as I can tell.”
“No-no,” Allison manages through the burn in her throat.“They don’t have it.”
“That will be tough for them, I would think. That’s how youreally put someone at a crime scene. No murder weapon, it’s all speculation.”
“I–I hope so.”
“I think I’ve upset you here, Allison. Listen to me, talkingabout murder weapons. All I really wanted to tell you is I’m rooting for you.”
“Thank you, Paul. I should-I should probably-”
“You need to get going. Best of luck, Allison.”
She sets the phone down and puts a hand against the wall tosupport herself. She feels the heat on her face, the perspiration gather on herforehead.
The murder weapon.
The front door opens, Mat calls out to her to come down.
She shakes her head hard. Okay. She collects herself andtakes the stairs down.
Jane McCoy sits in the back row, far left corner, a placethat has been kept open for her. She’s wearing her glasses-first time inyears-and a baseball cap. There’s no law that says you have to dress up towatch a trial. She’s not in hiding, exactly, but she doesn’t feel the need tohighlight her presence. No one’s going to notice her, anyway. All eyes areforward, as the defense begins its case in the trial of
McCoy recognizes some of the reporters, who have been giventhe first two rows on the other side-Andy Karras from the Watch crime beat andCarolyn Pendry from
McCoy’s left-side seat puts her in the prosecution’s half ofthe courtroom. If this thing lines up like a wedding, this would make her afriend of the prosecutor, Roger Ogren, which amuses McCoy, because she has beenanything but.
She sees Allison Pagone leaning in at the defense table asher attorney speaks with her. She looks awfully good for a woman on trial. Herred hair is short now, curling out in the back, and damn, she has nice clothes,a tailored blue suit, white blouse, and colorful scarf. She’s probably hopingthe seventy-year-old judge will look down on her and think, How could this cutelittle gal be a killer? Maybe this is why the defense waived the right to ajury trial, letting the judge be the sole finder of fact.
Allison’s new attorney is Ron McGaffrey. McCoy has never hadthe pleasure. She has been cross-examined by half the defense attorneys in thistown, but not typically the ones on the high end, where McGaffrey apparentlyfalls.
She looked into McGaffrey when Allison made the switch fromPaul Riley. Riley, she knew. She liked him. A former federal prosecutor whoonce ran the county attorney’s office as well. Former G-man who could give aswell as he got but made it look natural. When Pagone changed lawyers, McCoy wasconcerned. McGaffrey never prosecuted, and those are always the guys hardest todeal with. The word about McGaffrey is that he never pleads a case, which isprobably not a bad marketing device, because every criminal defendant wants awarhorse.
And that’s exactly what Ron McGaffrey looks like, as hestands and moves toward the battered wooden lectern between the defense andprosecution tables-a fighter, a tough guy. He has been through the wringer andlooks it, a wide, weathered face, bad skin, deep worry lines across hisforehead. He is a large man, not tall but a physical presence, a darknessthrough the eyes, a halt in his stride. He drops a notepad on the lectern, wagsa pencil as he leans his considerable frame forward. He took shrapnel above theknee in Vietnam, survived a heart attack a couple years back and quit smoking,which may explain why he’s holding the pencil with such reverence.
“Call Walter Benjamin,” he says to the judge.
McCoy watches the witness enter the courtroom. She wondersif he will make eye contact with her, but his eyes are forward and down, as hemoves his long, thin body along the aisle, trying to maintain his dignity. Hetakes his seat and is sworn in, spells his last name. He is pushing fifty butlooks older. Looks ill, actually, like the last time she saw him. He pushes hissmall glasses up on his long nose and fixes his hair, chestnut with grayborders.
“I am the director of governmental affairs, Midwest region,for Flanagan-Maxx Pharmaceuticals,” he says.
Technically, Walter Benjamin is on paid leave at the moment,but McGaffrey will get to that, no doubt. He doesn’t start there. He startswith the company, Flanagan-Maxx, a massive international corporation that“ discovers, develops, and markets breakthrough drugs.”
McGaffrey takes him through the countries where they haveoffices and laboratories, the different areas of medicine, the differentdepartments-pharmaceutical, nutritional, and hospital products. The company hasbillions in revenue worldwide. The point seems to be to cast Flanagan-Maxx asthe cold, heartless corporate giant.
“Let’s talk about the pharmaceutical products division,sir,” McGaffrey suggests.
McCoy moves in her seat. She wants this testimony to beover, and it’s just beginning. There is no drama here, this part. F-M makesdrugs for virtually anything, from brain disorders to respiratory infections toorgan transplants to HIV/AIDS treatment.
“Let’s talk about a particular product, sir,” saysMcGaffrey. He has a commanding voice but not as deep as she expected. Hecompensates for this with high volume. His every word in this courtroom is acontrolled shout. “Let’s talk about a product called Divalpro.”
Walter Benjamin nods without enthusiasm, adjusts his glassesagain, and begins to explain it to the judge. Divalpro is a drug marketed toseniors for high blood pressure, one of the most successful products in theFlanagan-Maxx line, one of their cash cows. There is only one problem withDivalpro, a problem that is now known to anyone who follows the news, andcertainly to anyone in the state capital.
Divalpro’s patent is about to expire. Which means problemsfor Flanagan-Maxx. It means copycats. Worst of all, it means genericsubstitutes, drugs with the same active ingredient as Divalpro but cheaper,much cheaper, and therefore more attractive to the state Medicaid system thanthe expensive name-brand drug.
“Explain, if you would, Mr. Benjamin, the prior-approvallist.”
This, of course, was the main problem here. The state’sdepartment of public aid, always looking to cut costs, installs an immediatepreference for cheaper generic alternatives by implementing a “prior approval”system. All generic alternatives receive prior approval from the state Medicaidsystem, so a doctor can prescribe them by signing a piece of paper. If thedoctor wants to prescribe the more expensive, name-brand drug like Divalpro, heor she is required to go through considerable paperwork for approval. Which oneis the doctor going to choose? The patients will ask for Divalpro, given itspast monopoly and a considerable advertising campaign through direct mail andtelevision, but the doctor will assure them that the generic alternative isessentially the identical drug. Flanagan-Maxx’s profits on this drug will takea nosedive.
This was where Walter Benjamin, director of governmentalaffairs, came in. It was time to hit up the legislatures in the seven states hecovers, including this one, for legislation to get Divalpro placed on theprior- approval list of medications. If Flanagan-Maxx could pull that off, itwould be on the same footing as the generics and would maintain a considerableportion of its client base.
“We weren’t asking for preference,” Benjamin emphasizes,ever the company man. “We just wanted to be on the same footing as thegenerics. We just wanted a level playing field.”
Sure, and never mind that the state will be spendingmillions on a drug that could be spent elsewhere in the Medicaid program, whenthe generic alternative is every bit as effective.
“And Mr. Benjamin, in your capacity as director ofgovernmental affairs, did you personally, sir, go to our state capital andplead your case?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“We retained the services of Dillon and Becker.”
“And who at that firm in particular?”
“Sam Dillon.”
“Sam Dillon? The deceased in this case?”
“Yes.”
“Why Sam Dillon?”
