBI does not comment on ongoing investigations. But, from what I gathered, they are following some leads.”

  “Well, now that’s out of the way. I wanted to talk to you about the leadership committee meetings coming up at the end of the month. This is the first time you’ll be a part of them, and I wanted to let you know what to expect.”

  Half an hour later, Hasina exited my office. Rodrigo was at my doorway within moments of her leaving. He didn’t even bother to knock, instead came in without a by-your-leave, closed the door, and parked himself on my guest chair.

  “So now it’s murder.” His eyebrows waggled as he crossed his legs.

  “Apparently.”

  “Did you know?”

  I gave him an unsmiling stare. “No.”

  “Did the police question you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And . . .”

  “And . . . nothing. I told them what happened. Again. They asked the same questions. Again. That’s it,” I said in a disinterested voice.

  “Well, that’s no fun.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” I turned back to my computer. “And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t spread the gossip around the office.”

  “Absolutely. Scout’s honor.” Rodrigo made a zipping motion across his mouth.

  I had my doubts, but short of kidnapping and locking him in a closet, there was little I could do to make him keep that promise.

  “So, did you find out anything more about the bill Harper was trying to put together?” He changed the subject.

  “As a matter of fact, I did. I sat next to Sandy Harding at the funeral, and she told me Christy Manheim had been working on it. She also mentioned something about Finley, in the House.”

  “Finley! No way. That man wouldn’t touch a healthcare bill if his grandma’s life depended on it.”

  I tended to agree with Rodrigo’s sentiment, but I didn’t speak my thoughts aloud.

  “Maybe she meant Folliero. When are you meeting Christy?”

  “I’m going over at lunch around one.”

  “Should I go with you?”

  I eyed Rodrigo. When it came to approaching certain people, Rodrigo could be an asset. Even though his exterior persona sometimes gave off a flibbertigibbet vibe, he was no empty-headed fool. Long and short, Rodrigo’s persuasive ability was different than mine and his manner could be disarming. “I think today, I’ll take the confiding girl talk approach with Christy. We can sympathize with each other over Harper’s death. Besides, I’m afraid your anger at Harper’s flip-flop might show through.”

  “You’re probably right.” He stood and brushed the nonexistent wrinkles out of his pants. “Do you want me to reach out to Folliero’s office? Nose around, see if I can get a beat on what angle Harper was working?”

  “Let me get back to you after I talk with Christy.”

  “Will do.” He turned to leave but paused at the door. “By-the-by, I’ve got two tickets for opening night of Turandot at the Kennedy Center this Friday. Want to come with me?”

  I gaped, taken aback by his in
vitation. “Um . . . what about Alfonse?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Working. ‘Friday? I simply can’t get away on a Friday, dahling,’” Rodrigo said, imitating his partner’s French accent.

  Alfonse was the Executive Chef for a Michelin rated restaurant in Adams Morgan. I’d met him in passing. Rodrigo’s birthday was my first day, and Alfonse brought over a mouth-watering Mediterranean meal for the entire office to share. Rodrigo called it a guilt meal, since Alfonse couldn’t get off work for his birthday. If Alfonse had been my significant other, I’d guilt him into a meal daily and be as big as a hippo. Everyone knew about Alfonse.

  There was no denying I enjoyed the theater, and it was a rarity that I got tickets to an opening night. “Let me check the calendar.” Friday held a notable absence of evening activity, and I figured Mike would still be up to his neck in this investigation. A night out that didn’t include a fundraiser was exactly what I needed. “I’d love to go to the opera with you.”

  “I’ll pencil you in. Wear something snazzy, there’s a reception beforehand at the Rooftop Terrace.”

  “I won’t let you down.”

  I CRUISED DOWN THE third-floor hallway at quarter to one and found Christy Manheim exiting Harper’s office.

  “Christy!” She started when I called her name. “Hi, I finished my last meeting early. Is this still a good time?”

  “Sure . . .” She hesitated. “Actually, I’d forgotten we were meeting. I was just going to get lunch.”

  I got the sneaking suspicion Christy was trying to dodge me. “No problem, I haven’t eaten either and I’m starving. I’ll join you. Where are you headed?”

  “The bistro across the street.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Christy ordered the Ginger Teriyaki chicken and I settled on a Garbanzo Bean salad. We were able to snag one of the tiny square tables at the back.

  Before I could take a single bite, Christy leaned forward and whispered, “Listen, I know what you want to talk about, and there was simply nothing I could do.”

  “Uh, Christy, I’m not sure we’re on the same conversation train here. What couldn’t you do?” I returned in similar low tones.

  “Talk Harper out of switching his vote, of course. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “No, no.” I shook my head. “I already know why the senator changed his vote. He told me. That’s all water under the bridge.”

  “Oh.” She sat back, and for the first time since I greeted her, her shoulders relaxed. “Then what did you want to talk about?”

  “I sat next to Sandy during the funeral, and she told me you’d been working on a different healthcare bill with the senator.” Christy looked blank. “I was under the impression she’d mention it to you. Anyway, I wanted to offer my help.”

  Christy popped a piece of chicken into her mouth and proceeded to chew, very slowly, as she thought about what I’d said. She swallowed and took a drink before answering. “I suppose, the situation being what it is, and since Sandy told you . . .”

  I waited while she dithered, afraid if I said the wrong thing she’d clam up. The fact that she was being so cagey about this practically had me on the edge of my seat to hear what the senator had been cooking up.

  She leaned forward again. “You see, the senator was working back channels to gain support for legislation he wanted to introduce. He said it was important to keep it ‘hush-hush’” —she used finger quotes— “until he could gain enough support in the Senate and the House.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “He was going to propose a bill to create sweeping changes to the pharmaceutical industry with price caps and revamping FDA regulations. He said it would be the first step toward reining in the excessive drug prices.”

  “I’m . . . shocked. Isn’t the Republican party all about making government smaller? Something like this would create huge oversight to enforce.”

  “Not as much as you’d think.”

  “I still don’t understand. What’s the big secret? Democrats have been proposing something similar for years. Last year, they proposed allowing Americans to purchase their drugs from Canada so we can access the discounts Canadians receive through their government’s price regulation. Not much different than what you’re saying Harper had planned. Moreover, he must have known he’d never get enough of the Republican votes to make it happen, and the party would crucify him.” I took a bite of crunchy salad.

  “I wasn’t even sure he could get all the Democrats on board for something so sweeping.”

  “So, why take the chance? It’s career suicide, not to mention the money. . . . Wait a minute.” The little hamster in my head slowly started walking on the wheel. “Pfizer closed up their research and development shops in Michigan. Right?”

  “R and D? Yes, about ten years ago.”

  “You don’t have any of the biggies there anymore, do you?”

  Slowly, her head moved back and forth.

  “Was Harper getting any money from Big Pharma these days?”

  “A number of smaller biotech companies have opened up shop in the Southeast where Pfizer used to be. There were donations, but nothing substantial compared to what it used to be.”

  “Was he . . . no, he couldn’t. . . .”

  “When Pfizer was in Michigan, it gobbled up every smaller company in its path. Now that Pfizer is gone, we’ve seen almost twelve percent job growth in the sector, mostly from new biotech companies, medical devices, and drugs,” Christy told me.

  “So . . . what, was he bouncing his ideas off the new company CEOs?”

  “More than that. About four months ago, he held a private meeting with five CEOs. Every one of those small companies would like to take a bite out of the Big Pharma sharks and make room for themselves.”

  “So much so, they’d risk price fixing?”

  She shrugged. “The new guys want in on the market.”

  “I don’t know. When was Harper up for re-election? Two or four years?”

  “Four.”

  I nodded. “Let me guess, he wasn’t planning to run. So, he was playing the long game? Hoping the Senate would flip Democrat?”

  “And the House, but there’s a possibility he wouldn’t need the flip.”

  I gave an unladylike snort. “You’ve got to be joking. There’s no way you’ll get something like this to pass under a House run by the Republicans.”

  She took a sip of her diet soda. “You’d be surprised.”

  I gave her a sideways glance. “Sandy said something about reaching out to Finley.”

  Christy’s lip curled.

  “Finley. Not Folliero?”

  “Finley.” She chewed another piece of chicken.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Again, I had to wait for her to swallow. “Believe it,” she said.

  “Why? He’s from New Jersey. Let me think . . . J & P is based there. I know he’s taken money from them. It would be akin to political suicide.”

  “Did you know he had a grandson who died two years ago?”

  I thought a moment. “Vaguely, I remember that. I thought he had some rare form of cancer.”

  “Hunter Syndrome.”

  “Huntington’s Disease? How awful, that’s a death sentence and there’s no known cure.”

  She shook her head. “Hunter Syndrome, it’s different. Causes all sorts of awful symptoms, including cognitive impairments. It’s due to a protein or enzyme deficiency—I can’t remember. Anyway, there’s one drug on the market, Elaprase.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Guess how much it costs?”

  I shrugged. “Eighty grand.”

  “Try five hundred thousand.”

  I choked on my drink, and wheezed, “Five hundred thousand?”

  “Annually. His daughter quit her job to stay at home with the little boy and take care of him. When the boy was six, the father was killed in a car accident and she lost his insurance. She goes back to work part-time and sells everything t
o continue to pay for the medication because it was working. The house, nice cars, furniture, even her diamond engagement ring. Then, she can’t pay anymore. She gets in arears. The medication stops, the little boy comes down with an infection and . . . ” Christy turned her hands up in a helpless gesture.

  “Where was Finley during all of this?”

  “She’s progeny from Finley’s first marriage. The divorce was ugly. They were estranged for years. Too much pride. My understanding—by the time she reached out to Finley—it was too late to make a difference. He was there in the final weeks, trying to move heaven and earth to save that little boy, but it was too late.” Her face drooped with sorrow. “The boy had just turned ten.”

  The story brought tears to my eyes. I sipped the cold soda and cleared my throat to cover up the well of sympathy for that poor woman. “Holy moly. That’s quite a story. I don’t understand why Finley hasn’t been using his platform to jump up and down and demand change. I mean, when it hits that close to home, and you have a public microphone at your disposal . . . ”

  Her lips twisted. “As you said, J & P paid mightily for his last election. I think he’s been waiting for Senator Golden to retire so he can run for his seat. But, until then, every two years, he’s up for election.”

  “Yeah, that’s a lot of fundraising.”

  “And J & P isn’t the only Big Pharma he takes money from.”

  “You think he’s afraid if he rocks the ship too soon, it won’t pass and he won’t get reelected?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Who makes Elaprase?”

  “A UK based company. Get this, their main office in the US . . .”

  My brows rose. “Let me guess, based in Jersey.”

  “You got it.”

  “Have they donated to Finley’s campaign?”

  “A hundred thousand last election.”

  “So, he had the connections. He could have gotten the drug for his grandchild.”

  “He did get it. But the infection had set in too far. The boy ended up in renal failure. There’s only so much the body can take.”

  “That’s terrible, how awful for him and his mother. How did you find out all of this?”