The Last Trial

by Scott Turow

  What was the old line? You don’t get to pick your parents.

  “He’d already unblinded the dataset when I saw him there,” Innis says.

  “Lep had?”

  “It was right on the screen. He showed me. That’s completely legitimate, by the way, with people dying. That’s why the sponsor gets the codes. But you’re supposed to report it. Anyway, it was a bad moment looking at those numbers.”

  “You realized that your road to the exit had just been barricaded?”

  “That was the first thing I thought: I’m fucked. I’d given my life to PT, and that med was my whole future. Either I stayed and watched Kiril cavort with Olga, or I walked away to live like an old lady who can’t afford to eat anything but cat food. And so I actually said it out loud, ‘Let’s fuck Kiril.’ I had no idea how Lep would react, even then, but talk about a guy who’d finally had enough. We war-gamed it. It was his idea to call Wendy Hoh and say he was Kiril.”

  Stern frowns. “I have thought of that,” says Stern, “but I know that Lep could have come up with far cleverer ways of altering the database that would have fooled the safety monitors and satisfied Wendy Hoh.”

  Innis laughs lightly. “Naturally. But we had to do something that would look like Kiril. Given a problem, Kiril’s first instinct is always to try to bullshit someone. We both thought it was a long shot Wendy would change the data, but once she believed she was talking to the world-famous Dr. Pafko, she would have danced the boogaloo to make him happy. If Lep told her to change her own name, she would have.”

  “So instead of another trip to Stockholm, Kiril goes to Marion?”

  “At that moment, both of us would have enjoyed that outcome. But the truth, Sandy, is neither of us gave any serious thought to the idea that these were anaphylactic deaths. Normally, if a medication produces an allergic response, you’d expect to see that in some part of the patient population long before a year. We were ninety percent sure we had a simple, solvable issue here—a drug interaction with some medication all these patients took, or a manufacturing problem. Lep thought the protein was denaturing and becoming toxic, which could be prevented by constant refrigeration until g-Livia was administered. Whatever the problem was, we assumed we could figure it out and solve it quickly.”

  Stern says nothing, but he makes no effort to hide his skepticism, and Innis leans closer to be more persuasive. She looks far different today, compared with his visit last month, when her casual appearance was more managed than he realized. Today he has truly caught her unaware, and he can see what light makeup hid—an unevenness in her complexion and a lack of color. Her posture is no longer what was taught in the day in finishing schools, and she slumps a bit. But it is bitterness that’s most decidedly changed her appearance: a curl at the lips, the weight of anger throughout her face. The day he was here last month she had controlled every detail for maximum appeal. He reminds himself that the same is probably true of the story she is telling now.

  “I don’t want to pretend that we weren’t grown-ups and professionals,” Innis says. “We knew the right thing to do was stop and investigate. But as experienced researchers, neither of us saw much merit in the idea that after a year of use, some new lethality had emerged that was inherent in the medication itself.

  “And the other thing you need to understand, Sandy, is that we did it all quickly. There wasn’t a lot of time for second thoughts—or much thought at all. Lep had about forty minutes before he had to go. Everything was done in half an hour.”

  “And what about the patients who might die, Innis? You still realized there was a chance of that? No thought of them?”

  “Compared to the ones whose lives were prolonged? This is a great, great medication. I don’t have to explain that to you of all people. As a general matter, I think the FDA is in a no-win position, because people blame them no matter what they do. But as a society, we build highways and drive cars because it’s convenient, even though 40,000 people die every year as a result. And don’t even get me started with handguns. We balance benefits against harms all the time. There is no question in my mind that more people have died because the agency forced us to yank g-Livia from the market than expired due to allergic reactions.”

  “So, given when Lep boarded his plane to Seattle, it had to be you, Innis, who e-mailed the screenshot of the unaltered dataset to Olga. Did Lep agree to that part, too, or was that your improvisation?”

  “I did it after he left.” Innis’s teeth are perfect and white, but her smile is nasty and vulpine. “I reached Lep right before his plane took off. I wanted him to know, so he was prepared if Olga talked to Kiril about the dataset. Lep actually laughed at first. He isn’t the president of Olga’s fan club either. But after he had a second to think about it, he was pissed—he said it was an unnecessary risk. But we agreed that if Kiril asked about the e-mail, Lep would say it was a prank. Things were tense enough between Kiril and Olga and Lep that his father would believe that Lep could be a bit juvenile for a second and enjoy giving them both heart failure.”

  Lep’s reaction on the plane was correct, though. E-mailing the incriminating version of the database was an unnecessary risk—although Stern is not long in realizing Innis’s point.

  “This way, Innis, if investigators ever caught wind of all of this and Kiril went to Marion, you might get the pleasure of seeing Olga in an adjoining cell.”

  “She’s a scheming twat, Sandy.”

  Stern is not much for name-calling, but if he were, it’s not Olga he would single out that way. Measuring the look on Stern’s face, Innis adds, “She ruined my life, Sandy. Don’t ask me to feel sorry for her.”

  “And why inform the Neucrisses, Innis? Just spite?”

  Her brow narrows in offense.

  “Hardly. Not at all. The FDA maintains a postmarketing database of adverse event reports for all drugs and biologics. It’s public, but far from comprehensive, because most physicians don’t bother filing when a patient has a bad experience. But when I started to follow g-Livia, about a year after I left, I got a sick feeling. I could see that Lep and I had been too quick to minimize the problem. There were a lot of sudden deaths noted, and I knew that was just a fraction of what was actually occurring given the way reporting goes. There were even a couple of pathologists who’d looked at the data and were speculating about an allergic response. But what was I going to do then? The only way to correct the situation without getting myself in hot water was to call Anthony. I told them how to examine the database and suggested they call any doc who’d reported more than one sudden death episode. Most of them hung up on Anthony, but there were a few who were glad to hear from him.”

  Stern takes a swallow of his club soda, so he has some time to think over her explanation. He suspects it’s mostly after-the-fact justification. Notably, Innis became public-spirited only when she had sold all her stock and banked about $100 million. If a form of the electrocardiogram ever were invented that could assess the feelings in someone’s heart, such a contraption hooked up to Innis when she first called Anthony Neucriss would probably have sketched out the shape of vengeance rather than concern for patient safety. She was tired of waiting for Kiril’s world to blow up and decided to light a match.

  “So the Neucrisses let you know a year ago August that Ms. Hartung would be making contact with Kiril, and you had your recording app ready. Why were you so sure Kiril would call you?”

  “His great project in flames? Of course he’d call me. Is he going to ask Olga for advice in a life crisis? Or Donatella, who’d simply exult in another opportunity to tell him he was a fool? Lep’s a genius, but not in managing a situation like this.”

  “What would you have done if Kiril said that he knew nothing about any sudden deaths while you were recording him? Or asked if you did?”

  “That’s what I expected.”

  After thinking that through, Stern smiles reluctantly.

  “You recorded the call so you had your denial on tape when the pr
osecutors came to your door?”

  Innis elevates her hands: Voilà. She’d made the recording not to ensnare Kiril so much as to clear herself. The FBI would never accept Kiril’s denials, because of the evidence on his computer. Yet when she said she had no idea about the sudden fatalities, Kiril, who truly knew nothing, would be unable to contradict her. The recording would prove definitively that she had no role in the fraud.

  She must have savored every step as the plan unfolded, taking a special private glee in the secret ways she had mocked Olga and Kiril, by sending Olga the e-mail or using the phone Kiril and PT were still paying for to call the Neucrisses. Both gambits were dangerous, but they undoubtedly deepened the joy in vengeance. Revenge had clearly been on Innis’s mind long before she saw Lep sitting in his father’s office. Even now, given the largely shameless way she has told the story, she seems to regard her actions as justifiable. What had she said to Stern down here last time? With Kiril, she had settled for less than most people want—and then he took away even that. She remains, in her own view of the entire saga, the biggest and least deserving victim.

  “Well thought out,” says Stern. It is not the first time he’s complimented a criminal.

  “Thank you,” says Innis. “The only complication was when the criminal investigation began. Lep seemed to be losing his nerve because he was afraid Kiril would slowly realize what had happened. Even after all of that, Lep was still unwilling to have a confrontation with his father. We actually met in Oklahoma City. I spent a day trying to calm him down. But then I had an inspiration.”

  “Which was?”

  “I told Lep to talk to Donatella.”

  Stern feels the deepest jolt of full-on surprise yet. His glass of club soda is halfway to his lips, and he finds he has held it there in the air, as he stares at Innis over the brim.

  “And what role did Donatella play?”

  “I don’t know the details. You’ll have to ask Lep. But I was certain Donatella would never side with Kiril against her son. She adores Lep.” And loves to hate Kiril, Stern thought.

  “So now,” says Innis, “you’re going to tell me what to do. Am I going to get out of this?”

  Stern thinks a while. “You have a very good chance,” he says, although he cannot completely erase a note of disappointment in his voice.

  He has several ideas. He writes down a list of lawyers. Young Diaz, who has been officing in Stern’s former law library, is his first choice. He had been the chief of the Major Crimes Division in the US Attorney’s Office, and Moses thinks the world of him.

  In terms of strategy, Innis’s best course is to wait. Feld may never call while Kiril remains on the loose, since it’s hard to benchmark anybody else’s punishment until Pafko has been sentenced. After that, she should keep her peace. What Innis said at trial is not quite definitive enough to convict her for perjury—she took the Fifth at the right time. And there’s no direct proof of her role in the fraud. If Moses wants to hear the whole story, she should talk only under oath with a statutory grant of use immunity. That will sorely compromise Moses’s chance to prosecute her for anything, which makes it highly unlikely he’ll ever go that route.

  “What about those texts between Neucriss and me?” Innis asks.

  “Hmmm,” Stern answers. “Last I heard, Moses was having some problems authenticating them. I don’t know the details.” The messages are almost certainly gone. The FBI will press the Neucrisses, but whatever story they tell will protect their freedom and their law licenses. They will all be emphatic that they had no idea Innis intended to lie under oath. The serpent Eve met in the garden took lessons from the Neucrisses.

  “And what about the civil cases? Am I going to lose my house?”

  “I doubt it. The kind of class-action lawyers who pal around with the Neucrisses are vultures. They want money, not justice. With the testimony Dr. Robb gave at trial, and the pressure from patients and oncologists, g-Livia will be back on the market soon. PT will be making billions, and the company will pay for a global settlement on behalf of the company and all its officers. Lep will be happy to buy you out of trouble, because he’ll be doing the same thing for himself.”

  Stern’s assessment, entirely sincere, makes Innis brighten for the first time in the hour-plus Stern has been here. The hangdog look didn’t suit her well, and with a little more confidence, much of her robustness is restored.

  Stern finishes his drink. Innis offers another trip to the balcony to watch the sunset. Stern is tempted but instead says, “I’ll leave you to that,” and prepares to depart.

  Unlike his meeting with Olga, he would not say that hearing Innis’s side has improved his opinion of her. He’s most struck by her mean streak, which is deep and wide. But after three decades, Kiril had to know that about her. And he trampled her anyway.

  Innis sees him to the door, and surprises Stern by coming close again—for a fragment of a second, he gets a sense once more of her sensual presence when she kisses him on the cheek.

  “I really do prefer older men,” she tells him with a comical eye, and Stern heads out to Cesar in the limo, laughing in spite of it all.

  37. A Dinner

  Stern’s flight from West Palm Beach lands in Kindle County late morning on Monday, after another soothing weekend with Silvia. Stern and his sister can sit for hours in the sun, looking out at the Atlantic in almost complete silence, yet both will come away feeling deeply sustained.

  He takes a taxi to Center City. At Stern & Stern, the business of closing the doors is proceeding full speed. The staff is boxing up files to go back to clients or to storage, and many of the pictures have been removed from the walls with a rectangle of whiter space where they were. In the reception area, some of the freestanding furniture has been picked up by its new owners. Several dustballs are left where the pieces stood, which Stern briefly mistakes for mice. The Sterns’ landlord has already re-leased the space. The firm will vacate on December 31, and Marta has proposed an open house late that afternoon, a final bash for their many loyal employees and friends in the bar and elsewhere. Stern and his daughter both like the idea of celebrating the end. After thinking at length about Kiril and Lep, he has a deeper appreciation for his partnership with his daughter. And the truth is that much of his joy in the practice of law has been palling around with other attorneys, despite the vexations he’s felt with difficult opponents. The public scorns lawyers—except their own—but Stern has relished their company, the particular kind of smarts so many share. For better or worse, they are his people.

  One thing he concluded over the weekend is that he cannot keep from Marta his conversation with Innis, which remains privileged within the firm. As soon as his daughter hears that he was in Naples, she is irate.

  “You are worse than a teenager,” she says. “Do I have to take away your credit cards? You aren’t three weeks out of surgery.”

  “And my heart is stronger than it’s been in years. Really,” he says, merely to provoke a reaction, “I am wondering if I should rethink my decision to retire.”

  Marta starts to scream until she sees him smiling. She shoos him from her office but is back at his door in a few minutes and takes the chair in front of his desk to find out what Innis said.

  Marta thinks it all over slowly.

  “When are you going to say that you were right about Kiril and I was wrong?”

  “I would never say that,” answers Stern. They are both smiling.

  “And why didn’t Kiril point the finger at Innis and Lep? He must have figured out some of this.”

  “I have been contemplating that, Marta, with no real answers. He couldn’t accuse Innis without including Lep. I have asked myself if it is possible that he decided to be a good father and not to sacrifice his son for the sake of his freedom.”

  Marta scowls. Overall, her dislike of Kiril seems to have been fortified over the last several months. Not that she is alone.

  “A guy who wouldn’t give up his little chiquita for his
son isn’t going to the pokey for that kid either.”

  There is, of course, another unanswered question. Once Marta leaves, Stern makes a call to Chicago. His phone rings again in half an hour.

  “Pierce Shively, Sandy. I’ve relayed your request to talk to my client and he politely declines. Lep wants to put his father’s trial behind him.”

  “Did you tell him that I’ve spoken to Innis?”

  “He has no idea why that should make any difference to him.”

  “Very well,” Stern says. Lep is going to hold the line.

  He begins taking down his diplomas, his licenses from the State Supreme Court, the federal district court, and the US Supreme Court, where he argued once. He lost 9–0, but it was a thrill to be there. Everything he touches unspools memories, most good, but even the unhappy ones feel far more innocuous, given that he managed to survive.

  This reverie is interrupted when Vondra puts a call through late in the afternoon. Donatella Pafko.

  “Short notice, Sandy, but I was hoping to offer you dinner at my table tonight.”

  “A soiree?”

  “No, just the two of us. It is the least I can do to express my gratitude.”

  Stern arrives at six thirty. He has brought his hostess a small bouquet, which Donatella receives as if he had presented the Hope Diamond. They enjoy a glass of champagne in the Anglophile living room and then go in to dinner. The dining room table is set elegantly. Donatella occupies the head, formerly Kiril’s place, and Stern sits immediately to her left. Neither of them hears well enough any longer to engage in the formality of sitting at opposite ends.

  He allows Donatella to mention Kiril first.

  “You have been interviewed by the marshals?” Stern asks.

  “They are here every week. I tell them everything.”