Silent Epidemic (Book 1 - Carol Freeman Series)

by Jill Province

  “And be extra cautious when you begin contacting the rest of the volunteers," Paul interjected.  “They will all be even more fired up after seeing that article in the paper, but we’re only prepared to offer them small settlements after Suprame has passed FDA requirements.”

  “I want both of you working very closely on this," Charles said.  “I’m sure you’ll do a good job, Margie," he said with a winning smile, “but this is a very delicate process and I want Paul to oversee everything."  

  Margie gave him a thumb’s up. Her new office was strategically placed right next to the attorney’s.  She already understood the message from the floor plan, but she was the new kid; and after the current escalation of events, Pratt’s legal expertise was welcome.

  “So, let’s get on it," Sam concluded.  

  Margie went off to her new office and new position.  She had never aspired to anything beyond phones and coffee retrieval.  Strange how other people’s crises had turned in to a golden opportunity.  She opened the door and walked in.  The walls were bare and the room was empty except for a small desk, a chair, a file cabinet, and a phone.  The furniture did not fit the room.  It looked like secretary furniture had been removed from in front of someone’s office and shoved into a room that was too big for the modest lay out.  She didn’t mind.  This was such a big step up from where she had been.

  Margie pushed the desk into the center of the room and placed the phone to one side.  There was a short print-out sitting on the desk with a yellow note attached to it.  It read, “Before you start disaster control, we’ll need you to contact the remaining volunteers to alert them of the change in their final check in location.”  I already feel one with this phone.

   She sat at the desk and laid the thick print-out she had been carrying on top of the one that had been left on her desk.  Of the original five hundred volunteers, there were two hundred and forty three requiring disaster control contact.  She was sure she had already spoken to many of them, but now she would be contacting them.  The maximum figure she was authorized to offer any one person was ten thousand dollars and that was only after a lot of negotiating.  Some of the volunteers would not be expecting any compensation at all, but of the ones who did, she was instructed to begin at twenty-five hundred dollars.

  Margie shook her head at the absurdity of offering a man twenty-five hundred dollars who had developed agoraphobia and was now afraid to leave his house. She had to admit that over the past few weeks she had become very sympathetic to the volunteers.  Many of them had described horrendous symptoms that had reduced them from strong, high-functioning individuals to weak invalids.

  She picked up the phone and dialed the first number.  In most cases, these people would be easy to reach.  The majority of them were probably too sick to go anywhere.  Margie listened through a series of rings before a groggy, weak voice answered the call.  “I’m looking for Melissa Adams," she began.  The woman verified her identity and Margie began the long process of search and rescue.

     

  * * * * * * * * * * *

   

  Carol entered the mental health center to report to work and found Buck Spears, along with several other members of upper management, waiting for her.  The “big guns” had made the journey from their corporate office to begin the investigation into Carl Banner’s homicide.  It was standard procedure to scrutinize the chart of any Newberg Mental Health patient that had either committed suicide or murder.  Among the investigation group were Doctors Abernathy and Morganstern.

  Carol was ushered into a conference room, where she was now being subjected to a word-by-word dissection of the patient’s chart.  She had been blind-sided. She’d missed hearing about Carl‘s shooting expedition, and was caught completely off guard.  “The notation here indicates that you failed to report the severity of Mr. Banner’s condition to Dr. Morganstern." The statement was made by Spears.  

  Carol looked at him with daggers of hatred and resentment.  The guy was truly a master of ass-covering and was acting as if this was the first time he had been made aware the situation. 

  “I did report his condition," she answered, coldly.

  Carol knew that this lynch mob was after a scapegoat.  She had no problem making the determination as to whom that was going to be.  She was at the bottom of the food chain. 

  “Your entry doesn’t say anything here about homicidal ideation," another manager interjected. 

  “That’s because I received the information from a second party, who only reported that Carl might have a gun.  Carl’s mother did not report homicidal statements, and it was the only report we had to work with.” 

  “Nevertheless,” the faceless manager continued, “there is no direct statement here about the patient’s intent."

  Carol couldn’t believe the direct and purposeful framing tactics of this little meeting.  She had almost gotten fired in the process of trying to alert upper management of Carl’s untreated condition and Dr. Morganstern’s incompetence.  “I reported the gun," she said, feeling tired and beaten. 

  “Many people keep guns in their home," Morganstern interjected.  “It doesn’t mean they are homicidal."  

  Carol looked over at the pompous doctor.

  “This particular home was housing a paranoid schizophrenic wearing a foil hat to shield alien thoughts and had nailed his bedroom door shut so that no one could attack him.” 

  “I see no specific diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia," the medical director chimed in. 

  “He was never seen by a doctor," Carol stated wearily.  “But that was my provisional diagnosis."  Health care providers holding Masters Degrees can only make provisional diagnoses as part of the initial assessment.  The diagnosis becomes official after it has been confirmed by a doctor.  In this case, Carl never came back for a formal diagnosis.  They only had Carol’s assessment.

  “Well, we can go around in circles all day," Spears concluded. “However, for the record, I view your handling of the patient’s crisis call to have been questionable at best."  

  Carol wanted to tell each and every one of them that their handling of everything everyday was questionable at best, but she knew her words would be wasted and would only serve to impact her own character. 

  “This employee has already given us notice, is that correct?"  This was stated by one of the faceless managers. 

  “Yes," Spears confirmed.  “She won’t be with us too much longer."  They were now discussing her as if she wasn’t in the room. 

  “Good," the manager agreed.  “Then I think it is safe to say that Carol Freeman will not handle another crisis call for the duration of her employment." 

  “I think that goes without saying," Spears agreed.  He sneered at Carol and added, “You may go now."  

  Carol stood and gave them a look that said, “You may all go to hell,” and left the room.  On the other side of the door, she could hear Spears saying, “How do we propose to clean up this mess?"    

     

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

      

  Donovan and Sally were pulling into the doctor’s reserved parking space, still deep in conversation.  The newspaper article and live broadcast from their front lawn had left them both shell-shocked.  They agreed that they would stop seeing Dominex’s patients.  The liability attached with those people had been a train wreck from the beginning.

  “I would be surprised if any of them continue to come in after seeing that article," Sally said. 

  “In any case," Donovan added, “I’ll be referring them to another doctor."   

  “Don’t you think that might make matters worse?" Sally countered.  “Another doctor will just reinforce the fact that we had kept them on sedatives without their consent." 

  “First they have to prove it," Donovan said, getting furious all over again.  “All this talk about unidentified
pills in brown envelopes is a bunch of horseshit.  Do you know of any drug addicts that don’t lie?" 

  “George, calm down," Sally coaxed.  “It isn’t the one lie.  It’s the collaborative lie." 

  “And I’m saying that since those people had no hope of nailing a huge drug company, they organized together to dump this on me."

  Those would be very impressive organization skills, she thought.  She didn’t think it would be a good idea to point that out to Donovan.  He was already a wreck.  “Okay," she offered instead, “I agree with the burden of proof theory.  The likelihood that anyone has any of the medication left is slim.  It’s a long stretch that anyone can prove what was in those envelopes, much less who put it in there." 

  Donovan sat staring at the steering wheel.  After a few moments, he said, “I should have listened to you.  You haven’t once said, ‘I told you so.’" 

  “Come on," Sally said, placing a comforting hand on his.  “We can’t sit in the car all day."

     

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

   

  Wendy Cox hung up the phone, confirming what she already knew.  She turned to the group assembled in her office.  “I just got the unofficial word that Dominex’s attorney filed a lawsuit first thing this morning.  The group groaned in unison.  “What’d you think?" Cox asked.  “Did you think they would just attribute the story to a slow news day?  I told you on Saturday to expect this."

  “I said the same thing,” the editor announced.  “But we were all so eager to get this story out.”  Everyone turned to Henry Summers.  He had been the editor for the paper for over twenty years.  He had been accused in the past of being homeless, because he never left the building.  Henry was the Atlanta Journal Constitution and took his paper and his job very seriously.  “What are the chances that we can beat this lawsuit?"

  Wendy Cox did not hesitate in her response.  “I told you guys on Saturday that if we presented this story subjectively, we’d be okay.  We were supposed to report what we had been told without adding any additional opinions.  I don’t think we succeeded in doing that." 

  “We had to draw some conclusion from all that information," Jason said defensively. 

  “And our conclusions were blatantly obvious," Sandra added. 

  “They might be," Wendy agreed, “but now you have to prove it."

  Everyone sat pondering the decision they had made.  “We’ll need to get your sources to come in and sign affidavits," Wendy interjected.  “After that, we wait." 

  “Wait for what?" Henry asked. 

  “We haven’t even been formally served yet," the attorney explained.  “The only reason we even know about the suit is because I knew who to contact.”  

  “What happens after they notify us?" Jason inquired. 

  “Then I get with Dominex’s attorney and find out what they want.  If they’ll be happy with a simple re-write of the accusations, I will suggest that we comply." 

  “No way," Jason objected. 

  “Then we begin getting depositions from all sides," Wendy continued.  “And based on the outcome of those statements, we decide if they really have a case."

  “But we have identical stories from these people," Sandra argued.  “How can you even debate whether or not they have a case?" 

  “Because the burden of proof is on us."  We have to able to prove in court that Dominex collaborated with the doctor and knew what the doctor was doing.” 

  “This Donovan guy had no motive to scam those patients," Jason argued.  “The only one who stood to benefit from all that was the drug company."  

  “Tell it to the judge," Wendy said.  “You certainly don’t have to convince me.  But let’s take this one step at a time, shall we?"  

  Everyone nodded.  No one was looking forward to a battle in court, but no one was ready to back down either.

     

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

   

  Paul Pratt was given the difficult task of monetary persuasion.  He had a short list of people who had the power to discredit the company and the research study. The names had been furnished, compliments of their young and eager newsperson.  They hadn’t been warned of the pending story, but they now knew who all the sources were.  The first name on his list was Steve Warner.  He was going to be the toughest nut to crack because of his sister’s suicide.  Most grieving people do not consider money as compensation until much later, after the shock has worn off.

  Paul did not want to use phone contact as a substitute for the real thing.  His strategy was to make individual house calls.  Paul was driving down a residential road, looking for Steve Warner’s house number.  A half-mile down the road he found it and pulled into the driveway behind two other vehicles.  Someone should be home.  He made his way to the front door and rang the bell.  After several minutes, a woman came to the door.  Paul introduced himself and asked to see Mr. Warner.  She eyed him skeptically, but agreed to let him in.

  Paul was led into a small den and told to wait.  The house was modest in size and décor.  That always works to one’s advantage, Paul thought, when attempting to find a financial solution.  He was still working on his presentation when Steve Warner entered the room.  He was wearing a threadbare tee shirt and equally worn out blue jeans.  One slipper had a hole in front, exposing a toe.

  “You have two minutes," Steve announced, sitting opposite the attorney.  Paul had been prepared for the hostility. 

  “I appreciate that," he began, “but I think if you hear me through you might see things a little differently.” 

  “I doubt that, but go ahead.  I’m listening."

  Paul began his performance.  “First, I want to tell you how sorry we are about your sister."  Steve folded his arms in front of his chest and stared at the attorney to proceed.  “Second, I want to explain how the research study procedure got derailed.” 

  “Derailed?" Steve mimicked sarcastically. 

  “I know what you must be thinking," Paul continued with a winning smile, “but the newspaper missed an important part of this story." 

  “Really?" Steve said.

  “We had no idea what the effect would be when we began this study," the attorney continued.  “No one had ever been required to conduct this sort of testing before.  We were appalled when we discovered how sick some of them had gotten after stopping the medication.  Dr. Donovan had a good reputation and we felt confident sending our volunteers to him." 

  “He’s a butcher," Steve chimed in. 

  “Well, we know that now," Paul conceded.  “We didn’t know that at the time your sister went to see him."  The man looked at the attorney through squinty skepticism.  At least he was no longer openly hostile, Paul thought, and moved on with confidence.  “Anyway, the first time we became aware of what was really going on was when the article came out in the Sunday paper." 

  “Oh, come on," Steve interjected.  “You can’t tell me that people weren’t calling your company and complaining about the lack of treatment they were getting." 

  Paul had been expecting this objection and had been prepared for it.

  “Sure, we knew people were having a hard time," he said, “but the primary calls we received were from the volunteers that had refused any treatment at all.  We had no idea that the doctor had put your sister back on the medication and then took her off of it again.” 

  “And what about that?" Steve said.  “Why would he go to such lengths to get her back on that poison, only to take it away from her again?"  

  Paul nodded his agreement with the fact that the doctor’s actions made no sense. 

  “We’re pretty sure that one of the volunteers wrote a letter to the state medical board and that the doctor had been informed of a pending investigation.” 

  “And when did you find that out?" 

  “We have been very busy si
nce that article appeared in the paper," the attorney explained.  “We admit that the investigation we have done in the past twenty-four hours should have been done months ago, but we honestly believed that everything was being done to our specifications.”

  “That won’t bring Clair back," Steve said sadly.  The hostility had disappeared and a sad, grieving brother was all that was left. 

  “We know that and we are sorry for your family’s loss," Paul said, winding up for the climax.  “We are therefore prepared to offer you and your family some compensation for your pain and suffering.  

  Steve looked at the attorney once again with skepticism.

  “And how much do you think Clair was worth?"  

  “Mr. Warner, we don’t think that such a price exists," Paul said soothingly.  “But it is all we have to offer."  The man thought about it for a moment, and said, “One-hundred thousand."  Paul nodded at the man.  He had been prepared to offer at least that much.  He was ready to close.

  “We would be willing to agree to that amount," he said, “but there are a few conditions first.  Dominex is in the red right now, but after the new medication is made available we will be able to meet your request.” 

  “When will that be?"  

  “If there are no more problems or delays with the research study, we’re looking at about four weeks."

  Paul let that statement slowly sink in.  What he had just told the man was that if he refrained from coming forward in the newspaper suit, he stood to make one hundred thousand dollars. 

  “Can I think about it for a few hours?"  

  “Take the rest of the day," Paul said with a smile and stood to shake the man’s hand. 

  “I guess we don’t always know the whole story even when we think we do," Steve said contritely. 

  “I would have thought the exact same thing if I had been in your position," Paul added, and patted the man on the shoulder.  “I’ll contact you in the morning.  If you decide to accept our compensation, I’ll have my assistant come by with some papers for you to sign." 

  “Thanks," Steve said, shaking the attorney’s hand again.  “I’ll walk you to the door."    

  After pulling out of the driveway and down the street, Paul pulled out his cell phone and dialed.  “Sam," he announced.  “Steve Warner’s off the witness list."