The Suicide Effect (20 page)

Sula forced herself to be patient, to let the woman get settled in with a cup of coffee before she barged in asking questions. After checking her watch for the third time, ten minutes had finally elapsed. She took a long deep breath as she stood. She’d tried to prepare herself for the possibility she might come away empty handed—after borrowing a small fortune and enduring six plane rides. The money would be a setback either way, but the idea that she would fail to find the data she needed to stop the trials was hard to accept.

Sula had gone back and forth a dozen times about how to approach the doctor and had decided to use the journalist scenario she had used with the clinic in Eugene. It was also mostly true. Her career goal was to be an investigative reporter, and this was her first story. She intended to write about her experience, regardless of the outcome, and hoped to get the story published.

She stepped toward the street and waited for a pink convertible with a group of young girls to pass by. A minute later, she entered the air-cooled clinic. Cream-colored walls alternated with sage green, and a plush maroon couch invited visitors to sit. The soothing sound of water rippling over rocks served as background music. The effect was quite calming. Sula imagined a fountain in the courtyard, surrounded by big, brightly painted pots filled with ferns.

“Buenos dias,” Felisa greeted her from the reception desk.

“Buenos dias.” Sula smiled. “Actually, I don’t speak Spanish.”

The director smiled back. “That’s fine. I like to practice my English with people who don’t speak with an accent.” She stood held out her hand. “Felisa Quinton.”

“Sula Moreno. From Eugene, Oregon.”

“You’re a long way from home. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to speak to Dr. David Hernandez.”

Felisa’s face closed up. “He no longer works here.” Anger flickered in her eyes. “I have no idea where he is or how to contact him. I’m sorry you came so far for nothing.”

A silence engulfed them, the director lost in an unpleasant memory while Sula reeled with disappointment and paranoia. Had Rudker paid off Hernandez? Or was it merely coincidence that the two people most familiar with the Nexapra suicides—Warner and Hernandez—were unavailable?

A chill ran up her spine. Did Rudker know she was here? What if he had followed her? For the first time, she realized she might be in over her head. Rudker obviously wasn’t taking any chances in letting the suicide data get out, and he undoubtedly considered her a risk.

“Did you know David? You look like you’ve just seen a parición.”

Sula shook her head. “It was very important that I speak to him, but perhaps you can help me instead.”

Felisa shrugged. “If I can.” She touched Sula’s elbow. “Let’s go into the conference room.”

Sula followed her through an archway into a short hallway, then into the first room on the left. It seemed more like a cozy kitchen with a small dark-wood table and padded straight-back chairs. Sula glanced at the sink and refrigerator in the corner.

“Would you like something to drink?” Felisa moved toward the fridge.

“Please.”

The director came back with two bottles of cold frappuccino. Sula noticed Felisa’s eyes were light blue, contrasting with her dark skin. She’d read that Puerto Ricans were a racial melting pot of native Taino, Spanish, African, French, German, and Chinese. Her personal observation was that most of the islanders were attractive.

They sat at the table and opened their drinks. Sula took a long slug before speaking. “I’m a freelance writer, and I’m researching the Nexapra clinical trials. I understand that there were two suicides here.”

Felisa gave her an odd look. Sula couldn’t read the reaction.

“Where did you get that information? The trial was discontinued and the data was not released to the public.” Her impeccable English had picked up an accent.

“Were you involved in that study?”

“I assisted Dr. Hernandez with intake. What do you want to know?”

“Are the men’s files still here? I mean, is there a record of their participation and suicides?”

“Of course, but I can’t release any information to you. It’s very confidential.”

“Were you surprised when both Luis and Miguel Rios killed themselves within a month of taking Nexapra?”

Felisa stopped mid-air with her Frappaccino and set it down. She looked at Sula with a mix of surprise, respect, and fear. Sula decided to tell her everything. She had nothing to lose.

“I used to work for Prolabs. One day I heard Diane Warner and Karl Rudker arguing about Nexapra. Do you know who they are?”

“Of course. Dr. Warner discovered the drug when she worked for the Oregon Health and Science University. Rudker runs Prolabs.”

That was more than Sula had known. “Warner told Rudker she’d found evidence that the men who committed suicide shared a genetic mutation that influenced the way they responded to the drug. She asked him to halt the trials and give her two years to develop a screening test. Rudker said no. He also threatened to fire her if she didn’t drop the idea.”

“You heard all of this first hand?” Felisa let go of her drink and squeezed her hands together.

“Yes. I was waiting to talk with them about a press release I was writing.”

“Go on.”

“The next day, Dr. Warner didn’t show up for work. She didn’t call either. Two days later, we found out she was dead. Murdered while jogging along a riverside path.”

Felisa’s eyes flashed with speculation. Sula took a sip of the sweet caffeine and thought, wait until you hear the rest of the story.

“I became concerned that Dr. Warner’s theory and evidence would die with her and that a lot of people might kill themselves in the large Phase III studies.”

Felisa made a funny noise in her throat, then signaled Sula to keep going.

“I went into Warner’s office and found a disk tapped to the bottom of a desk drawer. I took it home. The files were labeled Miguel and Luis Rios.”

A young man burst into the room. “Hey, there you are. Sorry I’m late.” His dimpled cheeks and curly hair gave him a look of innocence.”

“Román, I’m very busy right now. Please go watch the front desk and do not disturb me again.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” He sheepishly backed out of the room.

Felisa shook her head. “Please continue. I’m intrigued by your story.”

Sula hesitated, ashamed of her night in jail. “Rudker had me arrested. While I was in jail, he broke into my home and took Warner’s disk.”

The director leaned forward, disbelief evident in her expression. “The CEO of a pharmaceutical company broke into your house and stole a disk that you believe contained clinical trial data for Nexapra?”

“Actually, it had their intake information and some kind of DNA files. I have no proof that it was Rudker, but the CD disappeared, and he is the only one who would have a reason to think I had it. Who else would break into my house and take only a disk with DNA information?”

“Nothing else was stolen?”

“No.”

The director pushed her hair back with both hands. “This is ajeno.”

Sula didn’t need a dictionary. “I know. Now I find out Dr. Hernandez is no longer with the clinic.”

“That was a personal issue. I don’t think it’s related.”

There was a long silence, both of them mulling over the question: What now?

Sula spoke up. “There was also a suicide in the Portland arm of the trial. The clinician said he thought the girl was Hispanic. A lot of lives could be at stake. Hispanic lives.”

Felisa jumped up. “David must have talked with Dr. Warner. If she analyzed the Rios men’s DNA, she got the samples from here.” Her gorgeous face was deeply troubled. She held out her hand. “Please excuse me. I have to check something.”

The director strode out of the room, dark hair swinging. Sula stood and stretched her legs, checking her watch out of habit: 10:07. Would Felisa bring her a copy of Miguel and Luis’ files? It seemed too good to be true. Yet, even if she did, having the clinical trial records would not be enough. She needed a sample of their DNA, so that someone—maybe at FDA or even a university—could replicate Warner’s work.

Sula paced the room, glancing at the art on the walls. The outdoor market scenes were colorful, but not particularly skillful or intriguing. She sat at the table and picked up her pen. She hadn’t taken a single note during their conversation. It had gone too quickly and had been too intense. Sula jotted down a few questions she still wanted answers to: 1) Was there any history of suicidal thoughts mentioned during either of the Rios’ intakes? 2) Why was the trial discontinued?

Felisa was gone for eleven and a half minutes and came back with only a single piece of paper in her hands. Sula tried not to look disappointed.

The director’s voice had the quiet tone of a conspirator. “Both Miguel and Luis Rios’ paper files are gone. Their blood samples are gone. I think David must have sent the samples to Warner. I have no idea what happened to the paperwork.”

“Why was the trial discontinued?”

“We failed to meet our goal for enrollment. And David was having problems at home and asked to take a leave of absence. So Prolabs shut it down.”

“It wasn’t about the suicides?”

“I didn’t think so at the time, but I’m starting to wonder.”

“Did you file adverse drug reaction reports with FDA?”

“We notified our advisory board and Prolabs.” Felisa sounded a little defensive, but in a moment she continued. “If data from this arm of the trial was never submitted to the Center for Drug Evaluation, then it probably never made it into the MedWatch database.”

“Can you file an ADR now? I want the FDA to know about the suicides.”

“Yes, I can and I will. But it’s not enough to get their attention. We need to get new DNA samples.”

Sula noticed her use of the word
we.
“You believe me?

“Do I think Rudker took the disk from your home? Maybe.” Felisa shook her head. “What I do believe is that David Hernandez and Diane Warner both thought there was a genetic vulnerability to Nexapra. If that’s true, as you said, a lot of lives are at stake.”

“So what now?”

“Go see their families and ask for a lock of hair or fingernail clippings they might have saved.”

It seemed like such a long shot. Before Sula could protest, Felisa cut in.

“Don’t worry. They’ll have something. When you combine Catholicism with Taino superstitions, you get a culture that never lets go of the dead.”

Sula understood this. Their bodies had been cremated, but she still had things that belonged to each member of her family. Her father’s pocketwatch, a small red and yellow blanket her mother had kept over her legs when she watched TV, and her sister’s brown wool sweater that still smelled like the lilac-scented shampoo Calix always used.

“How do I find their families if the files are gone?”

Felisa held up the paper in her hand. “Their names and addresses were still in our database of initial call-ins.”

“Will you go with me?”

“I can’t. And you can’t tell them I gave you the information. It’s confidential and I could lose my license.”

“What if they won’t talk to me? What if they don’t trust me?”

“If you tell them you’re trying to stop Nexapra, they’ll help you. Both families have come here to vent their anger about the deaths. They blame the drug.”

Sula’s stomach knotted up. She knew she had to do this, but it intimidated her. “What if they don’t speak English? What if I can’t find them?”

Felisa dismissed her fears with a small wave of her hand. “Román will take you. He’ll interpret if he has to, but most people here speak some English.”

Sula sighed with relief. “Thank you for helping me.”

Felisa squeezed her arm. “Thank you for coming all this way to find the truth. There are not many who would get so involved.” The director gave her a quizzical look. “Why is this so important to you?”

“My father committed suicide.” That simple statement didn’t even come close to describing the horror of what really happened that day, but it was all Felisa needed to know. “I couldn’t bear to do nothing and let others make that same tragic mistake.”

The director escorted her out to the front lobby. Her young assistant chatted happily on the phone. Felisa walked up behind him and touched his shoulder. “Román.”

He jumped, mumbled something, and hung up. “Yes?”

“I need you to drive Ms. Moreno to these two addresses.” She handed him the paper. “Wait in the car unless she asks you to interpret for her.”

Román glanced at the addresses and moaned. “One of these is in Bayamon. It’ll take half the day.”

Felisa’s tone was patient, but firm, like a parent. “I’ll give you gas money. You get paid by the hour, so it makes no difference whether you sit on your ass here or in the car.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words.

“What about lunch money?”

“You test my patience.”

Felisa retreated into a back office and returned with a twenty. “Drive nicely.” She turned to Sula. “Good luck.”

Román scooted across the waiting area and held the door open. Sula stepped out into the bright sunshine. After the air-conditioned office, it seemed quite warm.

“This way.” Román headed toward the corner and turned left. A parking lot behind the building contained his 1985 white Volkswagen bug. He grinned and opened the passenger door for her.

After they were both buckled up, he turned to her and said. “I’m Román Batista.”

“Sula Moreno. Thanks for driving me.”

“No problem. I like to get out of the office.”

“The name Batista, wasn’t he a famous artist?”

Román pulled out into the street with a squeal. Sula braced herself.

“He was a sculpturist.”

“Are you related to him?”

“I wish. I’d love to be an artist.”

Sula liked his accent. It sounded more African than Spanish. “What’s stopping you?”

“A wife and two kids.”

The island was more mountainous and the vegetation was scrubbier and drier than Sula had expected. She’d thought it would be more lush and tropical, like Hawaii, which she’d never been to but had seen in plenty of photos and movies. Yet the countryside here was green and beautiful in its own way, and the sky was a perfect shade of blue.