Suddenly she was pissed. Really pissed.
“I’m not blaming—”
“Basically, you are.”
“Try again, Moses,” the DJ said, amused.
Moses looked like he was about to say something nasty, but he stopped and took a breath. He held up his hands, defensive. “Okay. My bad. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for how we treated you. You didn’t deserve that.”
“Deserve what?”
“Getting locked in there for so long.”
“I didn’t deserve to be locked in there at all!”
“Whoa! I’m trying to say—”
“You’re trying to say you’re not sorry at all!”
“He is,” Cynthia sighed. “He’s just an idiot.”
“An idiot for sticking his hand in the cage,” the blue-haired girl muttered. “Rich girl didn’t suffer that much.”
“Shut up, Kook,” Cynthia snapped. “Just shut up.”
Kook looked like she was about to snap back, but Moses held up a quelling hand. “It’s done,” he said. “I’m sorry. I should have thought of a better plan. I should have thought of you.” He inclined his head, and now, finally, Alix had the feeling he was genuinely contrite. “I’m sorry.”
“So you’re like… what? The leader or something?”
He glanced at the other kids in the room, and there was that flash of smile again. The one she’d seen when he was pulling his pranks. “Oh, I don’t know. We’ve got shared interests, maybe. I’m just good at planning.”
“Sometimes,” Cynthia amended. “When you don’t let your stupid run away with you.”
“I already apologized,” Moses reminded her.
“So what do you want with me?” Alix asked.
“Nothing, really,” Cynthia said. “It’s your father we’re interested in.”
“You keep saying that, but I don’t understand why.”
Moses eyed her for a moment, considering his answer. Finally, he said, “Okay. Sure. Let’s do this.” He grabbed a chair and dragged it to the table, sat down and leaned it back on two legs, kicking out his feet.
“Grab a seat,” he said.
Alix hesitated, trying to decide if she should just make a break for the door.
Which door? a voice in her head mocked. The one with the chains on it?
She decided she wasn’t giving up anything by sitting down. All of it was to her advantage, anyway. Time. Just keep using their time. She pulled out a chair. The others found perches on the counters or grabbed chairs of their own.
“How much do you know about your dad’s business?” Moses asked.
Alix shrugged noncommittally. “He’s in PR.”
“Public relations. Sure. But you know what kind of PR he does? You know what his work actually is?”
“It’s like ads and stuff.”
Cynthia leaned in. “Don’t sell your dad short. He’s a specialist. He works mostly in product defense and crisis communications. A lot of his focus is on science-litigation strategy and legislative outreach.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know what my dad did?” Alix accused.
Cynthia looked away. “I wanted to know if you knew. Do you understand what all that means?”
Alix thought back to what Dad had always said. “Nothing special. Just that he helps his clients tell their side of the story. A lot of times, people want to see things in black and white, so he helps make sure that they have the whole story. Otherwise, extremists—probably people like you—end up controlling the debate.” She looked pointedly at Moses. “Sometimes there are more sides to a story than some people want to accept.”
“Hot damn!” Moses started to slow-clap. “You’re good!”
“He should hire you,” Kook said. “Little Miss America PR sweetheart. You make him sound so reasonable.”
“He is reasonable,” Alix shot back.
“You believe that?” Moses asked, looking suddenly interested.
Alix started to answer, then hesitated. There it was again. That word.
Believe.
It was a fetish word for Moses. The guy just kept circling back to it.
“What do you think?” Alix said instead of answering.
“I think you don’t have any choice,” Moses said softly. “You’ve got to believe him. He’s your dad. Every little girl believes her daddy.”
Kook snorted at that, but Moses ignored her. He laced his fingers across his stomach, watching Alix thoughtfully.
“What is it with you and belief?” Alix asked.
Moses smiled. “Let me tell you a story.”
“Like a fairy tale?”
“Once upon a time, there was a princess…” Adam started.
Moses cut him off with a grin. “Once upon a time, there was a huge company called Marcea Pharmaceuticals. Marcea made all kinds of drugs to make people’s lives better, and they made a lot of money doing it. But one day, people started saying that one of Marcea’s drugs was a killer. Rumor was that a cholesterol drug called Alantia was causing heart attacks. Not a lot. Not every person to who took the drug… but more than just a few. Maybe a couple in every hundred, but still, way more than if people didn’t take the drug.
“Now, this was a bad thing. Marcea had a lot of money riding on this cholesterol drug of theirs. Alantia was supposed to make people healthy, and it was killing them. And now the Food and Drug Administration was getting involved, threatening to force the drug off the market.” He paused. “So… what could the company do? They’d spent hundreds of millions of dollars on research and were looking to make billions on the upside. The news that their drug was dangerous was a disaster for them.
“So Marcea made a plan. They decided that Alantia wasn’t the problem. The problem was all the research reports that were claiming their drug caused heart attacks. The drug wasn’t the problem. The science was the problem. The science that was getting reported to the FDA, and that the FDA was starting to believe… that was the problem. The FDA was starting to believe”—Moses smiled at the word—“that Alantia killed people.”
“Marcea had to show that the health studies were biased,” Cynthia said. “Otherwise, the FDA was going to shut them down.”
Moses continued. “So Marcea Pharmaceuticals hired some scientists to test their drug some more. And they hired more scientists to go back and reanalyze the studies that showed Alantia was a heart attack in a pill. They needed to show that the old studies were flawed. If they could raise doubts about those studies, then they were safe. Of course, they knew if it was Marcea’s own scientists doing the work, nobody was going to believe them, so they hired outside people who weren’t directly connected to them to do the work. They paid university researchers. They paid private foundations—”
“So?” Alix interrupted. “It’s a free country. They can study what they want. If someone was trying to kill your business, you’d fight back, too.”
“Absolutely,” Moses agreed. “And luckily for Marcea, it turned out that every single one of Marcea’s new studies showed that their drug was safe and that the FDA was wrong to be worried. False alarm.”
Cynthia said, “The news got reported everywhere, and the FDA backed off.”
Kook added, “And, of course, Marcea Pharmaceuticals’s stock jumped through the roof. Sales kept rolling. Execs get their bonuses. Everybody’s happy.”
“So?” Alix asked. “What’s your point?”
“So?” Moses smiled. “You should be proud.”
“About?” Alix pressed. “What’s this got to do with me?”
Cynthia sighed. “Your dad came up with the science strategy and got the word out. He let everyone know that Alantia was safe. It was a textbook case of successful product defense.”
“So? Then he did the right thing. If something is safe, people should know it’s safe. Why should I care about this?”
Kook flipped her chair forward and leaned in, her smile as sharp as a knife. “Three years later every one of Marcea’s studies was discredit
ed.”
Cynthia said, “All those studies Marcea commissioned were flawed. Bad sample sizes, altered dosages, tons of problems. Every single study they commissioned was proved to be garbage. But the press didn’t see any of that. They didn’t catch it. Some journal of chemistry reports a study—and it’s the truth—and the news cycle rolled on. The FDA didn’t regulate.
“Marcea made a billion dollars every year during those three years that they were touting their counterstudies and keeping Alantia on the market. Over a hundred thousand people had heart attacks. Half of them died. The drug finally got banned.”
Moses was looking at her. “Your dad got a performance bonus for keeping the drug on the market for those extra three years. Fifty thousand extra heart attack deaths and your dad got a million-dollar bonus.”
He paused.
“My dad was one of the ones who died.”
19
“THAT’S A LIE!”
“The hell it is!”
They had both surged to their feet. Now Cynthia interceded, putting herself between them.
“How about we keep the shouting to a minimum?”
“Fine.” Moses scowled. “You talk to her. Maybe she’ll listen to you.” He didn’t sit down but began pacing instead.
Cynthia gently pressed Alix back into her seat and motioned Moses to still himself as well. “Listen, Alix. I know this is a lot to take in. Every one of us had a hard time when we first heard it, but Moses is telling the truth. Banks Strategy Partners was the lead product-defense consultant for Marcea. Your dad ran their strategy, from the beginning, when they needed to defend the science, to the end, when they were in court and had to defend themselves from the lawsuits.”
“I saw your dad in court,” Moses said, as he kept pacing. “Sitting about ten feet from me.”
“A lot of us saw him in court,” Adam said.
Kook and Tank and Cynthia were nodding.
Alix felt ill.
Cynthia said, “Your father’s company is the gold standard for product defense. There are other companies that can do some of what he does: Exponent, Gradient, ChemRisk, the Weinberg Group, Hill and Knowlton…”
Alix started at the names of companies she recognized from her father’s own work history. Cynthia continued. “A lot of firms can help a company ‘tell their side of the story,’ as your dad apparently likes to say, but Banks Strategy Partners is the best. Your father does the PR and George Saamsi does the science, and they’ve got a hundred people under them to help make their plans happen.”
“They’re kind of like the Williams and Crowe of product defense,” Kook said. She was rocked back on two legs of her chair, watching the proceedings with a smirk on her face. “Mercenaries for hire. Top gun to the top bidder, you know?”
“You’re lying.”
“About what?” Adam asked. “That your dad got a million-dollar bonus, or that he’s got a hundred other clients just like Marcea?”
“My dad doesn’t kill people,” Alix said.
“Actually, what I think you’re claiming is that he doesn’t murder people,” Moses said. “I think we’d all agree with that. We know your dad isn’t a murderer, because, otherwise, he’d be locked up like all the other serial killers. That’s what Texas has got death row for, right?”
“Ipso facto,” Cynthia said. “If he’s not in jail, he must not be a murderer.”
“So, yeah,” Moses said, “according to the cops and the laws, your dad isn’t a murderer. And Marcea Pharmaceuticals isn’t either, and none of the paid scientists who did all the screwy studies are murderers, either. They’re all upstanding citizens with nice houses and nice families who go to work every day and come home and kiss their nice kids good night. They go to Little League games on the weekends and donate to their churches and volunteer at the local homeless shelter, and they probably pet their dogs every day. They’re all double-plus-good people living the double-plus-good American dream.”
“But people are still dead,” Tank said.
Kook had stopped smirking. She rocked forward and brought her chair down so she was looking Alix in the eye from across the table. “It’s kind of funny when you think about it. If you go to a school and shoot a bunch of kids, we call that murder. But if you’re a CEO who keeps a cholesterol drug on the street for an extra three years and you take out fifty thousand people with heart attacks, you get a bonus and your face on the cover of Forbes.”
Alix was feeling more and more trapped. Part of her wanted to scream at them that they were all insane, but another part wasn’t sure. A cruel worm of doubt twisted inside her. How much did she really know about the work Dad did? How much did she really understand?
It doesn’t matter, Alix told herself. Just play for time. Just keep them talking. Play for time.
She took a deep breath, trying not to show them how rattled she felt. “I don’t know the CEO of Marcea,” she said. “I’ve got no connection to these people.”
“We don’t care about Marcea,” Moses said. “Just like we don’t care about DuPont. Or General Electric. Or Bayer. Or Dow Chemical. Or Merck. Plenty of people know about them. There are whole books written about this stuff. Investigative journalism articles. New York Times. LA Times. Chicago Tribune. 60 Minutes. Lots of people know what these companies get up to.” He looked at her seriously. “I mean, sure, I admit, at first I wanted to get back at Marcea, but then I started seeing all these crazy connections. I started seeing all these companies using the same tricks.”
“I’d like to think I helped a little with that,” Cynthia said drily.
“Credit where credit’s due.” Moses inclined his head. “It almost takes a genius to dig all this up. To see all these companies coming up with the same strategies. And at that point, you realize that Marcea isn’t the problem. I mean, sure, they’re evil, but they don’t know how to keep their heart attack pill on the market on their own. They need your dad for that.”
Cynthia said, “Everywhere we looked, Banks Strategy Partners popped up. Even when another product-defense company was involved, a lot of times it turned out that they subcontracted back to BSP. Simon Banks is the best there is, and everybody in the industry knows it.”
“When you absolutely, positively have to confuse the hell out of an issue,” Kook said, “call Banks Strategy Partners.”
Moses said, “You know what they call BSP? The people who hire them? The people who use your dad’s methods?”
Alix didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to hear it.
“The Doubt Factory,” Moses said. “It’s a good name, right? Because, really, that’s what your dad produces. He doesn’t make products. He makes doubt.
“If you want everyone to ignore those FDA studies that say you’re killing people with your drug, you go to Simon Banks and buy a little doubt. You sprinkle it all over the issue. You spread it around. Pretty soon, the Doubt Factory has people so confused that you can go on selling whatever the hell it is for just a little longer. Aspirin. Tobacco. Asbestos. Leaded gasoline. Phthalates. Bisphenol A—the list goes on.”
“Azicort,” Tank said with a cough.
Moses glanced over at Tank, nodding. “Azicort. For sure we’re interested in Azicort.”
“What’s that?” Alix asked.
Kook smiled sweetly. “Oh, nothing. Just an asthma drug that causes comas and death.”
“We think,” Cynthia interjected.
Kook rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. We know it. How many people were in Tank’s class action? Like, fifty?”
Cynthia said to Alix, “We know Kimball-Geier Pharmaceuticals hired BSP about a year before Tank had a near-death experience, which, given your dad’s track record, looks pretty suspicious.”
“But I didn’t do anything,” Alix protested. “This isn’t my fault. I wasn’t involved with any of this.”
“Yeah, well,” Tank said with another cough, “neither were we.”
20
“SO…” ALIX STARED AT ALL of them. “You
want to… what? Ransom me or something?”
“Nah, girl,” said Kook. “That’s them. They’re the ones who care about money. Money isn’t shit.”
“It beats starving,” Alix shot back.
Moses snorted. “Adam, how much you got in your bank account?”
“I’m down now.” He shrugged. “Probably still about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“You are such a shit!” Cynthia said. “You’ve been holding out!”
Adam smiled unapologetically. “I figured we’d still have expenses. Might need to throw another party and earn some more. Why? What are you down to?”
“Forty, maybe? Seitz life was expensive.”
Adam grinned. “Nice threads, though. You got to admit you dress fine these days.”
“I got sixty K,” Kook volunteered.
“I don’t have any money,” Tank said.
“That’s ’cause your lawyers sucked ass,” Kook said.
“You see?” Moses said to Alix. “Most of us already got money.”
“You, too?” Alix challenged Moses. “How much money do you have?”
“Me?” Moses waved his hand at the factory around them. “I got mine tied up in real estate.” He laughed. “It’s not about money at this point. We’ve all got our blood money, straight from the source. Every one of us, we’ve all been paid. We got it from lawsuits and settlements. We got it from reparations.… The problem is that people like your dad think money matters. The people who hold your dad’s leash are all about money. It’s all they understand—keeping the money spigot turned on full bore. Us?” His expression turned cold. “Don’t ever think this is about money. It’s about a whole hell of a lot, but one thing’s for sure: It’s not about the goddamn money.”
“If you can’t buy your parents out of the morgue, money isn’t worth a whole lot,” Cynthia said. “None of us are in it for the money.”
Slowly it dawned on Alix what they were saying. The factory was starting to make sense. The kids all living in it. The pizza boxes piled in the corner of the kitchen. She suddenly saw Cynthia in a new light. She thought of the factory’s shower room, and Cynthia’s lockers full of clothes. Armani. Versace. Michael Kors. All that beautiful clothing hung in those banged-up lockers.