the outfield as their coaches and fathers argued over last night’s Astros loss to the Cardinals.
Four FBI agents, all dressed casually as baseball dads, moved in closer.
Eventually, Sid left the dugout and headed toward the concession stand for a soft drink. He bought one and took it to another field where a game was underway, and as he stood at the chain-link fence and scouted a future opponent, a man holding a business card stepped close and said softly enough for no one else to hear, “Sid, Ross Mayfield, FBI.”
Sid took the card, seemed to examine it carefully, and looking at the field asked, “A pleasure. What can I do for you?”
“We need to talk, and the sooner the better.”
“About what?”
“About Grattin, Flaxacill, Medicare fraud, maybe even Nelson Kerr. Lot of territory to cover, Sid. There’s a huge net out there, Sid, and it’s closing rapidly. We have the goods. You could be facing forty or more in the slammer.”
He actually closed his eyes as if punched in the gut but tried not to show it. His shoulders sagged slightly, but, as the agents debriefed later, he handled that awful moment remarkably well.
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“Oh yes, maybe two or three. Get ’em on the phone and let’s arrange a meeting within forty-eight hours.”
“And if I choose not to?”
“Don’t be stupid, Sid. We’ll get a warrant and come kick down your doors at three in the morning. Might be a bit traumatic for your wife and five kids, and the neighbors would see it all. And, Sid, we’re listening to everything. One word to Ken Reed or any of the others and a golden opportunity vanishes immediately. Understand? It’s time to look after your own neck. Reed’s history, and I doubt the company will survive.”
Sid clenched his jaw and nodded slightly.
“Twenty-four hours,” Mayfield said. “I want to hear from you or your lawyers within twenty-four hours, okay? And we’ll meet in forty-eight.”
Sid kept nodding.
* * *
—
Early Sunday morning, after a sleepless night, Sid Shennault drove to his lawyer’s office in Bellaire, an affluent community in Houston’s sprawl. The lawyer, F. Max Darden, was a well-known specialist in white-collar crime and had never heard of either Ken Reed or his company. For two hours, Sid Shennault spilled his guts and told him everything he knew about Grattin, Reed, the management, and the use of vitamin E3, or Flaxacill. He claimed to know nothing about Nelson Kerr.
At eleven, on cue, Agent Ross Mayfield and three of his colleagues, now dressed in the standard black suits, arrived, and F. Max directed everyone to the conference room of his splendid office suite. A secretary served coffee and doughnuts as the men jawed aimlessly in a vain effort to break the tension.
After the secretary was gone, F. Max took control of the meeting with “I assume you are here to offer my client some type of deal.”
Mayfield said, “That’s correct. We are working with the U.S. Attorney here in Houston and our plans are to indict most of the top management of Grattin, including Mr. Shennault. We are certain that your client has been involved in an enormous Medicare and Medicaid fraud for many years, and he will certainly be indicted for it, along with many others who work for the company.”
“And how would you describe this fraud?” F. Max asked, probing, though he already knew the basics.
“It involves a drug called Flaxacill, better known throughout the company as vitamin E3. It’s registered but unapproved because it’s a bad drug. It was discovered by accident in a Chinese lab about twenty years ago, and at first it was thought to have enormous potential because it could possibly extend life by keeping a heart beating. Turned out, though, that it only works for patients who have lost all other brain functions, plus it causes blindness that is almost instantaneous. Somehow, the good folks at Grattin found out about the drug and