Taking people by surprise with blunt questions can be effective. So as casually as if I were inquiring about the weather, I ask, “Has Matthew ever been violent with you, Marissa?”
She blanches. “No, never! Why would you ask that?”
“No particular reason.”
We fall silent as Matthew’s footsteps approach the room. When he appears on the threshold, he’s holding a vase filled with lush yellow roses.
He walks toward Marissa and puts them on the table beside her. “For you.”
“Oh, they’re gorgeous! Who are they from?”
He shrugs. “You tell me.” His tone is flat.
The smile falls away from Marissa’s face as she pulls the card from the little plastic holder. “There isn’t any note. It’s just my name.”
“Maybe it’s your friend from the gym.” Matthew is standing over Marissa, just as he was in my office, but his fists aren’t clenched. He’s disturbed, but not enraged. I feel confident of this assessment.
“What? No—it couldn’t—Matthew, they could be from anyone. It’s probably a thank-you for some blazers I donated to Dress for Success last week.” Her voice trails off as she seems to realize no charity would send an elaborate bouquet for a relatively small donation.
Matthew nods, though it’s unclear if he buys it. “Sure. Maybe, Marissa.”
He sits back down, and I ease him into a conversation about his job, Marissa’s boutique, and how they juggle work and parenthood. Marissa clearly bears the brunt of the day-to-day chores of caring for Bennett, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
When I glance at my watch, it’s almost 9:45 P.M. I rise to my feet. “I can see myself out.”
“Marissa knows I would never let a woman see herself to the door.” Matthew gets up, and so does Marissa.
I walk directly over to Marissa, in the opposite direction from the front door. She stares at me, looking confused and more than a bit nervous. The sweet scent of roses perfumes the air around her.
“May I?” I don’t wait for permission as I pluck the florist’s card from her hand. Then I smile and exit the room.
* * *
Later that night, as I walk around my house checking that all my windows and doors are locked, I mentally plan my next steps: check out Natalie, call the florist, and visit Marissa’s boutique when she isn’t on the premises.
I’m not naive—I know the Bishops are still withholding important information. That’s only natural. Everyone keeps secrets, I think as I stare through the bay window in my office out onto the quiet, darkened street.
Including me.
One of my biggest centers around a young woman named Finley Jones. She was the true genesis for my ten-session method. A few months after Paul died, back when I was a run-of-the-mill therapist sharing office space in Dupont Circle and squeezing in eight patients a day, an anxious young woman showed up for her initial appointment, claiming disturbing thoughts were disrupting her sleep and appetite. She was thin, with bitten nails and dark shadows rimming her gray eyes. Finley’s presenting symptoms weren’t uncommon; anxiety is rampant in our society. As we discussed her tumultuous relationship with her father and her insomnia, she didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d upend my world.
Then she whispered, “My company is going to kill people.”
My gut told me this wasn’t paranoia, or delusions.
Can you tell me more? I’d asked, in the gentle therapeutic tone I utilized back then.
Finley was employed by a billion-dollar pharmaceutical giant as one of several assistants to the head of public relations. She didn’t have a lofty title. She didn’t have access. She didn’t have the ear of company executives.
What she had was exquisite timing.
It was a Tuesday night, well past quitting time. Finley had met her old college roommate for drinks around the corner from her office, and before heading home, she stopped by the office to retrieve her gym bag. The twelve-story building was mostly empty, occupied only by the security guard, who greeted her as she flashed her ID, a few late-working employees scattered on different floors, and cleaning crews.
Finley headed down the dimly lit corridor to her cubicle, the blue-gray carpet swallowing the sound of her footsteps. Up ahead, her boss’s office was illuminated; she could see him inside with another man she later identified as the chief compliance officer. But the lighting optics meant that they, looking out into a darkened hallway, couldn’t see Finley approach.
As she bent down to retrieve her bag from beneath her desk—quietly, so as not to disturb their conversation—she heard her boss say, “Forty out of ten thousand? Jesus.”
The words didn’t make her blood run cold. But the way her boss spoke them did. Some deep-seated intuition told Finley this conversation was not meant for anyone to overhear.
Her instincts screamed at her to get away. But Finley felt physically frozen, rooted in her little cubicle just outside her boss’s office.
She knew her company was developing a new migraine medication called Rivanux. Human trials were underway in India, where the drug would be manufactured, since production costs are far cheaper overseas. Phases One and Two of the trials had reportedly gone well.
Now they were in Phase Three, a much bigger trial, with ten thousand human subjects.
Forty out of ten thousand.
Finley kept listening. She stayed crouched in her cubicle, her legs aching from holding the deep squat, until the two men finally left, passing just inches from her hiding spot.
As she lay in bed that night, snippets of the conversation she’d overheard ran through her mind: Hemorrhagic shock … Coma.… At least one percent already dead …
Scrapping Rivanux would be an enormous blow to Finley’s company. Stock prices would dip; shareholders would be furious. The ripple effects would include finger-pointing, layoffs, and stories in the pharma trade publications.
Finley returned to work, assuming that production of Rivanux would immediately be halted. Instead, a few weeks later, her boss emailed her a press release to proof.
The headline made her gasp: RIVANUX POISED TO WIN FDA APPROVAL. According to the release, the drug had performed exceptionally well during its trials, with only minor side effects.
As she stared at the words on the press release, Finley realized her company was engaging in a massive cover-up. She theorized that they must have altered the data on the trials, knowing the FDA would never sanction a deadly drug.
My company is going to kill people.
As I watched Finley sink lower into her chair, her words ebbing into a hoarse whisper, I knew what I was supposed to do: Maintain a proper professional distance. Discuss Finley’s feelings and fears. Encourage her to explore the possibility of coming forward to the authorities.
That’s exactly what I did, for the rest of the session. Though Finley seemed to be telling the truth, I couldn’t help wondering if she was exaggerating. So after she left, I did a little research of my own. The headlines I saw left me equal parts terrified and enraged:
Bayer and Johnson & Johnson are charged with downplaying the life-threatening risks associated with Xarelto … Merck pleads guilty and pays $950 million to settle liabilities for misbranding the safety of the painkiller Vioxx … Eli Lilly misbrands the antipsychotic drug Zyprexa for the treatment of dementia and other disorders in elderly patients and has to pay millions in criminal and civil settlements.