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

The door of the law was closed, but Muldur did not stop. Everything he had willingly shouldered made him determined not to give up, even if it meant certain death. He changed tracks, to a noisier, more direct, and more dangerous track.

As the gavel fell from the Delaware judge's hand, Mulder crossed the state line and drove into Manhattan, New York. If the court wouldn't allow him to speak, then he'd let the whole of America hear him!

Two weeks later, New York, 57th Street. CBS Broadcast Center. The fluorescent lights in the corridor burn day and night, illuminating countless souls burning for the truth.

Fox Mulder sat in the dressing room, letting the makeup artist apply powder to his pale face. His heart pounded in his chest, almost in sync with the opening theme of a famous TV show.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock...

This is the iconic stopwatch sound of "60 Minutes." It's the highest-rated news magazine program in the United States, a mecca for investigative journalists, and a nightmare for countless politicians and CEOs.

"Relax, child. Take a deep breath." An old but penetrating voice rang out in the doorway.

Mike Wallace leaned against the doorframe, wearing a beige trench coat, his eyes sharp as if he could see through all the pretenses in people's hearts. In this country, those he targeted usually met only two fates: either disgrace or imprisonment.

"I've read your story." Wallace pointed to the documents in Mulder's hand, his tone excited. "If half of this is true, it will be the biggest scandal since Watergate. A top American pharmaceutical company, for profit, deliberately selling HIV-infected plasma overseas? My God, this is practically a script written by Satan himself."

“It’s all true.” Mulder stood up. “I have the victims’ DNA comparison reports. Every single document is stained with blood. I can even find doctors willing to testify!”

"very good."

"Tonight, we're going to nail Walter's drugs to the cross. We'll skin them and hang their skins in Times Square to dry, so the whole world can see the true face of these vampires."

Top producer Don Hewitt burst down the hallway, waving a stack of freshly printed scripts, his face flushed: "The ratings are off the charts! The 'Bloody Trade' documentary will air tonight in prime time. GG Media's phones are ringing off the hook. This episode is a shoo-in for next year's Peabody Award!"

Looking at the bustling studio, at the cameras pointed at the interview area like cannons, and at the flashing red lights on the control panel, Mud had already abandoned his principles.

The law is dead. But public opinion lives on!

Here, there's no need for complicated chains of evidence, no need for lengthy court proceedings, and no need to face a judge. Just a single camera shot, a single sentence, and those demons lurking behind the scenes are doomed!

...

New Jersey, Water Pharmaceuticals headquarters, Chairman's office.

The television was playing a trailer for "60 Minutes." The visuals were black and white, accompanied by somber and oppressive music. A silhouette of Mulder appeared on the screen, accompanied by Wallace's narration, which sounded like a trial pronouncement:

"This is a life-saving drug, and also a deadly poison. Tonight, a whistleblower will tell us why a Fortune 500 company would choose to inject HIV-infected blood into the bodies of thousands of innocent children..."

Victor Walter sat on the leather sofa, his expression playful, even having the leisure to appreciate Wallace's delivery of lines.

Saul, however, was not so calm. He was restless, getting up from the sofa and pacing back and forth.

"Boss, this is '60 Minutes'! It's Mike Wallace! This isn't like those medical journals with only a few thousand subscribers. Once the show airs, it'll be a nuclear explosion! Our stock price will be halved when the market opens tomorrow. No, it might even crash! Shareholders will kill us, and the Department of Justice will reopen the investigation under public pressure..."

"Salt, sit down. Stop fidgeting and blocking the TV."

"We have to sue them! Defamation! Send a lawyer's letter now! Apply for a temporary injunction!"

"Or we could issue a statement saying that Muldur is mentally ill, a fired employee, and that he's taking revenge on society! We could bribe a few psychiatrists..."

"Sue?" Victor shook his head. "Never sue the media in this country. That's like sending them bullets. The more you sue, the more the public suspects you're up to something. That's the Streisand Effect. You turn a small spark into a forest fire."

"What do we do then? Are we just going to sit here and wait to die? There are less than four hours until the broadcast!"

Victor stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked out at the bustling New Jersey harbor. The setting sun had turned the sea golden—the color of money.

"Saul, you're a good lawyer, but your vision is too narrow. You only see the law, while I see... the ecosystem."

He turned around, picked up a document from his desk, and tossed it to Saul.

It was a complex equity structure diagram.

"While CBS may seem invincible, calling itself the 'Fourth Estate,' it's still a business. Its parent company is the Tisch Coalition, which is currently planning a $50 billion acquisition—they want to acquire a large insurance company."

Saul paused for a moment, flipping through the chart, still not understanding the connection.

"Mergers and acquisitions of this scale are heavily reliant on Wall Street financing. They need bank loans and investor confidence. At this critical juncture, any 'negative news' or any 'uncertainty' that could cause fluctuations in the parent company's stock price will cause those sensitive bankers to tighten their purse strings."

Victor walked to the telephone, which was a dedicated line.

"And don't forget. Vought Pharmaceuticals and its affiliates spend $5500 million annually on GG on CBS. We're one of their biggest spenders. That doesn't even include our advertising in their newspapers and magazines."

He picked up the receiver.

"Who are you calling? The CBS director?" Saul asked.

"No." Victor laughed, a cold and cruel laugh. "In this world, the station director is just an employee. What we're looking for is a 'master.'"

...

Manhattan, a private club on Wall Street.

Laurence Tisch, owner of CBS, sat in his cigar room, frowning as he looked at the financial report in his hand. The network's profit margins had been declining in recent years, much to the displeasure of this operator known for his "cost control." He had just cut a third of the news department's budget, sparking considerable protests.

A waiter brought in a cell phone: "Mr. Tisch, it's Victor Walter on the phone. He says it's about your acquisition financing next week."

Tisch raised an eyebrow, put down his cigar, and took the phone.

"Victor? I thought you were busy dealing with those lawyers right now."

"Those are minor troubles, Lawrence," Victor's voice came through the receiver. "I'm calling to give you a friendly reminder. I heard your channel is airing a 'fictional novel' about us tonight."

“That’s freedom of the press, Victor. You know I never interfere with the editorial decisions,” Tisch said in a bureaucratic, smooth tone. “That’s Mike Wallace’s territory; even I have to give him some leeway.”

“Of course, of course. I respect the First Amendment.” Victor chuckled. “However, I just spoke with some friends at Morgan Stanley. They’re very interested in your acquisition next week. But they’re also worried that if CBS gets embroiled in a multi-billion dollar, years-long defamation lawsuit, it might affect the parent company’s cash flow rating… You know, bankers hate risk.”

Tisch's expression changed slightly. He knew, of course, what this meant. It was a euphemism for "tortious interference," the most deadly threat in business warfare.

"Defamation lawsuit? Victor, are you threatening me?"

"No, I'm doing the math for you. Once the show airs, Vought Pharmaceuticals will have to fight to protect its reputation. We'll immediately withdraw all GGs—that's $5500 million in net profit, Lawrence, that's two quarters of your net profit. Then we'll sue CBS, and the amount in damages will be astronomical. This lawsuit will last ten years. Your acquisition... will probably fall through."

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

The only sounds were the hissing of burning cigars and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

On one hand, there's "Journalistic Ideals," a potentially Pulitzer Prize-winning hit show, and on the other, Mike Wallace's fury.

On the other side is $5500 million in cash, and a multi-billion dollar acquisition deal that could determine the fate of the group.

For a capitalist like Lawrence Tisch, this isn't a choice. It's a math problem.

"I understand." Tisch's voice turned cold, devoid of any emotion. "I'll handle it."

...

One hour before the broadcast. CBS studio.

Mudd was making his final preparations. He looked at himself on the monitor and took a deep breath. At this moment, he felt that this already unequal cat-and-mouse game was about to come to an end.

Suddenly, the studio door was violently pushed open.

The man who arrived was a senior legal executive in a gray suit with a blank expression. He was followed by two burly security guards.

"Stop. Everyone stop," the executive said coldly.

"What's going on? There's still an hour left on the live stream!" Mike Wallace stood up angrily. "Who are you? Who let you in?"

"I am the group's legal director." The man directly ordered the director, "Cut off the signal. Change tonight's program schedule. Play a rerun of last week's 'Nature World'."

"Are you crazy?" The producer rushed forward and grabbed his collar. "This is national news! We have evidence! We have witnesses! This is our duty!"

"We have been notified that the news source for this report has 'serious legal flaws.'" The legal director pushed aside the producer, straightened his tie, and said curtly, "Based on instructions from the highest levels of the group, to avoid unnecessary legal risks, the program is being postponed indefinitely. Now, all material is confiscated and the master tapes are sealed."

"This is a dirty deal!" Mud rushed forward, his eyes bloodshot. "You can't do this! Those children are waiting to die! The truth must be revealed..."

Two security guards stopped him and roughly pushed him aside.

"This is private property, sir," the general counsel said, looking at Mudd. "Please leave. Otherwise, we will call the police and arrest you for trespassing."

Mulder looked at Mike Wallace. The once fearless journalistic fighter was now silent.

Wallace knew what this meant. By the time that call reached that level, the news was already dead. Here, truth was an expensive luxury, and capital... capital was the only god.

...

That evening, at 8 o'clock sharp.

Mudd sat in a dimly lit bar with an untouched glass of whiskey in front of him.

The bar's television was mounted in the corner, and the surrounding patrons were all waiting for the legendary, earth-shattering revelation.

"Here it comes! '60 Minutes'!"

The opening theme song begins.

*Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

With a professional smile, the host announced, "Due to technical reasons, the scheduled special program has been postponed. Tonight, we will be broadcasting 'The Lion Protestant Ecology of the African Savannah'..."

A chorus of boos erupted in the bar. The patrons grumbled as they changed tables or lowered their heads to continue drinking. No one really cared about the truth; they just wanted to have one less topic of conversation.

Only Mud was staring intently at the screen.

On the screen, a lion is tearing at the throat of an antelope. Blood stains the grassland red. The antelope is still convulsing, its eyes reflecting despair.

Capital's control over the media has reached the point of absolute dominance.

This is not a trial for the "mouse." This is an execution of the "cat." And the truth is also being executed!

Mudd felt nauseous. He grabbed the wine glass on the table and smashed it to the ground.

"Bang!".

Mude's mind echoed with A's words, "A common man's anger can spill blood five steps away!"