by Allen Wyler
Ritter laughs. “Long story. Academics never interested me until I got into med school. Being a doctor hadn’t even been a consideration until college. Unlike several of my classmates, my parents weren’t docs. My mom and dad ran a fifty-eight foot purse seiner out of Ketchikan until a storm in the Gulf of Alaska swallowed them up. I was just about to turn nine years old.” He shakes his head, thinking back on it. “No one knew what actually happened because no boat or wreckage, or even survivors, were ever found.”
“So who raised you?”
“My grandparents, on mom’s side, Christina and Chuck, took me in. But Chuck was a pretty bad alcoholic and died before I turned eleven. When I was sixteen the house burned to the ground. I was in school. Luckily Christina escaped. A fireman pulled her out.” Jon shakes his head at his own stupidity. “I was so stupid, I should’ve seen it coming.”
Lippmann sits back in the chair, cups his chin between index finger and thumb. “What should you have seen?”
“Her dementia. The firemen think she walked away from the propane stove with a pot of water boiling on it. In retrospect there were all sorts of little things that had been happening, clues I completely missed, chalking them up to forgetfulness and age. But, I keep telling myself, how much does a fourteen-year-old know about dementia?”
“Probably not much,” Gabe agrees. “What happened to her?”
“She was one of the rapidly progressive ones. I had to put her in one of those awful nursing homes. She never forgave me for putting her there. The only good thing about it was she went pretty fast.”
Gabe asks, “This was in Alaska?”
“Ketchikan. Back then it was nothing more than forty-two taverns within thirty-two miles of asphalt. A coastal village with little to recommend it unless you loved hunting, fishing, and fake scrimshaw carvings the alcoholic store owners peddle to tourists.”
“It’s amazing you got where you are, given that background. But I still don’t understand how you were able to afford to go to med school?”
“I figured the only way out of that place and a future filled with nothing but fishing was to get an education. So I got a job at a Dairy Queen, applied to the University of Alaska, Ketchikan, and discovered I really loved to understand—from a physical rather than metaphysical standpoint—why things happen. I really did well in science. I caught a break and lucked into an advisor who suggested med school. I lucked out again when I received a scholarship to the University of Washington.”
“What got you interested in doing research?”
Jon hesitates, wondering how truthful to be in this interview. What is it Dr. Lippmann is looking for? He is, after all, one of more than twenty applicants for the single first year slot. He decides to be brutally honest. “I needed money, so applied for the fellowship. I wasn’t really interested in doing research but didn’t want to go through another summer of oozing fry grease from every pore in my body.” Also, now blushing, “I thought it’d be a way for you to know me better than just another applicant.”
“So you intended on applying back then?”
Jon nods. “Yes.”
That summer project eventually got written up as a small publication in the journal Neurosurgery. To this day, he can vividly recall the breath-stealing rush from seeing his name printed in an international journal. His name!
That summer project continued through the following years and summer breaks until graduation. The experience exposed him to a way of life he never imagined existed, a life of curiosity and questioning. Each unstructured lab day began with him as the first team member to arrive. He’d fire up the espresso machine before starting into whatever tasks needed doing. He worked shoulder to shoulder with other technicians and professors, then spent brown bag lunch breaks in heady scientific debates. Afternoons flew by, quickly becoming evenings, with no worry as to the hour, as ideas were tossed around, refined, and filed away in excited minds. The intellectual stimulation and camaraderie became an exhilarating elixir, a welcome substitute for the home he hadn’t enjoyed for years. He fell in love with the life.
Now, it was being taken from him.
Fucking Avengers.
He brought up Google on the computer, queried, and then watched the screen change to the Avengers website. Just as Fisher had said, the first page listed WANTED targets, the “enemies” of the unborn, as they labeled it. He scrolled down until he found his picture. Another click took him to a list of detailed personal information, including his office and home addresses, plus a physical description. Great! Making him a target for any wacko pro-life fanatics who deputized themselves in the cause. What really pissed him off was that he and his work didn’t use human tissue. Didn’t those crazy bastards understand the difference between a mouse and a human?
A telephone ring made him jump, flooding him with a jolt of adrenaline. He pressed a palm against his chest and drew a deep breath before answering, “Ritter here.”
“Jon. Margaret Sorenson.”
“Hey, Margaret.” Relief—at what, he wasn’t quite sure— swept through him. Meg was the NIH bureaucrat overseeing the human trial he and Wayne were about to start. “How are things?”
“Not good. I have bad news, I’m afraid.” Her words came across as crisp and emotionless; this call meant bad news, something to do with the study. A funding delay? That had to be it. Why else would she call? After a few beats she said, “We’re pulling the study, Jon. I’m sorry.” Just like that.
The gut freeze worsened. Then again, maybe he misunderstood. “Pulling the study? What do you mean? Canceling it?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Wait a minute, what are you saying? There’s a delay in funding, or is it terminated?”
“It’s canceled, done, as in it’s not going to happen.”
He wanted to say that wasn’t fair. But when did fairness have a thing to do with federal funding? And, he didn’t want to whine. Still . . . “Why?”
“I shouldn’t have to explain. It’s the Avengers thing, you know, the ultimatum?” Her words carried a hint of compassion this time, like maybe she really did care and was simply following orders.
“How did you find that out?” Far as he knew, the ultimatum hadn’t been released to the press.
“You’re kidding me, right? Lippmann’s murder got national coverage.”
True, but . . . to deny that the press knew anything about it would, in effect, be to admit that it was true. “Hey look, we both know how inaccurate the press can be. What the hell does a news story have to do with the scientific importance of a research project?” Aw shit, that did sound like whining. His face warmed with embarrassment.
“Aw cripes, Jon, c’mon, don’t make this harder than it already is.” The crisp efficiency of her voice was replaced by the warm tones so familiar to Jon. She sighed. “You know darn well with the present political climate we want all stem cell funding to fly below the radar. Well, thanks to all the national coverage, you can kiss any hope of that goodbye. You’re now being tracked by everyone from the White House to your local crack house, meaning the institute brass doesn’t want to risk any political blowback, no matter how small it may seem to be. Especially if, ah, something should happen to you or Dobbs.”
“You mean if one of those assholes kills me?” Goddamn bureaucrats, always covering their back, always worrying about the political implications of every damn decision. In their hearts they really didn’t care if he or Wayne were shot. Nor did they care about the ten years of work already invested in the project. The only thing they cared about was one or two bad press days from the Washington Post and Congress’s impression of them.
“Hey, Jon, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m as upset about this as you.”
He couldn’t stop himself. “Bullshit! Tell me this: did anyone even try to reason with whoever’s responsible for this decision? Did you? You know how important this study is.”
“I do. But, after all the discussions we’ve had you know darn well what a p
olitical hot potato stem cell research is.”
“This is unfair! We finally have a great shot at being able to do something about Alzheimer’s disease and you’re killing the project?”
“Not my decision, Jon. You don’t like it, talk to Murray,” referring to the head of the Neurological Disorders Institute. “Know what he’ll say? He’ll say senators and congressmen don’t really give a hoot. It’s what their constituency believes that warms their hearts and their constituency believes stem cell research is ungodly. And you know it.”
He forced himself to calm down by swiveling around and admiring the view from the window and sucking down a deep breath. “All right, I have an idea. Since we’ve already been reviewed and funded, why can’t we just delay the actual awarding of the money until next quarter, after things have a chance to settle down and blow over? Then give us the green light.”
“You’re joking, right? No, Jon, we can’t try to fake this. Not with every politician in the beltway looking over our shoulders. We’re pulling the study. Forever and ever, amen. End of discussion.”
“But—” No sense arguing, he realized. “Okay, if you pull it now can we submit the same grant in three months and get funded?”
“Sure, you can always submit. But I have to tell you, it’ll be starting over, so there’s no guarantee it’ll get funded.”
“In other words, we’re totally screwed. That’s what you’re saying,” with a distinct tinge of resignation.
“Yep.”
9
“JON?”
The familiar voice snapped Ritter out of a deep blue reverie. Wayne Dobbs stood in the doorway, a white Starbucks cup in each hand.
“May I come in?” Without waiting for a response, he stepped into the office and set one of the cups on the desk next Jon’s other cup. “Oh, sorry, didn’t know you already had one.”
“No, that’s fine. Finished it an hour ago.” Jon dropped the cold, barely touched latte in the wastebasket. It hit the bottom with a thump too hard for an empty, exposing his white lie.
Wayne cocked his head and eyed him. “What’s wrong, did someone die?” He quickly slapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh dear . . . I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
Jon waved it away. “I know you didn’t. When things go bad, they really go bad. Sorenson just called.”
Wayne frowned, “And?” while carefully setting his latte on the desk.
Jon told him the bad news, that their project was dead. Wayne just sat there inspecting his thumb nail, turning it this way and that, ears bright red. When mildly perturbed, Wayne became sarcastic. When outraged, he usually settled into eerie silence. But his ears were the best mood barometer. Jon broke the silence with, “I’ve been thinking.”
Wayne shot him a tight-lipped questioning look. “About?”
“Maybe I could talk to Richard Stillman, see if I can persuade him into funding the work. Do the trial with Trophozyme. What do you think?”
Wayne studied him a moment to gauge his degree of seriousness. Then, with a laugh, “Even if I thought you were serious—which I don’t—I’m not sure you could handle it. Given your history with him, and all.”
“As far as I see, it’s our only option.”
Wayne picked at his thumb a moment. “Maybe, but do you seriously believe that arrogant prick would be gracious enough to do something like that? By that I mean, help us out without gloating or rubbing our noses in it?”
“Yes. If he thought it might help him and Trophozyme. Besides, we’re big boys. We can take some gloating if it gets the work done.”
Wayne shook his head and crossed his arms. “I don’t know . . . the bad blood between you two . . . ”
“There’s something I didn’t mention.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Wayne said.
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing that affects you, but it is relevant. About five months ago he invited me to have lunch. I told him if he wanted to talk, it had to be here in my office. Surprisingly, he agreed. He came over, we talked, he offered me the job of Chief Medical Officer.”
Wayne’s eyes grew wide. “At Trophozyme? And you didn’t tell me?”
“I figured I’d never work for him, regardless of how big the salary or what signing bonuses he put out there to entice me. So I didn’t even ask any particulars.” Actually, he told Stillman he’d worked too hard at becoming a surgeon to now leave clinical practice for a life of 100 percent lab rat, that the present university position allowed him to practice neurosurgery in addition to running a lab. Yet he hadn’t been completely truthful with Stillman. Putting aside the personal animosity between them, Jon’s real reason for rejecting the offer was the strong prejudice Gabe instilled in him years ago, that corporate biomedical researchers were not real scientists, they were nothing more than businessmen in disguise. That their ardent claims of wanting “to improve people’s lives” basically served as just a smokescreen for their real motivation: to make money. And lots of it. Nothing more, nothing less. Capitalism at its finest. He agreed with Gabe and wanted no part of Stillman’s world. Early on, when Jon made his first presentation at a national meeting, Stillman stood up and embarrassed him, Gabe’s prodigy, in front of the audience, making public their mutual disrespect.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because he acted different than I’d ever seen him, at least to me he did. He seemed to sincerely want him and me to start over, maybe establish a good working relationship. The point is, if we can’t find a safe way to continue our work and move it over to real patients, ten years of effort is going straight down the drain. Can you really accept that? I know I can’t.”
Wayne made a fist and then opened his right hand, watching the movement, seemingly fascinated at all the little muscles involved in the action. Without looking up, he muttered, “No no, of course not. But if that snake agrees to do it, you know damn well there’s going to be a hidden agenda . . . some way to screw us that we haven’t even considered. It’s not like the guy’s a philanthropist. So, tell me this: what’s in it for him that would make him want to help us?” He sighed and waved off the question. “Forget Stillman. The question is: do you really think you could live with yourself if you went into industry? I, more than anyone, know your prejudice on this issue.”
Good question. Jon sipped his new latte and considered the answer. Hard as it would be to climb in bed with Stillman, he couldn’t see any other way to salvage the past ten years. “I don’t see that we have another option. Hey, if you got a suggestion, I’m willing to hear it.”
Wayne returned to studying his thumb nail. “Okay, but what about the Avengers angle? Sure, you can always say we complied with their ultimatum by shutting down our lab, but the note made it pretty clear; it said to stop work. It doesn’t give a lot of semantic leeway. I can’t see how moving to Trophozyme removes the danger.”
“Here’s the thing . . . What if we can do it without anyone knowing?”
Wayne gave a sarcastic grunt and shook his head. “Impossible.”
“No, no, listen. What if we shut down the lab and move the project to a place the Avengers wouldn’t know about?”
Wayne shot him a look of bemusement. “You’re joking, right? From everything I’ve read, and that’s a lot in the past twenty-four hours, they have sympathizers all over the world.”
“True, but what if we did it in Korea?”
Wayne’s face froze momentarily, eyes locked into Jon’s questioningly. Then he got it. “Jin-Woo?”
Jin-Woo Lee. A neurosurgeon who spent a six-month sabbatical in Jon’s lab learning tissue culture techniques. During that time the two men developed a friendship.
When Wayne didn’t answer, Jon became impatient and frustrated. He’d expected Wayne to jump at the idea, but instead . . . “We don’t have much time. Yes or no?”
Wayne blew through pursed lips. “You’re serious.”
“I take that as a yes.”
Wayne swallowed and lo
oked at his nails, then back at Jon, gave a slight nod. “In for a pound or whatever that ridiculous expression is. But I want it on the record I’m not wild about the concept.”
“Good. I’ve already set up a meeting with Stillman for seven tomorrow morning. I called Jin-Woo and pitched the idea. He’s going to call me back in—” checking his watch “—about ten minutes. I booked a flight to Seoul for day after tomorrow.”
Wayne shook his head in amazement. “You really are serious. What about this,” sweeping his hand around the room, “your job? Setting up a trial over there will take time. Can you arrange to have that much time off?”
“With my injury, I’m good for a thirty-day leave of absence.” He smiled and absentmindedly fingered the wound again, rubbing along the healing suture line.
10
STILLMAN EXITED THE elevator onto the lush carpet of the lobby of the building in which Trophozyme offices were located at precisely 7:00 a.m. He definitely would’ve preferred for Jon Ritter to come to his office during regular business hours, say, after nine o’clock, so he could make the self-righteous prick wait fifteen minutes in the outer office in full view of staff, just to drive home the point that he was the one in charge and Jon was now dependent on him. But Ritter had insisted on meeting early. Surgeon’s hours. The good news was, by accepting such an early hour he would be making a concession, which in turn would give the impression of flexibility. Truth be told, with his condo only a block away, most days found him in his office by now anyway. Being the first to arrive each day gave him an uninterrupted block of time to scan the latest news and prepare his schedule before the constant onslaught of unanticipated interruptions and meetings turned any semblance of an orderly schedule into havoc.
Ritter was already waiting in the lobby, white Starbucks cup in hand, studying the building directory. At the sound of the elevator door, he turned with a hopeful look on his face. Yet in spite of this newfound hope, he appeared haggard: sagging facial muscles and dark circles under the eyes. Stillman couldn’t suppress a hint of satisfied smile. Jon Ritter, the holier-than-thou academician, didn’t look so goddamn smug now. Not the same sanctimonious prick who, a year ago, stood up at the North American Stem Cell Symposium to challenge Stillman in debate. He remembered all too well the embarrassing sting of not being able to answer Ritter’s hyper-technical, nit-picking questions. Questions only a lab tech might reasonably discuss. Running a company didn’t give him the luxury of wandering the halls to visit labs and learn about every employee’s job. That style of management was, in his opinion, micromanagement, and he had more productive ways to spend the precious minutes of his already heavily scheduled days. So, yes, Ritter might be an expert on growing cells in petri dishes and flasks, but the prick didn’t have a clue about the skills needed to grow a fledgling company from nothing into a red hot Wall Street IPO.
