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

Thanks to the meticulous efforts of Patton-Borgs, K Street’s top lobbying group, the acquisition was quickly thrust into the spotlight of Congress.

While the poison pill plan temporarily halted Sakura Pharmaceuticals' offensive, Kenji Tanaka clearly intended to leverage Washington's political influence to defuse this landmine. The final verdict will be delivered on Capitol Hill.

South side of Independence Avenue, Washington, D.C.

Hearing Room 2123 in the Rayburn House Office Building.

This is the arena of power.

"Mr. Chairman, fellow members of parliament."

The speaker was a middle-aged white man wearing a dark blue Briony bespoke suit. His cufflinks were solid gold, engraved with the crests of the Ivy League schools.

Robert Sterling, a senior partner at Patton-Borgs, is also Sakura Pharmaceuticals' "mouth substitute" today. His standard rate is $1200 per hour, and today he clearly intends to prove he's getting more than his fair share.

As for Kenji Tanaka himself, he did not appear at the hearing. For this arrogant Japanese zaibatsu, being questioned by members of the U.S. Congress was a humiliation. He preferred to remain behind the scenes, hiring the best American lawyers to fight for him. Or rather, he felt that was enough—after all, in the late 80s, the yen seemed capable of buying half of America.

Sterling's tone was almost earnest, but his very first sentence was full of aggression:

"We are sitting here today because Vought Pharmaceuticals—a company that has long monopolized the U.S. opioid painkiller market—is hindering free competition. Under Section 2 of the Sherman Antitrust Act, any attempt to maintain a monopoly through illegitimate means is a federal felony. Sakura Pharmaceuticals' acquisition is precisely to break this pathological monopoly and introduce healthy competition."

He paused for a moment, then his gaze swept over each member of the hearing panel, becoming even more confident.

"Moreover, we are discussing the core of the American spirit—the free market. Milton Friedman taught us that the free flow of capital is the source of prosperity."

Sterling picked up a beautifully bound business plan and held it up like a Bible:

"Sakura Pharmaceuticals has pledged to retain all of Water Pharmaceuticals' plants in New Jersey following the acquisition and to sign a ten-year 'no-layoff agreement.' It will also invest an additional $2 million in R&D to upgrade aging production lines. This translates to at least 500 new high-paying jobs and an additional $3000 million in tax revenue for New Jersey annually."

These words struck at the politicians' Achilles' heel—jobs and taxes. Several legislators from Rustband State began whispering among themselves.

Sterling turned around, pointed at Victor sitting at the other end of the dock, his eyes filled with disdain:

"And what has Mr. Corleone done? He launched the infamous 'poison pill' program, which not only hijacked the interests of shareholders but also artificially created trade barriers. Now, he is trying to cover up his mismanagement with cheap nationalist sentiment."

"What is this? This is discrimination against foreign investors! This is blatant xenophobia! If we allow this behavior today, foreign investors will sell off US Treasury bonds tomorrow, and the dollar system will collapse!"

Sterling's voice echoed throughout the hearing room, resounding with authority. He not only understood the law, but also knew how to intimidate.

Several members of Congress nodded slightly in the hearing room. In the twilight of Reaganomics, the "free market" remained the absolute political correctness, and no one wanted to be labeled a "trade protectionist."

The representative of Sakura Pharmaceuticals, Vice President Yamamoto, sat behind Sterling. He sat upright, his hands neatly placed on his knees, a reserved yet confident smile on his face. He didn't understand the complex legal English, but he understood the situation—the American lawyer was ruthlessly crushing his opponent.

The situation is very unfavorable for Vought Pharmaceuticals.

Victor sat in the dock, wearing a dark gray, old-fashioned suit with a slightly conservative cut and a dark red tie—the color of the Republican Party, representing conservatism and tradition.

He didn't bring a large legal team; he only had a leather briefcase beside him. He didn't even look up at Sterling, but stared intently at the glass of ice water in front of him, watching the ice cubes slowly melt under the light.

"Mr. Corleone," the hearing chair, a veteran senator from California, tapped his gavel with a dull thud, "you have five minutes to make your statement."

Victor stood up. His movements were slow, but this only drew everyone's attention.

Instead of walking to the podium, he took a sealed kraft paper file folder directly from his briefcase.

The file folder was thick, sealed with a red strip and stamped with a bright red seal: CONFIDENTIAL / EYES ONLY.

All eyes were instantly drawn to the glaring red stamp. Camera shutters began clicking rapidly.

"Mr. Chairman, Attorney Sterling just talked a lot about money, employment, stock prices, and economic theory," Victor said with remarkable clarity. "If it were six months ago, I would have debated these things with him. I would have presented financial statements to prove that Water Pharmaceuticals' profit margins were higher than the industry average."

"But I'm not going to talk business today."

He untied the string from the file folder, his movements slow and deliberate.

"I request that this document be included in the hearing transcript. It is a communications record intercepted by the internal security department of Water Pharmaceuticals over the past three months, as well as our independent investigation report on Sakura Pharmaceuticals' Project Olympus."

Upon hearing the words "Project Olympus," Vice President Yamamoto's smile froze for a moment. Although he was certain that the company did not have a project with that name, the name from Greek mythology sounded full of some kind of metaphor.

Sterling frowned, instinctively sensing something was amiss—a lawyer's intuition: "Objection! Mr. Chairman, this is unrelated to the acquisition, and the source of this document..."

"Rejected." The chairman adjusted his reading glasses, his gaze fixed on the file folder. "This is a congressional hearing, not a courtroom. We need to hear all the relevant information. Let him finish."

Victor pulled out a thin sheet of paper covered with data charts and graphs, and held it up in the air to show it to the world.

"In its acquisition offer submitted to the SEC, Sakura Pharmaceuticals concealed an inconspicuous annex clause: they demanded full control of Water Pharmaceuticals' 'patient prescription database' and the relocation of its servers to the Tokyo headquarters after the acquisition."

"That's normal," Sterling interjected, trying to break Victor's train of thought. "It's part of the company's assets, and the acquiring party has the right to..."

"Is that so?" Victor sneered, interrupting him. "Then why are they uninterested in specific financial data, yet so fixated on long-term user data for 'Valium' and 'OxyContin'? Why do they specifically state in the terms that they require 'original medical records including race, age, blood type, and past medical history'?"

He turned to face the hearing box, his voice suddenly rising, no longer the gentle tone of before:

"Fellow members of Congress, do you know who these drugs are primarily used by? According to our user profile, they are Vietnam War veterans, blue-collar workers in the rust belt, and white middle-class people living in the suburbs. They are the people who make up the backbone of American society."

"This data shows that Sakura Pharmaceuticals is using this data to secretly build a 'Caucasian drug response model'."

A commotion erupted in the conference room. Reporters began frantically taking notes, their flashes turning the hall as bright as day.

"What does this mean?" a Texas legislator asked, frowning. His district was full of rednecks.

"What I mean is," Victor slammed the paper down on the table, making the microphone howl, "if this data leaks out, the Japanese will have access to the genetic defects, drug dependence thresholds, and physiological weaknesses of the central nervous system of tens of millions of Americans."

He paused for a second, then launched the final nuclear bomb:

"This is no longer business. Gentlemen, this is the prelude to biological warfare against a specific race."

"Absurd!" Sterling roared, his face flushed red. He jumped to his feet, knocking over the chair behind him. "This is baseless conspiracy theory! This is slander! Are you turning this sacred hearing into a science fiction seminar? There are no aliens here, Mr. Corleone!"

"Yeah?"

Victor ignored Sterling's roar and looked at a young member of parliament on the far right of the hearing panel.

That's Katie's husband, Congressman Michael.

The two exchanged a very subtle glance across the noisy crowd.

Congressman Michael understood immediately. He slammed his fist on the table and stood up abruptly.

"Mr. Sterling!" Michael roared, his voice louder than Sterling's, filled with righteous indignation. "Are you mocking national security?"

"Mr. Congressman, I am merely stating the facts; this accusation is completely..."

"Shut up!" Michael pointed at Vice President Yamamoto's nose, his finger trembling with anger, as if he were a Japanese general during World War II. "We're discussing this possibility! Even if there's only a 1% chance that the Japanese want to use drug data to research biological weapons against the Americans, we must treat it as a 100% threat!"

Michael took a deep breath and shouted the line to all the cameras in the room:

Before Pearl Harbor, nobody believed that planes could sink battleships!

This statement was like a bombshell, exploding in the hearing hall.

This is a sore spot that will forever remain in the hearts of every American, a scar etched into the national memory.

Vice President Yamamoto's smile froze completely. Although his English wasn't good, he understood "Pearl Harbor." In the context of US-Japan relations, this term was tantamount to a declaration of war.

He looked at Sterling in alarm, noticing that even the top lawyer was sweating profusely. Sterling's mouth gaped open, but no sound came out. He had prepared a thousand arguments on antitrust law, free trade, and shareholder rights, but in the face of the word "Pearl Harbor," all the legal provisions became worthless.

In this era, the shadow of the Cold War has not yet dissipated. Big Brother is still around, and the threat of communism remains. Any accusation regarding "national security" and "biological warfare," no matter how absurd, is a political red line that should be believed rather than dismissed.

Who dares to back down on this issue? Who dares to take the blame for "selling out American genetic data"?

No politician dared to. Even if they had received political donations from the Japanese, they had to immediately distance themselves from them.

The atmosphere in the hearing room changed instantly. The lawmakers who had previously supported the free market now stared grimly at the documents before them, as if they truly held the key to America's destruction. They began whispering among themselves, their once friendly gazes now sharp and filled with suspicion.

Sterling wiped the sweat from his brow, attempting a final plea: "Chairman, this is pure speculation, without any scientific basis..."

That's enough.

The old chairman took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. He gave Victor a deep look. As a seasoned shrew who had spent decades in Washington, he knew this was probably a trick by Victor, and that the file folder might just contain a pile of scrap paper.

But under the banner of "national security," the truth is no longer important.

The important thing is the stance. If he doesn't call a halt, tomorrow's Washington Post headline will be "Congress sells American genes to Japan."

"Given that the evidence provided by Mr. Corleone involves a potential national biosecurity threat," the Chairman's voice resonated throughout the room through the microphone, carrying an unquestionable authority, "this Committee decides to invoke Section 5021 of the Omnibus Trade and Competitiveness Act of 1988, namely the Exon-Florio Amendment."

Sterling closed his eyes in despair. He knew what this meant.

"We will formally request CFIUS (Committee on Foreign Investment in the United States), chaired by the Secretary of the Treasury and including representatives from the Department of Defense, the State Department, and the Department of Justice, to initiate a national security review of Sakura Pharmaceuticals' acquisition of Vought Pharmaceuticals."

The chairman paused, then pronounced the death sentence:

"The acquisition was frozen indefinitely until the review results were available—a process that typically takes 12 to 18 months. Any transfer of shares was deemed illegal."

"Thump!"

The gavel came down hard.

That hammer blow shattered Sakura Pharmaceuticals' dream of a quick victory, and it also shattered Kenji Tanaka's ambition.

Sterling slumped into his chair, knowing the deal was off.

Once the CFIUS audit becomes a closed system, political maneuvering supersedes legal provisions. And in the political quagmire of Washington, the Japanese will never outmaneuver the local powers. The rules here aren't written on paper, but rather ingrained in people's hearts.

The hearing was over. Reporters swarmed around Representative Michael, eager to interview the "guardian of national security."

Victor straightened his collar, buttoned his suit jacket, and turned to walk out, his expression blank.

He paused briefly as he passed Sterling and Yamamoto.

Vice President Yamamoto, pale-faced, was anxiously explaining something to the person on the other end of the phone in Japanese.

Victor leaned slightly closer to Sterling's ear and said:

"Tell Kenji Tanaka," Victor said softly, "Welcome to America!"