4 gigs of trouble, p.22
4 Gigs of Trouble, page 22
I paused, caught my breath, and then continued.
“My family and I need you to tell the truth. Our lives are on the line. The lives of all the people taking Neurokept are on the line. We found the truth. We need you to tell it. When can we meet?”
His response was silence, which was less disconcerting than nasal flatulence but hardly encouraging. I was about to launch another plea when Trevor Spencer spoke.
“I need to confirm your facts,” he said. “If it checks out, we’ll meet this afternoon.”
• • •
I could place a .40 mm hole dead center in the bull’s-eye, quickly and reliably, standing, sitting, or lying on the ground. I could muster enough strength and muscle memory to hold my own in hand-to-hand engagement. I could contain a room full of screaming teenagers armed only with a steely stare. But wait patiently while the world imploded around us? Not happening.
I restlessly fiddled with my phone, checking in with Mom and Sangita and periodically trying Greg’s apartment. When there was no one else to call, I remembered I hadn’t checked my regular voicemail since Lester had locked my cell in his desk at the Pentagon. I figured Marla and the Academy kids were safely home, but if there was something I needed to know, Marla would leave me voicemail. I dialed in, punched my password, and the efficient automated female told me I had one new message.
It wasn’t the one I expected.
“For a teacher, you don’t learn very well. The Washington Post is not interested in your story. No one else will be either. We tried to tell you personally, but you aren’t home or at your uncle’s, are you? We dropped by your folks’ place to leave them the message. They weren’t home either, but that’s OK, we’re patient. They’ll be home eventually. Oh, and speaking of messages, your associate from the embassy says hi. Nice guy. Not sure about his employment at the embassy, but we’ll figure that out too. Look, if you want this to be just between you and us, drop the story. Moms and dads and uncles and aunts will be glad you did.”
“Toni?”
Lester was looking at me wide-eyed, and I knew my face was pinched and bloodless.
“It was Tortoise.” I punched in the code to replay the message and handed the phone to Lester.
I went from sucker-punched breathless to enraged as I watched Uncle Lester listen to the message. I needed to call the Post back, preferably with the steadiness and strength of my inner-Marine. I summoned her for duty as I dialed. I got Trevor Spencer on the second ring.
“Are you running the story?” I asked after a few polite volleys that led nowhere.
“Not until I get the data vetted.”
“What do you mean?”
“According to the records I’ve accessed, Neurokept is being tested and monitored properly, both by its patent-holder AsterAid and the FDA.”
“And you accessed these records by…?”
“They were provided by the research department of AsterAid Laboratories. Some are copies of official documents filed with the FDA. Others are in-house research documents, which they aren’t required to disclose to me. They released them to demonstrate they have nothing to hide. I haven’t had time to read through all of them, but so far they look clean.”
I snorted. Was this guy a reporter or a patsy?
“Have you looked at the material I emailed you? How can you not be suspicious of a cover-up?”
Spencer sighed. “The records you provided have not been corroborated. In fact, looking at AsterAid’s reports and FDA filings, your records are the ones that are suspect. Until I can prove your documents haven’t been falsified, and show that they’re based on more than conjecture, my publisher will not let me run your version of the story.”
“My version of the story?” I said. “How many people have to die before you grow some balls and print the truth?”
I realized I’d lost control when I heard the click.
Trevor Spencer had hung up on me.
Chapter Forty-seven
“That was exercising control?” Lester said.
“I didn’t shoot him.”
“Only because your Glock is in Vegas and your Smith & Wesson isn’t a gun.”
I must have looked as miserable as I felt. Lester reached over and patted my shoulder. Without saying a word, I picked up my empty cup, dropped it in the trash, and walked out into the dingy sunlight. Or maybe the dingy wasn’t coming from the sun; maybe it was inside me.
“Hey, Tiger,” Lester said as he trotted out to the sidewalk. “You seem to have forgotten some things.”
Before leaving McDonalds I’d discarded my trash and my chances with the Washington Post. That seemed pretty complete to me.
“Toni.” Lester gently grabbed my arm. I stopped and faced him. “The paper was always our backup plan,” he said. “There’s still a chance Rourke will come through.”
If I was short and had red curls I’d have burst into song. But the sun was not going to come out tomorrow.
“They know we sent Justin’s four gigs to the Post.”
“Sure,” Lester said. “It doesn’t mean Rourke was in on it. Kid Reporter called AsterAid. AsterAid gave Spencer their whitewashed FDA filings, some fictional in-house studies, and a pitch any scam artist would be proud of. Doesn’t mean the Post won’t eventually sort it out and print the truth.”
Lester had been despondent over Greg but was now doing his best to cheer me up. I’d have hugged him for the effort, but I didn’t have the energy. I’d thought the press would immediately run an explosive story on the basis of unsubstantiated data provided by a visiting schoolteacher and a dead blogger. Talk about naïve. I flashed on the sign one of our social studies teachers had posted in his classroom. It read, “Your failure to plan is not my emergency!”
“You’re right,” I said. “But we can’t sit around and wait while the Post investigates.”
Lester’s eyes darkened, and I knew he was worrying about Greg. So was I. But maybe Greg had a little more time than we feared.
“Tortoise said something about checking on Greg’s employment,” I said. “If they think Greg might have helped with the paperwork—”
“Paperwork?”
I reminded Lester what I’d learned from Justin’s research. China was the primary source for many drug ingredients used internationally, and they had an especially tight grip on the API market. Some of Justin’s notes accused AsterAid of helping its Chinese drug manufacture obfuscate the truth about little processes like quality control; less stringent quality meant less cost and more profit for AsterAid.
Lester’s eyes widened. “They’re trying to figure out if Greg had ties with anyone at the Embassy. If he knew what was going on. If he might have been working AsterAid’s side of the table, a table they weren’t invited to sit directly at.”
“They don’t want to hurt anyone if it will piss off the supplier of their cheap APIs.”
“So Greg has time.” His voice went from terrified to merely frightened.
I put myself in AsterAid’s illicit shoes. Knowing Greg worked at or with the Chinese Embassy would keep me from causing irreparable damage until I could thoroughly check him out. I’d have to know that killing him wouldn’t piss off anyone at the Embassy or back in China. I looked at my watch. China was ahead of us. Ten hours? Or was that twelve? In either case, it was late there now. Too late for a polite business call, I hoped.
“He has some time,” I said. “But we have to hurry.”
Lester nodded, and we began walking quickly.
• • •
We ended up in a restaurant with lots of TV screens and a bar that boasted a dozen brands of beer and a shelf of hard liquor. It was Applebee’s or TGI Fridays or some other bright and happy chain. I wasn’t paying attention. My stomach was empty and my brain was firing neurons like an M16. Unfortunately, they were going every which way—and they were blanks to boot.
The waitress dropped a couple of menus at our table, and I wondered how foolish it would be to order something I’d have to use a credit card to pay for. My stomach growled, and my eyes assaulted someone else’s tall, cold beer as it passed our table. Lester caught my look.
“We have enough cash to split a burger and a beer.”
The waitress took our order, frowned when we asked for a second plate, and scurried away to get our beer and ice water. Lester excused himself and headed for the bathroom. And I needed relief too, but relief of a different kind. Despite the knife tucked in my bra, I was still thinking too much like a schoolteacher and not enough like a warrior.
I did some deep shoulder shrugs to loosen the tightness and began the breath meditation sequence I’d learned from another woman Marine in Iraq. A few minutes into the meditation, I felt the booth jiggle and knew Lester had slid into his seat across from me. I didn’t open my eyes until I was finished.
“You’ve got to teach me that sometime.” A little smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You look so much more—”
“Calm?” I said.
“And…together.”
“The first thing we do when we come into the world is breathe. After a few years on the planet, we lose our way; we forget the power of breath.”
Lester gave me a look, like he expected me to begin chanting “Om mani padme hum.” I smiled. “That’s what Maris used to say anyway. She was the Marine in Iraq who taught me breath meditation.”
The food and beer came. Lester ate with a faraway look in his eyes—a thousand-yard stare—that made me ache. I pushed my negative feelings away and concentrated on the moment, telling myself that when the student was ready, the teacher will appear.
And the teacher did.
She was a sixty-something black woman with a small gap between her front teeth, misbehaving gray hair, and dark brown eyes that looked like they hadn’t sparkled since the Kennedy administration. She faced me from the television screen closest to our booth, and though her lips moved, her words could not reach me through the noisy bar. They didn’t have to; when the reporter interviewing her turned to face the camera, words appeared at the bottom of the screen.
“Lester,” I said. I tapped his hand gently to shake him from his faraway thoughts. “Look.”
He followed my gaze to the television screen.
“That’s nice, but how does it help us?”
“I gave his niece Taleah the original thumb drive to give to my congressman. I can call his niece.”
Lester perked up. “You think she’d connect us with…?”
I nodded like a dashboard bobble head on a bumpy road.
I looked at the words on the television screen and smiled, even as they disappeared to make room for a commercial. We needed media attention, but we no longer needed the Washington Post.
My cheap little burn phone was hardly smart, so I dialed directory assistance for Congressman Bateman’s office. When the receptionist answered, I asked to speak with Taleah Williams.
“Ms. Williams, this is Toni Teitelbaum. You gave my class a tour last week.” And I gave you four gigs of trouble, I thought.
There was silence, and I wondered if Taleah was thinking the same thing.
“Yes, Ms. Teitelbaum,” she said after a moment. “I remember. How can I help you?”
I told her I’d just seen the local news story about the mayor’s new prescription program for low-income Washingtonians. “Your uncle is obviously interested in the issue, and my congressman, apparently, is not.”
“I put the drive on the Congressman’s desk. I don’t know why he hasn’t—”
“It’s OK,” I interrupted. My mother’s voice—Toni, sometimes you’re a bull in a china shop—made me wince. I softened my tone and said, “I know you can’t control what the Congressman does. I’m not calling about him. It’s just, when the Congressman didn’t launch an investigation I had to take matters into my own hands. I contacted Senator Rourke and the Washington Post. AsterAid Laboratories found out. Last night they kidnapped a friend, and they are threatening my family. I’ve run out of time and options. When I saw the news report about the mayor’s prescription program, it was an epiphany.”
“What do you mean, epiphany?”
“Your uncle, Taleah. He’s the answer. Can you get me a meeting with him? Today?”
“If you’re being threatened and a friend has been kidnapped, don’t you think this is a job for Metro?”
I explained that a missing person’s report had been filed but Metro, for my money, was part of the problem, not the solution. She was reluctant to agree until I told her about the AsterAid Breakfast Club.
“Oh,” she said, “I see.” And then all those years as a politician’s niece kicked in, and she added, “But that doesn’t mean Metro’s chief is doing anything improper.”
I snorted. It was not an attractive sound, but an effective communication nonetheless. I started to add that it was improper in the same way waterboarding was simply an enhanced interrogation technique, but Taleah cut me off.
“Ms. Teitelbaum, there’s a lot going on in the office right now. Could I call you back in a couple of minutes?”
Oops. I’d forgotten she was probably in the open reception area of Congressman Bateman’s office.
She took my cell phone number and told me to expect her return call in about ten minutes. I hung up and looked around the bar. Probably not the best place for us either.
“We’ve got ten minutes, Lester,” I said. We threw money on the table and shot out of Applebee’s or TGI Fridays or wherever the hell we were. We needed a better place for the phone call that just might save us all.
Chapter Forty-eight
We sat on a damp park bench in an unnamed neighborhood park that seemed filled with more hoods than neighbors. After observing the third drug transaction, I slid my hand under my jacket and bra and repositioned my Smith & Wesson so I could reach it in one quick motion. Unfortunately, this made the handle jut out, creating the impression that I had three nipples.
“Nice look,” Lester said.
I pulled my jacket together but left it unfastened.
Drugs-R-Us was finishing his fourth transaction when my cell phone rang. It was Taleah.
“I called his office,” she said without preliminaries, “and spoke with his personal assistant. There’s no way he can see you there today; he’s out of the office. Thursday is the earliest you could get in.”
The half-burger I’d consumed an hour earlier turned into a small, hard stone and settled in the pit of my stomach. “We can’t wait that long,” I said.
“I know. So I stuck my neck out and called him directly on his private cell.” Her voice had an edge, as if she was annoyed that she had to play the family card to reach him. I couldn’t tell whether her annoyance was aimed at the mayor or me. “He’s got several out-of-office events scheduled, practically back-to-back. But,” Taleah said, “I told him how important this is.”
“And?”
“He’ll give you and your uncle five minutes.”
I screeched a thank you and gave a thumbs-up to Lester.
“Wait a minute,” Taleah said. “There’s a catch. The only way he can accommodate you today is if you meet him en route to his next event. If you can’t, call his assistant and make an appointment to see him in the office on Thursday.”
I thought about the risk of riding around DC in Lester’s car. The one Metro had probably BOLOed.
“Any chance the meeting location will be within walking distance of a Metro stop?”
Taleah didn’t know and said she’d find out. “Where are you now?”
I gave her the last major cross streets I remembered passing, and she promised to call back. Five minutes later, she did.
“I worked out the details with Tom, his driver. Fortunately, Tom used to work for the transit authority so he knows the routes very well.”
I listened as Taleah relayed the driver’s instructions. “Can I have Tom’s cell phone number, in case we misconnect?”
“Look, the mayor’s schedule is tight and this is a favor as it is. If your meeting can’t wait until the end of the week, you better make sure there is no misconnect.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her tone was gentler.
I thanked Taleah profusely as I scribbled Tom’s cell number on the back of my left hand.
Old ladies, thirty-somethings pushing babies in strollers, bad-ass drug dealers, and their desperate customers. It didn’t matter. Lester and I would have mowed down anything between us and the first bus on our journey to meet with the mayor.
“Next block,” Lester said, huffing slightly.
We were both speed-walking. We would have been flat-out running if we hadn’t been a little paranoid. When you aren’t dressed in jogging duds, running down the street screams Hey, look at me, which was not something we wanted if the looker happened to be one of Metro PDs finest.
“There.” I raised my voice over the heavy rumble of the bus engine gearing down to take the turn onto our street. We were ten meters from the crosswalk when our light turned red and the bus’s turned green.
“Shit,” Lester said.
The bus speeded up and rounded the corner. I went from power-walking to an arms-pumping-legs-kicking race to cross the street. I was off the sidewalk and two strides into the street when a dark blue SUV the size of Nebraska laid on its horn instead of its brakes. In California, pedestrians have the right of way even if they’re outside a crosswalk or crossing against a red light. I guessed that might not be the case here in DC.
“Jesus, Toni!” Lester screamed from the curb.
I had a second to decide. The bus was pulling up to its stop a half-block ahead.
I was six feet and 165 pounds, 170 after Mom’s lasagna. The SUV was substantially bigger than that.
I stopped.
Back at the curb, Lester and I watched our bus pull out and rumble away. It didn’t matter that there’d be another one in fifteen minutes. The mayor’s schedule didn’t have another fifteen minutes.
