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The B&W gumshoes also unearthed a domestic-violence complaint in his past, but Wigand takes issue with the dossier's claim that he "beat his wife." He does admit that he and his wife Lucretia had a serious fight in 1993, that 911 was called and that he volunteered to attend anger-control classes for about a week. "I don't think anybody is as pure as the driven snow," he says. "They've distorted the truth. It's not different from what they've done traditionally." Though he and his wife reconciled, in late January Wigand returned home from the airport after receiving an award in New York City to find that Lucretia had filed for divorce. "I saw this letter from an attorney and said, 'Hell, I don't want this,'" Wigand recalls. "But my little girl Rachel, she likes to open mail. She said, 'Open this.' So I opened it. I almost dropped." Lucretia Wigand says through her lawyer that "the notoriety of the claims and counterclaims between Dr. Wigand and the tobacco industry have caused tremendous stress to the family." Wigand now lives in a bare bachelor apartment, while his two daughters, Rachel, 9, who has spina bifida and requires expensive daily medical treatments, and Nicole, 7, remain with their mother. Lucretia's job at a Louisville department store offers adequate medical coverage for Rachel, whose condition is improving.
When asked if whistle blowing has been worth the price, Wigand responds, "I don't know yet." About all he can be sure of these days, he says, is that unlike at his last job, "I make a difference. I feel good at the end of the day."
--By Elizabeth Gleick. Reported by Elaine Shannon/Louisville