L Sellers - The Suicide Effect

Cricket accepted that he and his group might not be able to stop the Prolabs/JB Pharma expansion, but at least they could keep it from being too easy. Sometimes, if they threw up enough roadblocks, the corporate money suckers backed off and went looking for another opportunity.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Cricket was enjoying himself. He smiled at everyone who had come out on this bright but cool evening to speak their minds. Groups of college students, middle-aged couples in matching Birkenstocks and sweaters, sweet old couples, who sometimes turned out to be not so sweet when they stood up and started expressing their views. And others like him, with dreadlocks and hemp clothes. He knew most of the natural folks – as he thought of them-from Saturday Market where he sold his handmade bongo drums and copper jewelry. Only three people from his Love the Earth group were here tonight. The rest had gone to Florence to protest a plan to build a Costco on ocean front property.

Most people smiled back. Some gave him thumbs-up gestures or peace signs. Ten minutes before the meeting was scheduled to start, Cricket moved down the steps, so he had a better view of passing traffic and they had a better view of him. He hoped to catch the attention of a TV reporter. A little news coverage could rally a lot of support.

Two men coming up the sidewalk caught his eye. They wore denim work shirts sporting political buttons that said: Jobs first! Cricket smiled and held out a pamphlet that outlined the environmental impact of chemical factories on wetlands. One man started to reach for it, then caught the words on Cricket’s sign. He abruptly pulled back.

“If you drink city water, you should read this.” Cricket spoke softly. He never preached and he never raised his voice in non-confrontational situations.

“No thanks.” They looked at him with disgust, then walked past. At least they hadn’t swore or spit at him, which happened sometimes.

A few minutes later, a white KRSL TV van pulled up in front of the wide steps. Trina Waterman, his favorite TV reporter, stepped out, followed by a cameraman. Cricket couldn’t believe his luck. He moved into the center of the steps. The young blond reporter and the camera guy both looked at him, then at each other, then shrugged. Trina, particularly pretty in a pale blue suit, motioned him to come down.

Cricket practiced what he would say as they set up for the shot. Then Trina asked his name.

“Cricket.”

“Just Cricket?”

“Yep. I’m with Love the Earth, a Eugene-based environmental group dedicated to keeping the water supply clean.”

Speaking toward the camera, Trina gave a brief background about Prolabs’ plans and the special council meeting. Then she gave Cricket’s name and affiliation before asking, “Why do you oppose this development?” She held the microphone out to him.

Cricket was ready. “First, it’s illegal. The land is zoned for preservation and only the city can change that. Second, Prolabs wants to build a chemical factory. Yes, they call them pharmaceuticals, but they’re still chemicals. And those chemicals leech into our water supply during the manufacturing process. They also enter our water supply through human use. In some places, there’s so much estrogen and progestin in the water from discarded birth control that the fish and frogs are all becoming one sex and can no longer reproduce. In fact-”

Trina abruptly pulled the microphone away. “Thank you.” She and the cameraman picked up their goods, then went around him and up the stairs. Cricket was so happy he would have done a little dance had he not been holding a heavy sign. She would probably edit out half of what he said, but that was okay. People who watched the news at eleven would think about the water supply. That made his day worthwhile.

It was only the beginning though. His group planned to fight Prolabs’ development with everything they had. To be effective, they had to act now. They also had to get the attention of the media every time they staged a protest.

Rudker spent the rest of the day in meetings talking about the merger. The details were overwhelming at times. Especially in regard to drug development. The companies had projects that overlapped and they argued passionately about which to continue and which to drop. Rudker believed Prolabs’ cardiovascular lineup was superior, but JB’s scientists wanted to throw all their resources into an anti-inflammatory molecule that had shown clinical activity against C-reactive proteins. After his humiliation that morning, Rudker refused to back down and they had left the matter unsettled.

At the end of the day he was mentally exhausted, yet physically charged. He left JB’s campus on foot in search of a quiet place to eat. He wanted to be on the next flight back to Eugene, but he had another round of meetings scheduled for the morning. He was anxious to get back to Prolabs so he could confer with the Nexapra scientists and find out it anyone was aware of or supported the genetic test idea. He also planned to search Warner’s office and confiscate any evidence of that vulnerability.

He found a small French restaurant called Maximilien’s in Pike Place Market. It had a great view of the harbor, but Rudker was there for the food. He ordered Tournedos Rossini, a beef tenderloin seared with foie gras and served with truffle and Armagnac sauce. He nearly moaned with the pleasure of it. For dessert, he had the souffle au Grand Marnier. It might have been the best meal he’d ever had. Temporarily satiated, he paid with his business card and stepped back out into the night.

The sky had cleared, so Rudker passed on a taxi and set out walking. He’d come to love downtown Seattle during his recent trips to meet with JB executives. The night energy was electric. In Eugene, you could find a little jazz and maybe one restaurant open after nine. In Seattle, you could find just about anything. And in this town, for now, he was still anonymous.

Rudker knew what he needed this evening-an outlet for his pent up frustration-and he knew exactly where to find it. He set off at a brisk pace and twenty minutes later reached the unmarked club. The entrance was located in an alley between Stewart and Powel Streets. There were no signs, no windows, and no outward indication that it was a place of business. In fact, he knew from past experience that the door was locked and that there was no point in knocking.

In the dark alley, he pulled out his cell phone and called a confidential number. Last time he’d been to Seattle, one of JB’s marketers had given him the number after several hours of drinking at Lucky’s. The marketer had insisted Rudker enter the number directly into his phone rather than write it down. The cloak-and-dagger scenario had amused him.

An older man answered after two rings. “Yeah?” Rudker recognized the voice from last time.

“Karl Rudker. I’m at the door.”

He turned to face the light fixture to the left of the door frame, where a small camera was hidden in the mounting. He knew the old guy was looking him over as they talked.

The man grunted. “Okay.”

Rudker heard the locking mechanism click and reached for the handle. He pushed the door open and quickly stepped inside. The brick-lined hallway was barely lit and smelled of moss and cigarette butts. It led up a flight of stairs, where he encountered another solid metal door. He pushed the buzzer and waited. The old guy with bad teeth and a cell phone opened the door and held out his hand. Rudker pressed four fifties into it. They did not speak.

The old guy went back to his table, and Rudker entered the small dark bar. It reeked of cigarette smoke. He’d wished he’d gone back to the hotel and changed. The smoke smell was tough to get out of suits with standard dry cleaning. He approached the counter, and the bartender, a nearly bald guy in his late fifties, looked up and nodded. Two guys near the end of the bar also gave him a quick glance. Rudker gave them a casual head lift in response.