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

three days later.

A smoky jazz bar in Manhattan, New York.

Victor sat in a corner booth and pushed a thick kraft paper envelope across the oiled tabletop.

Sitting across from him was a disheveled man with sunken eyes—Mike Thompson. He was a freelance writer who specialized in writing sensational inside stories for a few tabloids and third-rate medical magazines.

“You know what, Mr. Corleone,” Mike picked up the envelope, felt its thickness, and a greedy smile spread across his face, “usually, people pay me to shut up. You’re the first person to pay me to talk.”

Victor took a sip of soda. "This is a humanitarian relief operation. We are rescuing the American public from the tyranny of pharmaceutical giants."

"Yes, yes. Tyranny." Mike chuckled, expertly stuffing the envelope into his leather jacket. "Well then, let me sort this out. Roche is the Big Bad Wolf, you're Little Red Riding Hood, and the FDA is... that confused old lady?"

“No,” Victor leaned forward, his voice low, “the starting point is: why don’t they let the poor sleep?”

He placed a photograph on the table. It was a staged photograph: an old woman wrapped in a tattered shawl sat on the porch counting a few coins, while a bottle of Roche's "Valium" was placed on a high shelf, seemingly out of reach.

“Don’t write about patent law, Mike. Nobody cares about Section 337 or the doctrine of equivalents. Those things put people to sleep.” Victor pointed to the photograph. “Write about Mrs. Kowalski. She’s worked in a textile factory for forty years and now suffers from severe arthritis and anxiety. She needs tranquilizers to fall asleep, but Roche’s pills cost two dollars each. She has to choose between sleeping and cat food.”

“Then,” Victor slid a box of blue “Vortex” onto the center of the table, “Vortex Pharmaceuticals appeared. We offered the same salvation—no, a better salvation—for fifty cents. But Roche wanted to shut down our factory. They wanted Mrs. Kowalski to continue suffering.”

Mike stared at the photo, then at the blue pillbox. He whistled. "This is...evil. I like it. What's the title?"

"Sleep Monopoly: How Wall Street Steals Your Dreams"

.....

Three days later. Natley, New Jersey, Roche's U.S. headquarters.

Linda Vance, Roche's public relations director, a sharp-looking woman in a Chanel suit, is yelling into the phone.

"I don't care if it's true or not! I want them to retract it! The New York Post, the Star Chronicle... they're all reprinting it! 'Stealing Dreams'? Who wrote this garbage?"

She slammed the phone down, her chest heaving. Her desk was piled high with newspapers, each headline more sensational than the last.

Roche Sues New Jersey Small Pharmaceutical Company: Has Greed Triumphed Over Healing?

The Fifty-Cent Miracle Pill: They Don't Want You to Have It

"Linda," her assistant rushed in, looking panicked, "you need to look out the window."

Linda walked to the floor-to-ceiling window on the twentieth floor. Her pupils suddenly contracted.

Downstairs, at the main entrance of the Luo's campus, a group of people had gathered.

There were about fifty people. Most of them were elderly, some even in wheelchairs. They shivered in the autumn wind, holding up handwritten protest signs.

Take your hands off my sleep!

Roche = Greed

Let Walter live!

Film crews from three local television stations have arrived and are filming this "spontaneous" protest.

"Who are these people?" Linda gasped. "Are they...the real patients?"

Unbeknownst to her, these "patients" were brought from a nursing home in Queens by Saul Goodman in two buses. In exchange, Saul promised to donate ten brand-new color televisions to the nursing home's recreation room.

That evening, Channel 5 talk show: The Jersey Voice.

The studio lights were blindingly bright. Victor sat on a beige sofa, wearing a slightly oversized, inexpensive gray sweater. This made him look young, vulnerable, and genuine.

The host, Bob, a bald man with a booming voice, leaned forward. "So, Mr. Corleone, Roche claims you stole their patent. They say your 'micro-pellet technology' is just a poor imitation. What's your response?"

Victor stared directly into the camera lens. He didn't blink.

"Bob, I'm not a lawyer. I'm a chemist. My father died of depression. I watched him suffer because he couldn't afford the long-term medication."

Victor paused, his voice slightly choked. The timing was perfect.

"I created Waters Antidialysis not to become a billionaire like the executives at Roche. I created it so that people like my father... people like your grandmother could sleep soundly without worrying about waking up to a bill."

He pulled a strip of "Valium" from his pocket.

"It's technology. Yes. But it's also compassion. Roche uses technology to build moats to maintain high prices. We use technology to build bridges. If they sue me for that... because I want to help people..."

Victor gave a sorrowful smile, the smile of a martyr.

"Then I'll have to see them in court. But I won't stop producing this drug. Until every American can afford their dream."

The host was stunned. The audience in the studio erupted in enthusiastic applause. Some were even secretly wiping away tears.

The following morning. Wall Street.

"Sell! Sell Roche!"

Chaos erupted on the New York Stock Exchange trading floor. Roche's stock price fell 3% within the first hour of trading. While not a crash, it was a humiliation for a blue-chip pharmaceutical giant.

The boardroom of Roche Pharmaceuticals.

The general counsel, the man who had signed the previous "Ceasefire Notice," was wiping sweat from his brow. "Sir," he said, "the judge rejected our request for a temporary restraining order (TRO). He cited 'public interest considerations.' Media pressure is influencing judicial decisions."

At the end of the long table, the CEO of Roche America stood expressionless. He wasn't looking at the lawyer, but staring at the television screen, which was replaying Victor's interview.

"He's very capable," the CEO said coldly. "He's not a chemist. He's an actor."

"Should we escalate the lawsuit? We can drown him in papers..."

"No," the CEO interrupted him, "lawsuits are for logical opponents. This kid... he's playing guerrilla warfare. If we continue with the lawsuit, it will only give him more exposure. We'll become the villain in his script."

The CEO turned his head and looked at a man in the shadows at the other end of the long table.

The man was wearing a turtleneck sweater and gold-rimmed glasses. He was toying with a silver coin in his hand, twirling it deftly between his knuckles.

"Edward," the CEO said, "go to New Jersey. Talk to him."

"You want me to go and negotiate?" the man's voice rang out.

"I want you to buy him. Or bury him. I don't care which one. Just get him off my TV screen."

Edward Lewis stood up. He grabbed the silver coin in mid-air.

“Everyone has a price,” Edward said with a smile. “Let’s see if this kid prefers checks… or accidents.”

Of course, he was joking about the accident. Roche is a civilized company. Most of the time.