Dedication

  To those who are willing to look beneath the surface in the search for truth. Your perseverance will be rewarded.

  Epigraph

  It is the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of kings.

  Proverbs 25:2 niv

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Robert Whitlow

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Emerson Chappelle, PhD, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He’d been grading papers for the chemistry class he was teaching as an adjunct professor at a local community college. Emerson didn’t like teaching. Research was his passion. But money was tight, especially now that his wife had moved out and taken her significant income as a real estate broker with her. Emerson had put off getting a haircut, and his thinning brown hair was careening off in rebellious directions. His thin legs poked out of the shorts he’d been wearing all week, and his new polo shirt was stained with spaghetti sauce. Well-worn brown sandals sat beside the door.

  The cell phone resting against the stack of papers on his desk vibrated. When the number popped into view, Emerson’s heart started pounding. The phone calls were more frequent, and the voice mails, which began seven days ago, had become threatening. It was mid-August in Durham, North Carolina, and even though the air conditioner for his home office was set at sixty-eight, Emerson broke into a sweat.

  “Hello,” he said tentatively.

  “Where have you been?” the voice demanded. “You were supposed to meet me two days ago in the parking lot for the Kingfisher. I waited over an hour for you to show up.”

  The Kingfisher was a bar on East Chapel Hill Street. Emerson and the bookie often rendezvoused there but never went inside. The caller was a burly young man in his mid-thirties with dark hair. Emerson knew him as Nick, but he never was sure that was his real name.

  “I didn’t have the money.”

  “That’s not an answer,” Nick replied.

  “I know, I know, but there’s a problem with the loan. My wife moved out and hired a lawyer who’s filed papers in court that froze our home equity line. I’m financially hurting right now.”

  The phone was silent for a moment. Emerson checked to make sure they were still connected.

  “There are other ways to hurt,” Nick said.

  Emerson swallowed. “There’s no need to talk like that. You’ve made a lot of money on my account. If you give me time, I’ll pay you back and lay down a deposit to hold in case I have a loss in the future. I was on a hot streak before this happened.”

  “And now you owe $278,000.”

  “Wait. I thought it was $272,000.”

  “Interest. If you want a lower rate, borrow from a bank.”

  A high-stakes gambler, Emerson had experienced exhilarating highs and devastating lows. This, however, was the worst situation he’d ever been in.

  “What about your retirement account?” Nick continued. “You told me it was worth over half a million.”

  Emerson bit his lower lip. That, too, had been frozen by his wife’s attorney.

  “It is,” he said. “But after I pay taxes and the penalty due for early withdrawal, that will wipe me out.”

  “Not my problem.”

  Emerson glanced at a letter he’d received several days earlier from a major pharmaceutical company. It was the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. His wife knew nothing about the contents.

  “I just received an offer from a drug company that wants to license a medication I patented. What if I give you a percentage? When the company sells the new drug, I’ll receive royalties. This is going to be huge.”

  “No way, Doc. You’re the gambler, not me. I’ll give you a week to cash in the retirement account. If you pay me in full by next Friday, I’ll reduce the payoff to $280,000.”

  “Ask Lance about the drug company deal,” Emerson said desperately. “He’ll appreciate the opportunity.”

  “Ask him yourself,” the bookie replied. “He’s listening to this call.”

  Lance Tompkins oversaw Emerson’s gambling account. Over the past ten years, the chemist had gone through numerous runners and local contacts. Lance, who lived in Houston, remained constant. Emerson suspected the former MMA fighter had links to an organized crime syndicate. He had steadily increased Emerson’s credit line, the big advantage of using an illegal bookie over betting through Las Vegas.

  The first time Emerson met Lance was at a big bash in Texas for high-stakes clients. Since then, they’d gone fishing in the Bahamas and to a couple of Super Bowls. Their best junket was to the Masters Tournament. Emerson picked the top three finishers in the correct order and parlayed a modest bet into an upper-six-figure recovery. It was the one time he considered cashing in and quitting. But the lure of the next big score was too great. Eighteen months later, he was back in the red.

  “Lance, sorry about the delay,” Emerson said in a subdued voice. “I got overextended, not that I’m blaming you.”

  “I totally understand,” Lance said in his Texas drawl. “But Nick has a job to do. I have a job to do. We all do. And your job is to get your account level. You and I’ve gotten along fine for a long time. I’d hate to see it end badly.”

  “I don’t want that to happen.”

  “Tell me about this drug patent.”

  Relieved, Emerson switched to teaching mode. “It’s a nausea suppressor that works directly on the sympathetic nerves instead of having to—”

  “Plain and simple,” Lance interrupted.

  “It will help people taking chemo from getting sick to their stomachs. I’ve been interested in that type of problem ever since my mother suffered terribly from nausea when she went through chemotherapy for esophageal cancer.”

  “There’s already a bunch of stuff that does that,” Lance replied. “My aunt took something when she had breast cancer. It kept her from throwing up. She said it was a miracle drug.”

  “But every drug doesn’t help all patients. And there can be side effects.”

  “Yeah, whatever my aunt took made her feel dopey.”

  “Correct. This one is based on natural compounds and has fewer potential adverse reactions than anything else on the market.”

  “Natural compounds?”

  “It’s plant-based. Compare it to penicillin, which came from a plant fungus. But my drug isn’t something you can buy at a health-food store. It will only be available with a doctor’s prescription. The market for this is huge.”

  Emerson knew he was exaggerating the economic potential of the antinausea drug, but penicillin was the most well-known comparison that came to mind.

  Nick spoke. “Lance, are you sure you want to listen to this? The doc has been dodging me, and this sounds like just another stalling tactic.”

  “Shut up!” Lance said in a tone of voice that sent a chill down Emerson’s spine. “If I wasn’t interested, I wouldn’t ask. What’s the name of the pharmaceutical company?”

  “Brigham-Neal. Their home office is in Connecticut.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of them. Are they offering you any up-front money?”

  The letter mentioned $100,000 as consideration for the agreement, but the real return would be paid upon successful marketing of the medication. Emerson was past due on several high-limit credit cards, and he’d earmarked the advance to pay off those debts.

  “It’s a back-loaded deal. They don’t want to risk up-front capital—” Emerson stopped. He was arguing against himself.

  “I’m risk-averse too,” Lance said. “But you’ve been a longtime client. Are you the sole owner of the patent?”

  “Yes. I don’t have any collaborators. I transferred ownership of the rights to a little company I set up to keep everything clean, neat, and confidential.”

  Emerson had filed the patent in the name of First Flight Research and Development, a corporation he set up to hide his involvement from prying eyes, such as creditors or his soon-to-be ex-wife.

  “What’s the drug called?”

  “Relacan is the trade name the company is going to use. It sounds kind of like ‘relief’ and ‘can.’”

  “Has this Relacan gone through all the tests and trials the feds require? I know that can take years.”

  “Brigham-Neal did that as part of their due diligence. Because the components are known to be safe, it was an expedited process. Everything came back good, and this week they notified me that they wanted to move forward.”

  Lance grunted. “Sounds like the real
deal.”

  “Oh, believe me, it is.”

  “What percentage ownership are you offering me?”

  Emerson had brought up the possibility in desperation without thinking it through. “Uh, twenty-five percent in the company that owns the patent.”

  “Don’t insult me,” Lance said in the same voice he’d used to shut down Nick.

  “How about forty percent?”

  “I don’t do minority shares in anything,” Lance replied crisply. “Because I like you and think this will be a fun deal, I’ll take fifty-one percent and leave you with forty-nine percent. Otherwise, Nick will have my full consent to move forward and take any action necessary to collect on your debt.”

  As Lance spoke, Emerson felt the crushing weight of his life collapsing around him.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Fifty-one percent,” Lance repeated.

  “Yes, fifty-one percent.”

  “My lawyer will be in touch with you. If the paperwork doesn’t back up what you’re telling me, then we’ll have a much shorter, less friendly conversation.”

  Now Emerson was fearful about being caught in a lie about the advance being paid for the contract.

  “I may be able to get a small amount up front to sign the deal,” he added.

  “You just said that wasn’t possible,” Lance replied with the sharp edge returning to his voice.

  “I’m working on it, but I can’t be sure.”

  “How much are you shooting for?”

  “Around $100,000,” Emerson sighed.

  “An extra $51,000,” Lance replied in a more relaxed tone. “That will be a nice down payment.”

  One

  It was a cold, rainy morning in late March. Closing her umbrella that was sprinkled with damp cherry blossoms, Katelyn Martin-Cobb followed Lynwood Bancroft and Suzanne Nixon into the US District Courthouse for the District of Columbia. Wearing a gray suit, white blouse, and black shoes with medium heels, Katelyn ran her fingers through her short, dark hair. Petite at five feet three inches tall, she was physically fit from years of outdoor activity that included hiking, swimming, and skiing. She still loved the outdoors, but getting a chance to enjoy it was tougher given she usually worked sixty to seventy hours a week at the law firm.

  The E. Barrett Prettyman building on Constitution Avenue in Washington, DC, was named in honor of a former federal appellate judge appointed by President Harry Truman. A muscular security guard with a military crew cut addressed the group of five lawyers and two paralegals.

  “You’ll need to leave your umbrellas over there,” the young man said as he pointed to a row of round brass urns.

  The guard’s instructions were unnecessary. The litigation team from Morgan and Monroe knew the drill. The courthouse was like a second home. Katelyn placed her black umbrella beside the aqua-blue one used by Suzanne Nixon. A special order from the trial judge allowed the lawyers to bring their cell phones into the courthouse as long as they didn’t record or video any of the proceedings.

  Katelyn owned twelve conservative courtroom outfits and kept up with when she wore each one on a spreadsheet. The blue, gray, and black ensembles were her litigation armor.

  LASIK surgery had enabled her to stop wearing contact lenses, and her brown eyes missed nothing. It was Katelyn’s ability to spot important details and remember what she’d seen and read that convinced Suzanne to bring the twenty-nine-year-old associate into the senior partner’s inner circle at the law firm. Otherwise, Katelyn would still be spending most of her days in front of a computer monitor, crunching out thirty-page legal memos. If Mr. Bancroft had his way, that’s exactly what she’d be doing. Large law firms weren’t homogeneous kingdoms. They consisted of many fiefdoms.

  Katelyn returned her Virginia driver’s license to her purse after showing it to a security guard. She’d had a sense all morning that this might be the day when the lawyers would find out if the $32 million their client had spent litigating the case over the past three years would turn out to be a good investment. According to an expert who’d testified at the trial, every commercial airplane and private jet manufactured for the next ten to fifteen years would incorporate navigational components based on the disputed patent. The projected revenue for Morgan and Monroe’s client over the life of the patent would be at least $2 billion.

  Inside the courtroom, the lawyers and paralegals took out their laptops and powered up. The boxes of evidence and stacks of exhibits presented by both sides of the case were in the jury room where the group of seven women and five men had been deliberating for three days. While the attorneys waited, they had nothing to do. There had been halfhearted settlement discussions after the jury retired to begin their discussion of the evidence, but both sides believed victory was at hand, and their positions were hardened by the lengthy battle.

  The corporate representative for Katelyn’s client was a distinguished-looking older gentleman who was a mid-tier manager, not a top executive. He was there more for show than substance and didn’t have the authority to make a decision. It didn’t matter. Now, as they waited for the jury, the top lawyers from both firms passed the time talking about vacation homes and upcoming trips to Europe, Africa, and Asia. Katelyn and her husband, Robbie, were still paying off student loan debt and usually went to the beach near Wilmington, North Carolina, where Robbie’s family lived, or to the mountains of Vermont where Katelyn grew up.

  This morning, Katelyn heard Mr. Bancroft and Mr. Stanfield greet each other and begin discussing the pluses and minuses of sixty- versus eighty-foot yachts. Apparently, the eighty-foot length was a booming category. Sitting beside each other, they pulled up yacht photos on their laptops.

  Katelyn glanced across the courtroom at Phoebe Jacobs, a lawyer on the other side of the case. Phoebe was a five-year associate attorney who was now eight and a half months pregnant. Even though they were on opposite sides of the lawsuit, Katelyn and Phoebe had developed a friendship. The two women didn’t talk about yachts or exotic vacations. Instead, they focused on Phoebe’s life as a mother with a three-year-old daughter and a son on the way. After four years of marriage, Katelyn and Robbie had begun seriously discussing starting a family.

  * * *

  “You just have to go for it,” Phoebe told her during lunch a couple of weeks earlier.

  “How do you handle your workload at the firm?”

  “With a thick skin.” Phoebe patted her growing abdomen. “I’m not afraid to use my sick days, and we hired a live-in nanny to avoid the germs Aaron would pick up at day care. I work hard at the office so I can afford the nanny and unplug when I walk out the door to go home.”

  The idea of a live-in nanny was a stretch for Katelyn, who’d always been a do-it-yourself person.

  “What’s it like at your firm for female attorneys with kids?” she asked. “Most of the ones who stay at ours end up off the partnership track and become permanent associates.”

  “It’s the same with us. Tell me about Suzanne Nixon. I saw a big diamond on her ring finger. Does she have kids? I assume they’re older by now.”

  “She had a lot of help from nannies and private schools. She has a daughter in college at Brown and a teenage son who goes to a prep school in Virginia. She’s on her third husband.”

  “Except for going through multiple husbands, becoming a partner is what I’m aiming for,” Phoebe replied. “But if the partnership track doesn’t work out, we’re committed to our children. My father was CEO of a small company in Upstate New York. He was very successful in business but left raising my siblings and me to my mother. We even took vacations without him. Philip and I aren’t going to make that mistake.”

  “My father abandoned my mother and me and moved with his girlfriend to Oregon,” Katelyn said. “After that, he never sent a birthday card, gifts at Christmas, anything.”

  “How old were you when he took off?”

  “Eight.”

  “Your mother must be a remarkable woman.”

  “Yes.” Katelyn hesitated. “She died in an auto accident when I was a senior in college. Hit by a drunk driver. My world collapsed.”

  Phoebe stared at Katelyn for a few seconds as her eyes filled with tears. Katelyn’s reservoir of tears had filled and emptied many times during the seven years since she’d received the call from the police about the fatal accident. Today, the tank was dry. Phoebe took out a tissue and touched her eyes.