The Death of Distant Stars, A Legal Thriller

by Deborah Hawkins

  She felt a gentle hand on her arm and looked over at Mark. She gave him a little smile. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

  “But I did.” He smiled back. “Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I know what we heard last night was upsetting, but it did prove what we’ve suspected all along: irregularities in the approval of Myrabin. And there were deaths in the clinical trials.”

  “But Harrison won’t testify, so how do we prove it?”

  “We don’t know yet.” He was looking at her with his kind, gentle grey eyes that made her feel something she didn’t want to feel.

  She changed the subject. “When I found Hugh in the bar last night, he was alone. He looked sad.”

  “I think he is,” Mark agreed. “But I don’t know exactly why. I know his wife is pushing him to run for the Senate, and he doesn’t want to. Maybe seeing Erin today will cheer him up.”

  The train rolled on through the rain to its own comforting rhythm. The big car swayed gently in time to the clacking wheels. Kathryn watched the rain drops dissolve into their own sad little puddles and decided any more personal discussions were dangerous.

  So she said, “Tell me about Charles Lawson. Why was a lawyer appointed to be head of the Food and Drug Administration?”

  “Lawson is a Harvard M.D. and J.D. He’s well connected in political circles. He was a natural choice to head the agency.”

  * * *

  Afternoon of October 23, 2014, Manhattan Offices of Craig, Lewis, and Weller

  At three o’clock, Kathryn followed Hugh and Rick and Mark into an elevator that deposited them on the thirtieth floor of the Manhattan offices of Craig, Lewis, and Weller, deep in the glass towers of Wall Street. The receptionist, who was presiding over the lobby on a throne behind a marble desk, instructed them to be seated on the soft leather couches directly under her watchful gaze. Kathryn studied the fresh flowers on the table and wondered how much it cost the firm to keep orchids in the lobby year round. Outside, the incessant rain hammered against the glass walls in the deepening early afternoon twilight.

  Fifteen minutes later, the double glass doors to the inner sanctum opened and Charles Lawson himself came striding toward him in all of his expensive Brooks Brothers splendor. He was around five eight and heavyset with salt and pepper hair and scholarly wire-rimmed glasses.

  Hugh stood to shake his hand and introduce everyone. Dr. Lawson greeted them as cordially as if he actually wanted them there. He had them all follow him down the winding Craig, Lewis halls to his enormous office at the end of the corridor.

  The five of them settled around a small conference table in one of the corners of Dr. Lawson’s office. A secretary appeared with a pot of coffee and poured some for everyone without asking if anyone actually wanted any. But the brew was deep and rich, and warming on the cold rainy afternoon.

  Hugh leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, coffee mug balanced on his knee. He looked relaxed and comfortable as if he owned the space he occupied. “Thanks for making time to see us, Charles.”

  “Not at all, Hugh. I’m afraid I’m not going to have good news for you, though. My secretary indicated you’re pursuing Wycliffe over a wrongful death claim based on Myrabin.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Andrews’ husband died as a result of taking Myrabin. Liver failure within ninety days of starting the drug.”

  Dr. Lawson looked over at Kathryn. “My deepest sympathy, Mrs. Andrews. Ninety days after commencing treatment is an indication a new drug may be to blame, but this one is very, very safe. There are no deaths associated with Myrabin since its approval by the FDA.”

  “Dr. Maurice Vannier, head of the biology department at the École Normale Supérieure, does not agree with you,” Hugh said. “He believes there are many deaths caused by the drug.”

  Dr. Lawton smiled and shrugged. “The American scientific community does not find Dr. Vannier’s work all that remarkable.”

  “In other words, American science is better?” Hugh raised his eyebrows.

  “If you want to put it that way, yes. Dr. Vannier was out of his element when he worked for Suchet. They fired him, you know.”

  Hugh looked over at Mark, a gesture Kathryn had come to understand cued him to speak. “That’s not our understanding of what happened,” Mark said.

  Dr. Lawson smiled. “I very much doubt Dr. Vannier has any incentive to be truthful about his time with Suchet. They hired him to produce a product that would have wide marketability, but he failed. Wycliffe realized the potential of Myrabin and finished developing it.”

  “We know he sent his work to the FDA, and someone instructed the Myrabin team to disregard it.” Mark’s tone was informational but not accusatory.

  “I was the one who told them to ignore it. When I was teaching at Harvard Medical School, I was involved in work on drugs for hypertension. It’s a particular interest of mine because it runs in my family.” He looked at Kathryn and said pointedly, “I have to take medication for my blood pressure. I studied Dr. Vannier’s work. To put it politely, I knew it wasn’t any good; so I instructed the Myrabin team at the FDA to ignore it. He was wrong, and I was right. There have been no deaths since Myrabin was approved.”

  “What about the two deaths in the clinical trials?” Rick Peyton asked.

  Dr. Lawson looked startled. “Who told you about those?”

  “They were mentioned in some of the discovery,” Mark lied.

  “That wasn’t supposed to be turned over.” Dr. Lawson’s anger was barely in check. “That information is not relevant to Mrs. Andrews’ claim because those deaths were not caused by Myrabin.”

  “And you investigated each one?” Rick asked.

  “Of course we did! Look, you’re a physician. You know your patients aren’t honest with you about how much they drink and how often. Those deaths were alcohol-related liver failure. They had nothing to do with Myrabin. This is a very, very safe drug.”

  * * *

  Per Se, evening of October 23, 2014, New York

  Hugh had insisted on a table with a view of Central Park. Erin arrived at seven thirty just after they were seated. She was even more beautiful in person than in the picture her mother had shown Kathryn at Crown Manor. She, indeed, had Buffy’s heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, and caramel hair that fell in luscious waves to her shoulders. But she had her father’s height and expressive brown eyes. Kathryn noticed that all of the male eyes in the restaurant followed her progress to her father’s table.

  The menu was expensive and intimidating, but Hugh took charge and ordered the nine-course chef’s tasting menu for the table. After the drinks were handed around, Erin, who was seated at Hugh’s left, looked over at Kathryn on his right, and asked about her work at the public defender’s office.

  “It’s a hard job,” Kathryn said. “Much harder than I thought it was going to be.”

  “I’ve been thinking of applying,” Erin said. “I’m only going to stay at Craig, Lewis for another year.”

  “But why the public defender’s office?” her father asked. “You could come to work for me.”

  Erin gave him a charming smile that melted his perplexed frown. “But I won’t get to try any cases if I come to work for you. I’m bored as it is. I’m not actually practicing law at Craig, Lewis. I’m pushing paper from one side of my desk to the other and writing long memos about esoteric legal questions for the partners. Admit it, Dad. It wouldn’t be any different at Goldstein, Miller except for better weather to commute in.” She turned to Kathryn again, excitement in her eyes. “I bet you’ve done a lot of trials.”

  “Too many to count.”

  “You’re lucky. Nothing goes to trial in civil litigation. Everything settles.”

  “We settle cases, too.”

  “But not all of them.”

  “No, not all. But working as a public defender breaks your heart.”

  “How?” She looked skeptical.

  “When you get that rare case where the client is actually in
nocent, and there aren’t many, and you have to advise him to plead guilty to a lesser offense to avoid a long sentence. It’s not easy to send an innocent man to prison.”

  Erin looked sober as if the prospect had not occurred to her.

  “What can you tell us about Charles Lawson?” Hugh asked as the appetizers took center stage. For a few moments, Kathryn was lost with her companions in the prospect of Island Creek Oysters and Sterling White Sturgeon Caviar, a delicate tart of winter squash and tomatoes, and Hudson Valley Moulard Duck Foie Gras. She had never tasted anything so exquisite.

  “I’ve never done any work for Dr. Lawson,” Erin said. “His principal need is for associates who will carry his black bags when he goes to Washington to testify. That happens all the time.”

  “Where is he testifying, and who does he represent?” Hugh asked.

  “In Congress, at FDA hearings. His clients are the major pharmaceutical firms. Basically he testifies in support of various drugs the companies want to market or are marketing. He doesn’t seem to actually practice law. He’s more of a lobbyist.”

  The second course arrived, as tantalizing as the first. Kathryn was lost in the delights of Fairytale Eggplant and Butter Poached Nova Scotia Lobster with petite radishes; Four Story Hill Farm’s "Suprême De Poularde " with Champagne Currants and Cipollini Onion; and Carnaroli Risotto Biologico with Shaved Australian Black Winter Truffles. The waiter kept refilling their glasses with the French champagne Hugh had insisted on. It seemed oddly like a party instead of a business meeting on the heels of a disappointing witness interview. Tom would be smiling now, Kathryn thought, happy that something this exotic and expensive had taken her out of the rut that grief had plowed through her life for the last two years.

  Kathryn noticed Erin watched her father with real affection. What would it be like to have your pick of high-salaried jobs and a father who rubbed shoulders with senators and presidents? But Erin’s interest in working for her office seemed genuine.

  “I gather Dr. Lawson didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear,” she said to her father.

  He shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it. He lied about investigating the two reported cases of liver failure during the Myrabin clinical trials. He also lied about Maurice Vannier’s reputation as a scientist. He gave us some great material for impeachment when Wycliffe calls him as a witness. But he definitely did not admit wrongdoing in the approval of Myrabin.”

  “But you didn’t really think he’d do that did you, Dad?”

  Hugh gave Erin the impish smile that Kathryn had learned to recognize as a sign of his affection. “No, but hoping for a miracle doesn’t hurt.”

  Kathryn looked across the street at the rich red and gold auras created by the reflection of the street lamps on the autumn leaves in Central Park and bit her tongue, so she wouldn’t say what was on her mind. Hugh was wrong. Hoping for a miracle did hurt. It hurt like hell. And, in the end, hoping for a miracle hadn’t kept Tom alive. And then more recently, she’d learned from Paul’s betrayal and from her naïveté about Dan Ayers that hoping for a miracle only brought exquisite pain. No, Hugh was wrong when he said hoping for a miracle didn’t hurt. Hoping for a miracle tore your heart out.

  * * *

  October 24, 2014, Friday, 8:30 a.m., LaGuardia, New York

  Next morning, it was still raining as the United Airlines jet clawed its way through the ominous clouds and into the sky. Long fingers of rain trailed their way slowly across the plane’s windows, ceremoniously marking each one as the big jet fought for altitude against the winds. As soon as the drink service began in the first class cabin, Hugh ordered a scotch.

  “Think I have a problem?” he asked Kathryn after his drink came and he’d taken a few sips.

  She was seated next to him again with Rick and Mark behind them. Even that early in the morning, he had the same air of melancholy she’d sensed when he was sitting at the bar at the Four Seasons. She sipped her coffee from the inadequate airline paper cup and considered what to say.

  “That question made you uncomfortable,” he said before she could answer.

  She frowned. “Okay, it did. Why does what I think matter?”

  Hugh smiled. “I don’t know. But it matters. It mattered that first day you came to the firm, and I realized I’d lost your respect in the conference room when you saw me with Logan.”

  For a moment Kathryn didn’t know what to say. Finally she decided on the truth.

  “But I have the greatest respect for you.”

  “As a lawyer, but not personally.”

  She wished he would stop probing for her approval. “No, that isn’t true. I respect you for your work as an attorney. And I know you are a man of integrity.”

  “Except for affairs with my associates.”

  “I don’t think I’m qualified to judge that.” She thought guiltily of the way she’d fallen for Dan Ayers and pined to see him ever since. “From what I understand, Patty was Logan’s predecessor, and she has nothing but respect for you.”

  Hugh smiled as he sipped his too-early-in-the-morning scotch. “I’m relieved to hear that. But you still think I’m not to be trusted.”

  Kathryn frowned. “Not at all. I’ve trusted you with Tom’s case, which means more to me than anything in the world now that I’ve lost him.”

  She saw his dark eyes soften behind his thick lenses. “Thanks.”

  She sipped coffee for a few moments and pictured Hugh as he had sat on the barstool that night at the Four Seasons. Her heart suddenly and unexpectedly twisted with sympathy for him. “Maybe you’d feel better if I told you I drank too much after Tom died. Gallons and gallons of cheap wine from Trader Joe’s. I knew it was too much. I knew it was everyday. But I hurt too much to care.”

  “And now?”

  “Some days more, some days less. I probably should stop, but I don’t want to.”

  Hugh gave her the impish grin he’d given Erin the night before. “Me either.”

  He nursed his scotch in silence for a few minutes. His expression said he was deciding whether to confide in her. Finally he took the plunge. “Give me your honest opinion about Erin’s interest in working for your office. Would it be a good idea?”

  The question surprised her, but she was flattered because he wanted her advice. “She’d definitely learn to try cases. You know better than anyone else, you can’t be a good lawyer if you’re afraid to go to trial. I would say, though, she’d want to move on after a couple of years. Emotional burnout is the downside. It gets to everyone eventually.”

  “Did it get to your husband?”

  “Sometimes. But usually when he was overwhelmed, he’d spend a few hours surfing, and he’d be okay again.” She willed herself not to say “surfing with Shannon.”

  “What about you?”

  She sighed. “To be honest, I’m beyond burnout at this point. Ever since Tom died, I’ve felt futile. It was different when we could talk about our cases and convince each other we were doing something good. But now I see that my professional life is nothing but a series of guilty verdicts and plea deals for guilty people.”

  “Then consider coming to work for us when this case is over. You’d like plaintiff’s litigation the way we do it.” He gave her that smile again.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Monday, October 27, 2014, Office of the Public Defender, 450 B Street, San Diego

  Kathryn was at her desk by seven thirty on Monday. The trip with Hugh had left her swamped at work. But she didn’t care. As she shifted through the accumulated mail, she decided this must have been the way Cinderella felt the morning after the ball. She wanted to read all that mail about as much as Cinderella had wanted to pick up her broom and start sweeping her stepmother’s hearth.

  Someone tapped lightly at her open door, and she looked up to see her boss, Mildred Fletcher. Mid-fifties, five-eight, short curly black hair, dressed this morning in a Chanel tweed suit culled from a secon
d-hand shop, but so impeccably tailored that it would have done Patty E. Fox proud. Millie Fletcher was a tough African-American woman who had fought her way up the ladder rung by rung until she had become one of California’s leading authorities on the art and science of criminal defense.

  “How was your trip?”

  Kathryn smiled. “Long, interesting, and a glimpse into another world.”

  Did you find anything that will help your case?”

  “Yes and no. At best we could see it’s going to be an uphill fight to prove what we already know is true. Myrabin killed Tom.”

  Millie looked down at the pile of mail on Kathryn’s desk and said, “I know you’re trying to catch up, but I need to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  Kathryn felt her stomach tighten. What had she done wrong? “Sure, of course.”

  Millie, who had come equipped with a venti Starbuck’s Café Americano, sat down in the chair across from Kathryn’s desk. She took a fortifying sip of the black brew and began. “I want to talk to you about a case that came in while you were away. I want to assign it to you.”

  Kathryn heaved a sigh of relief because this wasn’t a disciplinary interview after all. But she frowned and pointed to the stacks of files on the shelf behind her. “My dance card is pretty full at the moment.”

  “I know, I know. But let me tell you why I want you to have this one.”

  “Okay.” Kathryn took a long drink of her own coffee.

  “Over the weekend, three gang members from Ninth Street Crips came across a tourist who had wandered a little off the beaten path in the Gaslamp quarter downtown. Two of them assaulted the man and demanded his wallet, but the third shot and killed him. There was a surveillance camera on one of the nearby buildings that picked up the whole thing. The district attorney is charging it as a robbery-felony-murder, life-without-parole case. We’re sending the shooter to the Alternate Public Defender’s Office and the first accomplice to the court-appointments panel. We’re keeping the second accomplice here. His name is Tyrone Lavone Jones. I want you to take his case.”