American Medicine God: Starting by Inheriting a Pharmaceutical Company and Selling Medicine

Cayman Islands, Grand Cayman, Georgetown.

This is 19 degrees north latitude and 81 degrees west longitude. The tropical sun, thick as golden syrup, spills across the azure waves of the Caribbean Sea. The waves lap against the white sand of the seven-mile beach, creating a soothing rhythm.

But this is just appearance.

In this seemingly languid holiday paradise, the amount of money flowing through it every second is more than the annual GDP of many African countries. There is no army, no manufacturing industry, and even fresh water needs to be imported, yet it boasts the world's fifth-largest bank deposits.

This is the sewer of the capitalist world, and also its Noah's Ark.

Ugland House, South Church Street.

This unassuming five-story building is the headquarters of the law firm Maples and Calder. More than 18,000 companies are registered under its name.

At this moment, the air conditioning in the panoramic conference room on the top floor was on full blast, completely shutting out the tropical heat.

Victor sat at the conference table, a pen in his hand. In front of him lay a mountain of documents, at least twenty centimeters thick.

Every document is a legal firewall.

"This is the last one, Victor."

It was Saul who spoke.

He carefully turned to the last page of the document and pointed to the horizontal line at the bottom.

"Here, and here. Once you sign, 'Wat Pharmaceuticals' will no longer legally belong to you personally."

Victor did not start writing immediately.

He stopped writing, the pen hovering a centimeter above the paper. He looked up through the floor-to-ceiling window at the deep, unsettling blue sea. Beneath the surface lurked countless undercurrents and sharks, just like the seemingly calm business world outside.

"Saul," Victor asked softly, "if I sign now, even if the FBI storms into my office tomorrow, even if the SEC freezes my accounts, they won't be able to seize the assets here?"

"Even if God himself gave the order, it wouldn't work."

Saul pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, his tone filled with fervor and pride.

"This deed will transfer your assets to an entity called the Corleone Family Irrevocable Trust. This trust is established in the Cayman Islands and is protected under English common law and the Cayman Islands Fraudulent Dispositions Law."

Thor extended a finger and tapped it lightly on the table, making a rhythmic sound.

"Under this law, unless the creditor can prove that you were already insolvent at the moment the trust was established, which is obviously impossible, any U.S. court ruling is worthless here."

"No matter how loudly an American judge strikes his gavel, it won't reach the Caribbean."

Solton paused, then lowered his voice:

"Furthermore, we added the most crucial element to the trust terms—the 'Duress Clause'."

"What's this?" Sofia, who had been sitting silently to the side, finally spoke up. She was wearing a white linen dress and a wide-brimmed hat, looking like a Hollywood star on vacation.

"This is a legal 'deadlock' mechanism," Saul explained. "If one day in the future, an American judge holds a gun to the boss's head, or imprisons him for contempt of court, and orders him to sign documents to transfer money back to the United States..."

Saul made a "throat-cutting" gesture.

"...Then, the trustee here will automatically trigger the 'anti-coercion clause.' They have the right, no, the 'must', to determine that Mr. Corleone issued the instructions under duress. According to the trust agreement, any instructions issued under duress are invalid."

Therefore, the trustee can legally refuse to carry out your orders.

“Look,” Saul spread his hands and smiled, “it’s like putting a door in your vault that can only be opened from the inside, and the only key you have thrown into the Caribbean Sea.”

Victor turned his head and looked out the window.

"What if the key is really lost?" Victor asked. "What if even I can't open this door?"

"That's the beauty of it," Thor's voice deepened. "You may have lost your 'legal title,' but you retain the identity of 'protector.' You are the 'shadow king' in the trust structure."

"As the protector, you can change the trustee at any time. If you don't like the current trustee, you can fire them and find a more compliant one. You can veto the trustee's investment decisions, you can decide how the funds are allocated, and you can even borrow money from the trust to buy private jets, yachts, and mansions, as long as it is nominally for the 'family interests'."

"Simply put, you are legally penniless, but in reality, you are the absolute emperor of this wealth."

Victor smiled. The hunter had finally dug his last air-raid shelter.

In this world, all wealth ultimately faces two enemies: death and taxes. This trust, however, defeats both. It allows wealth to live forever within the family and makes the tax authorities run into obstacles before the law.

He lowered his head, the nib of his pen gliding across the paper.

"Victor Corleone."

The ink seeped into the texture of the parchment, and the contract became effective!

With the final transaction completed, Victor Corleone is now legally "bankrupt." He no longer owns any direct assets, but he controls a vast offshore empire.

He put down his pen with a soft thud.

"How are you feeling?" Sofia asked.

"Light as a feather." Victor stood up, straightened his suit, and felt the sea breeze blowing through the cracks in the French windows. "It's like a thousand-pound burden has been lifted off my shoulders."

He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked down at the busy offshore company registration agents below. Those people in short-sleeved shirts, carrying briefcases, hurrying past weren't walking; they were moving money. In this unassuming building, over 20,000 shell companies were registered, controlling trillions of dollars in global asset flows.

"But the IRS won't let this go," Sophia said, walking up to him. "They've been watching us for a long time. If we continue to make huge profits in the US, they'll come knocking sooner or later. Trusts can only protect existing assets, but new assets—those continuous profits—will still be taxed."

"Then let them search." Victor turned around, his back to the blinding sunlight, his whole body seemingly enveloped in a golden halo, obscuring his expression. "Sol, tell them about our 'Plan B.' About that 'charitable closed loop.'"

Saul immediately took another document from his briefcase, the cover of which read "The Vaught Family Foundation".

"This brings us to a variation of the 'Double Irish with a Dutch Sandwich' that we discussed earlier," Saul said, rubbing his hands together excitedly.

"We have established this charitable foundation in the United States. Under Section 501(c)(3) of the tax code, Vought Pharmaceuticals can deduct up to 50% of its taxable income from its annual donations to the foundation. Once this money enters the foundation, it is tax-free."

"We know that," Sophia raised an eyebrow. "And then?"

"Then," Saul snapped his fingers, "while the foundation can't give you the money directly, it can 'invest' it. To 'preserve and increase its value,' the foundation will invest the money in a reinsurance company in Bermuda or an intellectual property holding company in Ireland."

"Coincidentally, these overseas companies are all controlled by the 'Corleone Family Trust' mentioned earlier."

"The money left Water Pharmaceuticals, became 'charitable donations,' entered the foundation, enjoyed tax-free treatment, and gained social reputation. Then, the foundation transferred this money overseas for 'investment.' After circulating overseas, it became an asset controlled by a family trust."

"Finally, these overseas companies can lend money to your shell company in the United States in the form of 'low-interest loans' or 'investment returns', or pay for various expenses on your behalf."

"It's like transferring money from one hand to the other," Sofia summarized. "In the middle, they even patted themselves on the back as 'great philanthropists.' The IRS not only doesn't get a penny of tax, but they also have to give us certificates of merit."

"Not only that," Saul added, a ruthless glint in his eyes. "If Vought Pharmaceuticals is sued in the future for drug side effects and faces huge compensation claims, you can directly file for bankruptcy. Because the company's core assets—such as patent rights and trademark rights—have already been transferred to overseas intellectual property holding companies through this method."

"Those greedy lawyers will only end up with an empty shell. But you can still enjoy the steady stream of cash flow from patent licensing overseas."

These are the rules of the game.

For ordinary people, the law is an impenetrable wall, restricting their freedom; for the rich, the law is a spider web, not only unable to stop them, but also able to be woven into a hunting net to capture more wealth.

"A perfect plan," Victor commented. "But, Thor, there's still a loophole."

"A loophole?" Saul's smile froze on his face. He nervously flipped through the documents. "Impossible. We checked it three times. All the terms comply with Cayman Islands and U.S. law..."

"It's not a legal loophole, it's a human one."

Victor walked back to the table and poured himself a glass of ice water.

"This structure is too perfect, so perfect that it inspires envy. When someone is both rich and powerful, and no one can control him, he becomes everyone's target. The IRS, the FBI, the media, and even the public's resentment towards the rich will all focus on us."

"In this world, there is nothing that makes people want to destroy a 'perfect rich person'."

"So?" Sophia asked, seemingly guessing what Victor was thinking.

"So we need to give them a target." Victor picked up his pen and stuck it into the pen holder. "A target that looks shaky but is actually indestructible. Or, give them a bigger prey to tear at and vent their frustrations on."

"Remember that report about Wyeth and Fen-Phen? That unpublished Mayo Clinic study on heart valve damage that we went to great lengths to obtain?"

Sophia nodded. "Of course. I remember its contents: ...multiple clinical observations showed that patients taking Fen-Phen long-term developed abnormal thickening of the heart valves...overactivation of 5-HT2B receptors...potential fatal risks...Wyeth Pharmaceuticals executives are aware of this situation, but are currently choosing to internally suppress the information and are trying to lobby the FDA to postpone issuing the warning..."

"This is a time bomb for Wyeth. Once it explodes, its market value will conservatively evaporate by tens of billions."

"What if we not only want to be the 'savior,' but also the 'informer'?"

"If we deliberately detonate this bomb and throw the entire pharmaceutical industry into chaos, the IRS and FDA will be busy putting out fires, busy cleaning up those unfortunate giants, and busy dealing with congressional hearings, and will have no time to pay attention to our little tricks in the corner."

"Chaos is a ladder," Victor said with a smile, "and also the best cover."

Saul gasped. "You mean...you're going to report Wyeth to the FDA?"

“No, that’s too low-level.” Victor shook his head. “Whistleblowers usually don’t end well. We need to let the truth be revealed ‘accidentally.’ We need to make the public feel that we ‘inadvertently’ discovered this shocking scandal and ‘bravely’ stood up for the public good.”

"Contact our informant at The Washington Post. No, don't contact him directly. Find an intermediary and send a portion of that report—remember, just a portion—the kind of scrap that looks like it was salvaged from a shredder, as an 'anonymous whistleblower' to that mad dog reporter named Daniel Green."

"Daniel Green?" Sophia raised an eyebrow. "That guy who'd rummage through trash cans to dig up news?"

"That's right. He's a fine knife, and a knife that thirsts for blood. As soon as he smells a hint of blood, he'll pounce on it without hesitation and tear open Hui's throat."

"But that's not enough." Victor looked out the window at the seemingly calm but actually turbulent Caribbean Sea. "Once Daniel ignites the fire, once the public outcry boils over, and once Wyeth is in a state of chaos, our real ace—David Rossi—will make his appearance."

"The FDA Commissioner?" Sophia understood immediately. "I remember the file you gave me. You secretly got him involved when he was still an investigator, and now he's one of us. He's inseparable from Walter."

"That's right. He will intervene in the investigation with 'thunderous measures' and give the public an explanation. He will personally bury Wyeth and, incidentally... elevate our new drug to a pedestal."

"When David Rossi wields his knife, we become either partners in justice or innocent victims. We will cooperate with the investigation, we will condemn the industry's malpractices, and we will stand on the moral high ground."

He turned around, raised his glass, and toasted his two accomplices.

"By then, who will still bother checking the accounts of 'Partners of Justice'?"