Walston rolls his eyes a moment and peers back at his boss. “The theory of aging that says our cells have better cancer-fighting attributes when we're younger, then they lose that ability as we get older?”
"Yep. Let me give you a refresher course. In William's model, aging evolves due to the pleiotropic effect of some genes that are beneficial to you earlier in your life, then they become harmful at later ages. There's a different theory about mutation accumulation, and some scientists think each of those theories of aging have merit, but no single right answer has emerged. I'm a believer in the antagonistic pleiotropy theory of aging. That's why I invited you to have dinner tonight."
Walston takes several small bites of his salmon and swallows while thinking. "Well, you got me. I don't see how antagonistic pleiotropy relates to elongating telomeres and making cells live longer. We would actually be partly defeating the theory, wouldn’t we? Wait, is that what you're driving at?"
"Do you believe in God? No specific religion, I don't care which one. But do you think there’s a god at all?"
Taken aback, Walston glances at Ron with a very odd and slightly cold expression. He knows his boss was raised Jewish but has never heard him talk about religion before.
"I was raised a Catholic, and obviously, there are some pretty rigid beliefs within the church. I believe in God. I wouldn't say I'm devout, I think some things are explained by science and medicine and genetics, and I think some of the religious teachings can provide us guidance."
"Do you think God created us and put us on this planet, or was it evolution?"
"I don't know, never reconciled it in my mind. It forces me to choose between believing in God and wondering if we all started from a single-cell amoeba. Are you linking this to the pleiotropy theory?"
"Let me ask another question instead of answering you. Let's say we succeed, no, we will succeed. And when we do, and the average lifespan increases to 100 or longer, what about antagonistic pleiotropy? Are we tampering with that?”
Silence.
Finally, Walston answers. “I think the ramifications are too intellectually deep to predict yet. If we are lengthening the telomeres and extending human life, there will still be diseases, there will still be cancers, but will the cell’s ability to fight any of those be modified? We don’t really know, do we?"
"Well, with the 18-month window the president gave us, I doubt we're going to be able to find out unless answers miraculously turn up during our research. But this stuff worries me." Ron lifts his glass. "A toast, Walston. God forbid we mess this up."
“Here, here.”
They clink their glasses together.
“So, you’re visiting your folks this coming weekend?”
“Yeah. Heading to Bethesda to see them.”
“Would you mind stopping in Georgetown and delivering a folder to my brother? His law firm is right off Wisconsin. They have a mail slot in the entrance door for weekend drop-offs.”
“No problem.”
“Great, and keep it under your hat if you would please. I mean, that I’m having you drop something to my brother.”
“Okay.” Walston finds the request odd, but realizes Ron is compound-bound. Probably just a personal note to his brother, he thinks.
Chapter 37
Diversity
Franklin’s law partners were pleasantly surprised when he announced he joined the D.C. Bar Diversity Committee as a pro bono activity. Bob Greznick, chair of the firm’s pro bono committee, stopped by his office as soon as he found out. The diversity committee, as one would expect, is dominated by minorities: African-Americans, Hispanics, Asians and those with mixed ethnicities. Franklin was one of the few Caucasians in the group.
“Great news, Paul. Any pro bono work by our lawyers, especially this type, is excellent. What made you decide to get involved with diversity?”
He launches into his scripted back story. “Carol Smith-Vincent is one of the assistant U.S. attorneys who does federal tort claims defense. Do you know her? Anyway, she said something to me about the committee and a light bulb went on. Why don’t I get involved too? I called her, and she talked to someone else, and now I’m involved. The next meeting is tomorrow at the Georgian.”
“Very nice, indeed. Good stuff Paul.” Greznick taps the door frame of Franklin’s office and ducks back out.
Angie is one of the few non-lawyer professionals in the organization, which allows a small number of paralegals to take part. After all, the idea of the diversity group is to help minorities receive a fair shake when interviewing with D.C.-area law firms, in-house corporate legal departments, or the courts, regardless of whether they are young lawyers or para-professionals. She had texted Paul confirming his attendance at the bimonthly conference. The hotel is ideally located next door to the tall office building housing the D.C. Bar Library, available to all members and the bar’s administrative staff. Naturally, the rest of the floors are dominated by law firms.
While everyone is exchanging pleasantries before the coordinator announces the agenda, Paul gets a text from Angie and strides toward the door. Spring hinges pull the door closed quietly behind him as he steps into the outer hallway. She’s wearing a black-and-white plaid pleated skirt, a sheer black blouse unbuttoned a couple buttons down, black nylons and heels. As they approach each other, Paul detects her familiar scent.
She drops a small device into the right outside pocket of his sports jacket. He pats it with his right hand and looks at her quizzically. “You’re in control now.” She whispers.
“Of what?” he asks, feeling it with his fingertips but not pulling it out.
She leans in and whispers again in his ear, in case anyone around is paying attention. “The remote for my strap-on.” Her eyes look down at the front of her skirt, which falls just above her knees. “Yes, down there. Make my butterfly flutter.”
Franklin first learned of the many virtues of a sex swing from her, particularly one situated at the perfect height. But a butterfly? He thinks he may have heard of one at some point, but has never experienced one with a partner. As Angie walks away to one of the several round tables in the meeting room to sit with people other than him, he feels aroused. Within moments, the first speaker is announced.
“Our first guest is Valrey Cooper, the assistant dean of admissions from George Washington University, discussing the GWU law school diversity program. Please give her a warm round of applause.”
While others clap politely for a moment, Paul fumbles with the thin remote. He pushes the middle one of the three buttons and glances toward Angie at the adjacent table. Her head bobs up slightly and she meets his gaze, nodding.
How deliciously wicked. Where does she come up with these ideas? He turns his eyes toward her again and notices she is facing the speaker, but is definitely not listening. A second speaker is now going on about the career choices of Hispanic attorneys in the D.C. community. Paul barely remembers hearing anything said, except the introductory remarks. He reaches for the remote in his pocket and pushes what he hopes is the highest level at one end, figuring he’ll either turn it up or off.
Angie raises her right hand near her cheek, makes a slight motion with her index finger and thumb, indicating a little, and points downward. Sliding his right hand back into the jacket pocket, he moves the control back to the middle.
Paul virtually jumps when his cellphone suddenly vibrates on the left side of his body. He pulls the phone from its holster, unlocks it, and reads the message:
Bar Library, lawyer carrel 1-A. See ya there.
Within minutes, Angie enters the office building immediately beside the hotel, now out of remote range. She presses the “up” button at the bank of four elevators and finds her way to the ninth floor, entering with her keycard provided to member firms and their designated staff. At 6:30 p.m. on a Wednesday, there are few people in the library. Law clerks, maybe an attorney, all the unfortunate folks who have a deadline or are working as associates.
She finds her
way to one of the two large tables littered with books and a couple magazines. She opens a book and pretends to read it, awaiting Paul’s entrance.
When he finally enters, he finds her seated at the table and walks over. “Now what?”
He leans down and she whispers softly, “Sit at that table over there,” she indicates with her eyes, “and watch me for a while.”
She relishes leading Franklin around by the nose. She doesn’t consider herself a dominatrix, but she takes pride in ruling him, in providing him something he never gets from his wife. Paul dutifully stations himself at a nearby table. As he fiddles for the remote control again and turns it on, a young female associate sits down at the table opposite from Angie with three law reporter volumes. She spreads them open on the table in front of her, never looking up.
Angie pretends to continue reading, her head tilting back and forth, following the rhythmic motion of the butterfly. Paul turns up the remote to the top speed.
“Uhhhh!” Angie moans and places her head down on the book, unable to control herself momentarily.
“Are you okay?” the young female attorney from across the table asks her, concern in her voice.
“Oh, yeah, fine.” She lifts her head slowly off the table and stands with one law volume under her left arm and her right fingers spread out on the edge of the table to balance herself. The concerned attorney stares at her for a moment, but Angie turns and walks away through the stacks toward the back of the library.
In the back hallway are three workroom carrels. They have room for a built-in desk, a shelf, and a chair, and they typically contain a dozen or more law volumes for those working on major briefs or appeals.
She quickly enters 1A and closes the door. Moments later, Paul taps lightly on the door. The doorknob turns and he pushes it open. Her plaid pleated skirt and hot-pink thong is the first thing he notices on the floor below the desk. Next are her thigh-high nylons. She puts one leg on each side of his body and pushes the carrel door shut with her foot.
In just under 15 minutes they are both presentable and satisfied, at least for the evening. After walking through the library at decent intervals to the restroom, she decides to hold the elevator for him.
“I need to ask you a big favor, a very confidential favor,” he says, facing her.
“What kind of favor?”
“I have a listening device, smaller than my thumb,” he holds his right thumb up as a visual. “Can you attach it under Michaels’ desk sometime when he’s not in the office?”
“Are you kidding? That’s stepping over—”
The elevator stops on the fifth floor and a woman enters and stands between them, facing the doors. Angie stays silent until the elevator reaches the first floor and the woman walks briskly ahead of them through the lobby.
“Absolutely not. What you’re asking is way past what I’m willing—”
“Way past what? ‘Us’ is already ‘way past’ whatever.”
“Paul, we couldn’t be seen together before, but now that you sued Andy, we shouldn’t even be seen in the same state. You’re asking me to wiretap my boss. Absolutely not. Doesn’t matter what or why.”
“There’s no way he would ever know you did it.”
“So what? I don’t agree with any part of your conspiracy lawsuit or what you’re doing to Andy, so we better not talk about it again, like ever.”
From inside the taxi she hailed, Angie stares out the window at the buildings, pedestrians, row houses. Paul has miscalculated her, she tells herself. Good sex does not mean she will be a traitor to Andy. She has always had misgivings about the affair, but at this point she wonders if Paul has lost his entire moral compass. Maybe she has too, for that matter.
Chapter 38
Loco Liaison
As soon as the door to the house closes behind Amanda, the agent calls Solarez.
“She came out of the house and told me she understands my job, but that she was going to meet a high school friend, a Jonathan Parkinson, at Café Loco in Middleburg. She said she’d be back before 6:00 p.m. and that you’d approve it. Should I just tail her anyway?”
“Yes, but not too closely. Assuming she drives her own car, we can locate her. I’ll patch you in to the GPS on your tablet. Let her believe she’s alone, but stay near the Café once she arrives.”
While driving his road-worn Land Cruiser through the streets of Middleburg, Jonathan still hears Amber's words from their recent phone call.
“I swear if you get back together with that bitch, I'll kill you.”
Why is it that when your significant other makes a crazy-ass statement like that you want to go do it even more? He knows Amber has been incredibly jealous of Amanda since high school. She wasted no time snagging him after the Hemispheres crash left Amanda with no memory of him, even though she was well aware they were pretty much inseparable for two years before the tragedy.
As Jonathan enters Café Loco, Amanda stands near the register in a pair of jean shorts and a billowy peasant-style shirt. Amanda turns to face him and there is an awkward split second before they lean in and hug.
"Great to see you," Jonathan tells her.
"Yeah, I’m glad we could get together. Let's get some coffee."
Her memory of everything after the crash is extremely vivid, including every visit to Café Loco. After they get their coffees, Amanda sees Kyle Perless’ dobro, mandolin, and various guitars on a vertical rack on the way to a small round-top table situated between two older women at one table and a tall 20-something with earbuds working on his laptop at another. The barista tells Amanda Kyle Perless isn’t in, and she realizes he might be teaching a music class to the brain injured at Crossroads.
Amanda takes one sip of her latte, then begins. "It was so weird reading my letters to you from before the crash and not remembering any of it."
“Yeah, I guess it would be.”
"How's your summer been going? Are you home working, or are you just here visiting your parents?"
"I'm not working, just came home for a few days. You said you wanted to meet so I kind of had that in the back of my mind too."
“And how's Amber?" Amanda can't resist asking just to confirm they’re still an item.
"She's doing well, going to UNC at Chapel Hill. She's got some kind of internship thing with a digital marketing company there."
It’s a beautiful summer day, and within a few minutes of visiting, Amanda gets antsy. She asks Jonathan if he would like to drive down some of the country back roads since it’s so nice out. He agrees, and soon they’re in his Land Cruiser, their two unfinished coffees in the center console. He's at the wheel, and music from his phone is playing through the car speakers. He glances at Amanda.
"Where do you want to go?"
"Let's take Route 50 toward Paris and just look at the farms and enjoy going nowhere."
The song playing is one Amanda happens to know, “Animal” by Miike Snow. It’s about him trying to make up his mind and whether he’s free or tied up. Wow, Amanda thinks, free or tied up. Prophetic.
Neither of them say anything until they get onto 50 westbound and start passing the large farms of Middleburg, some with seemingly picture-book white picket fences, others with vertical metal fencing, quite different from the typical country style. Amanda decides to try to clear up some things that have been bothering her.
"Was I the first girl you ever…um…ever made love to?" Amanda asks over the music, starting with almost the most direct question conceivable. Before he can answer, she places her left hand lightly on his right thigh.
Jonathan keeps both hands on the wheel. "Yeah," he answers, adding nothing more, but turning to face her for a second before looking back to the road ahead.
"Do you know if you were my first?" She moves her fingertips just slightly toward his knee with a light caress.
"I only know what you told me, and you said I was."
Amanda contemplates asking for a few details, then decides against it. She really
doesn’t want Jonathan thinking she’s insecure about it. After a while she has no idea where they are, but she notices a huge grassy field on the right side of the road with no fence around it.
"Hey, why don't you pull over here?"
Jonathan slowly eases the Land Cruiser off the road. He cuts the engine and pulls the key from the ignition. "Now what?"
"Let's walk out into the field."
Jonathan has a look she can’t quite translate, like a moment of silent mental protest, but it passes, and he exits the car as Amanda closes her door. The two of them walk toward the rear of the Land Cruiser, where he grabs a folded blanket from inside, and Amanda begins to walk out into the high grass of the pasture with him a few steps behind. The grass, about a month overdue for cutting, has patches of colorful wildflowers growing in it. Jonathan figures some big tractor comes through and mows it down, but only when necessary.
Amanda, deep down, feels no sense of guilt about Jonathan's relationship with Amber, and the reason is simple. Jonathan was hers before the crash, and it wasn't her fault she lost all memory of any relationship with him. Once they walk about 40 yards out, Amanda turns and Jonathan steps closer. A soft breeze blows, creating softly undulating waves through the high grass, and blowing some of Amanda's hair over her eyes. She ignores it, reaches toward Jonathan and takes his hand, and they continue walking a little further away from the highway.
"Jonathan, I owe you an apology."
"What do you mean?"
"When I was in the hospital and at Café Loco for my 18th birthday party, I treated you like crap. See, I remember that, my memory is great after the jet crash. But I didn't feel anything, I didn't remember anything, and I still only have one or two tiny glimpses of what we had before. I had this dream, not long ago, where I remember you kissing me and laying on top of me, and I think it's based on a real memory. This may sound stupid, but I want to see if we can get back what we had."
Targeting the Telomeres, A Thriller Page 11
