THE ALCATRAZ OPTION

by Jay Begler

  “How long do I have?”

  “With chemo, six months; half that without chemo. And before you ask Don, we’ve looked at every alternative therapy, standard to experimental and in your case none of these will work. Most will cause you great pain or discomfort, and some might kill you. I’m so sorry.”

  Chula was stoic about the fact that death was closing in on him. Talking to Isabella and Morales and revealing the final diagnosis, he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “It just shows that no matter who you are and what you do, you can’t outrun death. But we can’t dwell on this now. We must plan.” He stopped and coughed violently. Once the coughing subsided, he said with authority, “Call an emergency meeting. I want everyone who goes to our management meetings to be present.”

  Isabella, in tears and angry at her father, thought, “Why did you have to be so damn macho?”

  With the announcement of Chula’s illness and that the reason for the meeting was to choose a new leader, the political maneuvering began for the leadership of the organization. While everyone admired and had great respect for Chula, his impending death made him a lame duck with little influence. He did what he could to back Morales. The two other candidates were older and more experienced than Morales and had proven their ability to run a cartel. Their former cartels were as profitable as Sinaloa, Chula’s former cartel. Morales, however, had become something of a rock star within the organization given all of his achievements. He also had an additional and very important asset, Isabella. Together they were a formidable team. It was her financial genius that contributed significantly to the bottom line of the organization.

  A month later, all the key players of the Cartel met in Chula’s opulent conference room. Chula, his complexion bearing an ashen tone of impending death, his eyes watery and ringed with blackness, did not speak. It was Morales who took charge of the meeting and first spoke of Chula the man and his impressive accomplishments. When he finished all present stood and applauded. Chula rose with some difficulty, supported himself on the arm of the chair, laughed and said, “Hector, that was a wonderful eulogy, but I’m still alive.”

  “And, I hope,” Morales said, “for a long time to come. Now as my father-in-law wished, we need to need to elect a new CEO for the organization. There are three nominees, myself, with the Sinaloa Cartel, Armando Diaz from the Knights Templar and Clemente Gutierrez from Los Zitos. You all know us personally and our accomplishments, experience and skills. Under the rules, we will each have five minutes to speak. As for myself, I admire and respect both Armando and Clemente and would be proud to serve under their leadership.”

  Each candidate began with a tribute to Chula and then spoke of his own history and accomplishments. No candidate spoke ill of another candidate; the reverse was true. Armando and Clemente adhered to the five-minute rule. Morales was the last to speak. “My friends, all of what we are and all that we will be we owe largely to my father-in-law, colleague, mentor and friend, Mister Chula. I call him Mister Chula out of the great respect I have for him and for doing me the honor of permitting me to marry his wonderful daughter, Isabella.” He turned and raised a glass to both of them.” There were tears in their eyes and in the eyes of virtually everyone else. “I would ask one more thing of you. I wish to serve as CEO only if Isabella serves with me as Co-CEO.

  As he sat, Morales thought that it was ironic that while the men and women at this meeting were responsible directly and indirectly for the deaths of thousands of people and their stock in trade was illegal drugs, the underpinning for seventy-five percent of the crimes in America, their election process was significantly more civilized than a typical political election campaign in the United States.

  Before the election results were in, Armando rose and said, “May I have your attention. I have spoken to Clemente, and we have withdrawn from the election. Our votes go to Hector and Isabella.”

  It was over. Morales and Isabella were now the unquestioned heads of Aztec with Morales as the Godfather, so to speak, and Isabella as his consigliere. Chula, seemingly weaker than when the meeting began, rose with the help of Morales and Isabela. Though it only held water, he raised his glass and said hoarsely, “to Hector and Isabella.” Everyone in attendance raised their glasses and echoed “To Hector and Isabella.”

  Unlike the end of prior management meetings, the cocktail party was subdued, because everyone knew that this might be the last time, they would see Chula. An impromptu reception line formed and one by one, each person present bid a sad farewell to him, though they all pretended that they would see him again. What no one knew, except for Chula himself, was that this would be the last night of his life.

  As the last of the night transitioned into pre-dawn, Chula alone and on horseback ascended a steep embankment to the top of a plateau which rose about 5000 feet above sea level. He remembered how he, his wife and Isabella used to come up here when she was much younger, picnic and enjoy the expansive view including that of the lake below. Chula looked up and spoke to his deceased wife, “I don’t want to be helpless, nor the object of pity. While I still have some strength left and some dignity, I will end my life my way. I’ve always loved you.” He thought he heard her say, “Thank you for being a wonderful husband, father and friend. I look forward to meeting up with you in heaven.” He laughed and replied to her, “If they let me in.”

  The sun was rising and red and orange stroked trees all around him. The lake far below had a dark green cast to it and he wondered if it was cold and then laughed to himself at the absurdity of his concern. Chula opened up a bottle of Perrier Jouet champagne, poured into a lovely fluted glass and ever so slowly ate a foie gras sandwich the cook had prepared for him. It was the last pleasurable act of his life. Once done, he removed a portable tape player from his saddle bag, turned the volume as high as it would go. The “Marlboro Country” theme blasted out of the car. He was wearing a cowboy hat and the yellow rain poncho, the one he wore the night he met El Chapo. He had saved the poncho as a relic of his past life. Chula would go out as his persona, the Marlboro Man. He walked to the edge of the cliff, but then stopped to look at his smart phone for messages. “Old habits die hard” he thought, and then jumped all the while looking at the screen of his phone until he smashed into the rocks below.

  Chula’s body was recovered the following day when a search party discovered his horse standing at the edge of the plateau. Chula’s smart phone was still in his hand. In a note left for Isabella taped to his saddle he requested that he be cremated immediately, and his ashes buried at the foot of his wife’s fountain. He had also requested that no headstone be placed by his grave and that there be no formal funeral or memorial service. A number of close friends and relatives stood by the fountain and Morales, who had invited members of the press, spoke.

  Before finishing he said. “You know, my father-in-law always fought against the scourge of our country, the drug trade. He was El Fantasma’s mortal enemy. Knowing he was dying, he asked me to set up a trust to educate the public about the dangers of drugs, and to make more funds available to our authorities to find and bring this dangerous and ruthless man to justice.” The following day several newspapers carried an earlier photo of Chula standing next to Morales with the notation “Enemies of El Fantasma.” The fiction continued.

  Fourteen

  •

  Digital Heroin

  Isabella once complained to Morales that much of her work was mundane and often boring. “It’s funny, you know,” she said as they were enjoying a quiet moment on their veranda, “people don’t understand that running a cartel does not differ very much from running a tire company. Going through payroll numbers, accounts receivable, maintenance of machinery, dealing with vendors; it’s deadly” She laughed at her next thought, “If I made a movie about my day-to-day life, I’d call it The Cartel: Death By Boredom.”

  Morales asked, “What responsibility do you like the best?

  “That’s easy. It’s managing our investment portfolio. It now
stands at twelve billion; not bad for an initial investment of three-hundred million.”

  Isabella didn’t manage the fund on a day-to-day basis. That was the responsibility of a group she called “her little geniuses,” youngish men and women who ran Cutting Edge Investments (CEI). The Cambridge based managers had no inkling that they were working for a criminal enterprise. They thought the billions under their care belonged to Chula’s family, whose chief source of revenue was a mega cattle business. Isabella was their sounding board, the go-to person for major new investments, those over twenty million dollars. Operating in a manner similar to a hedge fund, CEI invested in stocks, art, real estate and occasionally movies and Broadway shows. Like all private hedge funds, it was always looking for “next big thing.” So far, that goal had eluded it, even though the fund employed ten MIT and Cal-Tech graduates devoted to finding exciting and emerging technologies. Given Isabella’s exceptional intellect, the fund’s managers had an abiding and deep respect for her.

  The Zoom meeting began in the usual way with three of the senior managers, meaning those close to thirty, greeting her. Isabella always had a tinge of envy when she saw these people given their good looks, youth and total exuberance.

  “Hi Isabella.”

  “Hi Ted, Lois, and…I don’t think I know your name.”

  Ted, the most senior of the trio said, “I’m sorry Isabella, meet Patti. Patti graduated last year, cum laude from Caltech. She’s been hunting for some special investment and we think she’s found it. We are all very excited by her discovery. Patti, take it away.” Before Patti spoke, Isabella thought, “God, she looks like she’s twelve.”

  “Hi Isabella. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise. So, what do you have?”

  “Ever since I was a young girl, I was a voracious reader. Working here, it had become my practice to read a great many magazines and periodicals including the New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Forbes, Harvard Business Review, Rolling Stone, Wired and Foreign Affairs, to name a few. About six months ago I read as article in Rolling Stone called ‘The New Marijuana.’”

  Isabella interrupted, “You know our policy is not to invest in cigarette companies or companies that make or sell marijuana, even though it is now legal throughout the United States and Mexico.”

  “When I saw the title of the article, I had the same impression as you, namely that it was about a new form of marijuana, but I was wrong. The article began by describing a trend that started in Amsterdam, where smokers of marijuana found that they could increase their highs by exposing themselves to specific patterns of light. The concept is not new. For over a half a century, it’s been common knowledge that strobe lights can produce physical effects, for example dizziness, nausea and sometimes seizures. It’s a well-established fact that lights, when used in a certain way, can help ease symptoms of depression by raising serotonin levels. Many years back, for example, there was a product called the ‘Fisher Wallace Stimulator.’ It was so effective in raising serotonin levels that it became a standard device in hospitals and approved by the FDA. As you all know, serotonin in substantial quantities creates happy, pleasurable feelings.”

  A ripple of worry coursed through Isabella, because she thought she knew what was coming.

  “Over the last few decades, scientists have made substantial improvements to what we colloquially call mood lights. The author of the article describes a device developed about a decade ago, called the Clement Red-Light Mood Enhancer, which used mood lights to produce significantly higher levels of serotonin and a bit of a buzz not unlike the buzz from smoking a joint, but not as strong. Hospitals employed the device to help cancer patients cope with pain. Studies revealed that a fair number of patients reported that they also experienced a reduction of depression and anxiety. Some reported they had a better sense of well-being.”

  “Scientists at Clement found that immediately after the therapy, patients had higher levels of serotonin. The article predicted that within the next decade the technology for these so-called serotonin elevators would advance so quickly that using apps on cell phones to modify light sources, users could elevate their serotonin levels to where they would produce the same high as marijuana. I was skeptical about this idea from an investment standpoint, because artificial cigarettes never replaced actual cigarettes. But then I had, you’ll pardon my expression, my ‘holy shit’ moment. I asked myself, what if the lights could raise levels of endorphins, which we all know is the chemical response to drugs? If that happened, would a future article be “The New Heroin?”

  “By one of those incredible coincidences life holds, last month, we received an application for an interview regarding funding from a company called “Altruism LLC.” We tabled it thinking it was some non-profit, but when the head of the three-man start-up called and explained what they were up to, we flew them here immediately. All of them worked in Silicon Valley on what we call augmented reality or AR glasses, but lost their jobs with the great recession five years ago. They formed a start-up where they experimented with the utilization of light and audio stimuli intended to produce high levels of endorphins. In this case, the nature of the light source and patterns differ completely from the predecessor mood lights. The major change is that those exposed to these lights wear the AR glasses. Just to give you background, these glasses give the user a live direct or indirect view of a physical world environment, but visually and aurally augmented by a computer. The lights, in this case, are not static lights. Remarkably, they can bend, twist and produce a variety of colors in varying intensity.”

  “Augmented reality glasses are nothing new. They’ve been with us for decades. The products now on the market, however, are so advanced that they make their forerunners look as ancient as a rotary phone. Now, users can plug their AR glasses into a smart phone and via an app are transported visually to a different place. This differs totally from viewing a travelogue or even looking at a hologram. The experience is shocking. You think that you are physically in the place that interests you. We’ve sent you the most advanced AR glasses to date and a pre-programmed cell phone with an AR app called ‘Walking through the Louvre.’ Your experience will be three-dimensional. You’ll think you are in the Louvre. And when you stop by a particular painting and want to know more about it, all you have to say is ‘docent’ and a recording will come on and tell you everything you need to know about the artist and the painting. “

  “Back to the start-up. They have already developed a product, a combination of modified AR glasses and a cell phone with an app, far better than anything on the market and able to produce higher levels of serotonin than any other product. The product which they named, ‘Hedone,’ after the goddess of pleasure, has utility beyond recreational use. They believe once it’s perfected, it will also have medicinal benefits. The young men behind the product are smart and have already filed patents on Hedone and the process for its use.”

  The ripple of fear that had coursed through Isabella had now turned into a wave.

  Patti continued. “But the big thing is the ability to produce endorphins. They say they could probably create such a device, but it will take upwards of a year or two and about $100,000,000. With that kind of investment, they think the devices and apps they could create would replicate the highs of every illegal drug on the market today. Pick your app and get your fix. There is a downside, however. There are rumors that the American, Chinese and Mexican governments are secretly working to develop similar devices and products to combat or eliminate the sale of illegal drugs. So, there could be competition.”

  “But, think about it. Once a drug user purchases the device and app, digital heroin would replace actual heroin and virtually all other illegal drugs. The company’s revenues would capture the revenues from cartels. And these guys are quite clever. They figure that they would tie the app into the user’s credit card, so every time the user takes a light related hit on the app his credit card would be charged, but at a much lower price
than regular illegal drugs. Also, no more dirty needles or physical side effects, like septal perforation with cocaine.”

  The wave of fear that Isabella experienced had turned into a tsunami. Shaking, she asked as calmly as she could, “Are there any other companies that you know of that are developing similar technology?”

  Ted spoke. “We checked out the competition and except for the work being done by the governments, no private company has similar technology. It’s completely new. It could be beyond the next big thing; it could be the next gigantic thing.”

  “Agreed. Have they approached any other investor or has any other investor approached them?”

  “As far as we know, we are the first and only group they’ve approached. No one has approached them, because no one really knows about them. Their patent applications are still pending, so they are secret.” She smiled and said, “Why we could be as rich as the Aztec Cartel.”

  Isabella forced herself to smile. “Good. Have them sign the standard non-disclosure agreement, under which for the next forty-five days they agree not to disclose what they are working on to anyone. We need to consider this investment. Pay them $200,000 for this to show we are serious and start formulating a deal. Also send us background information on the three principals. Great work, Patti.”

  As soon as the call was over, Isabella entered Morales’ office, prompting him to ask when he saw her expression, “What’s wrong?”

  Two weeks later, at a meeting attended by Aztec’s directors and about ten key players, Isabella played the video of the Zoom meeting. Isabella spent the next hour explaining how the augmented reality glasses worked and how it along with accompanying sounds might ultimately produce endorphins.