“Maybe I ought to pay for my wife, Alfred.”
“Nonsense, my boy. It’s all completely on the up-and-up. You’re our featured speaker and will be attending other lectures throughout the week, and spouses are expected. I promise there won’t be an eyebrow raised. I’ll e-mail you the details. Now, if you have five more minutes, let me tell you about a new antibiotic you’ll be seeing a new drug application on shortly. It’s called Exxacia, and it’s going to revolutionize how we treat infections.”
After Boatwright left, Kingsbury stepped outside to the edge of the golf course and called his home office in Copenhagen. With confidence in his voice he reported that he had just met with Boatwright and was certain that he could get the FDA on board with their new antibiotic. He was convinced that Exxacia was going to turn their company around in North America, probably tripling their earnings in two years. He also had a plan in the works that would more than triple his own net worth. That it involved insider trading was of no concern to Kingsbury. My plan is foolproof, he thought as he returned to the clubhouse with a spring in his step.
7
Kingsbury touched his sleeping wife lightly on the shoulder and said, “Suzanne, I have to go into town for a few hours. Should be back early afternoon. I’ll pick up some souvenirs for my grandkids while I’m out.”
Suzanne murmured something in reply and then settled back into her slumber. They had been married for five years, and it had not been easy. She was thirty-five, twenty years his junior, a former lawyer, and she had a wandering eye. Still, she served her purpose. Once made up, she could have passed for Princess Diana and was always ready to play the role of a loving and caring wife. Whatever she did when Kingsbury wasn’t around was of no interest to him as long as she was at his side when the lights went up and it was time for her performance.
Kingsbury stepped to the phone in the living room of the suite they occupied at the Montego Bay Ritz-Carlton and called Mario, one of his two driver-bodyguards, to tell him to bring his rented limousine to the front. Kingsbury rarely went anywhere without Mario and Ralph, who both looked like they had played on the defensive line for the Baltimore Ravens in prior lives. When Kingsbury exited the elevator on the first floor, he paused to visit with several of his managers, explaining that he couldn’t make the morning session because of a prior commitment. He saw Roger Boatwright and his wife in the dining room and made it a point to stop at their table to confirm that everything about the meeting was to their satisfaction. He promised to visit with them more that evening at the cocktail party.
The limo was waiting for him when he left the hotel. Ralph had the back door open. “Good morning, Dr. Kingsbury. Your Starbucks is in the drink holder, and the New York Times is on the seat.”
Kingsbury nodded to him and got in the car. He greeted Mario, the driver, as Ralph took the front passenger seat. As they drove along the main highway leading into Montego Bay, Kingsbury reflected on the past three days. It couldn’t have gone better. Of course, he wanted his managers and spouses to enjoy themselves. More importantly, he had played golf with Boatwright all three days and continued to bring up Exxacia, taking every opportunity to convince him it was a miracle drug that was destined to revolutionize treatment of bacterial infections. He was satisfied that he had Boatwright in his back pocket and FDA approval was close to being a mission accomplished.
The limousine stopped in front of a three-story building with a sign that announced it was the St. James Parish National Bank. Kingsbury entered the lobby to be greeted by a distinguished, gray-haired Jamaican and a younger man, bald but handsome.
“Dr. Kingsbury, I’m Christopher Cornelius, president of the bank. This is Kevron Tillman, senior partner in our bank’s law firm.”
They shook hands, and Cornelius led them to his corner office on the first floor. After coffee was served and the president’s secretary had shut the office door, Kingsbury took over the meeting. “Gentlemen, as you know, I’m CEO of the North American subsidiary of Ceventa, but I’m here on personal business, not company business. Mr. Tillman, I want to establish eight offshore corporations. You can decide whether they are all to be in Jamaica or if some should be domiciled on other islands.”
“My firm can handle that, Dr. Kingsbury,” Tillman interrupted. “We have offices in several other places in the Caribbean. I will need to have some idea of the purpose of the corporations.”
Kingsbury studied the two men. “Both of you must understand that what I am about to tell you is highly confidential. If word leaks out, we will all be in trouble. On the other hand, there is the opportunity for significant profit.”
Mr. Cornelius put down his coffee cup and responded, “You can be assured that we are in the business of maintaining our clients’ confidences at all costs.”
Kingsbury nodded and continued. “The corporations will be used to invest in Ceventa. I expect our stock to skyrocket over the next two years. I am in the process of liquidating nearly all of my assets and will be wiring one hundred million dollars to this bank. Once received, Mr. Cornelius, you will be directed to divide those funds and wire them to the eight corporations established by Mr. Tillman. Mr. Tillman will be directed to buy Ceventa stock at market in lots of a size that will not attract the attention of authorities. The stock is the lowest it’s been in ten years. That’s about to change.”
Tillman rubbed his hands together, and greed appeared in his eyes. “That can be accomplished with no problem, Dr. Kingsbury. Might I inquire why you think your stock is going to perform so well?”
Kingsbury rose to leave. “One word, Mr. Tillman, Exxacia. It will make us all rich. If you choose to buy in, please be discreet. You will be receiving further direction next week. Good day, gentlemen.”
Kingsbury returned to the limo, satisfied that his plan was being properly launched. As Mario opened his door, he said, “On the way back, we’ve got to find a store. My grandkids will be disappointed if their grandpa doesn’t return with something from Jamaica.”
“Boss, I saw a store selling seashells just up the way a few blocks.”
“Perfect! Let’s get some big ones for my grandson and look for some small, pretty ones for my granddaughters,” Kingsbury replied.
8
Ryan Sinclair parked his red Corvette convertible in the garage behind the FDA’s Center for Drug Evaluation and Research. He unfolded his six-foot frame from the car, brushed a mop of blond hair from his eyes, and put on wireless glasses that he wore to create the studious image he sought. While most of his co-workers dressed business casual, he always wore an expensive suit and tie to the office. He would hang the coat on a coat rack inside his office until he left at the end of the day. While it wasn’t necessary, he thought it was the right way to dress. Probably it came from his physician father who never failed to wear a suit and tie. Or maybe it came from his grandfather who made his money on Wall Street and left all of his grandchildren multimillion-dollar trust funds they inherited when they turned twenty-five.
Entering the building, Ryan reminded himself that this was only a stepping-stone to his ultimate career. His goal was the Centers for Disease Control, where he hoped to assist in conquering some of the most virulent infectious diseases that plague the poor of the world. He’d chosen to start at the FDA to learn the regulatory side of drugs. Another two years and he would be ready to move on.
Once inside, he stopped to talk Ravens football with the burly guard at the security desk and then joined others crowding into an elevator. He exited on the fourth floor and was walking past the corner office occupied by Roger Boatwright when he heard Boatwright’s voice. “Hey there, Dr. Sinclair, come in here a minute.”
Ryan stepped into his boss’s office. Boatwright was behind his desk, tie askew and white shirt already looking as if he had been wearing it all day. He let Sinclair stand in front of his desk for two full minutes while he read a three-page memorandum. The contrast between him and Sinclair could not have been more dramatic.
F
inally, Boatwright glanced up. He didn’t like Sinclair. The young doctor was born with a silver spoon in his mouth—Harvard, then Johns Hopkins Medical School and internal medicine residency, followed by an infectious disease fellowship. He’d heard about Sinclair’s trust fund. Sinclair didn’t even have to work, but he’d chosen the FDA and was clearly the best medical review officer CDER had on infectious diseases, as well as the youngest. Sinclair was independent by nature, and Boatwright would have preferred to put him on agency scutwork. Still, if he didn’t put Sinclair on major projects, particularly involving infectious diseases, his boss would wonder why.
“Dr. Sinclair, I have a new assignment for you.”
“You know I always like a challenge, Dr. Boatwright. What is it?”
“Ceventa’s got a new antibiotic. It’s called Exxacia. Supposed to be revolutionary. According to Alfred Kingsbury of Ceventa, it wipes out bacteria causing community acquired pneumonia, bronchitis, sinusitis and tonsillitis.”
Sinclair nodded. “Sounds promising, if it works. And I know Dr. Kingsbury slightly. My dad golfs with him frequently. I joined them a couple of times back in my college days.”
Boatwright did a slow burn at the thought of his junior scientist golfing at Kingsbury’s club while he was out on the public links. “I have no doubt that it will do just what Kingsbury says. And, by the way, Ceventa has paid us the million dollars to put it on the fast track. That means that you and your team have six months to evaluate and approve the drug. That clear?”
“I’ll have my assistant print a copy of the new drug application this morning, and we’ll start this afternoon,” Sinclair answered. He walked to his office thinking that Boatwright was an ass, and only minimally competent to boot.
Sinclair’s assistant pushed a cart loaded with two large banker boxes into his office. “Where do you want these, Ryan? It’s that new Ceventa drug, Exxacia.”
“Two boxes, we’ll put them on the floor here by my desk. Here, let me help you.” Ryan rose and started around his desk.
“Not so fast, Ryan. Two boxes here and fourteen more in the copy room. You want them all?”
Ryan pulled the lid off one and found six three-inch binders labeled EXXACIA NEW DRUG APPLICATION. “Looks like these are the NDA. This other box contains exhibits. Probably that’s what’s in the other fourteen. Leave the application box and put the other fifteen in our file room. I’ll find them if and when I need them. Make three more copies of the application for the rest of the team. I’ll tell them where to find the exhibits.”
A new drug was routinely assigned to a medical review officer in CDER, Sinclair or one of his colleagues, who would call on a team of researchers and statisticians as needed. Exxacia was now Ryan’s drug, and he expected to spend the next several months learning everything he possibly could about it. He needed to understand its formulation and evaluate its efficacy and its safety. Did it really work in the ways that Ceventa’s scientists said? Were there any significant risks to patients? He took his job very seriously. Some of his peers were prone to rubber-stamping NDAs. They figured that the pharmaceutical companies knew what they were doing and wouldn’t submit an application until they were certain that it was a good and safe drug. Not Sinclair.
When it was all said and done, Ryan Sinclair was known to defer to no one. He could recommend approval of Exxacia and it would sail smoothly to market. On the other hand, if he found problems, he would certainly recommend that the application be rejected. He could be overruled by Boatwright or even someone higher up the food chain. So far, that hadn’t happened.
After his assistant had taken one of the boxes away, Ryan put the remaining one on his desk and pulled the first binder from it. He read through the executive summary, finding that Ceventa wanted to market the drug for various respiratory problems and tonsillitis initially, and then come back for approval for other bacteria-caused illnesses at a later date. That immediately struck him as a little strange. Most antibiotics that worked in the respiratory tract were not usually effective elsewhere. He immediately questioned its value in fighting tonsillitis. Next he noted that Exxacia was already being marketed overseas and took that as a positive since most countries in Europe and South America had drug regulations somewhat similar to those in the United States.
Four hours later his assistant stopped at his door to say that she was leaving and asked if he needed anything else. “Nothing more than another set of eyes and a couple dozen aspirin,” he replied. “Only kidding. I’m going to be here a while. Have a good evening.”
9
Luke and Samantha left Houston just ahead of the moving van. As was usual when they rode together now, nothing was said, and the silence hung in the air even after they pulled into the driveway in San Marcos.
Luke was proud of the work that he and the contractor had done on the house. The last of the painters had finished only the day before. The exterior was a dark green that matched the leaves on the two giant front-yard oaks. Two rockers were already in place on the porch to the right of the door.
“Not bad,” Samantha finally said.
“Come on.” Luke grinned. “I’ll show you around. You’re gonna like it.”
Luke bounded up the steps and threw open the heavy wooden door. He gestured for Samantha to go ahead of him. The floors were a freshly varnished oak. The ceilings were twelve feet tall, and wood paneling covered the first four feet of the walls.
“This is my office. My desk will go here by the front window. The fireplace was already here. I just modernized it. There’s another one in the upstairs living room. This is my conference room. Used to be the dining room. The room across the hall at the front is for my assistant, which I don’t have at the moment. And there’s one more room over there, suitable for another lawyer, not that I expect to have an associate. You can have it for your office if you like.”
Samantha let her guard down just a little. “Very nice, Father. You did a good job.”
“Come on upstairs. It gets even better.”
The stairway led to the residence. The living room was twenty by twenty and carpeted in a plush brown. The kitchen was at the back, separated from the living area by a breakfast bar. Luke had added an alcove to the side of the house, above the porte cochere. Suitable for a small dining table, it had floor-to-ceiling glass on three sides. The feeling was that of a tree house on a summer day. Samantha walked to the alcove and glanced out at the trees, saying, “That’s cool, Father.”
Luke smiled as he realized that she was thawing just a little. Good—particularly since he was about to surprise her. “The front bedroom is yours. Go ahead. Open the door.”
Samantha opened the door to a room painted eggshell blue, only she wasn’t looking at the walls. In the center of the room was a dog kennel. In the kennel was a ten-week-old golden retriever who barked a greeting as Samantha neared her.
“Go ahead. You can let her out. Her name’s Cocoa. She’s yours. Well, she’s mine, too. I figured we could share her.”
Samantha sat in front of the kennel, unlatched the door, and was met by a five-pound bundle of fur.
10
Samantha awakened early on the following Sunday morning, the day she would leave for Camp Longhorn, where she would be a junior counselor. She looked at the clock every fifteen minutes until it was eleven o’clock. Then she practically dragged her father down the stairs and out to the car, begging him to hurry.
Luke dropped Samantha at camp and turned the Sequoia back to San Marcos. He breathed a sigh of relief that Samantha would be happy for twelve weeks anyway. Luke had already planned how he would use those twelve weeks.
The next morning he printed the names and addresses of all the lawyers in Hays County. He studied the locations over coffee and decided to start at the courthouse. He put Cocoa in her kennel, grabbed his briefcase, and walked up the street. When he entered the courthouse he visited every desk, introducing himself, passing out his business cards, and leaving résumés. A couple of the clerks re
membered him from high school. He made his way to the second floor to a door that announced CHESTER A. NIMITZ, DISTRICT JUDGE. He opened the door to the outer office and found a plump middle-aged woman with a radiant smile.
“Good morning”—Luke looked at the nameplate on her desk—“Ms. Higginbotham. I’m Lucas Vaughan. Would Judge Nimitz have a few minutes this morning?”
“Well, you just call me Susie. Everyone else does,” she said, smiling. “Besides, I don’t like my last name. Too long. Should have changed it when I divorced the man that stuck me with it. What do you want to see the judge about?”
“Nothing important. I don’t even have a case in his court. I’m new to town. Well, actually that’s not right. I grew up here and practiced for nearly twenty years in Houston. Got fed up with the rat race and moved back.”
“Oh, you bought the old Cramer place, didn’t you? Nice job. Hold on. I’ll tell Judge Nimitz you’re here.”
Five minutes later the door to his chambers opened, and a short, muscular man with gray hair, blue eyes, and a ruddy complexion stepped out. “Mr. Vaughan, come in. I’m Chuck Nimitz. Susie, bring coffee. How do you take yours?”
“Black, sir, if you please.”
The walls and shelves in Judge Nimitz’s chambers were overflowing with photos, plaques, and memorabilia. “Let me give you a quick tour. Everyone is always interested in this stuff I’ve been collecting for forty-odd years. Start with this photo. That’s me graduating from the Naval Academy. I’m named after my uncle Chester, the World War II admiral who grew up over in Fredericksburg. Wasn’t very hard to get in the academy after he put in a word. That’s me and one of my classmates, John McCain, a real hell-raiser. Our careers kind of paralleled each other for a lot of years. We even flew from the same carrier for a while during the Vietnam War. I got shot down once, too, but was able to get my fighter over water and was rescued by our guys. Broke my hip. Still bothers me when the weather changes.”
The Trial Page 3
