“Supper’s ready when you are, lovebirds!” Bernadette poked her head out of her kitchen window, waving Sam and Raul over.
She had been looking forward to meeting the Raul Smothers ever since she detected the adoring lilt in Sam’s voice every time she mentioned him. Which was growing more frequent by the day.
“Raul told me the funniest joke today…”
“Raul wrote the most insightful article for the Times about that…”
“Raul surprised me with a moss ball…”
To which Sam had to further explain was a little-known aquatic plant symbolic of love.
When Bernadette discovered Raul was a journalist—former reporter—for the New York Times, an idea formed, and soon a dinner invite was extended. Reporter meant connections, and connections meant money, and money meant change.
She had hoped to pick Raul’s brain about the hostile takeover of the neighborhood and if there was any way to peaceably reach some kind of agreement to stop the vandalism and threats. Sam teased that there wasn’t much in Raul’s brain to pick at, but one never knew what they’d find while digging around in his dark matter.
“We made soul food.” Bernadette ushered Sam and Raul inside, giving Raul a quick once-over as he paused to greet her. She nodded her approval to Sam.
“Soul food?” Sam asked.
“You know, food that’s good for the soul. Fried chicken, okra, cornbread, collard greens… deep south African-American cuisine. Anyway, I’m going to help you expand your culinary horizons tonight.”
“What’s good for the stomach is good for the soul.” Raul patted his belly that had gone up one size ever since Minnie started cooking for him and Sam every week. “Especially when it includes fried chicken.”
When they entered the Breedloves’ home, Alonzo Sr. was already in the kitchen breading the fresh okra—barefoot—perching their newest addition—already six months old, how time flies!—on one hip. Raul glanced at Sam, remembering her promise from so long ago.
“Hm, look at that, Sam. A husband barefoot in the kitchen with a baby on his hip. Does this mean you’ll finally marry me?”
Bernadette’s eyes widened with surprise as Sam flushed with embarrassment.
“If that was a proposal, Raul Smothers, I suggest you try a little harder and get a little more creative, honey,” Bernadette chided.
It was the tastiest chicken Raul had ever eaten, and the most entertaining dinner Sam had ever enjoyed. They spent the evening eating and drinking and laughing and sharing. Stories of how Alonzo Sr. and Bernadette met when she was trapped on a carnival Ferris Wheel that broke down just as her pod reached the top and Alonzo climbed to her rescue.
Followed by tales of how Sam and Raul got stuck on a ferry during a storm on the way to visit the Statue of Liberty, which was the last time Raul stepped foot on a boat.
Alonzo Sr. regaled them with memories from his beat cop days, and Raul entertained them with celebrities he interviewed from his reporter days. They ended the evening with a game of Clue after Alonzo Jr. tuckered out on a competitive round of Chutes and Ladders, and Sam realized she had laughed so hard that her cheeks ached.
“So, Raul,” Alonzo Sr. began as they sat around the living room sipping the cheap red wine Sam had picked up at the liquor store that had a low enough alcohol content that even Bernadette, who was still breastfeeding, poured herself half a glass. “I read something interesting in the papers the other day. About you.”
Raul’s mouth dropped, eyes widened, and he stumbled through a hasty reply. “As much as I’d love to hear about it, I just remembered that I have to get back to the studio.”
“Tonight?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, I need to drop that cardigan off for tomorrow’s taping. As they say, time waits for no man.”
“Oh, okay.” But Sam didn’t believe him.
Had Raul not rushed off in a peculiar hurry, he would have heard Alonzo Sr. go on to explain that the interesting something he was referring to was a television critic’s praise piece on the children’s show that Raul worked for.
As Sam speculated what on earth Raul could be hiding, she remembered the folder that had been left on her doormat and now bulged out of her purse. Peeling it open, she reached inside and pulled out a thick stack of papers with Cook Pharmaceuticals’ name all over it, and a red CONFIDENTIAL stamped across the upper corner. Sam didn’t need to read much more than the first page to learn it was a photocopy of a drug trial.
“What is all that jargon?” Bernadette asked, tossing a quick glance at it while she bustled around the kitchen reaching for dessert plates and silverware.
“You’ll never guess.”
“You’re right. I won’t. So just tell me.”
“It’s all the proof I need to clear my name and bury Thomas Cook.”
“Girl, you’re trippin’!”
“Here, look.”
Sam pointed to the long document packed with details about the Nosartin heart pill clinical trials, which stated as clear as day that the case study only included 80 severe heart issue patients. Of those test subjects, the medicine was only 69% effective for patients with severe heart damage, but most died from other “unrelated” health issues within five years of the study. The conclusion stated that the heart medicine was indeed effective, but it couldn’t be proven to offer long-term impact.
No study had been carried out on those with only mild heart damage. According to doctors who reported side effects from heart disease patients, Nosartin proved ineffective for 25% of mild cases, and the number of deaths due to heart-related issues was substantial.
“I don’t understand what any of this means,” Bernadette concluded after skimming it.
“It means that the trials used a negligible number of test subjects, and they didn’t even fit the profile of the patients doctors were prescribing this heart medicine to.”
“Laymen’s terms, honey.”
“They didn’t study Nosartin’s effectiveness for people with mild heart issues at all—like what my dad had. In fact, it may have even made their condition worse. Almost a quarter of the patients who used it ended up dead. So it never should have been approved by the FDA to be used for people like my dad.”
“Whoa.”
