by Lisa Tucker
Could hormones really cause all this? Or was it possible that just being back in Philadelphia, his city, was driving her crazy? Why couldn’t she control this? Even Thanksgiving night at his apartment was being completely reinterpreted in her mind—against her will. She kept seeing him holding Isabelle as he made Ben’s drink, hearing him talk to Danny when they were leaving for the hospital, hearing him joking with both of the kids while he was strapping Isabelle in the backseat of his car. He made taking care of them look so easy. Even in the midst of his depression about being fired, when Isabelle said his name, he picked her up and sat her next to him on the bed. Somehow Matthew had already won over not only the little girl, but also Danny, who obviously felt bad that Matthew had lost his job. How odd that Matthew seemed to have some kind of natural ability with children. Ben, on the other hand, had almost zero interest in Danny or Isabelle. He’d barely spoken to them when she’d left for her walk with Matthew, and when she got back, Ben was sitting on the couch, reading some medical journal, and the kids were watching television. “Danny said they were fine,” Ben told her. “There was nothing for me to do.”
Wednesday night when he came home, late as always, but awake enough to talk, Amelia admitted that she was feeling desperate and half crazy. “I have to see you more often,” she said. “It’s been almost two weeks. I can’t live like this.”
He said he understood. “I’m taking the whole day off on Sunday.” He was sitting in the chair next to the bed, but Amelia was watching his feet, which never stopped moving, tapping a hyper-rhythm against the floor. “I promise, we can look for a house then, and do whatever else you want.” He smiled. “I’ve missed you, too.”
When she woke up on Thursday, she felt like she was in prison. The hotel room was pleasant enough, but she was sick of seeing the same beige/brown walls, the same floral bedspread, the same skinny desk and chairs, the same gold mirror, green-striped curtains, and green rug. She was sick of opening the minibar for juice, sick of the crackers and rice cakes she had to munch on constantly for nausea. Of course she could fight her way down a street crammed with students to find something else to eat, but she’d probably throw it up anyway, so what was the point? She needed to get out of there, but it was raining and cold and she couldn’t think of anywhere worth going. She’d never liked shopping. She had no friends in this city. The tourist attractions like the Art Museum and the Franklin Institute were steeped in memories of Matthew, since he’d taken her to all those places the first year they lived here. Even thinking about the Art Museum made her think of the Chagall print they’d picked out in the museum store: Birthday . Their first framed painting. It was a perfect domestic scene: a small house with richly colored furnishings, a woman holding a bouquet of flowers and a man floating above her, leaning his head down to kiss her.
When she turned on the television in the middle of the day, she felt a little guilty for not working, but she had to have some distraction from the gloom that was threatening to overtake her. She planned to watch a movie, but first she flipped to CNBC to see how the pharma stocks were doing, and that’s when she saw him. On the left side of the screen, Matthew, and standing next to him, one of the creepiest guys in the pharma universe, the AD CEO, Harold Knolton. The headline read:DR. MATTHEW CONNELLY APPOINTED EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT OF INTERNATIONAL PHARMACEUTICALS, REPLACING TWENTY-EIGHT-YEAR ASTOR-DENNING VETERAN WALTER R. HEALY .
Amelia forced herself not to move or breathe as the reporter standing outside Astor-Denning corporate headquarters talked about the press conference that had just ended. In what the reporter called an “unusual move,” Matthew had begun his speech by saying he would bring more “transparency and openness” to Astor-Denning’s relationship with the public. They cut to a video clip of Matthew: “My first priority will be to communicate more effectively the kind of company Astor-Denning is. Despite what you may have heard about big pharmaceutical companies, we’re not the enemy. We don’t make firearms or alcohol or tobacco. Quite the opposite. Our scientists are innovators trying to find new means to treat gun wounds and alcoholism and pulmonary disease. We are passionate about our research and development; we are a science-centered company whose business is saving lives. As a socially responsible citizen of the global community, we are committed to the health of patients who rely on our medicines and to our company’s mandate to operate with absolute integrity. All of our employees know we will not tolerate any deviation from our company’s strict ethical guidelines.”
Back to the reporter, who told the anchor what an effective speaker Dr. Connelly was: making several self-deprecating remarks, including one about his own resumé, that he’d finished medical school but never practiced medicine. The reporter also said that Dr. Connelly had “put his money where his mouth is” by being “open” about a recently discovered breach of ethics. The PR company that had launched their blockbuster drug, Galvenar, had apparently created the grassroots patient advocacy group Pain Matters. The PR firm claimed full responsibility, and Astor-Denning was investigating the situation. Another clip of Matthew: “But let me stress that because I hired this firm, I am ultimately responsible. I ask the several thousand legitimate pain patients who have joined Pain Matters to bear with me until I can uncover all the details of this troubling situation. I would also like to thank bioethicist Amelia Johannsen for bringing this important issue to my personal attention.”
The reporter went on to the bigger news that Harold Knolton had announced that in the next few months, Astor-Denning would file NDAs (new drug applications) for two “first-in-class” medicines: one for schizophrenia and the other for diabetes. Of course the stock was already climbing and the reporter predicted that Astor-Denning would close the year as the big winner among the pharma giants. Blah, blah, blah about money and the market, but Amelia was already sitting at the hotel desk, desperately searching the web for a video of the entire speech, or at least a transcript. CNBC didn’t have it; the newsroom page on AD’s website didn’t, either, though she did notice that Matthew’s picture and bio were already up on the executive leadership page.
And to think she’d actually felt sorry for that lying bastard.
She googled herself, and it was even worse than she feared. Reuters had just reported on the press conference and, unfortunately, they mentioned that she had been credited with uncovering the problem with Pain Matters. Meaning it would be in a thousand newspapers by tomorrow. And everyone in the ethics community would think she was “consulting” for Astor-Denning. Why else would she tell an AD exec about it rather than the press? How could she even defend herself? What if the Times reporter revealed that she’d called him but then refused to share the story? God, it would look as though she’d taken a bribe or even accepted a job in that creepy company’s “ethics” department.
She emailed her small staff to tell them to expect to hear from reporters. And to tell them to say that she had never taken any money from Astor-Denning and never would. Immediately she received an answer from Ethan, asking if she really had discussed their “two years of confidential research” on Pain Matters with an executive from Astor-Denning. She wrote saying yes, unfortunately, that was true, but she didn’t explain. She also asked him not to share that fact with reporters.
Then she called Ben. When she asked if he was busy, he said yes, but thankfully he added, “Never too busy for you.”
She started to tell him about Matthew’s promotion, but he said he already knew about it. “He called me yesterday to talk about a speech he has to give. He’s trying to get AD to pump an extra nine billion dollars into R and D. He wants to turn it into a science center and—”
She had to interrupt; she couldn’t stand to hear him talking about this like it was a good thing. “Ben, he named me in the speech. He said I’d told him about an ethics violation at AD. It’s already been picked up by one of the wire services.”
“What ethics violation?”
“It doesn’t matter. Don’t you see? It looks like I’m wo
rking for them now.”
“Hold on,” Ben said to someone else. Amelia could hear talking in the background. Then he said, “Are you saying that he lied about you to the press?”
He sounded angry for her, and tears sprang to her eyes.
“Yes and no,” she said, sniffing. “I mean, I did tell him about it, but of course he already knew. I just said I wouldn’t make it public if he’d keep the kids. I was worried about Danny and Isabelle having to—”
“You tried to blackmail Matt?” He sounded very surprised, and she was suddenly nervous.
“I wouldn’t call it that,” she said slowly. “I just wanted those kids to be safe.”
“But you were willing to suppress your research?”
“Not really. Just until their mother came home.”
“I don’t understand. Matt said their mother will be back before the end of the month. Why did you think he’d agree to this?”
She swallowed hard. “Because I told him I’d suppress it forever.”
“You lied to him, too?”
His voice was pure disapproval and she felt like she’d been slapped. She wanted to defend herself, to scream that Matthew had obviously blackmailed them in Paris, but she knew this would only lead back to the argument they’d had on the plane, when Ben had insisted that Matthew had kept her off the panel not to protect his drug but to protect Ben’s reputation and the work of the foundation. If she said that Matthew lied constantly, so what possible difference did it make if she lied to him, Ben wouldn’t believe it. And even if he did, he would say that Matthew didn’t have the same values as they did. Which was true.
“I thought I was doing the right thing.” She paused and pushed her fingers over her eyes. “Ben, please, you have to back me up on this. If you don’t, I’m not sure I can handle it.”
He was silent for a little too long. By the time he said, “I will,” she had already shut down her laptop. When he hung up, she got out her smaller suitcase. It took her only ten minutes to pack up a few essentials. She was in a cab on the way to the train station when her cell phone rang.
She was hoping it would be Ben, but she was still glad to hear from Danny. She was worried about those kids, knowing there was no way Matthew could take care of them now that he’d gotten this promotion and, of course, no reason for him to hold up his end of the bargain anymore. No one would care about her version of the Pain Matters story. They’d think it was like an AD press release, so why not use the real press release instead?
She’d just made up her mind that she’d postpone her trip if necessary to take in Danny and Isabelle until their mother was better when Danny surprised her and said he and his sister were fine. Matthew had moved them into a great house in the suburbs. They had a nice nanny named Mrs. Linnas. Everything was good.
“So you just called to say hello?” Amelia asked. She handed the fare and a tip to the cabdriver and got out at 30th Street Station.
“Yeah,” the little boy said. “And to find out if you’re okay.”
“That’s very sweet,” she said, before she thought of something.
“Did Matthew tell you to call me this afternoon?”
“Yeah,” Danny said. “He said you might be upset.”
“Well, I always like to talk to you,” Amelia said evenly. “Would you mind giving Matthew a message for me? Tell him I appreciate his concern. Also, tell him Jakarta.”
Danny repeated the word until he had the pronunciation right. Then he said, “What does it mean?”
“It’s a place a long way from here. But Matthew will know why I said it.”
Sara, her assistant, was flying home from Jakarta in the morning. Now that Amelia would be back in Brooklyn, she could meet Sara tomorrow night to discuss the odd fact that Sara had uncovered. It might be nothing, but it might be enough to scare Matthew into tipping his hand about whatever he had on Ben. On Saturday, Amelia planned to head over to a hospital on Long Island that had done an extensive Phase 3 study on Galvenar. She’d spoken to the principal investigator a few years ago and he’d done nothing but sing the drug’s praises. But she’d gotten a tip that some of the nurses who’d managed the study didn’t agree, and Ethan had managed to unearth a list of all the participating RNs. All she had to do was find one of the unhappy ones who would agree to talk to her, which shouldn’t be too hard. Most people were desperate for someone to listen and take them seriously. Amelia knew that all too well.
Before she got on the train to New York, she picked up a news-magazine because the cover blared:PREDICTING THE FUTURE OF THE 21ST CENTURY. The article was short on predictions, though it did have an advertising pullout that profiled ten people who they called “Heroes for the New Century.” Number two on the list was Ben. They called him “a man on fire” and said he routinely spent all day, every day, pitting his mind against the greatest challenges in medicine. They also noted that he always had a cup of coffee in his hand and that he drank at least a dozen cups a day to remain alert and stay focused.
All of the new-century heroes drank coffee, which wasn’t surprising since a national coffee retailer had sponsored the pullout. How Ben got in this advertisement, Amelia had no idea. She thought of his jumping feet and constant caffeine jitters, but she didn’t laugh. Ben really was a hero; she never doubted it. He was working fifteen-hour days because he loved the lab, but also because he really cared about the diseases of the poor. Unfortunately, living with a hero had turned out to be a lot harder than she’d ever imagined.
Before she’d left the hotel, she’d written him a note. “Call me when you have time to see me. I have to leave and try to save my career.”
She wasn’t angry anymore, and the hurt was fading, too, but she was still glad she was doing this. She was tired of being confused. It was time to find out the truth.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Humpty Dumpty Is Not a Good Egg
It was unseasonably warm in December, meaning only one thing (other than global warming): more golf. Matthew loved the game, but he quickly discovered that playing with his new boss, Harold Knolton, was like being kicked in the groin repeatedly while being expected to keep up his end of the dullest small talk on the planet. How (gasp) is (hey, that really hurts) your (not again!) wife? That’s (turning pale) good (intense swearing burns hole in head) to (sniffing back unmanly tears at testicle eulogy) hear.
The first insult to Matthew’s pride was Harold’s unprecedented and stunningly lazy insistence on riding in a golf cart, meaning of course that Matthew had to ride with him, which was like riding on the short bus, complete with stares and snickers from all those with normal abilities, in this case everyone else on the course, including one man who was hobbling on a cast and another who looked about ninety. If that wasn’t bad enough, Knolton refused to bet even the nominal twenty dollars that Matthew usually suggested when playing with his own employees, because, as Harold put it, betting, though a time-honored tradition in golf, really didn’t belong in a “gentleman’s game.” He actually dared to call it that though he routinely and cavalierly violated the most sacred rule of that game: to play with absolute integrity. Golf was the only sport where players regularly called penalties on themselves. It really was a game of character and honesty (yes, even when played by people who had neither), and no one Matthew had ever golfed with—not the most corrupt doctor, not the slickest PR person, not the most fiercely competitive team from another pharma—had ever cheated, much less as shamelessly as the asshole Harold Knolton.
Matthew couldn’t say anything when Harold lifted his ball out of the bushes and dropped it ten feet closer to the hole. He couldn’t object when Harold consistently left out one or even two of his strokes when computing his score. He couldn’t even complain when Harold claimed to have finished a par-five hole in two, which had to be physically impossible after dribbling the ball off the tee.
Walter had warned him that Harold cheated at golf and poker. “Ignore it,” Walter said. “Don’t contradict him, and don’t win.�
� While Matthew managed the first part, admittedly with great difficulty, the second part was as incomprehensible to him as Japanese and all the other languages he should have mastered by now. Simply put, he didn’t know how to not win . He could lose, and he did on a regular basis, but only after he’d played, and playing was defined as doing his best—that is, trying to win.
Knolton should have won anyway with all his cheating, but somehow Matthew came in with an almost perfect game (crushed testicle rebellion?). He was a gracious winner and Knolton, amazingly, seemed to be a gracious loser. As they went into the club bar, Harold was still keeping up his mind-numbing small talk about his family and his horses and his yacht, but Matthew was relieved, knowing it was almost over. Then, all of a sudden, Knolton changed direction and brought up Matthew’s least favorite topic, the RIF or “reduction in force.”
It was considered bad form to talk about work at the club, but sometimes it was necessary; however, this was decidedly not one of those times. In the last week, Matthew had already spent a million stressful hours in conference calls with the executive team discussing the consultants’ recommendations to reduce the size of the U.S. workforce. Most of the team agreed that substantial layoffs could be a disaster for the company’s productivity, not to mention employee morale. Especially if they closed one of the research sites, which Knolton, ever the dimwit, was arguing for, but which Matthew and Paul Chan, the head of R&D, were vehemently against. Yes, it would increase profit, but at the risk of drying up the pipeline. The problem was Knolton had no interest in thinking about whether the cuts were appropriate; he was only looking to show the board that he wasn’t afraid to make the “hard choices” (e.g., laying off people he had never met) and that he was “thinking outside of the box” (hint: if you’re still using that phrase, you aren’t).
