Intuition

  The congressman had a term for everything. He used his opening statement as a battering ram, expatiating on the trust of the taxpayers, and his personal belief in accountability. He declared that those funded by the public were, in fact, public servants, not scientific grandees, not princes of the realm, not prospectors, but public servants, as he himself was, and all his colleagues on the subcommittee as well. Several aides nodded. Redfield's logic was unassailable; his dogmatic public servitude irreproachable; above all, his oratory was uninterruptible.

  A C-SPAN video camera recorded on its tripod, and the print journalists took notes until Redfield spoke so long that even they began to scribble less. Redfield had refined the art of circling back upon his arguments and restating them with ever-greater strength. If he bored his listeners, then that was his venomous intent. He spoke until his opponents lost their concentration, anesthetized by his rhetoric. He seemed, Ann thought, to hold even Sandy in his thrall. Like a python, Redfield would squeeze the life and very air out of the room.

  His arguments were entirely simpleminded, concluded Jacob, at Ann's side. But then, Jacob was hard put to look upon a politician as anything other than a moron. While Ann fretted that Sandy would not have time or spirit left to defend himself, Jacob looked at Redfield and saw only pompous ignorance. He seriously underestimated Marion's opponent.

  When questioning finally commenced, the ranking Republican on the committee, Brock Lindell, took his turn, and mildly asked Feng how long he had worked at the lab, how long he'd worked with Cliff, how many projects he'd been working on, and whether he thought it was possible to pursue so many projects at once without ever misplacing paperwork. Lindell sent his queries out with parachutes, and Feng or Cliff had only to pull the string provided for their answers to float pillowed to the ground. But Redfield gave no quarter. He leaned forward in his chair and shot out questions like the trial lawyer he'd been thirty-five years before. “I would like to enter this document into the record,” he told the clerk. “A document entitled Fungi. Mr. Xiang, do you recognize this as your work?” He passed a photocopied page over to Feng.

  “This is Cliff's handwriting,” said Feng.

  “Granted. However, it is my understanding that these are transcriptions of sayings and definitions that you invented in the lab. For example: ‘Government Appropriations for Cancer Research: GAC (acronym): “sick tax.” Conference (noun): “cancer junket.”'”

  “Well, they were definitions attributed to me,” Feng said nervously. “They were meant to be facetious.”

  “Were they?”

  “Of course.”

  Redfield scanned his copy. “‘Research (verb): “To search again.” Research initiative (verb): “To search again for the next five years of funding.”'” The congressman whipped off his reading glasses. “Perhaps these definitions were meant to be facetious; they are also quite revealing.”

  “I must interject here,” said Byron Zouzoua. “This is an extraordinary line of questioning, which does not focus on experiments or data, but on the culture of the laboratory.”

  “In my opinion, that culture is highly relevant,” said Redfield, “particularly when it's a culture that scoffs at the economic realities of medical research.”

  Zouzoua lobbed back, “I worry about focusing on ephemera like private jokes. You are trying to characterize a scientific culture that is, in fact, complicated by the diverse national cultures involved. You're shifting this inquiry away from cold, hard fact into a realm of cultural and character analysis. And how quickly we find, sir, that character analysis devolves into character assassination.”

  “I see your point,” said Redfield, but he did not apologize for making his, and as he continued, no detail was too small, no connection too tangential, to pursue. “We have received the ink analysis of your three pages of notes,” he told Cliff, “and the findings are unequivocal. You used one pen to record the data on these mice. One pen to record the identification numbers of these mice, their date of dissection, and the outcome of injection with the R-7 virus. One pen was used here, and one pen only, suggesting that in fact these notes were all made on the same day—they were not, as you stated earlier, jottings made at different times, over different months. These notes refer to the one group of mice, and record one set of data. You published some of that data, but you withheld the rest. I would—”

  Tim Borland half rose from his seat. “I would like to record my strong objection to this implication of my client. Despite repeated requests, we have not been able to review this so-called ink analysis. We have not been privy to the methods by which the Secret Service studied the ink on the page. We have not been allowed to contact the agents who conducted the analysis, nor have we received copies of their report. We have been blindfolded and blindsided by a process that seems designed to intimidate my client and obfuscate the evidence at hand. Until we receive these materials, my client cannot answer questions on the matter.”

  This was a stout defense. Still, Sandy stared down at the table, disheartened to sit with the others, who were cowering beneath the procedural arguments of the attorneys. Cliff and Feng spoke gingerly. They were circumspect and fearful, coached by their attorneys to talk little, and answer to the point, or not at all. Where was the outrage that Sandy knew they must feel?

  Marion had never been a great public speaker. She read her prepared statement without once looking up from the page. When Redfield questioned her about exactly what kind of supervision she had provided Cliff and Feng, she answered haltingly.

  “Do you think you could have done more to watch the postdoctoral researchers in your lab?” Redfield demanded.

  “Yes,” she told him.

  Sandy gazed at her, urging silently: Oh, Marion, look him in the eye, at least. Tell him: Yes, of course I could have done more, but in a lab a certain amount of delegation is necessary. I wasn't there at every moment while these experiments were conducted, but the methods, the results, and the underlying strategy here were always in my purview.

  “Presumably you are responsible for those postdoctoral students who work in your lab,” said Redfield.

  Not students, Sandy corrected silently. Remind him they aren't students. But Marion didn't correct Redfield.

  “Presumably you work in a supervisory role,” Redfield said.

  Marion nodded.

  “Then where were you when these experiments were going on? Where were you when your students recorded their results?”

  She flinched, visibly shaken. Sybil Halbfinger tried to interject on Marion's behalf, but Redfield pressed on.

  “Here is my question for you: have you done anything at all to safeguard the scientific process?”

  Ann watched Sandy's neck and shoulders tense, his fingers clench. He was angry, and as Redfield questioned Marion, his anger grew. He had entered the room obediently, listened quietly, submitting to the terms and restrictions of this hearing. But how could Redfield interrogate Marion like that? How could he treat her with such disrespect? She knew more than ten Redfields; her tiniest conjecture was worth a thousand of his nostrums. Marion, he pleaded inwardly, speak up.

  Heart beating faster, Sandy curbed his impulse to interrupt. He bit his lip, waiting for his turn to speak. The session was long, and threatened to go overtime, and still Sandy waited furiously at the table. The reporters were sidling off, shuffling out the door to other rooms. The congressmen who had already spoken had excused themselves as well. Each had said his piece and then ducked out. The little room, so crowded before, was emptying. When his turn came at last, Sandy scarcely had an audience. There was no crowd to absorb his rage, nor did his prepared statement come close to expressing his indignation. “A manifesto is unnecessary here,” Thayer had informed him when they prepared Sandy's statement in Boston. “A recapitulation of your letter in defense of science is exactly what we don't need.”

  Sandy glared at the text before him. Thayer's language was well considered, bristling with refined contempt toward ORIS and
its inquiry. But contempt was not what Sandy wanted here. His lawyer had advised him to fight this battle with thistles, and Sandy needed spears and sabers. He glanced up from his typed statement and saw Redfield looking at his watch and then conferring with an aide behind him.

  He'd witnessed a one-man tribunal masquerading as a House hearing. He had watched Redfield interrogate Cliff and Feng and even Marion. His throat tightened as he read. He'd seen Redfield batter and bruise his own partner and collaborator, the best scientist he knew—and by far the most principled. How could he let this pass? How could he allow this hack to brutalize her?

  He put down his prepared remarks. “What I've seen here today has shocked and disgusted me,” he burst out, ignoring the pressure of Houghton-Smith's hand on his arm. “What I've witnessed today has no place in what we call a democratic country.”

  How well Louisa knew her father. He did like a beau geste, and he did love to launch himself forward, alone on his horse, into fiery debate. He was wily and pragmatic, but his blood was up, and he forgot himself.

  “I came here to participate in an open, honest inquiry,” said Sandy, “and what I've found is nothing more than a show trial, a witch hunt in which a few unlucky researchers are held up on display—hostages to Representative Redfield's assault on scientific research in America. We have come here, American citizens and one Chinese national, seeking a chance to prove our innocence and clear our names. Instead, we've suffered hostile questioning, an outrageous Secret Service inquiry, and repeated attempts to turn our personal papers, and even our private jokes, against us. All this in the name of public accountability. Mr. Redfield, you have talked a great deal about a culture of deception in scientific research today. With all due respect, sir, I feel compelled to question the culture at this hearing: a culture of governmental interference and intimidation, a culture of hatred, ignorance, paranoia, and suspicion I can only liken to McCarthyism.”

  Redfield was listening now. Everyone in the room was listening. In vain, Houghton-Smith whispered in Sandy's ear. In vain, Ann prayed silently for her husband to collect himself, but Sandy had not finished. He was violating protocol, almost certainly damaging his own cause, but he would not stop speaking; indeed, he could not.

  “Is it any accident you keep a list of scientific projects you dislike?” he asked Redfield. “Or am I the only one who looks at the Red List and sees the specter of those creative men and women who were blacklisted? Is it any accident—”

  But Redfield did not let Sandy finish. Leaving aside his own closing statement, he answered Sandy's fire with his own. “We have a fine tradition in America of taking the part of the victim when we are called to account,” he said, “and I see you play the victim well. But let's remember who the victims truly are when it comes to scientific fraud: not you, Dr. Glass, not I, not any of my colleagues here. The victims are the taxpayers. The victims are the hopeful and deluded public. I see that you're offended. It offends you as a physician and a scientist that a governmental committee might call you to account. It offends you deeply that we might question your work, your methods, and your results, or probe into information that you insist is of a private nature. Let me ask you this: if your research process is private, then why do you accept public funding for it?

  “You have professed surprise and shock at the questioning here. Do you know what shocks me? I am shocked by the aura of entitlement among American scientists. I am shocked by the expectation of public trust. Well, where I come from trust is earned. What have you done here to earn my trust?

  “There is another victim in this matter,” said Redfield. “And her name is Robin Decker. You knew her well, but you chose not to listen to her. She came to you and Marion Mendelssohn to speak up about the irregularities she'd seen and the fraudulent claims she'd witnessed. She went to other scientists and pleaded for a full hearing. However, her findings received only a cursory review. Since that time, in pursuit of the truth, she has given up years of research to start over in a menial technical position. She has given up her postdoctoral salary and her benefits. When she arrived in Washington to testify this week, she stayed in the home of a friend's parents, because she could not afford the cost of a hotel. Let's remember who the real victims are.”

  Downcast, almost sorrowful, Marion listened to this description of Robin's struggle. But Sandy shook his head defiantly.

  “Robin had a full hearing,” Sandy declared. “Don't try to pretend otherwise. We have statements from every scientist there.”

  “Yes, let's talk about your show trial, your so-called seminar,” Redfield snapped. “Your laboratory is the oppressive regime. You are the dictator there in a totalitarian system. Yours is a culture of accepted truths corrupted by your desire for more and still more funding, and a lust for quick results. Your lab is but one example in a long line ORIS is just now bringing to light. Exaggeration is rewarded. Lies are justified.”

  Redfield was living up to his name, for his face was reddening. “I fault the senior scientists in each case. I fault the principal investigators who nurture quick fixes and engineer the fast track from a whiff of success to pharmaceutical riches or academic glory. I fault the principals who should know better,” he said, nearly spitting out the words. “You are collaborators in the true sense of the word. You reward intellectual dishonesty. In the face of good publicity you sacrifice good practices. In the face of possible results you stifle all dissent. Your rationalizations are no better than those of the Germans who collaborated with the Nazis.”

  Redfield's staffers cringed. Reflexively, Ian Morgenstern ducked his head as if to avoid a blow. In the passion of the moment, Redfield didn't notice. He spoke only to Glass. At Sandy's side, Houghton-Smith stared in amazement. Sandy had spoken recklessly; he'd forgotten everything, and yet he'd provoked the congressman to even more treacherous rhetorical heights. Redfield had invoked the Nazis. As in tennis, Sandy had drawn the error, and scored a victory.

  But Sandy was no tennis player. The day was won, but he did not retire from the court. Even as Houghton-Smith gestured for his client to desist, Sandy leaned into his microphone and said, “I insist on responding to Mr. Redfield's last statement.”

  The clerk announced that time was up. The representative from Tennessee suggested that they all adjourn.

  “I'm sorry,” Sandy said. “I cannot let this pass.”

  The floor was his again; every man and woman remaining shocked awake.

  “Sir,” Sandy said, “I take exception to your remarks as a scientist, as an American, but above all, as a Jew. Six million of my people perished in the Holocaust, among them members of my own extended family. To compare my conduct to that of Nazi collaborators is an insult to me and to the entire Jewish community. Such a statement is beyond tasteless; it is deeply anti-Semitic, and I demand an apology.”

  For a moment the room was silent. Well played, Jacob thought. And in the back row, Jeff Yudelstein watched in wonder. Even he, the newest of reporters, saw what Sandy Glass had achieved. Redfield was on the defensive. Still testy, Redfield was now the one explaining himself. His analogy was not meant as an insult to American Jews, but as an indictment of corruption in the scientific community, a culture of falsehood in which compliance was rewarded and truth tellers shot down. His analogy, perhaps unfortunate, perhaps misleading, was not at all meant as a slight to the sacred memory of those who perished. He was clarifying mightily, but he was too late. The words had sprung from his mouth and flown into every notebook and tape recorder, to multiply in print and on the radio, and on every public access cable station.

  This would be huge for Feng. Byron Zouzoua realized it instantly. The Holocaust trumped everything. The accusation of anti-Semitism lifted the discourse to an entirely new level. Media attention on Feng, the brilliant, inscrutable Chinese, could hardly compete with this, the representative's anti-Semitic faux pas.

  Thayer Houghton-Smith felt his stomach lurch again from despair to hope. He had nearly given up on his bull-in-the-china
-shop client, and then Glass invoked the Holocaust. He had dropped the H-bomb. What more could anybody say? Was Sandy actually a genius?

  Was he insane? Marion wondered, half in awe at this oratorical excess.

  Ann bent her head to hide her astonished face. She was sure Sandy had never uttered words like these in his life. Her husband had never used the term my people, except perhaps in the punch line of some Jewish joke. Instinctively she understood he spoke metonymically: by people he meant Marion. When he demanded an apology, what he wanted was an apology to Marion, whose rough handling enraged him. Even now, after all these years, Sandy's deep attachment, his love for Marion, still took Ann by surprise. To see him defend Marion so recklessly, to watch him throw himself in front of her, hurt, even though Ann felt, high-mindedly and politically, that his behavior should make her proud.

  9

  AS REDFIELD swept out of the hearing room with his staff surrounding him, rebuffing journalists in a rear-guard maneuver, Charlotte and Louisa Glass were riding a tall bus an hour north of Boston to visit Kate at Hill. Parents' Weekend at the Hill Academy was scheduled to begin that evening, and Ann, with her usual care, had asked that one of them go up for the first night to keep Kate company until her parents arrived the next morning. Both sisters had volunteered. It wasn't just a matter of taking care of Kate; it seemed a point of family pride as well, to go out to Hill, hold up the flag, and guard the home front.

  The sisters were the only two passengers on the bus, and the driver seemed to have forgotten them as he picked up speed through the dun-colored farms. The John Parrish Hill Academy had not a single hill to its name, and Charlotte could see the church steeple from far off. “Excuse me? Excuse me!” she called to the bus driver. Swaying, she and Louisa made their way to the front.