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

"Burn it!"

Victor's voice rose a few decibels. "This report never existed. We never conducted this retest. We know nothing about the virus. We were simply 'strictly adhering to current FDA standards.'"

Eric looked at the report, then at Victor's cold eyes.

His conscience was screaming, roaring. He was a scientist who had sworn to use science to benefit humanity.

But in his mind, the bank's demand notice flashed by, his daughter's smiling face in her ballet dress flashed by, and the year-end bonus check that was about to arrive flashed by.

The heavy burdens of reality, like a giant hand, gripped his throat tightly.

Finally, his hand trembled as he reached out and picked up the report. The papers rustled in his hands.

He walked to the fireplace and looked at the flickering flames inside.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, though it was unclear who he was apologizing to.

He released his grip. The flames instantly engulfed the paper, and black ash curled up.

"That's right."

Victor looked at the flickering flames and a slight smile appeared on his lips. "However, for the long term, we do need to upgrade our technology. We can't make money from this dirty business forever."

He told Saul, "Give the R&D department the funds to start developing heat inactivation technology. We want to develop 'next-generation' safety products. This will make the public feel that we are making progress and taking responsibility. We want to present ourselves as 'problem solvers,' not 'problem creators.'"

"What about the current inventory?" Saul asked. "If we start developing new products now, what about this $300 million worth of old stock..."

"Keep selling."

Victor flicked his cigarette ash.

"Every second before the FDA's ban is officially issued is a legal time to sell. This is our 'golden clearance period'."

"Notify the sales department to increase promotional efforts. Offer a buy-two-get-one-free deal, or provide hospitals with higher rebates. Tell the doctors that this is to stock up in preparation for an upcoming 'supply shortage'."

"I want to convert all three hundred million dollars of inventory into cash before the ban takes effect."

"Not a single cent can be missing!"

...

Next spring.

The snow began to melt. The dirty snow on the roadside turned into black muddy water that flowed into the sewers.

Top-floor conference room at the global headquarters of Wot Pharmaceuticals.

The long conference table was filled with the company's senior vice presidents, legal counsel, and CFO. Each person had a glass of ice water in front of them, but no one touched it.

All eyes were focused on a chart on the projection screen.

It was a curve that plummeted like a cliff.

"Based on the latest intelligence from FDA insiders, and information relayed by our lobbyists in Washington,"

Saul Goodman stood in front of the screen, the red dot of his laser pointer bobbing up and down on a line of dates. "The situation is worse than we anticipated. The FDA will not only enforce heat inactivation standards, but may also retroactively apply them to past inventory. The timing is in the second half of this year, at the latest before Christmas."

He pressed the page-turning button, and an inventory list popped up on the screen.

"This means that our remaining inventory of Factor VIII clotting agents, worth nearly $200 million, stored in cold storage facilities in New Jersey, California, and Arkansas, will turn from 'lifesaving drugs' into 'illegal and prohibited substances' overnight."

"Two hundred million US dollars."

The CFO groaned in anguish, "If this asset is written down, our third-quarter earnings will be extremely bad. Wall Street will panic, and the stock price will plummet by at least 20%. This will trigger our bank loan agreements, leading to a cash flow crisis."

"That's not even the worst part," the vice president of production added, flipping through a thick binder and pointing to the environmental compliance clauses. "If we destroy this shipment, because it falls under the category of 'biohazardous medical waste,' it must be incinerated at high temperatures by a federally licensed company. At a disposal fee of $5000 per ton, plus transportation and security, we'll have to pay an additional $12 million."

"So," one board member concluded coldly, "we're not only going to throw two hundred million dollars into the fire, but we're also going to pay people to burn it?"

Silence fell over the meeting room.

"Recall them."

In a corner, a young legal advisor who had recently joined the company whispered a suggestion. He had just graduated from Harvard Law School. "Since the FDA has determined that the old product is risky, if we continue to hold or even sell it, and an infection incident occurs, we will face charges of 'knowing violation' under tort law, and the punitive damages will be astronomical."

"recall?"

Instead of directly refuting him, Saul took out a prepared memo from his briefcase.

"Let's have a realistic math lesson, newbie."

Saul slammed the memo on the table. It was a risk assessment report modeled after Ford's famous "Pinto Memo."

The projection screen switched, and a line of cold formulas appeared before everyone's eyes:

(Estimated litigation damages × Estimated loss rate) < (Recall and destruction costs + Goodwill loss + Market share loss)

"Our team of actuaries, combining a database of medical malpractice cases from the past decade, has built a sophisticated mathematical model."

Even if we continue to sell this batch of "defective products," not all users will become infected. Even if they do become infected, not all will develop symptoms. Even if they do develop symptoms, not all will file a lawsuit. Even if they do file a lawsuit, not all will win.

He stretched out a finger and drew a line in the air.

"For the deceased, especially hemophiliacs, whose life expectancy is already short, the compensation awarded by the court is usually very low. On average, a life is worth about $10. If it is a child, it may be a little higher, but it will not exceed $15."

"Assuming the worst-case scenario," Saul quickened his pace, "if this batch of drugs causes 1000 people to become infected and file lawsuits, that's already an extremely high probability, and our total compensation would only be $1 million."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone present, finally settling on the young lawyer's pale face.

"The compensation is 1 million. The recall and destruction will result in a direct loss of 2 million, and the market value loss caused by the stock price crash may exceed 5 million."

"The conclusion is obvious." Saul spread his hands. "It's more cost-effective to let lawyers handle the lawsuit than to destroy the product now. That's Wall Street's logic, and it's also the 'rule of business judgment' permitted by law."

The meeting room was completely silent.

This blatant "death calculation" made the elites present feel physically uncomfortable. They were respectable people who went to church on Sundays and donated to charities. But at this moment, no one objected. Because compared to financial statements and year-end bonuses, morality was a luxury far too expensive.

"However, there's still one problem," the marketing director hesitated before speaking. "The FDA ban is mandatory. If we continue selling in the US, and it gets exposed by the media or reported by competitors, this kind of public relations crisis can't be solved with money. Once our brand image collapses, we're finished."

deadlock.

Two hundred million dollars worth of poison—it can't be sold, it can't be destroyed, and it can't be kept.

Victor, who had been sitting in the first seat, finally spoke.

"We're suspending sales of our old inventory in the U.S. market," Victor said casually.

This statement brought a sigh of relief to everyone. It seems the boss still has a human touch.

"However," Victor changed the subject, "suspending sales does not mean destroying them."