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

The lingering heat of summer, like the once-boiling anger, quickly cooled to ashes with the first autumn rain. Time kills many things. It kills passion, it kills patience, and it kills justice!

Autumn came exceptionally early in 1991. The sycamore leaves in Manhattan withered and fell before they even had a chance to turn yellow. They covered the asphalt of 57th Street, where they were crushed into black mud by passing luxury cars.

Fox Mulder sat on a bed in a cheap motel.

The lamp on the bedside table flickered on and off, emitting a crackling sound of electricity, as if it could go out at any moment.

He was holding a registered letter that had just been sent from the court.

This is the final "judgment" from the Delaware Bankruptcy Court. Or, more accurately, a "surrender agreement."

The letter paper was thick, made of expensive cotton pulp paper, which felt very high-quality and even had a faint fragrance.

This type of paper is typically used to print diplomatic credentials or the wills of the wealthiest individuals.

But today, it's used to print a death certificate. This is the final settlement offered by Water Pharmaceuticals, or more precisely, its newly formed subsidiary, Water Biotechnology, Inc.

"Global Humanitarian Aid Fund".

The name is so compassionate, it sounds like a Red Cross fundraising project or a church charity dinner.

The total fund amounted to $6 million.

This is an astronomical figure. The media is jubilant, with headlines in major newspapers celebrating this "historic moment." The Wall Street Journal calls it a "model of corporate social responsibility," and the New York Times hailes it as "a boon for the victims"...

For an average American family with an annual income of only tens of thousands of dollars at the time, $6 million sounded like a mountain of gold, enough to solve all their hardships.

But Mudd turned to page 14 of the agreement.

The specific allocation terms were written there in densely packed small font, specifically in size 6 font used to hide details.

He took out a calculator, his fingers trembling as he pressed the keys.

There are approximately 2 known individuals living with hemophilia worldwide. Adding those infected through blood transfusions and those who contracted HIV through the use of blood products, the potential number of claims could exceed 3.

600,000,000 divided by 30,000.

A number popped up on the screen: 20,000.

Twenty thousand US dollars.

This is the price of a human life.

This is the price a child pays from diagnosis to death, enduring countless complications, widespread skin ulceration, and a collapsed immune system.

This is the compensation for a mother who watches her child slowly die, yet is powerless to stop it.

This money wasn't even enough to cover their two-week stay in the ICU.

It's not even enough to buy a year's supply of AZT.

Ironically, based on inflation, $20,000 might not even buy a decent Ford sedan.

But in Victor's ledger, that amount was enough to buy a life.

Moreover, this "generous" 6 million was forced out of them.

Initially, Victor only intended to throw out 5000 million, like giving money to a beggar.

His legal team calculated that $5000 million would be enough to bribe a few key union leaders and then give some "compensation" to the families who were making the biggest fuss.

But then an unexpected event occurred – a third-rate talk show host named Barry Hines.

This slick-back-haired, chair-smashing, foul-mouthed thug host, while lacking journalistic ethics, possesses a keener sense of smell than Mike Wallace and a bite force more ferocious than a mad dog.

He broadcast the horrific scenes of the victimized children on his late-night show for a week straight.

He didn't present data or cite legal provisions; he simply pointed the camera at the faces of children whose bodies were covered in Kaposi's sarcoma due to immune system collapse.

He used the most inflammatory language to denounce Walter Pharmaceuticals, and even called on the audience to throw paint and dead rats at the gate of Victor's manor.

"Look at these children! Look at their skin! It's like hell!" Barry Hines roared on television, spitting all over the screen. "Victor, how do you sleep at night? Is your mattress made of these children's bones?"

It was this shameless harassment, coupled with the pressure of lawsuits around the world, that forced Victor to raise his offer to 6 million.

But it's still a joke.

In Annex B of the agreement, there is a clause that requires signature, which is highlighted in bold:

"The recipient acknowledges that this payment is solely for humanitarian aid and not a claim for compensation based on any legal liability. The payer denies any wrongdoing. By signing for the payment, the recipient permanently waives all rights to sue the payer."

Mud stared intently at that line of text.

*We do not acknowledge any wrongdoing.*

This is what they care about most. Not money, but reputation and legal innocence.

It's their still-smooth and beautiful faces.

They killed thousands of people, destroyed tens of thousands of families, and distributed the deadly virus around the world like candy.

They knew what they were doing; they knew there was something wrong with the blood, but they still sold it.

For profits, for financial statements, for stock price.

Finally, they left behind a few furs.

Then they said, "This has nothing to do with us. We're just being kind and giving you some money to buy coffins."

Not even a single apology! Not even a single mistake was acknowledged!

All that remained were cold, impersonal disclaimers and checks reeking of blood.

......

Saul Goodman stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. Below him, countless people, like ants, thronged the street.

Behind him was a row of fax machines working frantically.

"Sizzle—sizzle—"

Every sheet of paper that comes out is a signed "settlement agreement".

"It seems our 'humanitarian' offensive is working."

Thor turned around, looked at the ever-growing mountains of paper, and a satisfied smile appeared on his face.

"As of 12 p.m. today, 450 victims have signed the agreement."

His assistant, a young and capable Harvard Law School graduate, was presenting data.

"The signing rate has reached 62%. At this rate, we will be able to settle more than 90% of potential litigants by the end of the month."

"That's human weakness, child."

Saul walked up to a fax machine and picked up a freshly printed, still-warm agreement.

There was a crooked signature on it.

"When someone is about to drown, if you throw them a straw, they will treat it as a lifebuoy."

"We don't need to give them lifebuoys, they're too expensive."

"All we need to do is give them a straw, a straw coated in gold dust."

"Twenty thousand dollars." Saul flicked the paper. "For us, it's just a drop in the ocean. But for those struggling in despair, it's the only thing they can grasp."

"But, Mr. Goodman," the assistant asked hesitantly, "the media... that Barry Hines is still criticizing us."

Let him curse.

Thor chuckled dismissively. "The more vicious the insults, the better."

"Anger is cheap and fleeting. As soon as we distribute the money and the victims receive their checks, the anger will recede like the tide."

"After all, nobody turns down money. Especially those who desperately need money to save their lives."

He threw the agreement back into the pile of papers.

"Remember, we're not doing charity. We're cleaning up balance sheets."

"Each signature means that a potential legal risk has been eliminated."

"Every signature means that Mr. Victor's stock price is one step safer."

"That's business. Ruthless, efficient, and devoid of any emotion."

......

Louisville, Kentucky.

This is the American heartland: poverty, piety, and silence.

After the coal mine closed, all that remained was unemployment, despair, and those rusty iron blocks that were not slow at all.

In a dilapidated, single-width trailer, single mother Mary Sue sits at a rickety dining table, staring blankly at an agreement.

The trailer was stuffy and humid, with only an old fan creaking.

Her son, 11-year-old Billy, was lying on his bed in the inner room.

His breathing sounded like a broken bellows because of Pneumocystis pneumonia (PCP) caused by AIDS.

The table was piled high with bills: painkillers, antibiotics, hospital fees, and an overdue electricity bill for three months. The pink bill had the words "Ultimatum" printed on it.

"Mom, it hurts."

A weak voice came from the inner room, as faint as a whisper.

Mary Sue felt as if her heart was being stabbed. She stood up and walked to the bedside.

Billy's face was so thin it was unrecognizable, with sunken eyes and high cheekbones.

The once lively and adorable child now looks like a shrunken skeleton covered in a thin layer of skin.

His skin was covered with purple spots, Kaposi's sarcoma, the kiss of death.

"Bear with it, baby, bear with it." She stroked her son's burning forehead, tears welling up in her eyes.

Her hands were rough and cracked, and years of hard work had worn away her fingerprints.

The steroids prescribed by the doctor have been finished.

In this country overrun by opioids, those who truly need pain relief often cannot afford the medication.

She didn't have the money to buy a new one.

Although Uncle Jack from the community pharmacy was kind, he refused to extend credit because her credit rating was completely bankrupt.

Her life, along with hers, went bankrupt.

She returned to the table and looked at the agreement.

Once you sign your name, a check for $20,000 will arrive within a week.

That's twenty thousand dollars.

With this money, she can buy medicine, pay the electricity bill, and not worry about the power being cut off tomorrow.

She could even buy Billy that "Star Wars" Lego set he'd wanted for so long—the giant Millennium Falcon.

That was Billy's long-held wish.

But signing it would mean admitting that it was all an "accident" and that those who sold the poisoned blood to her son were "innocent."

Signing the document means that she betrayed her son's justice for money.

"Mr. Barry said he can't sign..."

"He said it was a devil's contract. Once it's signed, we'll never have another chance to take them to court."

But can justice stop the pain?

Can justice stop Billy's lungs from feeling like they're on fire?

Can those lofty legal provisions be transformed into a single injection that can make a child sleep peacefully?

Can dignity put food on the table?

Could I trade it for that small bottle of Mafei tablets that could save my life?

Billy's groans came from the inner room again, low moans caused by excruciating pain, like a saw cutting into her nerves.

"Ah...Mom..."

The voice was filled with helplessness and dependence, every syllable tearing at Mary Sue's soul.

Mary Sue picked up the pen with trembling hands.

Her hands were shaking so badly that she could barely hold the pen.

Tears dripped onto the paper, blurring the words "dropping the lawsuit." The ink spread through the paper fibers like a black flower.

She had no choice.

For the wealthy, dignity is an ornament, something to boast about at a dinner party.

But for the poor, dignity is a luxury, while survival is a necessity. In the face of survival, dignity is worthless.

"Do you want justice? Or do you want your son to suffer less in his final days?"

She signed her name.

At that moment, she felt she had sold her soul.

But she saved her son's last moments!