The Suicide Effect (15 page)

“I made a photocopy of the withdrawal slip.” He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and pushed it across the small table. The paper unfolded and revealed itself to be exactly as Sebring had described.

Gotcha! she thought with glee. She couldn’t hold back a smile. “What about the bogus bookkeeping?”

Sebring squirmed. “I don’t know. I could get fired for divulging client information.”

“I can’t do much with the accounting story without some type of evidence.”

“You can contact the Securities and Exchange Commission. Call for an investigation.” Sebring started to button his jacket.

“I have to give them something to go on.”

“I’ll fax you a document. It lists a loan to KJR Inc., which is a specialty enterprise set up as a tax shelter. In reality, it functions as a personal line of credit to Karl Rudker. The first repayment is five months overdue.”

“How much did he borrow?”

Sebring stood and silently mouthed, “Two point seven mil.”

Trina liked the number. She heard herself saying it on air. She wanted more, but Sebring was leaving. “Thanks for the tip. Can I contact you?”

“Please don’t.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “Good luck.”

Trina nodded. The story would require some serious digging, but it could be well worth it. Especially if the dead woman was connected to Prolabs’ accounting scandal. Had she threatened to expose Karl Rudker? Was he prone to violence?

Trina decided to skip the coffee. Her energy level was already pulsating. This kind of story never happened in Eugene. Bankruptcies, identity theft, and an occasional scam on senior citizens were about all the white-collar crime the local folks came up with. She tossed her mostly full cup, exited the warm coffee shop, and headed back to the station. Karl Rudker’s life was about to undergo a scrutiny that would make even an honest man blush.

He was in a foreign country and hordes of people lined the sheer cliffs over a mile-wide river. Without hesitation, they all jumped, splashing into the icy water. Robbie knew he should follow, yet he hesitated. He eased up close to the edge and peered over. The water seemed to be moving slowly but it looked incredibly deep. He filled his lungs with air and prepared to push off.

His leap was cut short by the sound of the alarm. Robbie sat up and slammed off the noise. He swung his legs out of bed and planted his feet on the floor. A moment later, he was up and moving toward the bathroom. Halfway there, he became aware of his actions. He’d never come awake so quickly before. It was the first time in years he’d gotten out of bed without hitting the snooze button at least twice. He could not remember ever getting up to face the day without at least some reservation.

He smiled. The new drug must be working.

Once his brain really kicked in, some downbeat thoughts surfaced. Such as how interminably boring his job was. Robbie tried to find a positive thought. Maybe he’d get a seat next to Julie during lunch hour. They would talk and she would smile at him. Robbie decided to leave it at that. No reason to get his hopes up too much.

His energy level stayed high throughout the morning. After the lunch buzzer rang, Robbie zipped down to the changing room and out into the walkway faster than he had moved in a long time. His energy level surprised him. He wondered if this was what meth or speed felt like to a normal person. If so, he understood the attraction. His confidence increased with every step. There would be a space at Julie’s table. She would talk to him. Life was good.

Julie was at a table with only one other person, Melissa from the production office. Robbie hurried straight over, skipping his usual stop at the Coke machine. He sat down next to Julie, placing his lunch bag on the table. The tremor in his hands was obvious, so he put them in his lap. He couldn’t remember what he’d brought for lunch and wasn’t hungry anyway.

“Hi Julie.”

She was so pretty. Light brown eyes, pale perfect skin, and the cutest little mouth.

“Hey, Robbie. How have you been? I haven’t seen you around much.”

She had noticed that he hadn’t sat by her lately. Very cool.

“I’m doing great. I started–” Robbie caught himself. He had almost announced his new medication. “I started working out. It feels good.” He promised himself he would do pushups every day for a week.

“Oh yes, I have to exercise or I get cranky.”

“I can’t imagine you cranky.”

“You should see me when I go too long without eating. Whew!” Julie made a mock horror face. Robbie laughed. Julie smiled then bit into her sandwich.

Robbie opened his lunch bag and discovered a brown banana and a carton of rice leftover from Jason’s Chinese takeout dinner last night. He was too embarrassed to haul them out. He decided to have a Coke instead.

“I’m going to get a soda from the machine. Would you like one?”

“No thanks. I brought a Snapple.” Another bright smile.

He hated to walk away from her, but his throat was dry, and he didn’t want it to sound funny when he asked her out. Which he planned to do the moment he got back.

The vending machine was near the cafeteria door, thirty feet away. He pulled some quarters out of his pocket on the way. Rootbeer sounded better, so he reached for that button instead. Then he worried it would make his breath weird, so he hesitated, then bought a Coke instead.

Can in hand, he whirled around and started back. From across the room, he watched Julie talk and chew in a delicate balance that few could pull off. Then his heart went cold. To his left, Josh Mitchell the packaging lead, was coming up the aisle between lunchroom tables. The good-looking bastard slid into his spot next to Julie and shoved Robbie’s lunch bag aside in one easy motion.

No!

He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. They felt like lead. It seemed to take an eternity, but they carried him back. Josh was already talking to Julie, making her laugh. Robbie tried to cut in, “Hey Josh, I was sitting there.”

Josh finished his story, then looked up with an easy confidence. “There’s a spot right there.” He pushed Robbie’s bag with the beat-up banana down the table. “You’re already up. Don’t make me move.”

Robbie felt paralyzed. His mind whirled but his legs wouldn’t budge. Why had he gotten up? How could he have been that stupid? He had been so close to asking her out. He could not bring himself to sit down and watch Josh flirt with Julie. Robbie glanced at Julie, and she gave him a quick smile with a little shrug. Then she turned back to Josh and asked him if he played racquetball.

Robbie’s heart was so crushed it was barely beating. Why did he try? Why did he set himself up for disappointment? He picked up his lunch bag and dragged himself to the door. His intention was to leave work and not come back. He could not bear to be humiliated again. He dropped his bag in the trash, but hesitated to ditch the Coke. He was still thirsty.

“Hey, if you’re not going to drink that, I will.” A short, pretty redhead he hadn’t seen before sauntered up to him.

On impulse he handed her the soda. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks.” She took the can and smiled. “I’m Savanah. I started work here this morning.”

“Robbie Alvarez. Six months and counting.”

She wasn’t Julie, but she seemed nice. Robbie asked her if she’d like a tour of the factory.

Chapter 20

Sula spent Monday morning at the employment office, filling out paperwork and registering for a work search. Because she’d been fired, they told her she would have to wait a week or two while they investigated her claim. Sula hoped to have a job before any checks arrived. She had no desire to take taxpayers’ money.

She had stopped at the post office and mailed several resumes on the way, but she hadn’t returned Aaron’s call. She’s played his message several times just for the charge it gave her. She almost called him back. What could it hurt to have coffee? Still, she hesitated. She had to find a job. She had to win her custody hearing. If she could, she had to stop the Nexapra clinical trials. All were high-stakes projects and she could not afford to be distracted.

After a quick taco salad at Mucho Gustos, she headed through the downtown area, rehearsing her introduction on the way. A call that morning had netted her a fifteen-minute appointment with a clinician at the Oregon Research Center. Sula had not expected the doctor to agree to the interview and now she felt unprepared and nervous.

The research center was in an ugly gray building on Willamette Street. Sula pulled in and parked next to a blue Honda Civic, the only car in the lot. She checked her watch: 12:52. Eight minutes early. Sula unzipped her black binder and reviewed her questions. It failed to quell her nervousness. She began to doubt her ability to be a reporter. It was a simple interview that would never make it to print. Chill, she told herself. Unable to sit any longer, she climbed out of the truck, smoothed her black skirt, and headed inside.

Soothing tones of teal, forest green, and adobe enveloped the waiting room. Sula felt calmer already. The receptionist greeted her warmly and asked her to wait a few minutes while she located the clinician. Sula sat on the edge of an armchair, ready to pop up at a moment’s notice.

A tall, beautiful woman with near-black hair entered the waiting area. Sula caught herself staring. The woman approached and held out her hand. “Dr. Janine Lucent.”

“Sula Moreno. Thanks for taking time to speak with me today.” They shook hands.

“Let’s go back to my office.”

Sula followed her through a series of turns and they ended up in an office that was smaller than her old one at Prolabs. The tiny window had a view of a parking lot. Sula didn’t imagine the doctor spent a lot of time here, but still, it seemed like someone who had spent eight years in college deserved better.

“What can I do for you?” Dr. Lucent smiled warmly.

Here we go, Sula thought. “I’m writing an article about clinical trials for mental health drugs. I understand you participate in such studies.”

“That’s what we do here.”

“Were you involved in a Nexapra study? It’s a drug in development by a local company.”

“Yes. I’m familiar with the therapy. The first trial concluded several months ago. What would you like to know?”

“Was it a success? Did most of your patients benefit from the drug?”

Dr. Lucent let out an almost imperceptible sigh. Sula wondered if she asked something stupid. The doctor began to explain in the tone of a tired teacher. “Only half the patients in the trial received the drug, the other half received a placebo, a dummy pill. But I can’t really talk about the results of the trial, because they haven’t been published yet.”

“The company is now recruiting for a Phase III trial, so the Phase II stage must have gone well.”

“It did.”

“Is there more risk involved in studies for mental health drugs? I mean compared to other types of drugs?”

The doctor scowled. “Yes, I suppose. But we supervise the patient subjects very closely.”

“But still,” Sula pressed her point directly, “patients who are depressed sometimes attempt suicide. Have any of your patients ever killed themselves while enrolled a clinical study?”

“It happens.” Lucent met her eyes, unashamed.

“Did it happen during the Nexapra study?”

“No, but I couldn’t talk about it with you if it had.”

Sula switched tracks. “Were there any minorities in your arm of the trial?”

Lucent frowned again. “I’d have to look back at the records to be sure, but I don’t believe there were.” She seemed intrigued. “Why do you ask?”

Sula was ready. “One of the things that got me interested in writing this article was something I read about minorities being under-represented in clinical trials. The article said drugs get approved without a full understanding of how they affect certain racial groups. Do you think that’s true?”

Dr. Lucent put on her lecturer’s voice. “The full effect of a drug can’t be known until it’s been in use in a large patient population for an extended period of time.”

Sula jotted it down because it seemed like a good quote.

The doctor shifted uncomfortably. “Just because there weren’t any minorities in the trial here in Eugene, doesn’t mean they weren’t in the trial anywhere.”

“There’s a substantial Latino population here. Why do you think none of them participated?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps we’re not reaching them with our messages about the study.”

“Where else did the Nexapra trial take place?” Sula wondered if Lucent knew about Puerto Rico.

“I believe there was an arm of the trial in Portland.”

“That’s it?”

“I think so.”

“Portland doesn’t have many minorities either. Not compared to the whole country.”

Lucent leaned forward, a bit defensive now. “The drug still has to be tested in large patient populations. That’s what Phase III trials are for. I’m sure there will be minorities in those studies.” The doctor stood. “That’s all the time I have.”

Sula stood too. “Will you participate in the next Nexapra trial?”

“I currently am.”

“It’s going on right now?” Sula was startled. She thought it would be weeks or months before the Phase III round.

“Yes, it just started. We’re still recruiting, but I’m very optimistic about this study and this drug.”

“Thanks for your time.”

Sula shook her hand and left, troubled by the idea that people were already taking Nexapra again, and so far she’d accomplished nothing, except to lose her job. There was another doctor in Portland who had tested Nexapra, and Sula planned to approach this one differently. First she needed to borrow a cell phone with a blocked caller ID.

From the parking lot across the street, Jimmy Jorgovitch watched the girl come out of the gray building. He liked the way she moved, with long fluid strokes. He liked her looks too but couldn’t place her nationality. Maybe she was part Hawaiian. She had straight dark hair that hung well below her shoulders.

Jimmy followed the purple truck out into traffic on Willamette Street. The bright color stood out nicely in traffic. His subject was both easy to look at and easy to follow. That meant easy money. It was about time. His private detective business had taken a huge hit when the economy went down, and he’d had to supplement his income with security work that involved way too much time on his feet. At fifty-four, he was too old for eight-hour stand-up shifts, but too broke to retire. His cop’s pension only covered the mortgage on his home and his mother’s monthly supply of medical marijuana.