BLIND TRIAL Page 7

  “I told him, ‘Stay away. We don’t need your help. We’ll look after ourselves.’ And he laughed.”

  Ben felt his face sweating. This was seriously freaky. But now it made sense. That was it. He did know Hoffman in a previous life. Just like he thought all along.

  MONDAY JULY 21

  Thirteen

  THE BERNEWERNER Building, on Tenth Street, Atlanta, sat four blocks south of a family of towers: signature structures of the upper Midtown neighborhood. The daddy of the district: One Atlantic Center (fifty neo-gothic stories in Rosa Porrino granite with the crockets of a Boston church). To its east: the GLG Grand and Four Seasons Hotel (fifty-three stories in pale red granite with a hint-of-art-deco bronze accents). And among others: Promenade (forty stories in rose glass, topped with ice-palace pinnacles and a spire).

  Ben drove toward them in his green BMW like a surfer ascending a wave. From the trough, two miles east on Monroe Drive, he climbed Piedmont Avenue, swung a right at Fourteenth, and crested onto Peachtree Street.

  Ever since moving south, he’d felt the pull of these buildings. “You’ll be doing cool stuff,” they seemed to purr. “And even when you’re not, you’re making money.”

  But this morning they loomed silent, as if in secret agreement with the news he’d learned last night. He’d gotten this gig from a friend of Henry Louviere’s. His mentor must be some kind of crook. All those slaps on the back, the dickhead dialogues, the classic car crap… Another asshole.

  Long past midnight, Ben had weighed his mother’s words. A lot made sense. A lot didn’t. And, after dishing the dope on Theodore Hoffman, she’d lapsed into a mantra she’d banged on with forever. “Your father’s deserted you. Your father’s forgotten you. You need to forget him too.”

  Ben was eight years old when he broke that commandment. He found a phone number and called it. Twice. It was summer, like now, when Chicago was hottest, its skies were rainiest, and its citizens turned their faces toward the lake. The first time: a woman’s voice. The second time: a man’s. Both times, he hung up, saying nothing.

  Years later, there was media: newspapers, TV. The Louviere scandal dragged on and on. After his father’s second trial—when state prosecutors finally nailed him—WGN ran a feature, “Corruption in Court,” that its producers had worked on for weeks. He remembered Henry’s perp walk—slow-motion, black-and-white—before and after each break for commercials. From the crowd to the handcuffs to his father’s slow-mo blink.

  Over and over, for half an hour, from 9:00 p.m.

  ON TENTH STREET, Atlanta took a turn for the worse at BerneWerner’s North American headquarters. Here the surfer wave drained to the Downtown Connector, and the skyline shrank to a developer-designed hexagon of seventeen yellow brick floors. Apart from the extravagance of bronze window glass to cut aircon bills, you’d think the architect was inspired by the aesthetics of the fire house in Bumfuck, Missouri.

  Ben edged into a space in the parking garage and climbed to the lobby. It was steaming. A delivery guy hauled cartons of The Time Has Come videos, loaded onto memory sticks. A carpenter hammered nails into a Proud of our Products stand being erected between reception and security. A central bronze lantern was draped with banners that, so far, spelt:

  T_E TIM_ _AS _OME

  Two weeks back, he’d found a file in a drawer with the original plans for the building. They proposed twenty-seven floors in travertine and marble, with a sixty-foot atrium, Doric columns, and a twenty-foot fountain in the lobby. But, despite a frenzy of tax breaks and, you’d have to think, bribes, BerneWerner AG rehung its hat in Basle, Switzerland, and the Midtown scheme was downsized.

  Stepping into an elevator, he greeted his reflection. He wore a white suit of Luke’s, white shirt, and gray loafers: suitable attire for a major life event—say, a divorce or a job termination. But after last night’s tutorial about the company’s general counsel, it didn’t seem likely Hoffman hired him to fire him. Dr. Crampton could shove his laptop up his ass.

  At the fourteenth floor, the elevator dinged into the hubbub of the Marketing Department. The building was furnished in Knoll Reff Profiles (“A progressive and architectural design solution”), which here meant beech-style laminate in eighteen cubicles one third the size of module B. The occupants—his colleagues—each got an L-shaped worktop, two J-pull pedestals, and a choice of closet or bookcase.

  “Hot damn—what a night.” The voice of Darlene Ruffin. She sprinted to walk beside him, arm-in-arm. She was a high-haired redhead—mid-forties, from Fort Worth—with a country singer’s complexion, a thirteen-year-old’s wardrobe, and an infinite capacity for hope.

  “Ben Louviere, let me tell ya, you’re one hell of a lover.”

  She dragged him into the office they shared.

  Displays and Presentation was three times module B, overlooking a MARTA subway station. Here, Knoll Profiles meant real beech veneer, with a midsize workstation, D-pull pedestals, storage tower, closet, and bookcase.

  Nothing had moved since his trip to DC. Printed screenshots lay scattered on his desk. No matter his Juris Doctor from a credible university, he’d been assigned to reconcile a forty-minute script with twenty-seven PowerPoint slides.

  Slide: Stimulate division of immature white blood cells

  Slide: Influence ability of certain cells to kill microorganisms

  Slide: Vendrecol—The Quality of Life

  He’d nearly finished the task before leaving for the conference, but then came a summons to Crampton’s office. He’d assumed it related to the work in progress, but the Vice President, Marketing & Product Communications talked only “lost laptop,” “poor evidence of motivation,” and a “generally lax attitude to work.”

  Now Ben looked down at the MARTA station as a bare-shouldered lady emerged. Maybe she was a scientist or a physician, he wondered. Maybe she used overheads, like Sumiko. Maybe she’d a pointer, like Sumiko at the conference: a tap on a keyboard, a jingle of bangles, and a red dot dancing across a screen.

  She’d phoned last night—right after his mother—with some story about the San Fran center. She said she’d found a “secret letter,” the “clearest breach of the protocol.” She was practically wetting herself with elation.

  “Yep,” he’d responded, as his mind wandered hopelessly to what he’d learned only minutes before. “That’s shocking… No… Ahh… Yes… Really?”

  A telephone beeped at Darlene’s desk. “Yes, of course,” she murmured. “I’ll send him up.”

  Fourteen

  ALONG A gray-carpet corridor two floors above marketing Theodore Hoffman fondled a basketball, ready to take his next shot. During months of practice, he’d honed his technique until from his desk, on the northeast corner of the building, he was nailing the hoop—nearly twelve feet west—on at least two attempts in ten.

  According to Building Services, his was the third biggest office, surpassed only by Marcia Gelding’s and the boardroom. But what it gained in size, it lost out in technology: Hoffman would only read documents on paper. Two trays on his desk were piled with correspondence. An eight-chair conference table was stacked with cardboard folders. And one end of a three-seat emerald leather couch was heaped with lawsuit filings.

  Today’s schedule listed lunch with the Chamber of Commerce: something about Black Lives Matter. In the meantime, he took shots and dictated memoranda over the latest board-level situation. Some group in Houston was threatening a class action claiming forty-seven suicides on Vendrecol. Of course, there were suicides. Those people were sick. Why else were they using the product?

  The ball lingered in his left hand while his right tapped an icon on his cellphone’s voice-recorder app. “Advise Sandra Chin to get our contact in Victims of Vendrecol to press urgency on the group. Rumor we’ll offer five million, max, to settle.”

  As he spoke, Corinna Douglas, his senior secretary (forty-eight, stretched knitwear, smell of shower soap and coconut) entered with hands ra
ised for protection. “Now don’t you throw that.” She laid a file on the desk. “And I’ve got Mr. Louviere, you wanted, outside here. Throw that and I’ll sue. I swear.”

  Hoffman launched the ball. It missed Corinna and the hoop before rolling out of sight beneath the couch.

  HE WAS dressed in white, like Truman Capote, or the organist at a Mormon wedding. The resemblance to his daddy was enough to blow your hair back. Same build. Same mouth. Same eyes. For sure, no mutt jumped the fence with Suzy Louviere: the man himself could be standing there now.

  “You find that laptop?” Hoffman thrust a paw. “Just kidding. You saved that woman’s life.”

  “Don’t know about that, sir.” They shook, firm but brief. “She only sprained an ankle. No big deal.”

  “Sure, you know. Marcia’s heard.” He pointed to the couch. “And I want to tell you personally, you’re doing a great job. I was wrong to get so riled last week.”

  Ben sank in emerald leather and spread his legs. He was looking too comfortable already.

  “They catch the guy?” Hoffman knelt and retrieved the ball. “That dumbfuck asshole who knocked her down?”

  “Nope. Nobody gave a shit.”

  “Didn’t call the cops then?”

  “Waste of breath. Some jerk not looking. Or least not looking at her.”

  Hoffman took another shot, missed the hoop, and the ball bounced feebly on the carpet. “Get a description?”

  “Looked like Jimi Hendrix.”

  “Fuck. What an asshole. Out-of-control asshole. But I guess it might least get her off our ass, though. Take her mind off whining about Wilson.”

  Ben leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, thumbs under his chin, nose pointing down, eyes raised. Then he unleashed The Look: the Louviere Look. It was years since Hoffman last saw it. Gazing blue through black eyebrows, like a dog in long grass. A little open-mouthed, tongue in cheek. It was a look that said, trust me; a look that said, together; a look that said there’s them and there’s us.

  Then The Look disappeared. “Except she’s still whining about Wilson.”

  Hoffman laced his fingers and popped his knuckles. “Fuck it. You’re kidding? What now?”

  “Was gonna tell you this morning. She called last night. You’d think she was breathing through her butt. On and on she went, for half an hour.”

  “And?”

  “And is she went to the San Fran Clinical Evaluation Center yesterday. Place was all shut up, she said. Found some crap about some guy Wilson bumped off the trial.”

  Hoffman poked his phone to close the voice-recorder app. “So, she’s everything but thrown under a subway train and, inside twenty-four hours, she’s going through Wilson’s records? That what you’re saying?”

  “Yeah, well, wouldn’t anybody?”

  “They would? Why?”

  Ben blinked at the windows. “Why? Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Not obvious to me.”

  The kid gazed at his feet and stroked a gray loafer. “Conspiracy, she reckons. That’s her word, ‘conspiracy.’ Says Wilson probably wants her killed or something. Big Pharma. Deep State. All that stuff.”

  Nature, or nurture? Hoffman wondered. These behaviors must surely be genetic. Ben’s daddy always figured himself the best gambler not in politics. But Hoffman knew his tells. Every one. If Henry gazed at his feet, it signposted a lie. If he drummed with his fingertips, then he’d worked out a plan. And if he raised both hands and scratched behind his ears, it meant he wasn’t getting his way.

  “Bullshit, junior. She don’t think nothing like that. Just making up trouble while she’s got the chance, while she figures we’re all jumpy over the license.”

  “You’re right. She is. She’s looking to make trouble. Says she’s printed off a list of something from the database.” The kid’s paws moved to the sides of his head. Then he rasped behind his ears, as if filing his nails. Such habits cost his father pretty big.

  Hoffman yawned and bounced the ball. “Here, go one-on-one.”

  The kid had the benefit of youth and enthusiasm but lacked the seniority for success. When the outcome looked uncertain, Hoffman ordered him to sit, and slam-dunked the score three–two.

  Ben scratched again. “I was wondering, you know, maybe she’s, like, looking for reassurance. You know, attention. Someone to hear her concerns. I mean, we did a pretty sucksome job in DC, don’t you think?”

  Hoffman listened to the patter and watched the mannerisms. This whole other thing was confusing.

  Ben tapped his knees with the tips of his fingers. “She’s definitely planning on taking this further, you know. She said last night, ‘I’m taking this further.’ Her words.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m taking this further.”

  “She say how?”

  “No. But, you know, I was thinking, sir, if Dr. Honda’s still rooting around on this Wilson thing, printing off lists and whatnot, maybe somebody should maybe go see her. Like, in San Fran. Hold her hand, you know? Don’t you think? Hear her concerns and keep her happy for a few days.”

  Hoffman sucked a knuckle. That was good, creative thinking. That might be exactly what was needed right now. Send the kid to Frisco and get the woman so fucked she can’t remember where or why she works. That might possibly do it. He could go blink at her. The kid even thought like his father.

  The angle was as subtle as dog shit on a pool table, but the strategy was credible. You couldn’t fault it.

  “Okay, good idea. Yup… So, here’s the deal. A special assignment, if you will. You go out to Frisco—front of the plane—and keep that lady sweet as apple pie.”

  “What me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “No problem.”

  “Fuck her if she’ll take it. Buy her dinner if she won’t. Do both, I’ll get you a raise.”

  TUESDAY JULY 22

  Fifteen

  ON LEVEL 4, Building 30, of the San Francisco General Hospital, a pair of heavyweight satin-frosted safety-glass doors marked the boundary of Frank Wilson’s empire. The glass was bisected with tubular chrome handles and, six inches below them, left clear in the frosting, was etched:

  WernerVac Clinical Evaluation Center

  Ben pushed through the doors at 14:49, Pacific, and held them for Doc Mayr, behind him. After his meeting with Hoffman, the vaccine chief’s office phoned Displays and Presentation and broke the bad news: she was coming. She wasn’t too delighted about flying to the coast but insisted that Ben lacked “clout.”

  She tottered ahead of him into a gray linoleum waiting area and dropped onto a green plastic chair. Even spared the trouble of carrying her purse, she was beat from the five-hour flight from Atlanta and kept erupting into bouts of the shakes.

  A stout woman rose at the reception counter. “Oh, welcome, welcome. You must be Dr. Mayr. And welcome to you also young sir.” She said her name was Ardelia—Ardelia Chambers—and led them down a gray linoleum corridor.

  Ben hung back, hauling the purse, while swiping the Tinder app on his Samsung. Today, his navy suit was paired with white New Balance sneakers that squeaked on the linoleum like mice.

  Ardelia opened a window in Wilson’s office before retreating with the promise of coffee. Doc Mayr sagged onto another plastic chair: one of four at a circular table. Then Wilson scooted in, front wheels raised, gliding as silent as a cat.

  The center director offered no greeting but rolled to his desk, tapped through emails, then spun, and glared at his visitors. “So, Trudy Mayr, you doubt my integrity? Ha. I take this personally. You hear me?”

  “Nice to see you Frank. You need to relax. You’ve had source data verification before.”

  Wilson yanked shut the window. Sweat stained his armpits. “Had it before? Ha.” He whirled in a circle: a full three-sixty. “Had it before? Doctorjee’s been here dozens of times.”

  She beckoned for Ben to pass an Apple iPad she’d been studying
on the plane from Atlanta. “Then you’re probably correct and there’s nothing to worry about. But we’ve got to do this business properly. Yes, properly.”

  Wilson scooted to the door and bumped it shut. “Properly? Ha. That Honda woman’s nothing but malicious. Nothing more to it than that. Surly, insolent you-know-what. Bitch.”

  “Please, let’s not have any more unpleasantness. That’s what started all this off in the first place.”

  “Says that, does she?”

  “And look, what if she spreads her nonsense around? At a time like this, the last thing we need is any kind of controversy.”

  Wilson threw a snarl to scare the bugs off a windshield. “Woman wouldn’t know a randomized clinical trial from a walnut salad with cheese. Who’d ever listen to her?”

  “Who’d listen?” Doc Mayr produced a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. “Let me tell you who’d listen. The press, what’s left of it, would listen. Sure, they would. Any number of those anti-vax fanatics on social media would listen.”

  “Screw those clowns.”

  “And if there’s anything in what she’s saying about what you’ve been telling our volunteers, we might have a lawsuit on our hands.”

  She fired up the iPad and tapped Wilson wit & wisdom. “But what we need to find out first is whether there might be anything she’s simply gotten confused over. We need to assume good faith.”

  “Good faith? Ha.”

  “So, if you’re amenable, of course, I want us first of all to consider these volunteer retention issues she seems so focused on. It’s the least we can do and, what’s more, it’s the right thing to do.”

  “The least thing, you say?”

  “And the right thing.”

  “Retention issues?”