“Nothing else was stolen?”
“No.”
The director pushed her hair back with both hands. “This is ajeno.”
Sula didn’t need a dictionary. “I know. Now I find out Dr. Hernandez is no longer with the clinic.”
“That was a personal issue. I don’t think it’s related.”
There was a long silence, both of them mulling over the question: What now?
Sula spoke up. “There was also a suicide in the Portland arm of the trial. The clinician said he thought the girl was Hispanic. A lot of lives could be at stake. Hispanic lives.”
Felisa jumped up. “David must have talked with Dr. Warner. If she analyzed the Rios men’s DNA, she got the samples from here.” Her gorgeous face was deeply troubled. She held out her hand. “Please excuse me. I have to check something.”
The director strode out of the room, dark hair swinging. Sula stood and stretched her legs, checking her watch out of habit: 10:07. Would Felisa bring her a copy of Miguel and Luis’ files? It seemed too good to be true. Yet, even if she did, having the clinical trial records would not be enough. She needed a sample of their DNA, so that someone-maybe at FDA or even a university-could replicate Warner’s work.
Sula paced the room, glancing at the art on the walls. The outdoor market scenes were colorful, but not particularly skillful or intriguing. She sat at the table and picked up her pen. She hadn’t taken a single note during their conversation. It had gone too quickly and had been too intense. Sula jotted down a few questions she still wanted answers to: 1) Was there any history of suicidal thoughts mentioned during either of the Rios’ intakes? 2) Why was the trial discontinued?
Felisa was gone for eleven and a half minutes and came back with only a single piece of paper in her hands. Sula tried not to look disappointed.
The director’s voice had the quiet tone of a conspirator. “Both Miguel and Luis Rios’ paper files are gone. Their blood samples are gone. I think David must have sent the samples to Warner. I have no idea what happened to the paperwork.”
“Why was the trial discontinued?”
“We failed to meet our goal for enrollment. And David was having problems at home and asked to take a leave of absence. So Prolabs shut it down.”
“It wasn’t about the suicides?”
“I didn’t think so at the time, but I’m starting to wonder.”
“Did you file adverse drug reaction reports with FDA?”
“We notified our advisory board and Prolabs.” Felisa sounded a little defensive, but in a moment she continued. “If data from this arm of the trial was never submitted to the Center for Drug Evaluation, then it probably never made it into the MedWatch database.”
“Can you file an ADR now? I want the FDA to know about the suicides.”
“Yes, I can and I will. But it’s not enough to get their attention. We need to get new DNA samples.”
Sula noticed her use of the word we. “You believe me?
“Do I think Rudker took the disk from your home? Maybe.” Felisa shook her head. “What I do believe is that David Hernandez and Diane Warner both thought there was a genetic vulnerability to Nexapra. If that’s true, as you said, a lot of lives are at stake.”
“So what now?”
“Go see their families and ask for a lock of hair or fingernail clippings they might have saved.”
It seemed like such a long shot. Before Sula could protest, Felisa cut in.
“Don’t worry. They’ll have something. When you combine Catholicism with Taino superstitions, you get a culture that never lets go of the dead.”
Sula understood this. Their bodies had been cremated, but she still had things that belonged to each member of her family. Her father’s pocketwatch, a small red and yellow blanket her mother had kept over her legs when she watched TV, and her sister’s brown wool sweater that still smelled like the lilac-scented shampoo Calix always used.
“How do I find their families if the files are gone?”
Felisa held up the paper in her hand. “Their names and addresses were still in our database of initial call-ins.”
“Will you go with me?”
“I can’t. And you can’t tell them I gave you the information. It’s confidential and I could lose my license.”
“What if they won’t talk to me? What if they don’t trust me?”
“If you tell them you’re trying to stop Nexapra, they’ll help you. Both families have come here to vent their anger about the deaths. They blame the drug.”
Sula’s stomach knotted up. She knew she had to do this, but it intimidated her. “What if they don’t speak English? What if I can’t find them?”
Felisa dismissed her fears with a small wave of her hand. “Roman will take you. He’ll interpret if he has to, but most people here speak some English.”
Sula sighed with relief. “Thank you for helping me.”
Felisa squeezed her arm. “Thank you for coming all this way to find the truth. There are not many who would get so involved.” The director gave her a quizzical look. “Why is this so important to you?”
“My father committed suicide.” That simple statement didn’t even come close to describing the horror of what really happened that day, but it was all Felisa needed to know. “I couldn’t bear to do nothing and let others make that same tragic mistake.”
The director escorted her out to the front lobby. Her young assistant chatted happily on the phone. Felisa walked up behind him and touched his shoulder. “Roman.”
He jumped, mumbled something, and hung up. “Yes?”
“I need you to drive Ms. Moreno to these two addresses.” She handed him the paper. “Wait in the car unless she asks you to interpret for her.”
Roman glanced at the addresses and moaned. “One of these is in Bayamon. It’ll take half the day.”
Felisa’s tone was patient, but firm, like a parent. “I’ll give you gas money. You get paid by the hour, so it makes no difference whether you sit on your ass here or in the car.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words.
“What about lunch money?”
“You test my patience.”
Felisa retreated into a back office and returned with a twenty. “Drive nicely.” She turned to Sula. “Good luck.”
Roman scooted across the waiting area and held the door open. Sula stepped out into the bright sunshine. After the air-conditioned office, it seemed quite warm.
“This way.” Roman headed toward the corner and turned left. A parking lot behind the building contained his 1985 white Volkswagen bug. He grinned and opened the passenger door for her.
After they were both buckled up, he turned to her and said. “I’m Roman Batista.”
“Sula Moreno. Thanks for driving me.”
“No problem. I like to get out of the office.”
“The name Batista, wasn’t he a famous artist?”
Roman pulled out into the street with a squeal. Sula braced herself.
“He was a sculpturist.”
“Are you related to him?”
“I wish. I’d love to be an artist.”
Sula liked his accent. It sounded more African than Spanish. “What’s stopping you?”
“A wife and two kids.”
The island was more mountainous and the vegetation was scrubbier and drier than Sula had expected. She’d thought it would be more lush and tropical, like Hawaii, which she’d never been to but had seen in plenty of photos and movies. Yet the countryside here was green and beautiful in its own way, and the sky was a perfect shade of blue.
Sula tried to forget, for a moment, why she was here and soaked in the scenery like a tourist. Roman occasionally played the part of tour guide, pointing out things of interest like two mountain peaks that looked like breasts, which the locals called, “Mt. Pechos.”
Many of the homes that dotted the green hillsides were large and new with pink-painted stucco and red tile roofs. Mixed in were dilapidated shacks surrounded by broken down washing machines, car parts, and smaller shacks. In one yard, it looked as if the occupants were digging up the grass to bury their garbage. Sula wondered about the water supply. They were clearly outside the city limits. Were those people drinking from a well on their property?