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

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Thank you everyone for the gifts. Your "charity donations" after urging me to update are the greatest support for the author. The book should be entering a quiet period now; I won't be able to contribute any more chapters, so I'll rely on your gifts to keep going. Special thanks to the "Master Certification" gift from the author; an extra chapter will be added.

Victor will next assemble his villainous alliance. They can't compete with the borderline historical fiction; all the content goes to those.

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Yale University, New Haven.

The ancient Gothic buildings cast shadows under the warm spring sun, and the bells of Harkness Tower echoed through the campus, startling a flock of pigeons foraging on the lawn.

This is the training camp for American power, the starting point of the express train to the White House, the Supreme Court, and Wall Street.

Of all the passes, the most expensive one was not the green paper with Franklin's portrait printed on it, but the parchment with the Ivy League school emblem.

For ordinary people, it's just a piece of paper; but for some families, it's proof of bloodline and a moat protecting their class.

...

Georgetown, Senator Griffin's private study.

The walls of his study were covered with beautifully framed photographs: him shaking hands with former President Reagan, delivering a speech in the Senate, and saluting at the Normandy landings commemoration.

Every photograph proclaims the glory of this family.

At that moment, Senator Griffin held a thin letter in his hand, his expression not very good.

"Refuse?" His voice was filled with suppressed anger.

"Yes, Joe." The person on the other end of the phone was his old classmate from Yale, now the director of admissions, whose voice carried a hint of helpless businesslikeness. "Edward Jr.'s SAT score is only 1050. Joe, that's too low. Even with the added weight of being alumni's children, after our 'Academic Index' weighted calculation, he's still at the end of the waiting list."

"Do you know how competitive this year is? The number of applicants has increased by 15% compared to last year, and the standardized test scores of those Asian students are simply outrageous."

"Fuck Asians!" Griffin couldn't help but swear. "I don't care about those math nerds. I'm asking, aren't there any 'Developmental Admissions' spots left?"

He lowered his voice, even in his study, even though security personnel came to scan for listening devices every week, he dared not say the word too loudly.

"Developmental admissions" is an open secret among Ivy League schools; it's a special list kept in the admissions office's safe.

It's a "backdoor" specifically for the children of the wealthy or powerful who can bring huge donations to the school. On this list, grades don't matter; what matters is the thickness of your father's checkbook.

"Joe, I really want to help you." The old classmate sighed, flipping through the folder beside him, "but this year's spots have already been snapped up. Two princes from Saudi Arabia, the eldest grandson of a Texas oil tycoon, and the daughter of a nouveau riche—that's real new money, with a frighteningly abundant cash flow."

"Unless..." the old classmate paused, "unless you can immediately come up with a donation large enough to build a new bio-lab. We're talking seven figures, Edward. And it has to be an 'unrestricted endowment'."

Griffin hung up the phone.

He slumped back in his chair, staring at his son's photo on the table. The boy in the photo was wearing a baseball uniform, grinning foolishly, completely unaware that he was about to be left behind on the family's social ladder.

Seven figures. Several million dollars.

This is a huge irony.

He is a senator of the United States of America, a legislator, and the architect of the highest levels of power. A single word from him can determine the allocation of billions of dollars in military budget, and a single proposal from him can alter the stock price of the entire tobacco industry.

But in terms of personal finances, he was a "poor man".

As a senator earning hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, he was penniless—at least on the IRS's books.

His illicit income couldn't be brought to light and could only lie in offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands or become holiday villas registered under the names of distant relatives.

His financial backers, the lobbyists for tobacco giants and military-industrial complexes, would only foot the bill for his campaign funds (PAC). Those funds were strictly monitored by the Federal Election Commission (FEC), every expenditure required an invoice, and could only be used for things like buying GG, printing leaflets, and organizing rallies.

No one would risk bribing a prestigious university for their good-for-nothing son. It doesn't have a good return on investment (ROI).

But he couldn't let his son go to state university.

In the power arena of Washington, this means the decline of the family's social standing. It means that twenty years from now, his grandson will no longer be able to fraternize with the future president in that particular club.

An elegant laugh drifted in from outside the window.

Griffin stood up, walked to the window, and drew back the velvet curtains.

Down in the garden, his wife Martha was hosting a charity fundraising tea party.

That's Washington's unique social scene. Dozens of ladies, dressed in Chanel suits and wearing pearl necklaces, are holding exquisite bone china teacups, discussing African famine, endangered sea turtles, or some unknown modern artist.

A young woman sat next to Martha.

She wore a beige suit, elegantly sipping her black tea, and engaging in lively conversation. Her smile was flawless, both warm and maintaining just the right amount of distance.

Katie Grant.

He was a special advisor to the public relations department of Water Pharmaceuticals and Victor Corleone's most trusted "diplomat".

...

In the garden, the afternoon sun shines on Hermès scarves and Cartier jewelry, reflecting an aura of power.

Katie is no longer the cheerleader who used to sell condoms in New Jersey.

With Victor's careful grooming, she earned a master's degree in communications from Columbia University (although most of the assignments were ghostwritten), married a promising young congressman, and successfully entered the "wives' social circle" on Capitol Hill.

Now, she is the central figure at these afternoon tea tables where power and money flow. She knows when to praise the other person's plastic surgeon and when to reveal some "insider information" about the stock market.

"Katie, darling," Martha Griffin said, her brow furrowed, as she lowered her voice while refilling her tea, "I heard your foundation recently has a recommendation spot at Yale?"

Katie gently put down her teacup.

The fish has taken the bait.

“Yes, Martha,” Katie’s voice was soft yet clear. “That’s a special recommendation held by Mr. Victor as an Honorary Trustee of Yale University. You know, Water Pharmaceuticals just donated a stem cell research center to Yale Medical School.”

"This award is to recognize the descendants of families who have made special contributions to the field of public health."

Katie glanced at Martha's anxious eyes, the kind of eyes that only a mother would have for her child, eyes that would stop at nothing.

"Senator Griffin is a senior member of the Judiciary Committee. Given his influence in Washington, he shouldn't lack letters of recommendation, right?"

Martha sighed; even her foundation couldn't hide the fine lines around her eyes.

"That's the problem. Because he's on the Judiciary Committee, too many people are watching him. Those mad dogs on the Democratic side are just looking for something to do with him. If it were an ordinary state university, it would be fine, but this is Yale."

"If Edward's grades weren't good enough to get in, the next day The Washington Post would have labeled him a 'privilege and corruption' journalist. These days, reporters have a nose like dogs."

"And..." Martha's voice lowered further, almost whispering, "You know our financial situation. Edward's trust fund has money, but it's all dead money under his grandfather's name, strictly regulated by law, and untouchable. As for those political donations... those are for campaign purposes, not a single penny can be touched. If we suddenly put a large 'donation fee' into Yale, the IRS (Internal Revenue Service) will immediately come knocking on our door to audit our taxes."

Katie nodded, showing an understanding expression.

She knows these politicians' sore spots all too well.

Under the spotlight, they are powerful figures who can command the wind and rain, pontificating on national affairs and writing passionately; but in private, they are bound together like dumplings by partisan struggles, moral scrutiny, complicated financial rules, and the ever-present media.

They possess enormous "public power" but are extremely lacking in "private wealth" that they can freely dispose of.

This huge gap is the gap in the transaction.

Water Pharmaceuticals excels at filling these gaps.

"I understand." Katie took a beautiful brochure out of her Hermès Birkin bag and gently pushed it in front of Martha.

The cover features the longing eyes of a group of African children, along with the blue logo of Water Pharmaceuticals.

"The Water Foundation has just launched a 'Global Health Youth Ambassador' program. We need a promising young person from a good background to spend two weeks visiting a medical camp in Kenya."

"We will arrange for a professional photography team to accompany him to capture touching moments such as him 'personally feeding orphans' or 'assisting doctors in distributing vaccines'."

"After the visit, our professional writing team, Pulitzer Prize winners, will help him write an in-depth report on 'Medical Aid and Human Rights in the Third World'."

Katie's finger traced across the brochure.

"This report, along with the photos published in Time magazine and Mr. Victor's personal recommendation letter as an honorary trustee, is enough to make any admissions director overlook that insignificant GPA difference."

"After all, Yale values ​​'social responsibility,' 'global perspective,' and 'leadership,' doesn't it? This perfectly aligns with their admissions values."

"Moreover, this is a 'philanthropic scholarship' program. All expenses are covered by the Water Foundation, making it legitimate and legal. The media will only praise the Griffin family's philanthropic tradition and will never associate it with corruption."

Martha's eyes lit up instantly, as if she had grasped at a lifeline.

This is not just a ticket to school, but also a perfect moral patina! It not only solved her son's schooling problem, but also boosted her husband's political image.

"This...this is perfect!" Martha excitedly grabbed Katie's hand. "But...what do we need to do about this?"