Arthur Hailey - Strong Medicine

Now they faced each other. Celia and Vincent Lord. They were in the living room of the Jordans' Mayfair apartment. Lord looked tired, older than his sixty-one years, and under strain. He had lost weight so that his face was even thinner than before. His face muscles, which earlier had twitched occasionally, were doing it more often. Celia remembered an incident from her early days as assistant director of sales training, when she had often gone to Lord for technical advice. In attempting to be friendly she had suggested that they use first names, and Lord had replied unpleasantly, "It would be better for both of us, Mrs. Jordan, to remember at all times the difference in our status.” Well, Celia thought, for this occasion she would take his advice. She said coldly, "I will not discuss the disgraceful Yaminer affair, Dr. Lord, except to say that it gives the company an opportunity to dissociate itself from you, and leave you to defend yourself about everything-at your own expense.”

With a glint of triumph in his eyes, Lord said, "You can't do that because you're going to be indicted too.”

"If I choose to do it, I can. And any defense arrangements I make for myself are my concern, not yours.”

“If you choose...?" He seemed puzzled. 'I will not make any commitment. Understand that. But if the company is to help with your defense, I insist on knowing everything.”

“Everything?" 'There's something in the past," Celia said.”Something that you know and I don't. I believe it has to do with Dr. Mace.”

They had been standing. Lord motioned to a chair.”May I?” “Yes.”

Celia sat down too. 'All right," Lord said, "there is something. But you won't like hearing it. And after you know, you'll be sorry that you do.”

"I'm waiting. Get on with it.”

He told her. Told everything, going back to the first problems with Gideon Mace at the FDA, Mace's pettiness, the insults, the long, unreasonable delays in approving Staidpace-in the end, a good, lifesaving drug... Later the attempt to discover something harmful about Mace, resulting in Lord's Georgetown meeting in a homosexual bar with Tony Redmond, an FDA technician... Lord's purchase from Redmond of documents incriminating Mace. The cost: two thousand dollars--an expenditure approved by Sam, who later agreed not to disclose the information to a law enforcement agency but to hold the papers secretly, thus making Sam and Lord accessories to a crime... Two years later, when Mace was delaying FDA approval of Montayne, the decision, shared by Sam, to blackmail Mace... The blackmail succeeding, despite Dr. Mace's unease about the Australian report on Montayne and his honest doubts about the drug... Then it was done. Now Celia knew it all and, as Lord had predicted, wished that she did not. Yet she had had to know because it affected future judgments she would make as president of Felding-Roth. At the same time so much became clearer: Sam's despair and guilt, the real and deeper reason for his suicide... Dr. Mace's breakdown at the Senate hearings and, when asked why he had approved Montayne, his pathetic answer, "Ijust don't know. Mace's anger at Felding-Roth and all its works. Celia thought: If I were Mace I would hate us too. And now that Celia knew the sorry, dismal story, what came next? Her conscience told her there was only one thing she ought to do. Inform the authorities. Go public. Tell the truth. Let all concerned take their chances-Vincent Lord, Gideon Mace, Felding-Roth, herself. But what if she did? Where would it leave everybody? Lord and Mace would be destroyed of course-a thought which left her unconcerned. What did concern her was the realization that the company would be disgraced and dragged down too, and not just the company as a paper entity, but its people: employees, executives, stockholders, the other scientists apart from Vincent Lord. Only she herself might look good, but that was least important. Equally to the point was the question: If she went public what would be achieved? The answer: After this length of time-nothing. So she would not do the "conscience thing.”

She would not go public. She knew, without having to think about it anymore, that she too would remain silent, would join the others in corruption. She had no choice. Lord knew it also. Around his thin lips there was the ghost of a smile. She despised him. Hated him more than anyone else in all her life. He had corrupted himself, corrupted Mace, corrupted Sam. Now he had corrupted Celia. She stood up, emotionally, almost incoherently, she shouted, "Get out of my sight! God" He went.

Andrew, who had been visiting a London hospital, returned an hour later. She told him, "Something's happened. I'll have to go back right after Martin and Yvonne's party. That means a flight the day after tomorrow. If you want to stay a few days more-" "We'll go together," Andrew said. He added quietly, "Let me handle the arrangements. I can tell you've a lot on your mind.”

Soon afterward, he reported back. Thursday's Concorde to New York was fully booked. He had secured two first-class seats on a British Airways 747. They would be in New York, then Morristown, on Thursday afternoon.

Yvonne could scarcely believe it. Was she really inside Buckingham Palace? Was it truly herself in the State Ballroom, seated with others whose spouses or parents were about to receive honors, all of them waiting with varying degrees of excitement or expectancy for the Queen's arrival? Or was it all a dream? If a dream, it was delightful. And set to music by the regimental band of the Coldstream Guards in the minstrels' gallery above. They were playing Early One Morning, that happy, bouncy tune. But no, it was no dream. Because she had come here to the Palace with her own dear Martin, who was now waiting in an anteroom, ready to be escorted in when the ceremony began. Already Martin had gone through a brief rehearsal, guided by the Comptroller of the Household, a colonel in dress uniform. Suddenly a pause, a stir. The band stopped, its music ceasing in mid-flow. All other activity halted. In the gallery, the bandmaster, his baton poised, stood waiting for a signal. It came. As liveried footmen swung double doors open, the Queen appeared. The uniformed were at attention. All guests had stood. The baton swooped. The national anthem, sweet yet strong, swelled out. The Queen, in a turquoise silk dress, was smiling. She moved to the center of the ballroom. Dutifully following were the Lord Chamberlain and the Home Secretary, each in morning dress. The presentation of honors began. The band played a Strauss waltz softly. All was dignified, fast-moving and efficient. No wasted time, but not an occasion that those involved were likely to forget. Yvonne was storing every detail in her memory. Martin's turn came soon, immediately following a Knight Commander of St. Michael and St. George who took precedence in rank. Following instructions, Martin entered, advanced three paces, bowed... forward to a kneeling box... right knee on the box, left foot to the floor... As Martin knelt, the Queen accepted a sword from an equerry and with it touched Martin lightly on both shoulders. He rose... a half pace to the right, one pace forward... With Martin standing, his head bowed slightly, the Queen placed around his neck a gold medallion on a red-and-gold ribbon. The Queen had spoken briefly with each person being honored. With Martin, Yvonne thought, more time was spent. Then, with three backward paces and a bow, Martin was gone. He joined Yvonne quietly a few minutes later, slipping into a seat beside her. She whispered, "What did the Queen say?" Smiling, he whispered back, "The Queen is a well-informed lady.”

Yvonne knew that later she would find out exactly what the Queen had said. Yvonne's only disappointment was that she hadn't seen or met the Prince and Princess of Wales. She had been told in advance that it wasn't likely they would even be in the palace, but had hoped. One day, though, it might happen. Now that she was married to Martin, anything could happen. The only thing she was having trouble getting used to since the announcement of Martin's knighthood was being addressed as "my lady" by Harlow and Cambridge people, including the head porter at Lucy Cavendish. She'd asked him not to, but he insisted. Well, in time she supposed she'd adjust to that and other things. After all, Yvonne thought whimsically, quite soon there would be farmers calling for Lady Peat-Smith, veterinary surgeon, to take care of their pigs and cows.