by Allen Wyler
Well, time to eat crow, Ritter. Stillman smiled. “Right on time. Promptness. I like that.”
Ritter offered his hand. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
Stillman graciously motioned him onto the elevator, punched five. “Trophozyme has three through five. My office is on five.” The elevator door rattled shut.
Stillman eyed Ritter’s clothes, a professor cliché if ever there was one: gray slacks, navy blazer, white shirt, rep tie. Ninety percent of the neurosurgeons he’d ever set eyes on lived in those preppy blazers with the gold buttons as if it were some uniform. Today Stillman wore understated corporate casual: a black Ermenegildo Zegna long-sleeve, form-fitting crew-neck sweater, chosen to emphasize his well-developed pecs, lightweight black wool slacks, black, well-buffed black Ferragamo loafers, a black-faced stainless steel Movado Museum Dial on his wrist. If you knew what you were looking at—which Ritter obviously didn’t—his selection made a statement of superior taste and class. Casual elegance, he believed, blended him into the start-up company culture while simultaneously elevating him above common employees.
Both men faced the door as the cage moved upward, Stillman thinking, My my, how things change. Five months ago, when offered a generous salary, fat signing bonus, and stock options, Ritter turned up his nose. It hadn’t been the refusal per se that pissed him off. It was the way Ritter did it. Without a moment of hesitation. As if he’d been offered an intravenous dose of Ebola virus instead of a well-paying, once in a lifetime career opportunity. Even more grating was Ritter’s unspoken attitude. As if he, Stillman, was some kind of leper instead of the leader of a biotech company. Well, look at you now Mr. Arrogant Holier-Than-Thou academician. The temptation to utter those exact words was almost too much to resist. Instead, Stillman simply savored the delicious irony unfolding before him.
Off the elevator, down a hall, Stillman led Ritter single file, past a series of work cubicles and an empty conference room. Stillman turned left through a doorway and motioned for Jon to follow.
The moment Jon walked into Stillman’s office and his eyes registered the interior, he stopped, amazed at the elegance. The size wasn’t impressive. On second glance the square footage seemed rather modest. But a wall of floor to ceiling windows provided a stunning view of Lake Union and Capitol Hill, a dramatic backdrop to a sleek, stainless steel–framed, glass-top desk, probably a limited edition from a rarefied German industrial designer. To the left of the desk, a round conference table with four chairs. Rap music—a total disconnect from the office’s otherwise sophisticated image—pulsed softly from a sleek black stereo. Compared to the university, or offices in incubator companies, Stillman’s was in another universe. The wall opposite the windows held framed newspaper articles and a massive shelf filled with trophies, some apparently crystal, glass, or clear acrylic, one shaped like a seven-inch Washington Monument. Jon took a closer look.
“Tombstones,” Stillman said.
“Tombstones?”
“That’s what some people call them. Go ahead, pick one up.”
Jon took the one shaped like the Washington Monument. Lighter than expected, making him think acrylic instead of crystal. He peered through flawless material at lettering etched on the back surface in stylishly clean font—Maximum Velocity, 2010.
“It’s an industry tradition to award trophies to team members as a way of celebrating a significant milestone. A financing perhaps. Maybe an important patent. That particular one commemorates a very difficult genetic sequencing one of my companies commercialized.”
Jon replaced it on the shelf. “How many companies have you been with?”
“Since when? Graduate school?”
That surprised Jon. “I didn’t realize you went to graduate school.” Stillman made a point of making certain people heard his pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps black ghetto survivor success story.
Stillman smiled. “PhD in biochemistry. Berkeley.”
Very impressive, Jon was forced to admit to himself. Especially given Stillman’s impoverished roots. Clearly he’d misjudged the man. Why? Professional jealousy? Because of Stillman’s smooth flair for business? Because of Stillman’s financial success? Because Stillman’s strengths were Jon’s weaknesses? Whatever, he felt guilty and petty for it. “I didn’t know that.”
“There’re probably a number things you don’t know about me. But to answer your original question, Trophozyme is the sixth.”
“How many as CEO?”
Stillman laughed, as if becoming more comfortable with what both men had anticipated would be a difficult discussion. “Four.”
Jon made a quick calculation. Given Stillman’s present age and the assumption he entered college at eighteen, subtract the number of years to make it through grad school, this left an average of approximately four years per job. Not the same institutional dedication of academics. Without thinking, he said, “Isn’t that a lot?” Immediately, he felt another pang of guilt. Why be so critical of the man?
“For a man my age?” Stillman laughed good-naturedly. “Not really. I know what you’re thinking, but we all have very different goals and styles. You’re the staid career university professor with ivy growing up your body. Nothing wrong with that. On the other hand, my thing is start-ups. Your goal is tenure with your picture on a wall of the faculty club. I want a successful IPO whose reins I hand over to someone else while I search for the next good idea. We have very different goals, is all.”
Jon had to admit he was right. They viewed careers from opposite poles. At a loss for something to say, he swept his hand toward framed newspaper articles on the wall. “Tell me about these.”
Stillman’s eyes twinkled with satisfaction. “Accolades and battles. And only battles won, of course. Wouldn’t do to advertise one’s losses, would it?” He turned to face Jon again. “I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. It’s egocentric and gauche to display these.”
Jon felt his face burn. “I . . . wasn’t thinking that . . . at all.”
“Sure you were.” Stillman laughed. “And you’re right, of course. It is. But you have no comprehension of what it’s like to grow up in a poor, black, working class family. Oh, hey, don’t worry, I’ll spare you all the crap I know you really don’t want to hear. But the thing you obviously don’t understand is the obstacles I faced growing up. You didn’t have mother who couldn’t grasp the concept of taking on a five thousand dollar student loan—one that would more than pay itself back numerous times—to send one of her sons to junior college. Or a father so threatened by the mere thought that his son might do better than he . . .” He raised a hand and paused. “Forgive me. I’m doing just what I promised myself I wouldn’t do. The point is, until you’ve grown up in that environment, don’t dare diss me for indulging myself with this wall of accomplishments. Think what you may, Doctor Ritter,” his smile gone, his face stone cold serious, “but don’t dare criticize me.”
Jon’s face grew hotter from a mixture of embarrassment and shame at misjudging him. He scrambled for the right words to apologize but came up empty. Stillman turned to his trophy wall again and pointed at one of the frames. “This particular article?”
The Wall Street Journal, Jon realized.
“We were competing with a much larger, better funded company. A real David and Goliath battle. And just like David, we won. Not only that, but we sailed through the FDA, hitting the market two years earlier than the competitor. With a far superior product, I might add. Now that, my friend, is something to be proud of.”
Jon vaguely remembered hearing the story. The kind that rapidly becomes biotech folklore to be told as a case study over a beer or two at national meetings.
Stillman gave Jon a friendly punch in the shoulder. “But you didn’t come here to talk about me. Come on, over here, sit down.”
They took opposite sides of the table and settled in. Stillman started with, “First, let me tell you how sorry I was when I heard of your fiancée’s passing.”
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sp; A lump formed in Jon’s throat. “Thank you.” Stillman’s sincerity further stoked Jon’s guilt. Maybe the guy was okay after all.
“Are you aware that NIH awarded us a grant to implant a small number of Alzheimer’s patients?” Jon assumed he did, because, after all, this was public information easily picked up by a Google alert. Surely Stillman closely tracked every morsel of news about competitors he could get his hands on.
Stillman gave an approving nod. “So I heard. Congratulations.” His eyes narrowed. “Your monkey data hasn’t been published yet, has it?” He began twiddling a pen between his fingers, moving it from one to another, then back again like a baton twirler, never bothering to look.
“No,” he said with obvious pride. The paper would be a blockbuster. And for a moment he savored the pride Stillman must have felt as Jon admired the trophies. “We intended to release it as the first step in recruiting for the human trial but then . . . well, I’m sure you heard about the attack and Gabriel Lippmann’s murder?”
Stillman let the pen fall to the desk, shook his head woefully, and dropped his eyes in sorrow. “I did. A tragedy for all of us in science. But I’m especially sorry for you because I know how much he meant to you, getting you started and all.”
Jon swallowed and interlaced the fingers of his hands, one into the other. “The police think it was the Nuremburg Avengers. You know about them?”
“I’ve heard of them.”
“It’s difficult . . . they—the Avengers that is—threatened to kill Wayne and me if we didn’t stop work immediately.”
Stillman pushed up from his chair, closed the office door, and came back around to sit on the corner of the desk. “Wow, that’s a pretty heavy threat. What are you going to do?”
“It’s a pretty difficult situation. Those guys are fanatics. No telling what they might do, but I’m not inclined to risk anyone’s life to find out.”
Stillman rubbed the side of his nose. “I don’t blame you.”
Jon was about to get to why he was there when Stillman said, “The job offer’s still good, if that’s why you’re here. Join the Trophozyme team. Same goes for Wayne Dobbs if that’s an issue. Do that and we’ll support your study in a heartbeat.”
There it was; exactly the attitude he hoped for, just not exactly the right offer. He wanted their financial support, not employment. He grappled for a way to explain the difference without sounding ungrateful or rude. “I’m not ready to give up being a surgeon quite yet.”
Stillman nodded thoughtfully. “So you’ve said. Okay then, how about this: sell me your technique. Let me assume all the risk. This way you can remain a surgeon and I’ll see it that your contributions to science continue along the path you’ve always intended.”
Jon didn’t even consider the offer. “Look, you know it’s not for sale. This isn’t about money,” then thought, what exactly is it about?
With a puzzled expression, Stillman cocked his head. “Maybe I’m confused. Why are you here?”
Jon decided to stop being paranoid and just lay out his plan. “Here’s the deal: I want Trophozyme to fund a small clinical trial, exactly as planned. But instead of doing it here in the States, do it offshore.”
“Offshore?” Stillman slid off the desk, dropped back into his desk chair, palmed his shaved scalp. “Interesting idea. Hmmm . . . interesting. You obviously have some place in mind. Where?”
“Korea.”
“Korea.” Stillman tilted back, eyes toward the ceiling, steepled fingers gently tapping his lower lip. “Why Korea?”
“Because I have a friend there, another neurosurgeon. He also has a lab very similar to mine. We’ve collaborated before, so I know his setup. It’ll be perfect.”
Stillman nodded. “Apparently you’ve thought about this. What exactly do you have in mind?”
Jon’s gut knotted. This was the part that killed him. “Wayne and I, partner with Trophozyme on this.”
“Partner with Trophozyme. . . Hmmm . . .” Stillman stroked his scalp again. “That’s pretty vague. Be more specific on exactly what that means.”
“You fund the cost of the trial and I’ll find a way to execute it.”
Stillman laughed and picked up the pen again. “Damn it Jon, do I look like a fat old geezer with twelve reindeer who lives in the North Pole?”
Jon wasn’t sure how to answer.
Stillman said, “I’m going to be perfectly blunt. What does Trophozyme get out of this?”
“My formulation.”
Around his fingers went the pen again. “That’s not very specific, Jon. What exactly does that mean? The entire formulation written out in recipe form? Licensing rights? What? You need to lay it out for me.”
Jon realized he hadn’t thought this through nearly well enough. Not in the sense of a business contract. And this, he realized, was just another indication of how foreign these negotiations were to him. “Exclusive licensing rights.” There, that sounded about right.
Stillman laughed again. “I can see you don’t know much about deals. You’re a professor. That means the university probably owns everything you discover. Unless, of course, you have a prior agreement with them. So the question is, who owns your technique, you or the university?”
Sensitive subject. And the only bone of contention with Wayne. “I do.”
Stillman’s eyebrows went up. “What about Dobbs?”
“No, it’s totally mine.”
Stillman seemed to be genuinely surprised and viewed Jon with what appeared to be new respect. “And he’ll go along with this, ah, plan?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” Stillman let the pen fall on the desk, tilted back in the chair, and wiped his scalp once more, “The Koreans, huh,” then shook his head. “I’m going to be perfectly blunt with you. I don’t trust Koreans one iota. Never have. Never will. This buddy of yours, what’s to keep him from screwing us and stealing the formula? We’ll end up with nothing and they’ll walk away with your technique. We can’t risk that.”
“Already thought of that. The only way to ensure they don’t is for me to personally do every step of the work. No one will have access to anything proprietary and I’ll make sure nothing leaks.”
Stillman thought about that for several seconds. “Long as we’re being blunt, let me say, you’re asking for an investment of at least a million to fund work you’ve been told—by a group of crazies, I might add—to stop. Under threat of death.” He paused. “Say I put up the money and they kill you? Then what?” He turned both palms up. “I’m out the money and the results. I take risk in business every day, sure, but this deal? Man, I have to tell you it just doesn’t seem like the kind of risk I want to take.”
Much as Jon hated to admit it, Stillman had a point. One option was to give up. The other option was to find a deal that would work for them both. “What do you suggest we do, then?”
“There are two risks I need to mitigate. The first is that something bad happens to you. The second is that something bad happens to the study.”
“The study? Like?”
“What if, one of your patients—God forbid—dies as a result of the implant, then what?”
“It’s a small enough study that only a few people will even know about it. If things were to go bad, the results would never see the light of day. But that’s not going to happen. The implant worked in monkeys, so it’s going to work in humans.”
“Okay, so we could cover our tracks, but that still leaves me out a million bucks.”
Jon asked, “What do you suggest?”
“I have to get something out of this. You have proprietary techniques that would be useful to me. If things don’t go well, then all your methodology reverts to me. How does that sound?”
Jon hesitated a moment before agreeing.
Stillman said, “Which brings us back to what happens if you never return from Korea?”
Jon saw no other option. “If that happens, the technique reverts to you.”
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nbsp; Stillman seemed to think about that a moment. “If you’re willing to bet your life on this, I guess the least I can do is help, so here’s what I can do: Four patients. A small feasibility study—one that can be used to move forward with the FDA— is all this can be. As insurance on my investment, here’s how we’ll do it: document your technique completely as if you were publishing it. Once this is done, we place the document in the hands of a trustee. This can be an institution or a person who is not affiliated with either of us. It could even be a safe deposit box, if that makes you more comfortable. If, for any reason, the trial goes bad and/or you don’t return from Korea the technique reverts to me.”
“But what about Wayne? He’s put as many years into this as I.”
Stillman sucked his cheek, thinking it over. “What happens to Wayne if you drop dead walking out of this office?”
Jon hadn’t considered that. “The technique would go to the University, I guess. I haven’t thought about it.”
“You’re risking your life. I’m risking a million dollars. What’s Wayne risking but some time in the lab he’s been paid for? So this is my best offer. You want to take it or not?”
Jon saw no other way. “I’ll take it.”
