But that wasn’t all. While staring out of the window, the spastic blinking of colorful lights has caught my eyes. When I focus in on them my stomach clenches painfully.
Jaxson’s Ice Cream Parlor
It was like a door opened and all the memories I had hidden away came tumbling out. Pennies and kisses and pools and all the things I had condemned to Hell. Blast. The last thing I felt like doing tonight was entertaining a sulking heart.
“Why don’t we go there for dinner?” I say in a fake, cheerful voice, nodding towards Jaxson’s. Turner looks at me like the crazy woman I am.
“There?” he says. The disgust so obvious in his voice, I flinch.
“Sure. Don’t you ever get sick of all the frou-frou restaurants we go to? Let’s do something different. Come on…” I stick my bottom lip out a little because that usually works with getting my way. He sighs dramatically and turns into the plaza. I wonder what the hell I am doing and why I am such a sucker for punishment. I want to prove to myself that this is just another food providing establishment. There is no magic, there is no escalated romance, and most of all, I want to be able to be in a place that holds old memories and not have a mental breakdown. Hellloooo Jaxson’s.
It was much the same as it was over seven years ago, the only thing missing from Jaxson’s is Harlow—whose absence is noteworthy. I see his picture on the wall by the register and beneath it are the dates August 10th 1937 to March 17th 2006. I smile at him sadly as we are led to our table by a gum snapping teen. She doesn’t have class. I think ruefully.
“Nice place.” Turner’s sarcasm is not lost on me as I gaze at the unlucky and lucky table.
“Shut up. Stop behaving like a snob.”
He immediately softens up.
“Sorry sweetheart,” he says taking my hands in his. “I’ll be open minded, okay?”
Sweetheart. I nod surly and turn to studying the menu.
So far so good. At least I wasn’t shaking or crying or anything. Maybe I really was okay. We eat our dinner and order desert. I try not to think about the conversation that transpired under this roof years ago, but occasionally phrases like: “because, I cared more about knowing you than I did about winning another stupid game” pops into my head. I sweep them out quickly and look at my wonderful fiancée who has lowered his standards tonight to eat with me here. Blessed. I am so blessed.
When we leave, I stop at the penny machine and my heart rate accelerates. Maybe Turner will notice it, I think. Maybe he’ll do something cute and romantic with one of the messages. But, Turner walks right out and I trail after him, disappointed. I do not have sex with him that night.
A week later there is a knock on my office door.
Ms. Kaspen?” it’s the secretary. “Ms. Spinner would like to see you in her office.”
Crap! Bernie always sees through me. I compose myself, running my fingers across the front of my Dior skirt. I like to buy expensive things. If I wear something that costs more than a month’s salary, I amply feel that the rotting carcass of me is at least shrouded nicely.
I head over to her corner office, practicing my ‘life is great’ smile. I knock and she bellows for me to come in.
“I have both good and bad news for you,” she says when I enter. Same ol’ Bernie, she always has cut right to the chase. Gesturing for me to take a seat in one of her cow patterned chairs; I sit and cross my legs.
“Which would you like to hear first?” she asks. Bernie has silver in her hair now and a life partner named Felecia.
“The good,” I say biting the inside of my lip. Bernie’s bad news could be anything from “I am shutting down the firm to become a caterpillar farmer” to “I lost the number to my favorite deli.” I feel the need to mentally prepare.
“The good news,” she begins, “Is that I’m giving you, your first big case—and it’s a big one, Olivia.”
“Oh…kay,” I say feeling a bubble of excitement well in my stomach. I have the urge to jump up and ra ra sis boom ba!
“What’s the case?” I say calmly.
“Ever heard of a little pharmaceutical company called OPI-Gem?” she asks.
I shake my head “no”.
“They’re one of the baby pharms. Six months ago they released a new drug named ‘Prenavene’ into the market. Three months after its release date, twenty seven separate hospital reports were filed in which Prenavene was found in the systems of heart attack cases, two of those being under the age of thirty with no prior health problems. “There was a formal investigation and the Feds dug up a whole lotta poop on these people.”
“What kind of….poop?” I ask.
“During their testing period, blood clotting showed up in thirty-three percent of their human rats. Thirty-three percent Olivia! Do you know how big that is? It’s big like a two foot cock.”
I flinch. For a lesbian, she referenced male genitalia an awful lot.
“Big enough for the FDA to ground the product six months before OPI had a chance to market it.”
Bernie tosses me a gargantuan file.
“So how did they get themselves on the market without FDA approval?” I ask.
“Oh, they got their approval. They falsified data submitted in seeking FDA authorization to market Prenavene, which is a generic drug. They submitted its original version for the FDA tests.”
Ahhh—the old switcheroo trick.
“But why would OPI take the risk after what their independent testing found? They must have known that eventually the whole thing would come crashing down around them.”
“Most fraud in clinical trials is unlikely to ever be detected. Most cases, which do come to public attention, only do so because of extraordinary carelessness by the criminal physician.”
“Hmmmm,” I say.
“They’re not our case,” she says plucking the file from my fingers and replacing it with another one.
“The CEO and co-founder of the company had a massive heart attack and died about two weeks ago. All eyes then fell on his daughter, a twenty something spoiled brat, with an Ivy league education and too much signing power.”
“Her title?” I ask.
“Vice president of internal affairs. The DA is coming at her hard. They are building their case against her as we speak.”
“What do they have on her?” I flip through the file, my eyes scanning the boring law jargon.