EPILOGUE: STEP BY STEP
DRUGSTORES IN THE NINE Bay Area counties experienced a run on cyproheptadine. Uber, Lyft, and the taxi companies had one of their best nights ever, driving the psychiatrists to pick up their self-prescribed drug as a precaution. The emergency services looked like a coat and tie mosh pit, bringing effective ER services to a screeching halt. One hundred and seventy-three APA attendees died in the first twelve hours and seventy-five more within the following six hours. Most recovered, but Jonas’s single-handed attack was the second largest loss of lives in a twenty-four-hour period on American soil. If the deaths from poisoned water were included, Jonas had one of the longest reigns of a domestic terrorist.
The APA announced it was seriously considering the value of genetic testing prior to prescribing an SSRI. Jonas became an overnight celebrity, albeit an infamous one. He hired a limelight-seeking, well-known attorney and a public relations firm. The two of them granted multitudes of interviews to the press, including network and cable channels. Mindy Carlson’s interview with Jonas made the front page of The San Francisco Chronicle and The New York Times. It was the first that the public had heard from the mastermind of the mass poisoning.
Mindy’s interview told Jonas’s side of the story and published his manifesto. In the three months since that dreadful event, Jonas evolved from a notorious criminal to a sympathetic crusader working in the public’s interest. He was the bereft husband who had lost his wife due to the outdated prescribing algorithm. Many saw him as a hero for exposing that psychiatric medicine had not advanced in fifty years and had also failed to incorporate a simple diagnostic test to determine whether his wife’s drug had a chance of working. Jonas was a loud voice championing inclusion of genomic data into peoples’ medical records so patients would get the right drug—the first time.
When Carrie was interrogated by the FBI and the numerous attorneys, she was obliged to admit that she had entered von Gelden’s office and taken pictures of incriminating evidence. Despite having ample evidence obtained independently and that Dearborn and the FBI were unaware of her actions, the prosecutors were reluctant to move quickly to trial, fearing that the case might be dismissed since the concrete evidence Carrie discovered was “fruit from the poisonous tree.”
Nevertheless, a widespread public demand erupted for this killer to be punished. In a moment of prosecutorial insight, a deal was worked out with the US Army and von Gelden was sent to the extrajudicial military prison for domestic terrorists at the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base on the coast of Cuba. His lawyers negotiated that Jonas be put in the less restrictive Camp 4, which was not dissimilar to a traditional prisoner-of-war camp, with communal dormitories and day-long access to an exercise yard, games, and books.
Von Gelden exercises daily and is learning Arabic and Spanish. The Caribbean climate suits him, for now, and he consoles himself that he’s on mainland Cuba. It is more difficult for him to grant interviews, but his legal team is working on that. His villa in Morocco is unoccupied, but he remains hopeful.
TO RESPECT THE MYRIAD dead, Carrie decided to wait a month before making good on her promise to Jay. He arrived at her house early in the afternoon. She led him outside and down the stairs into the cool and dusty wine cellar. There were opened boxes with the wines stored upside down and a couple dozen bottles in racks.
“May I?” Jay asked as he started to lift a bottle from the top carton.
Carrie nodded in the dim light and Dearborn pulled the wine up and read its label. He went through each of the cartons bottle by bottle. He put aside twelve different exceptional burgundies from France. All were Grand Cru and over fifteen years old.
“What do you think?” Carrie whispered, her lips scant inches away from his ear.
“These are amazing wines,” Jay said. “I’ve never seen a collection like this. Either you spend an unconscionable amount . . . or you don’t drink much because these wines are well aged.”
“When I see a wine I think I’d like to try, I buy it and wait for a special occasion,” Carrie said. As she bent over to pick up a bottle of wine next to Jay’s knees, her shoulder brushed against his thigh.
“Maybe we can change that,” he said as he helped her up.
Carrie’s face flushed. She stood on her tiptoes and they kissed. He held her tight and they kissed for a long, wonderful minute.
“Dinner?” Carrie asked breathlessly.
They agreed on three bottles and backups, in case these old wines had turned to vinegar. The white wines went into the refrigerator and the reds were allowed to settle, unopened. With the wines selected, they negotiated their menu and went shopping. No vinegar or tomato would be used so their palates would be untainted. It took them three hours to prepare the three-course meal.
They began with a toast of Roederer Brut Rosé. Then caviar with lobster to pair with the DRC Montrachet from her father’s cellar she’d been saving since 1995. It had been worth the wait. The wine was rich and smooth like clarified butter; $7,000 worth and good to the last drop.
Roast rack of lamb came ninety minutes later, accompanied by a 1998 Clos Vougeot that had the feel and taste of a rich liquid silk tapestry. They savored the red burgundy for two hours, until there was no more. A salad dressed with lemon and olive oil followed the lamb.
For dessert, a coin toss in the basement decided between the half-bottle of 1995 Tokaji Aszu Essencia—heads—or 1988 Chateau d’Yquem—tails. Tails won. They debated whether to have the cheese with it or not and tried it both ways.
Later that night, they tried many things both ways.
Carrie is no longer with the FDA and is enjoying her new position as professor of epidemiology at UC Berkeley. She and Jay sail together frequently and her wine collection has shrunk considerably.