Fatal Legislation

by Ellen Butler

  “Elise is friends with Finley’s current wife. She told Elise, and Elise told the senator.”

  “I’m still unclear. What was Harper’s motivation? He didn’t have a kid with Hunter Syndrome.”

  “You’re right.” She forked the remains of her dish and pointed it at me. “One of Harper’s constituents came to me about the medical bills for her teenage daughter’s cancer treatment. Her bill was six hundred and fifty thousand. It might as well have been a million dollars. She’s a music teacher, and her husband teaches high school math and coaches the soccer team. They have three kids. She was here in D.C. with her son, chaperoning a Model UN field trip. I was her last-ditch effort to get the bill collectors off her back.”

  “What about insurance?”

  “The cancer facility was out of network, and the insurance company claimed the immunotherapy was ‘experimental’ and wouldn’t cover it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That is such crap. Insurance companies are starting to cover immunotherapy everywhere. We all know it’s the wave of the future for curing cancer.”

  “The insurance company covers some” —she thrust the fork in the air for emphasis— “types of immunotherapy, just not this particular kind. The family was ready to sell their house and move into a two-bedroom apartment to pay the bills.”

  I bit my lips in frustration. “This is how people end up homeless. It’s disgraceful that parents in our country can’t take care of sick children without having to sacrifice their home. What happened?”

  She gave a rueful smile. “Elise walked in as the woman was leaving. She’d been crying and Elise noticed. Of course, she asked what was going on, and once she heard ‘cancer’ and ‘child’ Elise turned into a whirlwind. The senator was called over from the Capitol, and I spent the next weeks working with the senator and Elise to get insurance to pay for about half of it, and the rest of the debt forgiven. I’ve never been so proud to work for the senator as I was on that day.”

  “You should be. I’ve always had respect for Harper, now I’ve got even more. What about the girl with cancer?”

  “Right now, she’s cancer-free.”

  “Sounds like the hospital was the one overcharging.”

  “They were, but the immunotherapy itself was over half the bill.”

  “Wow.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you think this move to create a bill came from the senator or Elise?”

  Christy sipped her drink as she considered the question. “The senator. After we worked on the first case, word spread. We were deluged with requests.”

  “You know the Democrats have been trying to push this type of change through for years. Even some Republicans voted for the last bill. Why not simply join with them on tweaking the ‘Purchase Your Pills from Canada’ bill? With the votes Harper could rally, it would likely pass in the Senate.”

  “Yes, but not in the House,” Christy reminded me. “Which is why he brought Finley on.”

  “Okay, Finley can garner more votes in the House. But still, not enough to get something so drastic as government sanctioned drug price modulation passed. That’s a pipedream in today’s climate.”

  “Exactly. He figured, the threat of this bill passing in the Senate would scare Republicans in the House enough, especially with the upcoming elections looking like more of the House will flip to blue, to loosen the reins and compromise by passing the ‘Buy Your Pills from Canada’ bill. Once that passed, he figured it would only be a matter of time before American pricing became more competitive, and $500K medication would become a thing of the past.”

  “Are you sure Harper was a Republican?”

  Christy laughed at my comment. “Absolutely, the senator realized, as any normal human being with a brain would, that there are about half a dozen drug companies here in America running the pharmaceutical industry. They work together to make it harder to create generics so they can spend years longer making big bucks on their drugs. You want to talk about price fixing—the drug companies are already doing it. Just like the oil industry—they’ve created their own OPEC for drugs.”

  She wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. The difference was it was coming out of a Republican staffer—who are generally known to be lenient toward big corporations. Republicans allowed that the market would correct itself by creating its own competition. Which, in an ideal world, was true, but what we’d come to see was that the powerful banded together in order to maintain that power and crush the smaller competition, thus creating a monopoly. Same thing happened in the banking industry and the healthcare insurance industry. There were about five large healthcare insurance carriers that covered seventy-five percent of the population.

  “Do you think Finley will move forward without Harper?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I tend to doubt it.”

  I doubted it too. Without a counterpart in the Senate, I couldn’t see Finley hanging himself, even if he had a personal interest in getting things changed. “Who were you working with over in Finley’s office? Jim, his healthcare aide?”

  “No, Finley was keeping this close to his vest. He definitely didn’t want word to get out until he’d gained the support he needed and knew that Harper was willing to follow through with his proposal in the Senate. I spoke with Nick Ross, his Chief of Staff. I’m not even sure Jim knew about it.”

  “I know of Nick Ross, but I don’t know him,” I said. “I’m sure my organization would be interested in working with the congressman on an initiative like this. Do you think I should approach him?”

  “I don’t even know if he’ll acknowledge it. The day after Harper passed, Ross closed me out. Hasn’t returned my phone calls or emails. I figured it was his way of shutting this down.”

  “Wasn’t Ross on board?”

  She gave a half-shrug. “I’m not sure he was. It’s possible he was only working with me because Finley told him to do it.”

  I sat back in my chair, crossing my arms. Christy checked her watch and began gathering her dirty dishes. I took my cue.

  “Thanks for talking with me. I’m sorry this initiative was cut short by the senator’s passing. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I walked toward Union Station to catch the Metro back to the office. The day was sunny, but a chilly wind whipped the Columbus Circle flags into a frenzy, and I flipped up the collar of my coat. As I waited to cross the street, I rang up Rodrigo and told him about my discussion with Christy.

  “Finley? Hm, that’s a real turn of events. Are you going to reach out?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s not as though Finley and I have been on the same side of the aisle on the legislation I’ve worked in the past. I don’t know how to approach him. Christy said they’ve shut off communications since the senator died.” I dropped a dollar into a panhandler’s cup as I strode past, and a reedy “thank you” followed in my wake.

  “What about reaching out to Nick Ross?”

  “Christy didn’t seem to think he was one hundred percent on board with the idea. I’m not sure he’s an ally.”

  “I know him,” Rodrigo said.

  My footsteps paused. “You do? How?”

  “You’re new, so you don’t know this about me, but three years ago, I weighed seventy pounds more than I do now. To jumpstart my weight loss, I joined one of those fitness boot camps. Nick Ross was in my class.”

  “So, you’re friends?”

  “Well . . . not exactly. We were friendly during boot camp. He’d just moved to D.C. from Finley’s home office to be his Legislative Director. He wanted to run the Marine Corps Marathon and took the boot camp for his training.”

  “Did he know who you worked for?”

  “No. We didn’t talk shop. I only found out who he was when I did some of my own research.”

  “Have you run into him since?”

  “Yes, once. He didn’t recognize me, I’d lost so much weight. Even after I explained where we m
et, he was clueless. To give him credit, he’s not the only one who didn’t recognize me after I lost all those pounds.”

  “Let me think about this,” I said. “Maybe we can arrange to run into him.”

  “I’ll call Finley’s scheduling secretary and see what I can find out.”

  “Good idea. I’m headed underground to the Metro. I’ll meet you at the office soon.”

  Twenty minutes later, I breezed through the glass doors. Rodrigo waited for me in the building’s lobby.

  “What did you find out?” I asked, pushing the elevator button.

  “There’s an event on Wednesday. Finley is a guest speaker. Nick might be there for it.”

  “Can you get us in?”

  “Probably, but—”

  “Do what you can.” We stepped into the mirror and steel elevator.

  “The meeting is out in Reston.”

  “No problem, I’ll drive.”

  “Karina, it’s a right-wing Christian evangelical event, I’m not sure we’ll fit in.”

  I brushed off his concerns. “We’ll be fine. You’re Catholic, right?”

  “Lapsed. Let me rephrase, I’m not sure I’ll fit in.”

  My gaze swept him from top to bottom. The pink shirt and purple striped tie looked good with his darker Puerto Rican skin tones and the shiny gray suit fit him to tailored perfection. I had no doubt a pair of pink and purple socks were hidden beneath his pant legs. I understood his clothing choices, though perfect for metrosexual New York City styles, bordered a fine line in bland-beige-land of D.C. fashion, and might stand out at a conservative Christian gathering.

  “Just wear your black suit with a white shirt and a plain tie. I’ve seen you play it straight before. Oh, and don’t forget to wear black socks.” I pointed at his gray oxfords.

  He pulled a face.

  “Listen, I realize you would prefer to take a pass, but I need your introduction to Nick Ross,” I cajoled.

  He gave me a skeptical look. “Are you sure this isn’t a wild goose chase? We’ve got a forum to prepare for and a committee meeting in a few weeks.”

  The elevator doors swooshed open and, always a gentleman, Rodrigo indicated I should proceed him, but I didn’t go far. We remained near the elevators, out of sight from the glass doors that led into the NHAA office, and continued our conversation in low tones.

  “My point exactly,” I told him. “What if we can come to the next committee meeting with a new initiative in our pockets, headed up by none other than the Honorable Richard Finley. My God, what a coup!”

  “Are you going to tell Hasina?”

  “Sure.” At some point. “Now go get those tickets.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  We entered the office, and as I watched my fashionable colleague continue to his cube, there remained only a slight twinge of guilt on my conscience. Granted, I hadn’t lied to Rodrigo, it would be quite an accomplishment if we could bring Harper’s plan to the Alliance through Finley. It also might wipe away some of the stink of failure from our S46 flop. Not to mention, maybe getting a little posthumous recognition for Harper. What I hadn’t told him—my Spidey senses were tingling. If it did nothing more than put the hairs on the back of my neck to rest, I needed to have a direct conversation with the esteemed congressman.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tuesday went by with only a short conversational “check-in” from Mike. It was clear, more from what he didn’t say than what he did, that he was hotly following a lead and had little time for me. I wasn’t offended, because if he’d actually come over I might have been drawn into a confession about my Spidey tingle, and I wasn’t really in the mood to have Mike look at me with either pitying eyes, or worse, his infuriating I’ll-humor-you-smirk he could deliver that was akin to a dog style head-pat.

  Wednesday arrived in typical March fashion—with rainy skies. Per usual, the drizzle brought on car accidents and slowed traffic in the D.C. metro area. Our ride, which should have taken thirty to forty minutes, took over an hour and had us arriving late for the luncheon event in Reston.

  After a brief conversation with the concierge, Rodrigo and I hustled through the hotel hallways to the Silver Ballroom. The doors were closed, but a young lady wearing the black vest of the hotel staff sat at a table outside the room. A large white sign that read C2ARM Annual Meeting sat on a tripod next to the door.

  “Hello.” I smiled at the brunette while unbuttoning my raincoat. “Traffic was a bear getting here. Is this the Christian event?”

  She nodded, and Rodrigo passed her a pair of printed tickets.

  “I heard there was an accident on I-66. Always happens when it rains.” She scanned our tickets. “You haven’t missed much. We just closed the doors, and they’re probably still taking their seats.”

  “I love your panda earrings! Those are adorable,” Rodrigo uttered.

  She blushed and fingered the earrings. “Thanks, they were a gift. All the tables with numbers on them are reserved. General admission seating is in the back of the room, no numbers. Feel free to sit at any one of those.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured

  Rodrigo held the door open, and I breezed past, stopping short as a most bizarre sight met my eyes.

  “What the hell,” I muttered under my breath.

  “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Dorothy,” Rodrigo said in appalled undertones.

  Approximately thirty round tables were filled with white and silver-haired men and women. If I had to guess, I’d say ninety percent were of retirement age, making Rodrigo and I the youngest pair in attendance. But it wasn’t the age of the patrons that made the scene so odd, it was that more than half of them wore a variety of crowns or tiaras above their brow. A few fancy gold crowns encrusted with multi-colored stones, reminiscent of Charlemagne’s time, graced the heads of some gentlemen, while others wore cheap plastic pieces similar to those my sister and I wore for dress-up as kids. Moreover, the men were dressed in their Sunday-best suits, while the women wore colorful flowy gowns. Rodrigo fit in fine with his black and white ensemble, but my conservative gray pantsuit stood out of place compared to the hippy flower-power frocks.

  “What’s with the Disney Princess crowns?” Rodrigo’s wide-eyed gaze darted from one table to the next.

  “Rodrigo, I thought you said this was a right-wing Christian event,” I murmured through my toothy smile.

  “That’s what Finley’s scheduler told me.”

  A distinct sinking feeling settled in my gut. “Do you think she was having you on? I don’t see him anywhere.”

  “Me neither.”

  By this time our statue-like presence was starting to garner stares from nearby tables. “C’mon.” I tugged on his sleeve. “I see some empty seats at the table to our right.” The table drew me, not only due to the available seating, but also because the occupants had hair color other than white or gray.

  Rodrigo and I nodded and smiled at the two couples seated at a table for eight. I guessed the median age of the foursome to be in their late-fifties and surmised the hair color came out of a bottle. Before we could offer verbal greetings, the squeal of a microphone reverberated through the room, making everyone cringe.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” A white-haired gentleman at the podium tugged at the microphone, which ended up falling off its perch and landed with a loud thud.

  The lectern was mounted at the center of the long head table and that was where I finally spied our quarry—the only person on stage not wearing a crown atop his white-haired head. Nudging Rodrigo with my elbow, I tilted my head toward the front. He glanced up from the knife he was wiping with his purple linen napkin. The knife clanked as he set it absently on top of his soup spoon.

  With some help from a hotel staff member, the octogenarian emcee got the mic adjusted properly and continued his speech. “I’d like to welcome you to the third annual meeting of Christians for Second Amendment Rights Management. My name is Buzz Pinhold, Founde
r and President of this fine organization.” He spoke with a lilting Kentucky accent.

  Rodrigo gasped, and my jaw fell open. For the first time, I zeroed in on the sign taped to the front of the podium. Though I was too far away to read the words that circled the logo, I could clearly make out a purple cross overlaid with the black silhouette of an assault weapon. And, upon further inspection of Buzz’s crown, I realized he wore a circlet of upright rifle bullets. While Rodrigo silently clawed at my knee, I glanced around the room and realized one more thing separated the two of us from the rest of this group—we weren’t card carrying NRA members. Which probably meant we were the only ones not packing heat.

  Buzz carried on, recognizing the rest of the board members sitting at the head table and ending with the special guest and award recipient, Representative Finley, who, by this time, maintained a look of feigned interest. He raised his hand in acknowledgement of Buzz’s introduction. Buzz then introduced another yahoo wearing a gold crown inlaid with red plastic rubies as Harold Shmeissenfenster, C2ARM’s Award’s Chair.

  Harold’s measured southern intonation droned on about the importance of second amendment rights, and how they played into his Christian values. He then proceeded to quote unfamiliar biblical scripture. When he cited a psalm foreign to me, Rodrigo made a queer choking noise, and I began to wonder if Harold had “creatively reinterpreted” his bible to coincide with his beliefs.

  Eventually, he wrapped it up with, “It is now my honor to present this year’s C2ARM Humanitarian plaque to Congressman Finley for his family values that reflect our Christian way of life, and for his continued support to keep assault rifles from being banned, thus maintaining the integrity of our sanctified Second Amendment Rights.”

  I gulped back the repugnance that rose in my throat. By this time, Finley’s coloring had paled and he fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. I had a sneaking suspicion the congressman hadn’t realized the significance of the award, or the strange organization conferring it upon him. If I had to guess, one of his staffers was going to get an ass-chewing for not properly vetting the event. Glancing around the room, I noticed no one had their ever-present phones out snapping photos of the prestigious event. I found my answer sitting on the table. A gray Yondr bag rested next to the woman on my left.