Jerry held the phone in both hands. This was good—Gloria Croft and Edmund Mathews had slept together ten, twelve years ago. And clearly it hadn’t ended well because Gloria was apparently enjoying trying to ruin Edmund. But for what Jerry had in mind, there had to be more. This was good, but it wasn’t enough.
“Okay, I like this, but I need more. Keep digging. Try and figure out why it ended between them, and why it ended so badly.”
“All right, got it.”
Jerry sat back in his chair. He was a man with a lot of secrets, which is why he assumed everyone else had them. Some of Jerry’s secrets concerned the fact that he was unfaithful to Charlotte, his wife of twenty-two years. He had had affairs with some of his patients, one of which continued after Trotter ended his medical practice and went into finance. It was still going on, with trysts at an apartment Trotter maintained in the Village for that express purpose. Trotter didn’t feel any guilt about Charlotte. He thought of it as a kind of deal even though Charlotte had never been approached about it. He played around, and she lived the high life. Shopping was her sport.
From Jerry’s perspective risk was a big part of life. Everybody handled risk differently. He thought he handled risk well, which was what made him a good hedge fund guy. Others handled risk poorly. The real question that dogged Jerry’s mind at that moment was how much would have to be on the line for someone to do something truly desperate. He was just beginning to think there might be a way to solve the problem that Edmund had tossed into his lap.
Jerry Trotter had another secret, one that weighed on his mind more heavily than any other. It had nothing to do with women. Not only had Jerry taken a very sizable personal stake in LifeDeals, in addition to the position his fund had acquired publicly, but he had made a third and completely clandestine investment that was larger than the other two stakes combined. Jerry had studied what Edmund and Russell had set up with LifeDeals, read the business plans, and pored over the sales reports. He had commissioned his own secret research and paid lawyers hefty fees to set up financial instruments ready to be sold at a few days’ notice. And then, masked by a series of offshore shell companies, he had set up the bare bones of a parallel company that would mimic LifeDeals, right down to the type of policies it went after. As Edmund never tired of saying, life insurance was a $26 trillion business in the USA alone. There was plenty of money to go around.
Edmund and Russell’s bad news about regenerative medicine had hit Jerry Trotter like a hammer blow, much more than Edmund could have guessed. His due diligence had completely missed it, as had Edmund’s. To his partner and his firm, LifeDeals’ predicament was unfortunate but it hardly threatened the hedge fund’s success, even in the short term. But Jerry stood to lose much more. His personal stake was very large but also survivable. But if the shadow company that he was rolling out went down, he was probably ruined. The various subsidiaries were already buying policies. Individually, each was tiny compared with LifeDeals’. Together, Jerry had once been proud to think, they were larger.
Over the course of approximately eighteen-plus hours, from the moment he’d left the Terrasini restaurant, Jerry Trotter had become an extremely desperate man. He hadn’t slept all night, instead using his old calculator and various files and portfolios to try to figure out ways in which he could emerge from this intact. He knew he was clutching at straws with Harry Hooper, but he was hoping against hope that Edmund Mathews had something more than just money at stake, something that would mean Jerry didn’t have to try to fix this mess all on his own. Jerry had few qualms, but he much preferred to delegate the truly dirty stuff, the stuff that could get you thrown in jail or worse.
21.
ONE CENTRAL PARK WEST
NEW YORK CITY
MARCH 4, 2011, 11:55 A.M.
By noon Jerry was near to being a basket case. After finishing the call with Harry Hooper, he went back to doing what he’d done at the end of the night: surfing the Internet just to have something to do. Jerry was buzzing on the amphetamines he’d taken to keep him awake and he knew he had thirty-six to forty hours until he crashed. Every couple of hours he drank a Red Bull, and he chugged Diet Cokes constantly. His wife, Charlotte, had no idea what was going on but was familiar enough with the routine to keep well out of her husband’s way. For Jerry the Internet was a wonderful resource and babysitter, so to speak. You could find out anything you wanted to know on it, as well as plenty of things you didn’t know you wanted to know. It couldn’t help much with finding the Fountain of Youth or proving the existence of God, but otherwise, it was golden.
The Internet was particularly useful when it came to providing practical solutions to all manner of problems. Jerry had recently discovered how to tune his universal remote so that it operated the controls on his TV, and he was grateful for that. This was a different kind of problem. As he sat alone in his darkened study with the shades drawn, he stared at the screen on his Mac, following threads in obscure discussion groups, piling up memberships in esoteric organizations, clicking on links that took him to some tortured recesses of our collective consciousness as represented on the World Wide Web.
Some of Jerry’s on-screen reading reminded him of being at medical school. What he wouldn’t have given to have had this resource back then! The dry phrasing of the medical material hadn’t changed in thirty years. Jerry thought he’d perhaps spent a couple of hours reading about salmonella when he was a student. He’d always been slightly germophobic, especially when it came to the more powerful microbes, and reading about this one made him uncomfortable. But Dr. Rothman’s first specialty, the one that brought him his first Nobel, was fascinating.
It was such a versatile and dangerous bacteria.
The longer he sat at his desk, the more convinced Jerry became that only one course of action was open to him. He was initially horrified by the thought, but it looked like there were no other options, and he hated to be backed into a corner. Whenever he got squeamish, Jerry pondered the prospect of being broke and disgraced. If it all came crashing down, he’d be a laughingstock. Some ambitious hack would write a book about him, and he’d come across like a buffoon, an idiot. He would avoid that fate at any cost.
Once Jerry had the idea percolating in his mind, really all he needed was the resolve and the money. Spending hours researching certain specialized activities on the Internet had convinced him of something else: Money really could buy you anything. He had the money. He just had to convince himself he could follow it through.
Now, toward midday, the throwaway cell phone rang again. Trotter was hoping for Hooper, but he got Brubaker.
“What do you have?” Trotter said.
“Confirmation that those two guys are definitely the leaders in this organ-making field. Way out in front. Independently confirmed beyond that source I mentioned. And no one can be precise on the timeline because it depends on the results of tests that no one can predict. They might do a test and it doesn’t work, which sets them back a week, a month. Or it does work and it’s on to the next one.”
“But eventually it’s going to work?”
“That’s what I’m hearing.”
“Too much to hope that it blows up in their face.”
“If you’re looking for them to fail, doesn’t look like it’s gonna happen. From every source, they’re very confident.”
“How do you know?”
“So I’m told. Plus they’ve formed a private company to control the patents that have been applied for. And it’s not one patent. It is a whole series of patents to be sure they’ll control the whole field.”
“Thanks, I figured. That means they’re close.”
“Not necessarily—just means they’re confident they’re going to get there.”
“How’d you find out about the company?”
“You really wanna know?”
“Indulge me.”
“Okay, boss. I have a friend in the New York State Division of Corporations. Can find out when people regist
er corporations or LLCs. Comes in handy when guys set up limited liability companies to hide money from their wives.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Rothman Medical they call it. So it wasn’t hard to find. Registered two weeks ago. They probably registered it overseas too, in better tax locations. As I said, they’re being thorough.”
“And who are the partners?”
“The members of the company? Just the same two guys.”
Jerry ended the call. Rothman and Yamamoto. It seemed like the two of them were piloting the whole ship on their own. Jerry checked his watch. It was nearly twelve-thirty, almost four and a half hours since he’d spoken with Hooper. Suddenly Jerry felt crushingly tired. It was vital to him that Hooper find something he could use as leverage on Edmund Mathews. His brain was close to fried; he had to have someone help him with this. He knew Hooper would call him the second he had anything, but like the previous evening, he couldn’t resist calling.
“It’s me,” he said redundantly when Hooper picked up.
“Is there a problem?”
“Just checking in,” Jerry said, trying to control his voice.
With his antennae constantly up, Hooper sensed there was a problem, and the problem was Jerry. Jerry had said only five words, but it sounded to Hooper like Trotter was tweaking on crystal meth. Having been a policeman, he’d had to deal with all manner of drugs. “You don’t sound so good.”
“I’m tired is all.”
“Well, I got some lines in the pond,” said Hooper. “Just waiting for a bite. Just try and relax.”
Sure, thought Jerry, as he broke the connection. That’s easy for you to say.
22.
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
NEW YORK CITY
MARCH 4, 2011, 12:35 P.M.
The night before, Pia had taken the time to set the alarm that George had given her as well as her own cell phone and had awakened refreshed and ready to go at 6:30. She’d slept like a rock. First time in more than a week. After showering, Pia had taken a trip to the cafeteria and knocked on George’s door bearing a toasted bagel with cream cheese and a cup of coffee.
“Wow, this is a first,” George had said when he answered the door. “And you brought breakfast. Come in!”
“I’m just returning the favor. Or favors. But where were you yesterday and the day before? I was late both days, and yesterday I ended up scrubbing beakers for two hours as punishment.”
“Oh, I . . .”
“Doesn’t matter. I have some news.”
“Good news?”
“I think so.”
George had continued getting ready while Pia sat on his bed.
“Rothman wants me to work in his lab full-time when I graduate.”
George had come out of the bathroom holding his toothbrush. His mouth was agape and foaming.
“Can he do that?”
“I think around here, he can do pretty much whatever he wants. All he has to do is threaten to go to Harvard or Stanford.”
“So what did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything. For one thing, I was too stunned, and for another, he told me to think about it. But it’s a no-brainer. I’m going to say yes. I’ll talk to the dean about postponing my residency. I imagine I can still qualify as a Ph.D. student. But the important thing is to work in his lab. You can’t believe what’s happening in there. He’s going to become even more famous. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wins another Nobel.”
George had returned to the bathroom and stood in front of his mirror. He looked himself in the eye and bit his tongue.
“That’s great, Pia. Congratulations.” He had tried to sound convincing, but didn’t think he managed it.
“I thought you were going to give me one of your rants about Rothman.”
“Hey, if this is what you want to do, I think you should do it.” He bit his tongue again.
“My thoughts exactly. Come on, George! Hurry up, we’re going to be late.”
The early morning had been dark and a cold drizzle was in the air. March was not one of the best months in New York City. George and Pia had hurried to their assignments, talking about how their first days had gone.
“So what’s it like working with Will McKinley?”
“He’s a bit of an ass and into himself. Rothman thinks he’ll go into plastic surgery. Anyway, he’s holding his own since he’s smart enough. I do like Lesley.”
“I’m sure that Rothman’s comment was not meant as a compliment. I’ve heard he’s never said anything positive about anybody.”
Pia had merely raised her eyebrows without commenting.
“McKinley reckons he’s God’s gift to women. I’m sure you figured that out.”
Pia had shrugged, as if to say, “And?”
“Is he leaving you alone?”
“I can handle Will McKinley, believe me. He is quite cute though.”
George had caught up the stride after momentarily lagging behind Pia. He looked across at her. She was smiling, having a laugh at George’s expense. He couldn’t help but laugh along with her. Silently he chided himself for being such a wimp.
The morning passed uneventfully for the students. They spent their time on their respective projects in the organ bath unit. Pia also spent several more hours reading about pH buffers designed to be used for tissue culture. The maintenance man had still not finished in her office or in Rothman’s office either and wires still hung out of both ceilings. The electrical blueprints that had been in Pia’s cubbyhole were now in Rothman’s office. Pia had gone in to see if the worker was there as he wasn’t in her space. She wanted to give him an earful about the job not being done. But he wasn’t in there either, and after starting her reading, she forgot about him altogether.
As if taking a cue from jealous George, Will showed up and tried to engage Pia in small talk. Pia wasn’t sure if he was hitting on her or not but couldn’t have cared if he was. She answered his first few questions but then told him directly she wanted to concentrate on her reading. He took the hint and vanished.
At twelve thirty-five Rothman and Yamamoto appeared from the depths of the BSL-3. Pia couldn’t help but notice that they were acting out of character. They were actually talking excitedly to each other. Pia didn’t stare directly but watched out of the corner of her eye. The lab was quiet, which was why she had heard them emerge. It seemed that everybody was at lunch.
All at once Yamamoto came toward her as Rothman disappeared into his office but without shutting his door. Even that was out of the ordinary. Pia sensed that something was going on.
“Where are the other students?” Yamamoto asked when he reached Pia’s side. His voice had what Pia would have described as an anticipatory ring.
Pia looked up. “I believe in the organ bath unit,” she said.
“Good,” Yamamoto said. “I want you in there too. Rothman and I want to show you students something.”
Five minutes later all five people were in the organ bath room attired as per usual in caps, gowns, masks, and booties.
“Okay,” Rothman said, clasping his gloved hands together in excitement. After Pia’s surprising talk with him the previous evening and now his excited behavior, she felt she was seeing a side of Rothman that she never imagined existed. “Dr. Yamamoto and I want to show you something but in the strictest confidence. You will be here a month, Pia longer, but we would be very grateful if you could keep what you’re about to see to yourselves in that period and thereafter. Agreed?”
The three nodded their assent.
“Good. We don’t want anyone to get excited prematurely. The stakes here are very high.”
As he talked, Rothman edged toward the back of the room. Set in the wall was a door with another security pad like the one on the main door outside. Rothman shielded the code pad with his body, punched in a code, which Pia assumed was the same as for the other security doors, and pulled open the door. Dr. Yamamoto held it as Rothman stepped over
the threshold, followed by the students. Yamamoto stepped in and closed the door behind him.
They were standing in a room that was maybe ten feet square, an identical but smaller version of the one they had just left. The five people made the room feel crowded. The same bluish light filled the room, which had its own HVAC system that hummed a little louder than its larger neighbor. The recessed ceiling light illuminated two carts like the ones they had been working with next door. They stood side by side, but only one was operating.
Rothman gestured toward the bath atop the one cart. It was similar to the ones out in the main room. In it was a kidney much larger than the mouse organs. Soon they learned that it was a human kidney, and like the human kidneys in the outer room, it had been made from Yamamoto’s fibroblasts. It was a pale color and appropriately kidney-shaped. The difference was that this organ had ports through the Plexiglas wall that were connected with Y connectors to the organ’s artery, vein, and ureter.
“What you’re looking at is what is going to be the world’s first human organ exoplant made from induced pluripotent cells. This morning we received official sanction from the FDA to go ahead and attach this organ to Dr. Yamamoto’s cannulated inguinal artery and vein. We will be allowing the organ to function as it would if it were transplanted into Dr. Yamamoto’s abdomen.”
“You’ve volunteered for this?” Will asked Yamamoto.
“Yes, of course,” Yamamoto said with enthusiasm. “It is a great honor for me.”
“When will you do it?” Pia asked. It seemed as if she was being overwhelmed on a daily basis in Rothman’s laboratory.
“As soon as we can schedule it with the surgery department. It will be done in one of the main operating rooms for safety’s sake. We’ll allow the organ to function for several hours while we monitor it carefully. It’s going to be a big day. A milestone really.”
But what Pia could see before her seemed like a destination in itself. The dreams inherent in what was growing next door were being made into a reality in this tiny secret chamber. Pia felt a sense of awe, that she was present at the creation of something immense and extraordinary. No one in the room was saying a word. Pia stared at the artificial kidney sitting in its nutrient solution, the blue light reflecting in the bath and flickering over her face. She had been working in Rothman’s cathedral but now she had seen the shrine. She knew that Rothman would have preferred the organ to be a pancreas, but she knew he knew that would not be far behind.