James Cantrill, hard-working businessman, family man, the guy next door, thinks he's having a day from hell when he is unexpectedly fired. But, hell gets hotter- he's kidnapped, hustled onto a corporate jet, and smuggled to Puerto Rico. There he finds himself embroiled in a brutal, global conspiracy, involving CODE 936, the obscure IRS tax code which secretly benefits hundreds of huge manufacturers in Puerto Rico. What James knows may get him killed. Out of her mind with worry, Trish, his partner and wife, struggles to find him. She, his daughters, friends, his trusted lawyer, and, finally, the FBI endeavor to discover his whereabouts while trying to penetrate this airtight cover-up. They soon learn that a number of ruthless people will go to any length to make sure James is never found and the truth is never revealed. Powerfully evocative and steeped in international intrigue, CODE 936, is a riveting expose' of the IRS tax code, corporate greed, medical fraud, torture, corporate corruption, and managed healthcare. It is also a story of love, undaunted courage, and spiritual triumph.

CODE 936

By Bill Kimbrell, Jr.

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Bill Kimbrell, Jr.
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-7480-4

Chapter One

It's all in the day's work. Anonymous

The afternoon sun baked the asphalt on the Mountain Parkway. Multicolored heat waves shimmered from the black surface. The freshly unfurled leaves of spring painted contrasting hues of green, sprinkled with the white of dogwood blooms and the cream from the bark of the stately sycamores. Majestic, he thought. But, traffic was heavier than usual for mid-afternoon.

Suddenly, James slammed on his brakes and swerved, barely missing the coal truck. Damn it! All of the surgical instrument sets stacked on the back seat crashed into the back of the front seats, jolting him. The sounds of metal against metal, surgical instruments smashing against each other, into the sterilizing cases, was deafening, drowning out his screeching tires.

He grasped the steering wheel furiously, his knuckles blanched white, his forearms trembling. Another damn coal truck barreling down mountain roads, ignoring yellow no-pass stripes, oblivious to the poor mortals driving cars. Of all the ways to die, getting hit by a coal truck was not James' favorite way to go. Another close call. Too close. He looked at the recent crack in his windshield caused by a chunk of coal thrown from a speeding rig, just one more battle scar from the coal-truck mafia.

As he pulled off on the shoulder of the parkway to straighten out the mess in his car, his hands were still shaking. He got out of the car, still cursing the truck and praying that his expensive instruments weren't damaged. Thankfully, all of the sterile implants were stored in large plastic containers in the trunk. They should be okay. The fresh smell of diesel exhaust from the truck hung in the torrid air. Sweat dripped from his forehead.

Rattled and ragged, James headed toward Lexington. It had been a long day. He had left home at 4:00 A.M. this morning, driving the three hours on dark mountain roads to arrive at the hospital for surgery before 7:00 A.M. He had to cover the surgery for one of his salesmen who was on vacation. He had not only supplied the instruments and implants for a total knee replacement, but had also assisted during the operation, providing technical support for both the surgeon and the operating room personnel. "Stood in" on the surgery was the jargon of the trade; "stood in," such a simplistic idiom for such a complex, labor-intensive, occasionally life-and-death job.

He needed gas, so he pulled off the parkway at the Campton exit. He usually stopped at Jock's Shell Station whether he needed gas or not. He had hired Jock's step-daughter as an intern several years ago while she was attending the University of Kentucky.

"How you doing today? It's a hot 'un, ain't it?" Jock asked in his pronounced Eastern Kentucky accent. Always friendly, he was hosing down a grease stain on the pavement.

"Not too good at the moment, Jock. Another coal truck, just about got me this time. It was this damn close!" James held his hands apart.

"Hell, they're mean ... 'n gettin meaner," he replied, shaking his head. "Where you been? In the operating room, again? I don't see how you do it."

As Jock opened the hood to check his oil, James started the pump, opened the rear door, and got out two of the sterilizing cases to straighten the instruments.

"Lordie, I just don't see how you keep up with them things. Look at that. 'N you show them doctors when to use 'em," Jock said. "I mean, I gotta a buncha tools, but nothing like you here. I just don't see how you can ... how do you do it?"

"Well, Jock, it's my job. I have to study to keep up, but's it's just my job. Like yours and engines. I'd be lost under that hood. You know 'em inside out. How's Cindy doing?"

"Aw, she's got a good job up in Cincinnati (he pronounced it Sin-zanatta). She shore is thankful to you. Still says ya taught her a lot."

"She's a smart girl. A good worker, like her ol' man. Please tell her hello for me."

James bought a Diet Coke even though he had his two-liter jug in the car, paid, and drove back to the parkway.

He reflected back to Jock's comments on his job. Uniquely different from others in medical sales, his business was rewarding but demanding. James had to be there in surgery with this orthopaedic surgeon, who was new to his territory. Otherwise, one of his competitors would have moved in to steal hard-earned business away from Cantrill & Associates, Inc. The orthopaedic/surgical business that James had now been in for over thirty years had become very competitive- a dog-eat-dog, really cutthroat business. The total knee surgery, normally a two-hour procedure, had taken this surgeon a little longer, but it had gone well. James was good at what he did, but the business was getting tougher every day. The pressures of managed healthcare had impacted not only the hospitals, physicians, and patients, but also the medical device business, as well. James' role as CEO, President, Sales manager, and Administrator of his own business, James Cantrill & Associates, Inc., had changed radically, too. Market share and profitability were under constant attack. Survival was the order of the day. Hence, James still had to "stand in" on surgeries, sometimes assume the duties of, as well as manage his sales associates, check on the daily surgery calendar, often make emergency deliveries, generally just fill in the cracks, in addition to running the daily business. An awesome task, but he lived and breathed it.

But now, driving home, he was worn out. And frazzled, just narrowly escaping that damn coal truck. He always looked forward to this geographic transition from eastern to central Kentucky- from the stately mountains into the pristine rolling hills of the Bluegrass, a seamless, miraculous piece of creation. Not today. He was so tired he was impervious to the beauty surrounding him- the white fences and the horse farms. Before turning toward his neighborhood, he attempted to focus on the majestic thoroughbreds to get the surgery, the coal truck, and the day's grind off his mind. But he could not. It only served to remind him of that surgery here in Lexington two weeks ago, the one he desperately wanted to forget, the one that still kept him awake nights.

Pulling into the garage, he wondered if he had the energy to climb out of his car. Checking his suit pocket to make sure he had his "brain" - his little brown pocket calendar with his company's name imprinted on it- he left his briefcase and paperwork sitting on the passenger seat, intending to work on it later if he could keep his eyes open. Entering the kitchen door, he found Trish, his wife and right arm, working on the books and quarterly taxes at the kitchen table. She had on jeans and a sweat shirt with her silver-streaked auburn hair pulled back in a hair-clip.

"Welcome home, hon. How'd the surgery go?" she asked.

"Fine," he answered. "This new surgeon's pretty good. Thank God he doesn't scream and throw instruments like his predecessor. I liked him; the OR staff likes him, too- a refreshing change." He did not tell her about the coal truck. She worried about his driving, especially on the mountain roads.

"Another long day, 'hon?" she said. Trish was his partner in business and life. She did the payroll, taxes, paid the bills, worked on the books, and worked closely with John, their CPA. Even though James had grown the business into a multimillion-dollar operation, she still provided the back-up when they were stretched to the limits- making emergency deliveries and answering phones when the office staff called in sick. More important, Trish was the ever-attentive spouse, his best listener, his port in all storms. She had spent the past three days in Louisville, helping set up the office and logistics center for the newly expanded distributorship he'd been given only a few months before. Her face was drawn, but her deep hazel eyes twinkled with excitement.

She hugged him. "You look exhausted," she said. "Why don't I fix you a cup of coffee while you change?"

He didn't need to answer, just nodded wearily and went upstairs, his feet as heavy as concrete blocks.

Trish was bustling around the kitchen with nervous energy, emptying the dishwasher, a chore she always disliked. When he came into the kitchen, she patted his arm.

"How'd it go in Louisville?" he asked, helping set the table.

She sighed, running her hands through her hair. "I had to buy a new fax machine and copier. Hell, the ones we inherited over there were pieces of crap from the dark ages, and I do mean crap; that's in addition to the computers we'd already bought."

Her mascara was smeared, and she had eaten her lipstick off long ago. But she thrived on challenge. She stood by him through all the tough times. And she didn't just stand there either- she was a worker, working almost as hard as he did. Her criticism of her husband, her major concern, was more than his being a workaholic. It was the fact that he was totally consumed by his business. Though active in their church and Rotary, he was driven by James Cantrill & Associates, Inc. She worried about him, worried a lot, because he was at the vulnerable age for a coronary. She could not forget that James' father, who had run his own office equipment business for many years, had a heart attack when he was exactly the same age as James. She did not want to lose her husband.

"But it's all done now." She gave James that soft, tired smile he loved. "We're having pizza ... from Pizza Hut," she said, trying to blot out thoughts of cholesterol- she'd get back to her diet next week.

"Oh, well ..." he said, "in that case, I'll stay for dinner." Though it would not be as good as her cooking.

They both laughed at the long-standing joke, though their mirth was a little subdued. James would rather eat Vienna sausages at home with his wife than go out to the ritziest place Lexington had to offer.

She brought the pizza box to the other end of the kitchen table. When she sat down, she reached across and touched his hand briefly.

They said grace holding hands, then, as usual, James fell into describing his day, which had begun long before daylight. He left out the three-hour drive on Appalachian mountain roads in darkness, the coal truck, and cut to the scene in the operating room where he had "stood in" on that total knee replacement, as he had done hundreds of times, making sure the surgeon had the implants and instruments he needed.

"This new surgeon's a nice guy ..."

"Honey, quit it! You're talking with your mouth full again," she interrupted.

"Sorry." "I don't know when you started doing this. It's terrible. You've got better manners than that. So, Dr. Bar-what's-his-name, the screamer is gone?" she asked.

"Yeah. And they don't miss him. All the OR staff is relieved; and really happy with the new surgeon." He rubbed his stomach, trying to decide whether to have another slice of pizza.

"I know the nurses are glad that abusive doctor's gone. I remember," she moved the pizza crusts to one side, "that expensive instrument of yours he threw against the wall. Splattering blood everywhere. You and the hospital had to eat the cost. I don't understand it. Why do the nurses put up with someone like that?"

He hesitated after looking outside and noticing pine needles in the gutters. He made a mental note that he had to clean them out this weekend.

"I don't know. Probably because they have to. With managed care, everybody's hurting. Hospitals, doctors, and the patients. Good surgeons are hard to find. I just feel sorry for all the scrub nurses- what they have to go through, almost every single day. And speaking of kissing butt, look at the things I have to go through now. It's not like it used to be. Nothing like it used to be. Just look at the things ... all the things we do, all of us, just to make quota every month! Quota is going to be the death of me, yet ..." "Where have I heard that before?" She was being facetious, but knew that her husband was not- she still worried about him He was so obsessed with making quota.

"I just get this feeling that the business is going to hell. Is the business getting tougher, or am I getting older?"

"Both," she answered.

They laughed, but James also knew how true her statement was. He knew it, felt it in his tired bones every day. He knew way down deep in his gut how much tougher the business had gotten. But, he still loved it.

James went upstairs early. As he sat on the side of the bed making a few notes on his to-do list and checking his appointments for the next day, Trish called up the stairs.

"Jim? There was a message on the machine from George Driskell. He says it's urgent. Said to call him at home."

Even though he did not feel like it, James made the call. Soon he was listening to George's voice demand his presence at corporate headquarters.

"Does it have to be tomorrow?" he asked George. He was way behind in the office and badly needed a full day to catch up; was actually looking forward to it. Plus, he had promised his granddaughters a picnic at Jacobson's Park the following evening, trying to comply with Trish's pleas to spend more time with the grandchildren.

"I need your ass in my office as soon as you can fly up here," George replied.

James was half dead, but he got on the phone, called Delta, and made reservations to fly to Ft. Wayne the next day. Why did George speak to me that way? Use that tone of voice? He's never talked to me like that. And I even made quota last month. He had a baleful feeling it was not going to be good.

And he was tired. Not just physically; that was nothing new. He was damned tired of Werner corporate- tired of all their crap, their self-serving agendas, constantly changing the rules, their bureaucratic red-tape, the unethical things going on, the run-around he kept getting about that tragic surgery two weeks ago.

Shit! What are they thinking? With declining sales? Morale that sucks? The possibility of defective products? What have they got up their ass this time? And, now this crap with George?

As he wrote the flight times down, he looked at his to-do list and his pocket calendar. He always slept with them by his bedside, accompanied by a penlight to make notes during the nighttime darkness. He realized for the first time in his life that he was their slave. These two self-made schedules governed his entire life. As their hostage, prisoner, and slave, he was held in human bondage by his own handwriting- all for the purpose of quota. Werner's sales figure he had to make every month. Every year. Quota, that infernal word. Quota reverberated around in his head. No wonder Trish worried and complained.

As he said his prayers this night, he made a solemn vow- when he got back from this trip, he was going to take time off , spend time with his family, quality time with his wife, children and grandchildren. Yes, he promised himself for the first time ever, he was going to get a life.

Chapter Two

Verily I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me. Matthew 26:21 (KJV)

As James sat in the plush, executive meeting room at Werner headquarters waiting on George Driskell, Sr. Vice-President, and Lenny Shortt, Vice-President of Sales, he reflected on how he got here. He, James T. Cantrill, Jr., had achieved the zenith in his long career in medical sales - that of being an independent distributor for Werner, Inc., the leader in the orthopaedic industry. James Cantrill & Associates, Inc. was his own business, his life, his baby. He had hired talented, dedicated people to work for him. Begun with a handshake of implied trust from Werner rather than a written contract, his distributorship resembled a franchise and had become an extremely successful enterprise. It was a unique business, very demanding but very gratifying. He had always enjoyed a good relationship with Werner, and usually had exceeded quota and performance goals. When Werner had recently undertaken a restructuring which terminated over forty of his fellow distributors, James had survived and was offered a larger territory as his new distributorship. This left him with a great deal of ambivalence because many of those involuntarily retired were his close friends. He felt badly for them and their families.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from CODE 936by Bill Kimbrell, Jr. Copyright © 2009 by Bill Kimbrell, Jr.. Excerpted by permission.
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