“Yeah, whoa.”
“You know what that means, don’t you?”
“That I should never take your advice to stay out of trouble?” Sam said with a smirk.
“Okay, sure, honey, but it also means you didn’t kill your dad with grapefruit like you thought you did.”
While Sam would never know for sure if the grapefruit had contributed to it, at least when she exposed this information she could give peace to all the families who might also be blaming themselves for the deaths of their loved ones.
Bernadette flipped the page to another study stapled to the back. “What’s this one about?”
“I don’t know…” Sam mumbled, reading to catch up.
“Wait. Check this out.” Bernadette pointed to the all-too-familiar acronym DES. It was the same drug she had taken while pregnant with Alonzo Jr. that she had fought her doctor about taking.
“Oh, geez Louise.” Sam read the incriminating medical review summary with a horrifying understanding that this could be referring to Bernadette. “At least I can finally put a stop to the drug with this.”
The original study for DES was dated thirty years ago, in 1940, branded under a different pharmaceutical company. But it appeared that Cook Pharmaceuticals had launched a generic version of the drug diethylstilbestrol, also known as DES, and resumed distributing it to pregnant women, despite questionable evidence of its effectiveness. Then last year, in 1971, a significant number of cervical cancer cases were found linked to the drug. And yet it was still on the market, still being pushed by doctors, and even listed in Thomas Cook’s ledger.
“You’re not just going to clear your name with all this, Sam. You’re going to take Cook Pharmaceuticals to court. Probably even get a settlement.”
“I am?”
“You sure are, honey. And I’ll help you do it.”
Sam wondered if any lawyer would dare take the case, considering most of the city was in Thomas Cook’s pockets, and deep pockets they were.
“Do you think the women who were impacted can win against Cook Pharmaceuticals?”
“If we can find someone who will go up against him, a multi-million-dollar class action lawsuit is sure worth a try.”
“But I have no way to get this story printed. I lost my job at the magazine, remember?”
Sam’s gaze settled on the flower pot of unkillable dead aloe that Bernadette had defied all odds to kill. The flower pot reminded her of the priceless vase she had given to Betty Number Five. And the thought of Betty Number Five reminded her that the secretary still owed Sam a favor! It was time to call it in.
“Mind if I borrow your phone?” Sam asked.
“As long as it’s not long distance.”
Sam dialed the receptionist desk for Women’s House Magazine, asked to be transferred to Betty Number Five, and half of a Cher song later Betty picked up the line. Sam reminded her of their vase-favor transaction, to which Betty had a hazy memory about the deal.
“What do you want me to do?” Betty finally agreed.
“I have one last column I need you to run for me. Don’t tell Mel. Just take it to the production manager and he’ll run it for you no questions asked if you flirt with him.”
“Has that ever worked for you before?”
“No, but I’m not you.”
“What makes you think that will work for me?”
“There’s a reason they called you Babelicious Betty. So will you do it or not?” Sam asked.
The dead silence on the line lasted so long Sam thought the line had disconnected.
Finally Betty whispered, “You’re lucky Mel made a pass at me and threatened to fire me if I turned him in, or else I wouldn’t be risking my job for you.”
Women’s House Magazine
