by Scott Turow
“My understanding was that your findings—yours and Dr. Marchetti’s and Kiril’s—were published virtually simultaneously in 1982.”
“That much is true. But how did he get there? He was definitely on the track of the human oncogene, the genetic causes of cancer—many of us were. But check the literature. See what Kiril was publishing before the experiments that identified the mutant RAS proteins in lung cancer tumors. You won’t see much that anticipates the discovery. In the field, we had thought for a while that human cancers were the product of retroviruses. They are not. So we began searching elsewhere. By the late 1970s, we successfully induced oncogenic changes in RAS in mice. Finding similar changes occurring naturally in human cancer cells was the big breakthrough, because we could then identify RAS as the culprit—codon 12, to be precise, a piece of DNA in the molecule. That’s what my work and Elena’s established. And Pafko’s, of course, if you want to call it his work.”
“I do not understand. Did Kiril not perform the experiments?”
“No, they definitely undertook the experiments and research at Easton. But I believe he lifted the experiment’s protocol.”
“How? From where?”
“From me. Here. Pafko visited his old colleagues at Harvard often in those days. The documents were on my desk, then they were gone. I can’t say I thought much of it at the time. I misplace things, always have. One reason I sat around drinking with Pafko years later at O’Hare was in the hope that if he were three sheets to the wind, he might admit what he’d done. But he’s canny. When I asked how he could have possibly conceived of those experiments, given his prior work, he laughed and said something like ‘Great minds, great minds.’ It was bullshit, if you pardon me.”
“And you’ve chosen to say nothing all these years?”
“A few confreres here know my suspicions. But a lawyer, Mr. Stern, is the last person who ought to be expressing surprise. If I disputed Kiril’s right to claim credit for the discovery, it would have led to years of litigation, in the law courts and in the scientific journals. My life’s work would become fighting Pafko instead of doing research. And what real proof did I have? I’ll always believe I’m right. Kiril was broiling in jealousy of me. I stayed here with tenure, while he ended up in the boondocks.”
Kateb means Kindle County. Stern grimaces but says nothing. He is familiar with chauvinism from those on the East Coast, who speak of Stern’s adopted hometown as the third or fourth circle of hell.
“And to my way of thinking, I made the right judgment,” Kateb adds. “Do you think it made any difference if there were two co-winners of the Nobel or three, except for having to split the prize money? I have been very fortunate. As for Pafko, the years have basically delivered their verdict on him.”
“Meaning his current troubles?”
“That is certainly one thing. From what I read, he’s virtually certain to die in the penitentiary. I would say what goes around comes around. You may not agree.”
“I am rather hopeful, actually, about the outcome of the trial.” That’s a great overstatement, but as Kiril’s lawyer he is obliged to evince confidence.
“No matter, really. His career overall has made my point.”
“Might you explain?”
“It’s rather simple. You know the routine in big science, Mr. Stern. Most famous scientists make a pathbreaking discovery in their youth, they see around some scientific corner and then spend the rest of their careers teasing out the implications. For some reason, that farsightedness disappears in the great majority of us. For Kiril, it happened earlier than most. He was ablaze with potential when he got here, but by the time they turned him out the door, he had flamed out. Instead, he’s been a kind of walking hoax. I can’t count the number of his papers in the last three decades that have been debunked—experiments where no one can duplicate his results, conclusions that go far beyond the actual evidence. I don’t mean to be immodest, but compare his CV to mine. How many major institutions has he been invited to head? Count his honorary degrees, or the scientific societies that have given him awards. More’s the pity, too. He and Lep published their paper concerning their new RAS discoveries in 2010, where they identified the receptor errors in oncogenic RAS. Take a look. Virtually no one followed up on it. The unspoken assumption in the ten or twelve places that matter was that it was more Pafko bullshit. No one was more shocked than I was when it turned out g-Livia was a successful therapy. I still don’t understand how he accomplished the initial research either. Looking back, I assumed he’d stolen it from someone else, a real scientist, but no one has come forward to say that. I actually checked the literature before you got here. But no—even a broken clock is right twice a day. Yet you can count on Kiril to fuck it up. His misbehavior has forced g-Livia off the market. It will be a while before the FDA allows it to be prescribed again, and thousands of patients will have died in the interval.”
Still ringing in shock and dismay, Stern is a bit slow to process what Kateb is saying. But it seems likely that if Basem Kateb were the US Attorney, he also would have brought murder charges against Kiril—not for giving patients g-Livia, but rather, for creating a situation in which cancer sufferers were denied it.
“And you have no date to speak to the prosecutors?” Stern asks.
“Not as yet. Should they ever call, yes, I will see them. I take it you won’t be handing them my number.”
“As they say, Doctor, that is not my job.”
“I would think not. Nor will I be picking up the phone on my own. As I told you, I decided decades ago not to waste my time trying to discipline Kiril. I’m not about to start now. And I can assure you, Mr. Stern, it will take the jaws of life to get me on the witness stand.” Dr. Kateb has no idea of the power of a federal district court judge, even one in a backwater like Kindle County, who could bring him there in handcuffs if he chose to defy a subpoena. Nonetheless, Kateb’s commitment to keep his own counsel is the only marginally hopeful news Stern can bring home from an otherwise devastating meeting.
In the taxi back to Logan, Stern finds himself completely at sea, more and more confused by what Kateb had to say. It contradicts everything Stern has taken for granted about Kiril for decades. But his knowledge base is narrow. Kiril’s colleagues at home, both at the universities and in the company, are eager to accept his eminence, because rubbing elbows with a Nobelist enhances their own reputations and that of the institutions they are part of. Almost all would be the losers if they cried out that the emperor had no clothes.
But was that the truth? Kateb was offering only his opinion. Nevertheless, he was very convincing. And it explains Kiril’s decision to move into pharmaceutical manufacturing, which has always seemed somewhat unorthodox to Stern. The dozen or so researchers in his field who matter wanted nothing to do with Kiril, so he was forced to go in a new direction.
Stern meets Marta Saturday morning at the office. Crunch time in the trial is upon them. Moses called on Friday to announce that the prosecutors will be calling Lep Pafko next. He will be Marta’s witness, but the hill will only get steeper from there for both Sterns, when the government goes on to the largely bulletproof part of their case against Kiril, the insider trading charges.
Naturally, Marta is far less surprised than her father by what Kateb said.
“So much for calling reputation witnesses,” she says. Even if they could still find a person willing to say the right things, it would never be worth the risk that the government would counter with someone like Kateb. That would turn that avenue of defense into a stroll off a cliff. In fact, this is the one thousandth reason Kiril must not testify. Once he does, the government will be free to attack Pafko’s character for truthfulness and integrity with the testimony of the scientists Kateb alluded to who regard Kiril and his work as tantamount to a hoax. Moses and Feld are probably already lying in wait, hoping the Sterns take that misstep.
Marta, who has long assumed the worst about Kiril, is cavalier, but Stern remains cres
tfallen. It is not so much that Kiril fooled him. A part of Stern had listened to Marta shouting warnings. And life, too, has taught him caution. When Clara died, a woman he’d lived with for more than thirty years, he found that there were parts of her character that were unknown continents. He had resided with a large piece of her, but not the entire woman. With mere friends or social acquaintances or clients, one’s knowledge of their interior reaches is no better than what tourists absorb about a place through a couple of visits. But even the little bit about the man Stern thought he could take for granted after forty years has been debunked.
Instead, he sits in his office straining to get any fix on the kind of person Kiril really is. Stern can’t imagine what went on inside the man, as he was standing before the King of Sweden to receive his medal, only a few feet away from the person from whom he had literally stolen the right to acclaim. Did he bother to rationalize? Or did he simply pretend even to himself that the theft had never occurred? The latter was Stern’s guess. But that, in truth, was the only thing we could do when it came to the inner life of others—guess. Donne had declared that no person is an island. He had it exactly wrong.
We all are.
20. His Father’s Son
On Monday morning, as Stern is visiting the men’s room before the start of court, Lep Pafko emerges from one of the stalls and ends up beside Stern at the next sink. They are the only two people here. Lep looks as bad as you might expect, gray and strained. Perhaps it is Stern’s imagination, but he thinks he sees a brief tremor in Lep’s lip. Whatever his professional obligations, Stern cannot help but commiserate with a man he has known since Lep was a child.
As the water runs, Stern says, “I am sure this is very difficult for you, Lep.”
Lep’s fair eyes drift toward Stern and he manages a wry smile.
“You have no idea,” he says.
“Your father understands that you have children at home and that you are in a difficult position.”
Instead of accepting what is meant to be comforting, Lep turns sharply toward Stern, the same smile now only on one side of his mouth.
“You’re a good lawyer, Sandy. But has my father actually said that to you? That he understands the position I’m in?”
Of course Kiril has not. Kiril does his best to avoid talking about Lep. Whenever he does speak of his son, his answers about Lep’s prospective testimony are little more than non sequiturs. When Stern does not reply to Lep’s question, he emits a bitter little snort.
“You don’t need to work me before I get up there, Sandy. I couldn’t feel worse. Or guiltier. I mean, he’s my father. How else am I going to feel? But please don’t tell me what he understands about me. This whole situation has given me some clarity.” Lep, like the doctor he is, stands with his long, pale hands, still wet, raised in the air. “I’ve spent my life at PT turning a blind eye to all the stupid and upsetting things Kiril has done. And he made sure this time I couldn’t accept it. But I doubt he’s spent a second thinking about the position he put me in. That’s not his nature.”
Startled by the depth of Lep’s anger, Stern, too, is motionless with his wet hands beside the sink.
“And I love PT. I love working there, and I’m proud as hell of this medication. You’ve been out to the facility a million times. Right over the front door, there’s that huge sign that says ‘Pafko Therapeutics.’ And when I walk beneath it every morning, I love the fact that what’s up there is my name, too. But tell me the truth. Do you think that’s ever dawned on Kiril? That it’s not just his name on the door?”
Lep shakes his head and walks to the dispenser for a paper towel, and is gone in a second. This is the frankest encounter Stern has had with Lep, perhaps ever, and Stern can’t help being struck by what emerged. The boy with the math book whom Stern sat next to at the dinner table decades ago relished being able to escape into a world beyond his parents’ control. He could be obedient while remaining true to himself. But as an adult, he knows that what he took as a child for freedom was, when it came to his father, simply being ignored.
Despite the inconvenient timing with court about to commence, this confrontation inevitably brings to mind Stern’s own angry doctor-son. The deep sadness creeps over him that regularly accompanies Stern’s reflections about Peter, a gloom as immobilizing as if Stern had tumbled into a vat of glue. Sixty years along in the ordeal of being Peter’s father, Stern still cannot name anything that might explain why they are so deeply and reflexively at odds. In the complex aftermath of Clara’s death, during which Peter behaved badly, they had stepped back from each other. Stern had decided to stop apologizing for himself. Peter chose physical distance and, within a year, took a job as a hospitalist at Kaiser in San Francisco.
It was Helen who, not long after Stern and she had become serious, stated out loud the suspicions Stern had long kept to himself. ‘Peter is gay.’ He was relieved to hear her say that, mostly because it offered the hope that Peter’s hostility was rooted in assumptions about his father that could be disproved. When Peter finally came out to Stern a decade later, it was the moment Stern had awaited so the healing in their relationship could begin.
‘I know you’re too old-fashioned to accept this,’ Peter said.
Stern answered, ‘Peter, I am too old-fashioned to reject my children, particularly over something that is none of my business, does no imaginable harm to any other human being, and which frankly holds the prospect of perhaps making you happier at last.’
Stern opened his arms to his son, who was a full head taller, and Peter slowly accepted the embrace. But there was no transformation between them. Three years ago, Peter married Tran, a young doctor who had been a resident in training on Peter’s service. The two had adopted a beautiful little Mexican girl, Rosa, but Stern, the child’s sole living grandfather, had seen and held her only once, when Peter came to town last year virtually unannounced for the med school graduation party for Marta’s daughter. Despite broad hints, Stern has never been invited to visit the Bay Area.
Standing in his stinky surroundings, Stern feels almost crushed by the brute force of irony. God only knows what infractions Peter accuses his father of. He made Peter’s mother unhappy? He had been self-concerned and worked too hard instead of being the kind of involved father Peter wanted? Stern will never accept the complete accuracy of either charge, but fine, say there is some fragment of truth. Contrast his behavior with Kiril’s, who all his life has exerted a selfish dominion over Lep, has stood in the sun and left his son in shadow, carried on affairs in Lep’s face, and may even have embroiled his son in actual criminality. And yet, notwithstanding his anger, Lep remains guilty and reluctant about what he must do, while Peter would be running to the witness stand for the moment he’s always seemingly yearned for—to be able to publicly declare that his father is a shit.
So again, Sandy Stern confronts a fundamental truth of his existence: The law is humanity’s sanctuary, where we retreat from unreason. And humans need the law, because they need to believe there is some justice to their interactions, a justice that God or Fate or the Universe, call it what you like, will never provide on their own.
A few minutes later, somewhat recovered, Stern takes his seat beside Marta, as court is about to begin.
“I had an encounter with Lep in the men’s room,” he whispers to his daughter. “This may go very badly for Kiril.”
Marta turns to him sharply, but the judge is coming on the bench and they must stand.
Moses is already at the podium and as soon as Sonny nods, he says, “Leopoldo Pafko.” Erect and slow, Lep enters the silent courtroom and comes forward. In the years before the death penalty was blessedly declared unconstitutional here by the State Supreme Court, Stern had two clients who were executed. Regarding it as the essence of his duty as a defense lawyer to stand beside his client no matter what, Stern attended, seated next to the family members of the victims in a row of hard chairs on the other side of a window looking into the death chamber a
nd the gurney to which the man to die was strapped. For a week after, he suffered intense migraines for the only times in his life. On both occasions, he could not comprehend why his client chose to walk into the room, still in manacles and leg irons. Were it he, Stern thought, he’d make them drag him. He is reminded of those two men, Ray Sarkis and Tyrone Wallace, as he watches Lep walk before Sonny and raise his hand to take the oath.
Bad as he appeared in the men’s room, Lep’s usual anxious look is even more extreme as he assumes the stand. His brow is compressed and his face appears frozen. His tongue runs over his lips frequently, and he squints at Moses single-mindedly.
Unlike Innis, Lep received a formal grant of immunity and, in response to Moses’s crisp questioning, Lep explains his understanding of the terms and the need to tell the truth. Then Moses goes to the obvious.
“Would you rather not be here, Dr. Pafko?”
“With all my heart,” he answers.
Watching, Stern sees a few jurors smile tightly, including the female CPA, the cancer survivor who, Stern has decided, does not regard the defense with much warmth.
Accompanying Lep as he entered a few minutes ago was his wife, Greta, the tallish German immigrant Lep met while he was finishing his MD-PhD at Harvard and MIT. Greta herself was completing a doctorate in chemistry, and once they returned to Kindle County, she worked at PT until the second of their three daughters was born. She is a concert-quality violist who taught all three girls different instruments, so the four females in Lep’s house often entertain visitors with string quartets.
Crude theory would declare that sons gravitate toward women like their mothers, and to Stern’s observation, Greta is similar to Donatella in some ways—long, pretty, and always composed—and in others not like her at all. If Greta ever wore makeup or fashionable clothes, she has given that up amidst the toil of motherhood. She also lacks almost all of her mother-in-law’s social grace and warmth. On the other hand, at least according to Kiril, she exerts the same gravitational control over Lep’s household. As Lep’s testimony begins, his eyes dart frequently toward Greta, appearing to seek approval, which she delivers with a subtle nod. Donatella is planted on the pew, right next to her daughter-in-law. They are on the prosecutor’s side of the courtroom, nearer the jury, but that perhaps is merely because they have better sight lines to the witness stand.