Chapter 21
Capitol Hill, 2014
The streets of Capitol Hill are lined with finely crafted nineteenth-century town houses, many of them appointed with parlors, libraries, and servants’ quarters. The neighborhood began as a community of upscale boardinghouses for members of Congress in the early 1800s. More recently, it had become a fashionable enclave for congressional staffers, political operatives, and journalists.
On June 24, 2014, drug industry executives and lobbyists arrived on Capitol Hill for a fund-raising luncheon in honor of Tom Marino. They gathered in the D.C. offices of AmerisourceBergen, the drug distributor headquartered in Marino’s home state. Along with AmerisourceBergen, the sponsors included Cardinal Health, the National Community Pharmacists Association, and the National Association of Chain Drug Stores. The invitation sent to the drug industry representatives listed Marino’s committee assignments—Foreign Affairs, Homeland Security, and, most important, Judiciary, which oversees the DEA. It also suggested donation levels to attend: $2,500 for each political action committee; $1,000 for each individual; $500 for each guest.
It was the continuation of the money flowing into the campaigns of lawmakers and the accounts of Capitol Hill lobbyists working to pass the industry-backed Ensuring Patient Safety and Effective Drug Enforcement Act. By the summer of 2014, The Alliance had spent $233,000 lobbying in favor of the legislation and other issues. In addition, CVS had spent $6.6 million; the National Association of Chain Drug Stores, $2 million; Cardinal Health, $1 million; and Walgreens, $610,000.
A week after the Marino fund-raiser, on July 2, Republican staffers for two committees on the Hill—Judiciary, and Energy and Commerce—requested a conference call with the DEA. They wanted to hear why the DEA was so opposed to the Marino-Blackburn bill. Mimi Paredes didn’t want Joe Rannazzisi to join the call. She knew how upset Joe was about the bill and she worried that he wouldn’t be able to keep his cool.
“Don’t do this, Joe,” Paredes pleaded with him in his sixth-floor office. “They’re going to bait you. They’re going to twist your words.”
Joe held a sheaf of printouts, a roll call of overdose deaths in states across the country, including those in Pennsylvania and Tennessee. “I know how to handle this,” he said.
“Stay calm,” Paredes said. “Be Zen.”
Joe sat down at his conference table, flanked by Paredes and John Partridge, a career DEA man who had become one of Joe’s most trusted lieutenants. Listening in on the call were congressional liaison officers for the DEA and the Justice Department.
At first, the conversation was cordial. Joe began to read from the printouts, pointing out the number of opioid overdose deaths in Tennessee, Pennsylvania, and other states around the country.
“You know, with all these people dying, why would you write legislation that restricts our enforcement authority?” Joe asked, holding the printouts. “I mean, there’s a lot of people dying.”
With the invocation of overdose numbers, the tenor of the meeting quickly turned testy. “We just want to understand why you’re so opposed to this legislation,” one of the staffers said.
Paredes could see Joe’s eyes narrow. Shit, she thought.
“What problem are you trying to address with this bill?” Joe asked.
“We’re not trying to address any problems,” the staffer said. “We’re just trying to pass a bill.”
Paredes could almost feel the heat of indignation coming off Joe. He had already lost his patience with the drug companies and their excuses. Now he was being confronted by congressional staffers who seemed to be willfully clueless about the legislation and what it would do to the DEA. He leaned into the Polycom set up on his conference table.
“Wait a minute. You’re not trying to address a problem? What are you trying to do?” Joe asked, his voice rising. “This legislation is tantamount to you guys supporting defendants in our investigation. You’ll be protecting criminals.”
“Whoa, we’re not protecting criminals,” one of the staffers said. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“If you pass this legislation, a lot of people are going to die,” Joe said. “That blood is on your hands, not mine.”
The line went dead.
“Oh, fuck,” Eric Akers, a DEA congressional affairs officer listening in on the call, said to himself as he sat in his office.
Joe didn’t regret what he said. But he asked Paredes to call Jill Wade Tyson, the Justice Department’s congressional liaison officer, to assess whether any damage had been done.
She told Paredes not to worry. “It’s fine,” she said.
Tyson and Akers tried clean up. They called the staffers and apologized, insisting Joe didn’t mean what he said. The staffers weren’t buying it.
“That was really out of bounds,” one said. “I don’t like being threatened.”