CEO Martin Dilworth dispenses with all preliminaries and niceties.
“I’m going to be brief and just hit the high spots on this. This guy … Kohler … at Zyter Brothers sent up an interim post release report for Mastcakil. It is not pretty; and if any of us are going to stay out of the poor house, it must never see the light of day.”
Every eye is riveted on Martin.
“You will shortly agree, unfortunately, that I am not exaggerating when I tell you that we have a crisis worthy of going to war over. My new secretary is passing out a copy of the report to each of you. Every copy has your individual name and company code number on it. Hand the reports back to me at the end of our little meeting. The rough bad news—without the details—is that during the past quarter, people taking Mastcakil have had some hairy adverse reactions. Kohler reports occurrences of fatal Torsades de Pointes, Stevens-Johnson syndrome, and agranulocytosis and bone-marrow failure with deaths.”
Adolph Mercer from marketing asks, “So does that mean the FDA slaps us with a requirement for a black box warning on Mastcakil?”
“Absurd as it sounds, I wish that is what would happen. No, this is beginning to sound like a Fen-Phen and thalidomide combo drug catastrophe.”
Dilworth is referring to the potential of fenfluramine/phentermine, the anti-obesity drug, for causing fatal pulmonary hypertension and heart valve problems, and thalidomide for causing very severe birth defects.
Mercer asks his question, taking time to look at the face of every man and woman in the room, “So, how do we contain this? I mean Mastcakil is too important a drug to be put down like a dog with distemper.”
Dilworth pointedly turns to his chief counsel, “So, Carl, it looks like it’s up to you to pull the rabbit out of the hat.”
Midgely stands up and walks slowly around the conference table and meets everyone’s eyes with his steely gaze.
“We meet this as a united front. We can stall this until the conversion of the Jews, continue to make money hand over fist, but only if we stonewall the FDA, the FBI, the SEC, the NYSE, the states’ attorneys general, and the campus cops, whenever and wherever we have to. Today, in this room, we must swear to each other to keep the faith and not cave to in to pressure. So, I am going to ask every single one of you to go on record here whether or not you are in all the way. Stonewall the cops!” he says in his most stentorian voice.
Chick Sorenson fingers his recorder to be sure it is running. He has to have this on the record.
Midgely asks each member of the elite executive committee by his or her full name to commit to the prevention of any outsiders from learning about the adverse findings.
The responses are unanimously in the affirmative. Chick tries to muffle his voice, but he knows it comes through loud and clear on his incriminating tape.
“All right, we are all for one and one for all from here on out,” says Martin Dilworth grandiloquently. “I’ll call … what’s his name?… the quality control officer at ZyterBrothers-Technologies?”
“Sandy Kohler,” Erik Nicholson, one of codirectors of the marketing department, answers after checking his iPhone address book.
“Oh, that’s right. I will need to know if he will play ball with us or if he’s some kind of Mormon goody-two-shoes or something.”
Chick does not miss the chill in the CEO’s tone. The meeting promptly adjourns, and Chick makes up his mind. He will be a whistleblower before this day is out. His parachute is Cecil Edgington out in Utah who will hold the precious electronic data evidence.
The first thing he does after the meeting is to head out of the building and across the street to the Webster Diner, a greasy spoon local hangout where anonymity is almost guaranteed for consortium executives because none of them would be caught dead in there. He asks the barkeep if he can borrow his cell phone, because his is on the fritz. Chick is a regular, so no problem.
“Cecil,” he says as soon as his pharmacist friend says, “Hello.”
“Don’t say my name. Things have just hit the fan, and the grand poobahs are going to stonewall and obstruct justice as long as they can to keep the money rolling in. I am leaving my office today with a pocket full of flash drives and never coming back. I am going to the FBI division office in North Miami Beach and turn myself in as a whistleblower who is complicit to the crimes. I am going to go into WITSEC with Marilyn. You can get a good plea bargain yourself, Cecil. Don’t put it off too long. Once I blow the whistle, I am pretty sure that it will hit the fan soon afterwards. Expect an overnight USPS package. After this, we won’t be talking again.”
Although the call and, indeed, the turn of events, is not entirely unexpected, Cecil is shocked; and, for a few minutes after Chick’s call, he feels discombobulated, unable to focus his mind. Then his orderly self takes over. He lists his priorities then walks over the Westminster College, finds an office with no one in it for the moment, and makes a call.
Andrea Edgington answers, “Hello.”
“Andrea, it’s me. Please don’t talk, just listen; then do exactly what I say. I know you think I’m domineering at times, but this is a time just to do what is good for you and for me.”
“What?”
“Do everything as fast as you can. First, pick up your 72-hour emergency bag and all of your electronic gear, including your laptop and our home computer. Pack the caddie and drive as fast as you can without breaking the speed limit to your aunt’s place in Bountiful. Tell her whatever you need to but move in and do not—under any circumstances—try to contact me. The feds are closing in. Chick gave me the head’s up. He’s going to knock over the consortium’s house of cards this afternoon. I am going to arrange our protection.”
“Okay,” she says dutifully.
They have drilled on this eventuality.
Next, he goes to his office and places all of the evidence he has collected on his computer onto a flash drive and deletes the rest of the hard drive. Without even bothering to lock the doors to the store or to turn off the lights, he drives immediately home and is relieved to find Andrea gone. He performs the same deletion tasks on all of the smaller home computers, and he cancels every account he and Andrea have. He leaves the Cadillac in the garage and takes his Subaru. He drives to downtown Salt Lake City and takes a room in the Hilton Salt Lake City Center Hotel. He uses his credit card but plans to pay in cash and to get the credit card information off the record. He takes a short drive along State Street, finds a used car lot and swaps his this year’s Subaru Outback for a three-year-old Ford 150 pickup. He pays cash and promises that he will fill out all of the paperwork and bring it back to the dealership in the morning.
Next, he makes a call from the payphone in the hotel’s lobby to one of his old friends from their undergrad days at the University of Utah. He is proud of what his friend has accomplished. Russell Gaspero has climbed the mountain of FBI bureaucracy to near the summit. He was made the DDFBI [Deputy Director of the FBI] last year. Cecil has Russell’s private number.
“DDFBI Gaspero’s office.”
“Is he there? This is an old friend of his, Cecil Edgington. I need to talk to him on an urgent matter.”
“I’ll see if he is in his office.”
“Hey, Cecil, is that really you? I thought you had forgotten your little unimportant former classmate once you got to be rich.”
“Not hardly. Russell. I have a problem. To be blunt about it, I think I may be in trouble—at least potentially—for the moment. I need help. At least, I need advice.”
“This is not really a secure line. Where are you? Let me call you back when I am on a secure line.”
“I wouldn’t have any idea how to get a secure line, Russell. What should I do?”
“Buy a disposable cell phone or two or three. Wait about ten minutes and call me back at this number.”
He gives Cecil a number in DC.
“Okay. I’m counting on you, Russell; and I’ll owe you big.”
“Keep calm. Don’t do anything f
oolish. We’ll talk.”
Cecil is surprised how available burner phones are. He buys four of them. It takes just over ten minutes to make the purchase, and he uses the first one to call the number Russell gives him.
“Russell?”
“It is. What’s going on, my friend? Sounds like you are in it up to your lower lip and don’t want anybody to make waves.”
“It’s worse than that.”
He takes forty-five minutes to fill his friend in on the sordid details. Russell listens patiently without interrupting. When Cecil takes a breath signaling that he is done, Russell asks his first question.
“Do you think you could be in any physical danger, Cecil?”
“It’s a possibility. There were two suspicious deaths of consortium employees. I should have mentioned them to you while you were so patiently waiting. The names are Owen Singleton and Patricia Ann Bethers. Owen used to work on the R&D for Mastcakil—our wonder drug or mighty poison at this point—at ZyterBrothersTechnologies, and Patricia was CEO Dilworth’s executive secretary. The two of them were suddenly gone from the consortium about a week apart.”
Cecil gives Russell the details.
“It looks like you’re right to worry, my friend. We don’t have much to go on and can’t really provide protection until a crime has been committed. It’s stupid, but those are the rules. However, I have a seriously good idea for you. There is a private detective agency in New York that handles your kind of issues, including the provision of security for you and your wife. Hang on a sec while I find his card.”
Cecil taps his fingers and sweats.
“Sorry. Here it is: McGee and Associates Investigations. The bureau has had quite a few dealings with McGee. They are good people. Here is his cell number. Call him as soon as we hang up. The next thing to know about your protection is about being a whistleblower. You need to have a good law firm with experience in qui tam False Claims Act cases, and you need both McGee and the law firm today.”
“I’ve heard that only the first individual to make the whistleblower claim is entitled to the protection.”
“True, and to a good deal, even prosecutorial immunity. And, I don’t know if you have heard about this, but the whistleblower in a big case can collect as much as thirty percent of what the government recovers.”
“I didn’t know any of that; but, frankly, my main concern right now is saving my own skin.”
“As well it should be. This is the law firm I recommend: Rasmussen, O’Herligy, Rodriguez, and Applewhite, a famous class action law firm in Los Angeles. I’ve dealt with the firm—and especially with David Rasmussen—several times, and so has McGee. We all worked on a huge case involving a polygamous—and murderous cult—in Wyoming. Saved the clients, jailed the crooks, and the clients and the law firm walked away with a huge settlement—in the billions.”
“And you got to explain it all to the adoring American public on television.”
“Hey, Cecil, glad to know that you are savvy to how the system works.”
“Thanks a million, Russell. I’ll get back in touch.”
Chapter Eight
“Get Chick Sorenson, please, Megan,” Martin Dilworth asks his administrative assistant.
He is always slightly amused by the title. What is really wrong with being a secretary, anyway? flits through his mind.
He grows impatient after three minutes.
“He seems to have stepped out, Mr. Dilworth. Can I get Tenelly Outhower?”
“She’s Sorenson’s number two nowadays, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
A minute later, Ms. Outhower is on the line.
“How can I help, Mr. Dilworth?”
“Please step by my office.”
“Be right there.”
The girl is an accountant—a CPA—to the core, and one of the brightest people in the consortium. Dilworth has sized her up as being ambitious.
“Have a seat, Tenelly. Is it okay if I call you Tenelly?”
“Sure.”
“I have a list of about thirty people who need to receive substantial checks from the consortium. I need to handle it on the QT. Can I count on your discretion?”
“I’m flattered that you would ask. Sure you can. I’m surprised that you would ask me rather than Mr. Sorenson.”
“I couldn’t locate him. He doesn’t even answer his cell phone. I have sent some people from security to see if he is all right. The payments I am requesting have to go out today. I need a person with authority to supervise this very private project. Would that be you?”
“You can count on me, Mr. Dilworth.”
“Please get a staff of two secretaries besides yourself. They need to be young, attractive, sympathetic types. You are to be the decision maker. You are authorized to make payments in amounts up to $500,000 for each person. Obviously, we would like the payments to be less. I will count on your discretion and wisdom. Here’s the list.”
Back in her office, it takes Tenelly less than ten minutes to realize that she is looking at a list of people who have had an adverse effect from using one of the consortium’s drugs. Some of the people listed are family members. It takes her another five minutes to determine that this list is related to the new wonder drug, Mastcakil. She is an intelligent and experienced woman. It takes her no time to realize that she is holding a stick of dynamite.
CEO Dilworth sends a terse e-mail to every senior member of the consortium and its four participating drug companies: “The Zyter Brothers findings will not be published abroad in any form or to anyone. The senior consortium will deal with the concerns. We will conduct business as usual, and we will continue to prosper. Thank you all for your diligence and discretion.”
Cecil checks for national news on his iPad. More dither about Benghazi on Fox News, more repetition about the Malaysian aircraft lost at sea on CNN, and the local Miami news outlet miamiherald.com reports a riot at a jai alai game. Before he moves to another news app, his eyes are riveted to what would usually seem to be a minor news event that pops up: “Prominent Miami Pharmaceutical Executive Sandy Kohler and his wife, Gretchen, Killed in Freak Sailing Accident.” The article is only a short paragraph listing the fact that Sandy was the quality control officer at ZyterBrothersTechnologies, and his wife was a prominent charity worker. The accident is described as “a torpedo boat driven by a Colombia national was involved and an investigation is underway. Coast Guard investigators have not found evidence of foul play at this early point in the investigation.”
Cecil is almost sick with fear. He calls the consortium offices in Miami and asks to speak to Chick Sorenson.
“Oh, Mr. Edgington, I’m so sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but we in the consortium family were shocked to learn today that Mr. Sorenson apparently had a major heart attack while driving, and he and his wife ran head-on into a semitruck.”
Cecil is almost speechless.
All he can muster is, “Thank you. I share your grief,” and hangs up.
He presumes that Chick never had time to make it to the North Beach FBI field station to make his report, to become the immune-to-prosecution whistleblower, or to get into WITSEC. It is up to him now. He calls Russell Gaspero, the DDFBI, on his new burner phone to let him know the latest developments. Russell arranges for a conference call to include Cecil in Salt Lake City, Russell in Washington, DC, McGee in New York, and the attorney, David Rasmussen, in Los Angeles.
Russell gives a succinct history of what has been going on, what is at stake, and what needs to be done. McGee and David quickly agree to take Cecil and Andrea on as clients.
“Mr. Edgington is a whistleblower for what may well prove to be one of the largest cases in the bureau’s and in legal history. He and his wife need to get to safety right now, and we all need to get our heads together to make the case against the OrganoNatural Pharmaceutical Consortium.”
McGee says, “I think it would be best if our firm handles security, at least in the beginning. If the FBI is
seen to be involved, it will tip our hand to the consortium. If they are anywhere as violent as Cecil’s story would indicate, he is a marked man. It would seem that the company will do anything possible to protect and preserve their massive fortune. We need to regard Cecil and Andrea as our number one priority.”
They all agree.
David says, “Our role can wait a bit, but we need to get the whistleblower angle of this underway very soon; so, all of the protections of the federal government can be brought into play. McGee, can you get Cecil and Andrea to our offices in Los Angeles tomorrow or the next day?”
“Better we make it day after tomorrow.”
“I want to be there,” says Russell. “Cecil, do two things: first, call your contact in the legal department of the consortium….”
Cecil contributes, “Crandall Fisher, consortium attorney that the head of the legal department, Carl Midgely, assigned to me to deal with the potential IRS problems. He told me about John Wang from the independent consortium accounting firm, Danforth, Highcroft, and Wang who would be involved.”
“Good. Cecil, you call both of them and tell them that the IRS is now getting threatening. They are requiring you to meet with their agent, Henry Lloyd Evans—I think you said—day after tomorrow in the IRS offices in Ogden. I will get hold of Mr. Evans and let him know what is going on and that the meeting should be scheduled and all of the principals show up except for Cecil. By that time, we should have a protection arrangement in place in LA or New York. It will take some doing, but we can put this whole whistleblower situation on a fast track.”
McGee asks, “Cecil, do you have a place that you can go where my partner, Ivory White, can meet you? A place that no one in the consortium could ever know about?”
“I do. I’ve been thinking about it. There is a little town in Utah called Heber. It is on the east side of the Rockies—the Wasatch Back, they call it in Utah. I have a friend who lives there in a fairly isolated subdivision. He is a prickly bugger who people tend to leave alone. He is a fairly famous author named Carl Douglass. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
Another Whistle Blower Page 5
