by A. H. Kim
“Where’d you get this?” I ask. In big block letters, the box is labeled “United States v. God Hälsa AB, Andreas Magnusson and Elizabeth Lindstrom.”
“Let’s just say I called in a favor with a friend of mine at the US Attorney’s Office,” Tracy responds. She lifts the box out of the metal wire shelf and onto the table in the middle of the room.
“Tracy, did you get this legally?” I ask.
“The case is closed,” Tracy responds. She points to the bright orange sticker that says CLOSED on it, but that doesn’t answer my question. I’m still uneasy. This doesn’t feel right to me.
“I met this guy at aikido who works as an Assistant US Attorney,” Tracy says. “We struck up a conversation, and one thing led to another. When I first opened the door to the discovery closet, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It reminded me of the final scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Or better yet, that room in From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.”
I love Tracy. For all her rule-breaking faults, she’s brilliant and speaks my language.
“I couldn’t very well walk out of there with a dolly full of boxes, so I chose this one,” Tracy says. “I think these are the confidential exhibits we couldn’t find online.” She lifts off the lid of the box, which is filled with reddish-colored folders. Redwelds, they’re called. She pulls out a folder and hands it over to me. I pull out a sheaf of papers on US Department of Justice letterhead. Having worked on countless litigation matters, I know to flip through the first dozen pages of legal boilerplate and get to the meat of the document.
“Please provide any and all evidence documenting (A) that God Hälsa was promoting Metamin and Metamin-G for off-label uses such as weight loss, academic performance and social anxiety; and (B) that Mrs. Min-Lindstrom was personally responsible for promoting Metamin and Metamin-G for such off-label uses.”
The response simply says: “See attached exhibits.”
The ensuing pages are color-copied advertisements from a wide range of publications: Time, People, Ladies’ Home Journal, Parents, InStyle. All the advertisements have the same tagline: “Fit Right in with Metamin.” I’ve seen these ads countless times before, but I turn the pages one by one and look at them with fresh eyes.
The first advertisement features a plump Hispanic girl of eight or nine wearing a too-small bright pink leotard, frowning as she stands in gymnastics class and stares into a full-length mirror, comparing her reflection to that of a petite white girl by her side. Directly behind the ad is a color copy of a photograph taken at Claire’s fifth birthday party. The two photographs are nearly identical.
The second advertisement shows a bespectacled college-aged young woman sitting at a desk and surrounded by a pile of textbooks, her head in her hands as if struggling to concentrate. Directly behind is the unflattering photograph of Eva from her freshman year of college.
The final advertisement shows a sad-looking little girl sitting by herself on a playground bench, the only Asian child in a sea of happy white faces. Directly behind is a photograph of a smiling Claire standing arm in arm with her friends at her mostly white preschool.
“Do you recognize these photos?” Tracy asks.
“I do,” I say. “They’re from Beth’s family albums.” I think back to what Beth said when I asked her about the missing exhibits: We got the prosecutors to keep them confidential because they have minor children in them. Beth didn’t mention that the minor children were her own.
“Who has access to those albums?” Tracy asks.
I think about Beth’s bedroom at Le Refuge. The pale blue walls and luxurious linens accented by the soft lighting and heady floral fragrance. It’s like a sanctuary—off-limits to all but the most intimate relations.
“This is it, right?” Tracy says. “The smoking gun? The proof that Beth was personally responsible for the Metamin-G ads at the heart of the whistle-blower case?”
“Yeah, it appears so.”
“Hannah, I hate to say this,” Tracy says, “but Lise’s accomplice has to be a close family member, right? Who else would even know about these photographs?”
I look through the pile of photographs, but I can’t take my eyes off the last advertisement, the one of the little girl sitting by herself on the playground. You can’t blame the prosecutors for getting that one wrong. Whenever he told the story of how he was conceived, Sam made sure that everyone had a mental picture of me sitting alone in the schoolyard.
But no one was there that day to take an actual photograph.
lise
From the deposition of Lise Danielsson in United States of America v. Sam Min and Alexander Lindstrom-Larsen
Q: Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions today.
A: You told me I could go to jail if I didn’t.
Q: Notwithstanding, I appreciate your cooperation.
A: You’re welcome, I guess.
Q: You are free to go now.
A: Before I go, can I just say one more thing about Sam?
Q: Sure.
A: I don’t know what you think Sam did, but he shouldn’t go to jail for it. He’s a really nice guy. He would never intentionally hurt anyone.
Q: Thank you for your opinion.
A: If Sam did anything wrong, it’s because he’s so nice. He always sees the good in everyone. I remember Sam telling me once how lucky he is. “I have a gorgeous wife, two cute girls and plenty of time and money to enjoy it all,” he said. “I’ve led a charmed life. It’s like someone’s always looking out for me.”
beth
thirty-one
I wait until the week after the holidays before asking Sam for a divorce. He takes it a lot harder than I thought he would.
“I’ve done everything you asked,” Sam says.
“I know, and I’m sorry. But I’m tired of living this charade. And anyway, we weren’t even supposed to end up together. Remember our deal?”
“You’re not going to hold me to the contract now, are you?” Sam asks. “Not after all these years.”
“I don’t want to play hardball,” I say. “But I will if I have to.”
Sam and I agree to consult with our lawyers to see if we can work something out that minimizes the disruption for the girls. Months pass. The wheels of justice—or at least marital dissolution—turn slowly. Especially when lawyers who charge by the hour are involved.
I’m sitting at my desk at God Hälsa HQ when it all starts to fall apart.
At first, I think my assistant screwed up.
Every morning, my trusty assistant, Renee, places a clear plastic folder on my desk with a color printout of my day’s meetings along with any materials needing my attention or signature. It’s my regular routine, the way I operate. I wouldn’t know where to go or what to do without my daily folder.
There is a thick legal document in today’s folder. I’m annoyed.
My executive assistant and I have been together long enough that she knows the protocol. She’s authorized to sign any administrative forms on my behalf. She sends any legal documents directly to our in-house lawyers. I shouldn’t even see them.
“Renee,” I yell from my desk, “come in here.”
Renee scurries into my office from her nearby cubicle.
“Please take this and send it to Legal,” I say, handing her the binder-clipped document.
Renee stands there blinking.
“Renee, did you hear me? Please take this and send it to Legal.”
Renee’s face turns cherry. “But...”
“But what, Renee?” My exasperation is showing.
“But that came from Legal.”
I look more carefully at the document and sure enough it has “RECEIVED—God Hälsa Legal Department” and last Friday’s date stamped on it.
“You have a 9:00 a.m. with Mr. Starck in the Mälaren Room to tal
k about it,” Renee says. Starck is God Hälsa’s general counsel. Our company’s top lawyer.
I examine my daily calendar to confirm Renee’s statement.
“Which one is Mälaren again?” I ask Renee for the umpteenth time. All of God Hälsa’s conference rooms are named after Swedish lakes, but no one ever uses the official names, which are unpronounceable.
It’s like working at fucking IKEA.
“The big conference room next to the women’s bathroom,” Renee answers.
Everyone calls it Flushing Meadows.
This is unusual. Legal doesn’t usually need to talk to me about lawsuits. Everyone agrees such matters are below my pay grade. And Starck rarely shows up in the office. Starck sightings are usually limited to quarterly board meetings or charity fund-raisers with his spray-tanned skeleton of a wife. It must be serious if he’s involved.
I check my phone for the time. Damn, I’m already late. Who schedules a meeting for 9:00 a.m. on Monday?
I know something’s wrong the moment I step into the room. CEO Andreas Magnusson is sitting at the head of the table, and General Counsel Starck is at his immediate right. A phalanx of unfamiliar faces in pin-striped suits fills the rest of the table.
I resist the temptation to apologize for my lateness and instead allow the door to be my frame as I stand there looking poised and professional. I am the picture of cool.
“Sit down, Elisabeth,” Starck orders. I’m put off by his rudeness but tolerate it for the moment. I sit in the chair closest to the door, directly opposite Magnusson.
“Have you read the materials I sent?” Starck asks.
“No, I just got in,” I answer briskly. Never apologize, that’s my motto. Along with “you can never be too rich or too thin.”
“What’s this about?” I ask.
“It’s a qui tam lawsuit against God Hälsa that specifically names you and Andreas as codefendants.”
Goddamn it, first Swedish and now Latin. What do they think I am, a freaking linguist?
“What’s a qui tam lawsuit?” I ask.
“It’s a lawsuit filed by a whistle-blower. It alleges that God Hälsa committed fraud against the United States government. Do you know someone named Elise Danielsson?”
“Lise? Are you talking about Lise Danielsson?” I laugh derisively. Lise was my au pair and personal assistant. She grew up in some sleepy Swedish town whose only claim to fame is making clogs.
“Lise wouldn’t know the first thing about filing a whistle-blower lawsuit,” I say.
“Miss Danielsson doesn’t need to know anything about filing a lawsuit,” Starck responds. “She hired one of the best plaintiff’s law firms in the country to file it for her.”
I pull the document from my daily folder, undo the binder clip and scan the contents.
United States of America et al. v. God Hälsa AB, Andreas Magnusson and Elizabeth Lindstrom.
They misspelled my name; I hate it when they misspell my name.
“This is an action to recover civil damages on behalf of the United States of America for violations of the Federal Civil False Claims Act... Plaintiffs did personally and willfully engage in marketing efforts to promote off-label uses of Metamin and Metamin-G such as the treatment of social anxiety, promotion of weight loss, enhanced academic performance, among other purposes...”
I stop reading. I’ve read enough.
“This is bullshit, and you know it,” I say. “I’ve always been careful to make sure our reps stick with the official script, even though everyone knows Metamin can do so much more than what the FDA has approved it for. We can’t control what doctors or patients do of their own volition. This is a free country after all.”
“Elisabeth, you do realize that, if we are convicted on any of these counts, God Hälsa could be debarred?” Starck asks.
Fucking lawyers.
“Well, being disbarred would be a pity for you, Starck, but is that any reason to throw the rest of the company under the bus?”
“Debarred, Elisabeth, not disbarred,” Starck says. I spy one of the snot-nosed outside lawyers smirking at his fellow toady.
I look at everyone imperiously, waiting for an explanation.
“Being debarred means that the federal government refuses to do any business with us,” Starck says. “I don’t need to tell you that Medicaid and Medicare pay for the lion’s share of our pharmaceutical sales. If we lose the government, we lose billions in revenues. If that happens, we lose investor confidence, our stock drops, the company fails. We can’t afford to risk that.”
“We get these frivolous lawsuits all the time,” I respond, “and we always settle out of court. You’ve told me before—it’s just the price of doing business. What makes this one any different?”
Before Starck can answer my question, Magnusson stands up, smashes his hand on the polished glass table and growls like a roused giant.
“Because this time, Elisabeth, they’ve got proof.”
* * *
The following months are a nightmare of revelations and recriminations. I finally face reality and agree to make a plea deal with the prosecutors. Now I’ve got to get my personal affairs in order.
“Sign here,” the lawyer says, passing yet another document to me.
I sign on the line.
“Where do I sign?” Sam asks.
God, he’s such an idiot sometimes.
“At the X, the highlighted part,” the douchebag lawyer responds. He guides Sam’s hand like a kindergarten teacher helping her charges with the ABCs.
I’ve had it up to here with lawyers. There are the lawyers that God Hälsa hired for me, the lawyers that God Hälsa hired for CEO Magnusson, the lawyers that God Hälsa hired for its board of directors, the lawyers that God Hälsa hired for itself as a corporation and the lawyers that I hired for myself and Sam because I don’t trust God Hälsa’s corporate lackeys to have our best interests at heart.
And then there’s this guy, some Dartmouth buddy that Martin reconnected with on LinkedIn, one of those lawyer/financial consultant types that I called in to help me and Sam figure out how to manage the next ten years.
“Now that we’ve completed the power of attorney process, we need to think about next steps,” the lawyer advises.
“Next steps?” Sam asks.
“Yes, the next steps to preserve your cash flow while Beth is...” The lawyer pauses.
“In prison,” I say, finishing his sentence. “We need to talk about how to take care of Sam and the girls while I’m in prison.”
“Well, finances will definitely be tight for the next several years,” the lawyer continues. “However, I think Sam and the girls could possibly manage on Sam’s income if you sold your homes. The equity you have in the homes might be enough to tide the family over, and there’s certainly no need for you to own two homes. I’m sure the family could rent a perfectly nice house, perhaps not right here in Princeton, but nearby.”
“Oh yes, I hear Trenton is quite lovely,” I reply.
“And you really need to work down your monthly household expenses,” the lawyer says. “For example, I don’t see a need for a full-time housekeeper and gardener. My Lord, it’s not like you need to keep up appearances once you’re in prison.”
I glare across the table at Sam.
“And finally,” the lawyer continues, “you really ought to consider pulling your daughter out of private school. That should be no problem at all if you stay here in Princeton, given how strong the public schools are, although I’ll admit if you move to Trenton, it could be a bit more challenging...” The lawyer’s voice trails off, as if the hot air were slowly leaking out of the old windbag.
“Okay, listen to me,” I say, “the most important thing—our true north—is the girls. We can’t do anything that hurts them. I’m fine taking out second mortgages, but we’re not
selling the houses. Both the Princeton house and Le Refuge are my children’s homes. Their homes. They’re losing their mother—there’s no way in hell they’re going to lose their homes, as well.
“As for monthly expenses, go ahead and cut the nonessentials, but don’t you even think about firing Maria or Jorge. This goes beyond just appearances. They’re family. They’ve devoted their lives to taking care of me and my kids, and they deserve to be taken care of in return.”
My words are directed at Sam, not the lawyer. I want Sam to understand: these things are nonnegotiable.
“And finally, Claire’s not going to public school. She’s been working hard all year, and she’s looking forward to moving up from pre-K to kindergarten. Claire adores her teachers, and they love her. Now, more than ever, Claire’s going to need their emotional support. Claire can’t be pulled out of Princeton Country Day. After all, she’s thriving there.
“Do you understand?” I ask Sam. “You can’t let me down on this, okay?”
Sam nods.
Sam might not be the brightest bulb, but there’s one thing I can say for him.
He always does as he’s told.
hannah
thirty-two
“We just finished up our year-end partner meeting,” Old Man Barker says. “Per-partner profits were at an all-time high this year, and our back-office costs were at an all-time low. We have you to thank for that, Hannah.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Barker.”
“I assume you’ve heard people talking about the new office?” he asks.
Indeed, the firm has been abuzz with rumors that Drinker, Barker and Horne will be acquiring a boutique litigation firm out in San Francisco. The associates are already taking bets about who’ll be asked to relocate. It’s considered a plum job—with high-profile clients like Twitter and Lyft and Salesforce—and the chance to fast-track your way to partner.
