The First Immortal

by James L. Halperin

  “Tell me, Dr. Wong,” Webster asked. “Couldn’t you clone a cow from the living cells in fresh, raw hamburger? Theoretically, I mean.”

  “Almost anything’s possible in theory. But remember, our DNA modifies as we mature. Besides, too much free-radical damage occurs over the years, even if the organism seems healthy. Therefore most of my colleagues and I believe that scientists will never be able to clone an adult mammal.”

  “Never? Not even a century from now?”

  “No. Not even a thousand centuries from now. I’m afraid that’s all just science fiction, Mr. Webster.”

  August 17, 1992

  —Relief workers prepare for a United Nations airlift to deliver provisions to the starving citizens of war-torn Somalia.—Republicans convene at their national convention in Houston. Polls now show Governor Bill Clinton with a 17-point lead over President George Bush.—Many Germans express apprehension about abandoning the deutsche mark, a symbol of its resurrection from ruin, as the European Community advances toward forging a common currency.

  “Is this normal?” Gary whispered to Pat Webster, who sat at his right along with three associates and two appeal specialists from the firm of Hemenway, Richman and Mintz. Gary was referring to the throng—perhaps “press” would have been a better word, he decided—of reporters overflowing the tiny courtroom.

  “Hell, no. Less than twenty stringers showed up for oral argument last month. But of course you weren’t here that day. Let’s face it, a famous artist adds a certain glamour to a case like this.” Webster neglected to mention that his own publicist, at his direction, had put the word out that Gary Franklin Smith would personally attend today’s ruling on Ben’s autopsy.

  Toby Fiske, at Gary’s left, pondered the strange transposition of fortunes between his newfound ally and himself since Ben’s death. Now it was he who wobbled at the edge of insolvency, his assets depleted by intractable living expenses and dwindling clientele. Meanwhile, Gary’s career had soared, as if his father, while living, had been tethering him like an anchor.

  The critics seemed to agree that Gary Franklin Smith’s art, as good as it may have been before his father’s death, had not improved enough over the course of the litigation to explain his remarkable rise into public consciousness. And the lawsuit itself, while unusual, was hardly unprecedented; the Phoenix alone had litigated four substantially similar actions in its twelve-year history, none of which ever attracted a fraction of the attention this one now garnered.

  Indeed, the notoriety of this case, and Gary’s fame, had been nourishing each other like a cow grazing on, and fertilizing, meadow grass. It would be another week before Gary’s photograph made the cover of the National Enquirer, but the weekly hadn’t been ignoring him; for months he’d been featured prominently in its interior pages. The other tabloids had been equally diligent.

  JUDGE SEZ: THAW ARTIST’S ICED POP NOW! the page-three headline of the New York Post had blared nearly forty-four months ago, the day after Brandon Butters had obtained his first court order. Reader reaction had been clamorous on both sides of the issue, temporarily raising the cryonics debate to national attention.

  Gary, who’d always trusted his art to speak for itself, had refused to grant interviews to reporters, which had had the unintended effect of Salingerizing his name. Suddenly people became curious to see his paintings, and when viewing them, generally acclaimed the work. A few even understood why his work merited such acclaim.

  Jan and Noah, outgunned and outnumbered, sat in anxious silence with Brandon Butters at the much-less-crowded plaintiff’s table. Rebecca and Maxine had long ago demanded that their names be dropped as plaintiffs in the civil suit, but their action had no effect on this criminal litigation.

  Today’s ruling of the First Circuit Court of Appeals would likely mark the final outcome of the autopsy issue, since both sides doubted that the Supreme Court of the United States would deign to consider the matter. And without an autopsy, their civil case was starting to look very weak.

  Everyone rose while the three judges entered the room, and the Honorable Ellen Ryskamp read the panel’s ruling:

  “Under normal circumstances, when a person dies amid accusations of foul play, an autopsy is standard procedure. Indeed it may be our only pathway to the truth. An undisputed fact of this case is that Dr. Tobias Fiske administered morphine to Dr. Benjamin Smith moments before death. Very likely, the morphine was responsible for arresting Dr. Smith’s heartbeat. The question remaining is: How much longer could Dr. Smith have been expected to survive had he not received the morphine?

  “We have reviewed the testimony of various experts, and believe that autopsy is the only way to answer that question with reasonable certainty.”

  Turning his eyes to Toby, who sat erect and stoic, Gary wished he could somehow shield his friend. Toby had gone through the entire ordeal trying to protect a patient’s brain from deteriorating before it could be frozen. If this court upheld the autopsy order, his decision to administer morphine would have cost at least four years of his life—for nothing.

  Meanwhile Webster found himself deploring the decision’s likely effect on his own career. How had he blown this case? Who would ever hire him now, a lawyer who’d become famous for letting his client get dissected? He felt only a tinge of shame for pondering his own problems at this moment when Ben Smith’s and Toby Fiske’s fates were at stake. After all, he’d done his best, hadn’t he? His conscience was clear.

  “However,” Judge Ryskamp continued, “these are not normal circumstances. For one thing, there has been no evidence presented that Dr. Fiske was attempting to disregard his patient’s wishes. Indeed, it seems likely that his actions were governed more by his friendship with Dr. Smith than by medical protocol. Therefore even if it is discovered that Dr. Smith was not provably terminal, Dr. Fiske is likely to be found guilty of nothing more than assisting a suicide.”

  Brandon suppressed a smile. Ryskamp was absolutely right. If this ruling upheld the autopsy order, at least it would be for a sensible reason.

  Noah thought: Why hadn’t that pious chump Brandon Butters taken a harder line? If the ADA had simply emphasized the possibility that Fiske had murdered Ben for the inheritance, they wouldn’t even be sweating today’s ruling. Oh well, they’d still probably win.

  “Nonetheless,” Ryskamp continued, “it seems that there would be little to lose by performing an autopsy to uncover whatever evidence is there.”

  Brandon and Jan smiled faintly. Noah smirked.

  “But a third factor,” Ryskamp added, “must also be considered: That of the deceased’s decision to be frozen, and his purpose in that decision. Legally, a dead person has no standing. However, that person’s property is customarily distributed in accordance with his or her wishes. It is not within the competence of this court and, based on the conflicting expert opinions submitted here, apparently not within the competence of today’s science either, to judge whether cryonics is viable.

  “Benjamin Smith’s body was bequeathed as an anatomical donation to the Phoenix Life Extension Foundation, and perhaps to Dr. Smith himself. It is possible to override such bequests in certain instances, but a standard of probity must be maintained.”

  Jan and Noah blanched.

  Damn! Jan realized they were screwed; they were going to lose! They’d have to sell the house; move to an apartment; probably even send Sarah and Mike to public schools. And Noah would be devastated.

  We’ll have to start buying our clothes at Filene’s Basement, Noah thought. Jesus. Everyone at the club was going to think: What a loser that guy Banks is!

  Brandon turned and offered his friends a compassionate gaze, having given not a moment’s thought to this high-profile loss from the perspective of his own future. To him it was more important to have sought equity than to have prevailed in disoblige. His worst disappointment was for Jan, the first woman he ever loved, and possibly the last. Emptying all thoughts of her from his mind, Brandon consoled himse
lf: Tobias Fiske had paid a high enough price already. Had the prosecution won, justice would have been the loser.

  On the other side of the room, Webster was smugly anticipating a flood of lucrative cases from which he would soon have the privilege of selecting. Gary and Toby embraced in jubilant relief while Ryskamp finished, “We deem it both unlawful and unwise to invalidate his instructions merely to obtain evidence of dubious consequence. We unanimously agree that Dr. Smith’s wishes should not be betrayed. Therefore the State’s writ of habeas corpus and court order authorizing the autopsy of Dr. Benjamin Smith are hereby revoked with prejudice.”

  June 20, 1998

  —With intent to draft a Universal Declaration of Ethical Standards, the United Nations General Assembly commissions a study on the implications of animal and human cloning. Once the Declaration is adopted, each member nation will either pass laws requiring citizens to abide by UN standards, or face possible ostracism from the international community. Over the past 16 months, eleven independent teams of scientists around the world have successfully produced clones of adult mammals, a feat considered impossible by most biologists just two years ago.—The Food and Drug Administration authorizes human trials on a robot developed at NASA’s Ames Research Center to assist in brain surgery. The one-tenth-inch-diameter robotic probe, which uses neural net software to survey the brain, is equipped with pressure sensors allowing it to locate edges of tumors without damaging arteries or nerves.

  Soon after the appeal ruling, Brandon Butters had withdrawn criminal charges due to lack of evidence. Within two years Jan Smith and Noah Banks, deserted by all other Smiths and unable to raise funds to continue litigation against Webster’s seemingly bottomless resources, were forced to drop their civil case.

  On the very next day, Toby had sold his practice, put his house up for sale, and placed his few remaining assets into an offshore trust.

  He’d tried to explain it to Gary: “Something in my mind just clicked. The trial, the interminable ordeal of it, and the stakes. All those passions stirred. It was more than just me on trial in that courtroom. It was a whole system of belief! I felt as though I could suddenly see everyone struggling to hang on to an ideology by destroying someone else’s. All that ferocity, all that fear, and for what? Finally, I came to understand our desire not only to deceive, but to be deceived by the supernatural, or so-called magic, or ancient taboos. Like the notion that dead bodies have to be buried or cremated, even though we know that the definition of death is always changing.”

  Gary had nodded silently.

  “And I saw firsthand,” Toby continued, “how destructive it is for people to confront reality with less-than-open eyes. I don’t know if it was because I finally felt liberated, or maybe just observing you; someone with the guts to follow his own path, Gary. But somehow I knew what I had to do with what’s left of my life.”

  Now, almost six years later, the two friends shared another inaugural day of summer: cloudless skies, 76 degrees with cool gusts of clean, fragrant air. They sat, enjoying their every Tuesday and Thursday lunch at the Fish Market in Faneuil Hall, just a stone’s throw from Webster’s office. In fact, both men had on occasion been amused by the notion of throwing stones through the window of the lawyer whose bills had single-handedly drained the entire Smith Family Cryonic Trust. But mostly they thought of Webster not at all, feeling favored by the current states of their lives, all regrets notwithstanding.

  Gary Franklin Smith’s fortunes had continued unabated, his only emptiness arising out of isolation from his family; an estrangement resulting from the court battle his sisters had waged against Toby and him. He’d barely spoken to any of them since.

  Dr. Tobias Fiske had reinvented himself as a “debunker of the occult,” and had become fairly well known. Now he traveled the country uncovering frauds in medicine, religion, law, and pseudoscience. Many of his “victims” liked to file lawsuits, only adding to his fame. Even the Psychic Friends Network had threatened to sue over a double-blind investigation he’d carried out the previous year, although he doubted (but hoped) they would actually go through with it.

  A few weeks ago Toby had obtained and published photographic evidence against Reverend Michael McCully, a famous faith healer. It seemed that two of the man’s formerly lame “patients” had been out jogging the day before their miraculous cures on national television.

  “What ever happened with Reverend Mike?” Gary asked.

  Toby chuckled. “Well, the idiot sued, of course, which was great. Fell right into my clutches. All that free publicity for the newsletter and my books. And more bad press for that clown himself. Besides, I figure: What have I got to lose? My meager assets are all judgment-proof, and nobody can touch my pension. Probably won’t even hire a lawyer this time.”

  Gary grinned. “So what’s your latest project?” he asked eagerly.

  “Ever hear anything about Jacques Dubois and the Jericho Amber?”

  “You mean that guy in Montreal who supposedly identified amber amulets from a larger amber mentioned in the Bible? Something about giving Joshua’s trumpeters the power to demolish the walls of Jericho, wasn’t it? I saw a headline about it on one of the supermarket tabloids. Made a spectacle of myself by flipping that rag the bird right there in the checkout line.”

  Toby did not laugh at this banter, a departure Gary found odd. Pulling a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, the older man explained, “Here’s a copy of the press release.”

  Gary accepted the paper and read:

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

  PIECES OF FAMOUS BIBLICAL AMBER TO BE PLACED ON PUBLIC DISPLAY IN MONTREAL. OWNER REJECTS $15 MILLION CASH OFFER FROM BOSTON MUSEUM OF HISTORY

  Can these amulets perform miracles? It is said that anyone who possesses them will become invincible in endeavors of trade, arts, science, athletics, even war. Perceptibly different from any other substance on earth, the seven remarkable globules were identified and purchased at a bargain price by Dr. Jacques Dubois, a young archaeologist, after having been unearthed on a dig in southern Jordan near the Dead Sea and legally exported before their true provenance was established. “I noticed immediately that they had an almost supernatural luminescence,” Dubois explains, “and when I learned the location of their discovery, I knew these must be from the legendary Amber of Jericho.”

  Scientists from six countries have examined and performed noninvasive tests on the seven marble-sized jewels. As even Pierre Reverie, a skeptical French geologist, admits, “They radiate an energy that is apparently not of this earth.” Biblical scholars confirm the possibility that holy amber could indeed exist. “There is no mention of the Amber in the English translation of the Book of Joshua,” explains Dr. Solomon Friedman, celebrated expert on the Old Testament, “but in the original Hebrew…”

  Before Gary could finish scanning the first page, Toby interrupted. “I could use your help on this one, buddy.”

  “Sure. Anything.”

  “The publicists who wrote that release are brilliant, don’t you think? The press release goes on to say that the amber pieces will be placed on public display in Montreal in six months’ time, when the miracle powers will be demonstrated beyond any doubt and discharged to the benefit of the world. It also says that the exhibition will be open to the public, free of cost. Several prominent scientists and religious scholars were recruited to offer ambiguous opinions on the amber’s authenticity.”

  Gary started considering the delicious possibilities of using his fame to sneak a video camera backstage. Those charlatans would surely love to hook anyone prestigious to add credibility to their fraud.

  “Looks like a damn well-orchestrated scam,” Gary muttered, his distaste mitigated by a certain perverse admiration.

  “Sure is,” Toby said proudly. “You’ll notice that we never ask for any money, although we do mention that Dr. Dubois would entertain the possibility of eventually selling one or two of the stones.”

  “Wait a minute.” Gary frow
ned. “We?”

  “Yeah. We also persuaded Arthur Bradley, my friend at the Boston Museum of History, to issue a statement that the museum does not comment about offers it may or may not have made for potential acquisitions.”

  “Amazing.” Gary started to laugh.

  “I’ll need you to say something about the Amber, too, if you don’t mind. Maybe even vouch for Dubois. His real name’s John Duncan, by the way; he’s the son of one of my med school buddies. Anyway, we’ll help you make up some bullshit about how the stones gave you some special artistic powers or something.”

  “Hmm.” Gary smirked. “Can’t wait to hear the rest of this story.”

  “Might take a while,” Toby answered. “Hope you’re not pressed for time today…”

  January 11, 1999

  —Netscape releases the beta version of its new software which enables Internet surfers to “Backlink” to any Web page which posts a link to that page. Prior to today, it was possible only to “forward click” to pages linked by a Web site’s originator. With Backlink, anyone can post criticisms about any other Web sponsor’s information or products, and browsers can now conveniently obtain the other side of the story. The cyber community hails the product as a boon to free speech and open information. Several organizations, including the Coalition of Trial Lawyers, the Church of Scientology, and the Tobacco Institute, issue press releases condemning Backlink as an invasion of privacy.—Michigan reports economic growth of 6.3% in 1998, possibly the result of the state’s recent elimination of juries in all nonfederal civil trials there.

  True, many gourmets considered Locke Ober one of the finest restaurants in Boston, but perhaps Rebecca had chosen it for other reasons. Maybe she wanted to ensure that their dinner would be private, and not too brief.

  Gary also couldn’t help noticing how much his sister had aged in five years. Rebecca’s pixielike smile and quick laugh were nowhere to be found, and it seemed even the weight of her shortened hair pulled down her face. The two had rarely seen each other since the appeal decision. Now he was glad that she’d called him; grateful that she’d asked him to come as a personal favor to her, rather than on some pretense of trying to patch things up with Jan. He’d missed her. Damn! Why had he let it wait this long?