Say Nothing

by Brad Parks

  I also saw the round, bald, Charlie Brown head of Steve Politi in the third row; and Barnaby Roberts, in the front row, with his British-schoolboy white hair peeking out from behind his legion of lawyers.

  Then there was a man whose attendance I had not expected: Blake Franklin. His barrel-chested girth was taking up a spot in the back row. My eyes must have settled on him for a moment, because he smiled at me.

  Then he winked.

  I didn’t know if it was a go-get-’em-Tiger kind of wink, or, more optimistically, a mission-accomplished kind of wink. But I was grateful for it. And for his presence.

  With the law clerk having concluded her intonations, asking God to save my honorable court, I took my seat. The rest of the room did the same, making the wooden benches creak with their combined weight.

  I began the proceeding by putting on the record the expected things. Because so much about how we’re presented makes us seem like we’re above petty human concerns—the robe, the big desk, the highest seat in the room—people tend to think judges don’t get nervous.

  But we most certainly can be. Especially with a crowd like this and with the ticking time bomb that was the phone in my pocket. As I got going, I was self-conscious about my delivery. I had practiced it, but it still ended up sounding halting and uncertain.

  Nevertheless, I somehow guided us through the necessary verbiage to opening statements, which I had suggested to the attorneys shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes apiece.

  Then I invited the plaintiff to begin. The sense of anticipation in my courtroom was palpable.

  The hearing of the century was finally under way.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Roland Hemans rose to his full, towering height. In the first row, necks had to crane upward to keep him in view.

  His face was unreadable as he made his way to the podium between the two main tables. He opened a leather folder on the podium, arranged a few pieces of paper, then looked up at me.

  “Good morning, Your Honor,” he said in that bottomless voice of his.

  “Morning, Mr. Hemans.”

  Then, with his head in his notes, he began a recitation of the basic facts of the case. Denny Palgraff, working in the solitude of his home laboratory, had been studying a then little-known protein called PCSK9. Theorizing it might play a role in diabetes, and knowing the devastation caused by that disease, he synthesized a substance that would block the uptake of that protein.

  He then did what any sensible scientist would under the circumstances, and filed a patent to protect his legal rights to his invention. Hemans listed the date on which the patent had been applied for, then recited the steps by which it had been approved. This part of the opening was so dry he could have been lifting it directly from the US Patent Office website.

  Hemans next moved on to his argument, which he stated in simple fashion: Palgraff was the rightful owner of a patent for a PCSK9 inhibitor; ApotheGen was trying to bring a PCSK9 inhibitor to the marketplace; therefore, ApotheGen was violating Palgraff’s patent.

  I had thought, at that point, he would begin ramping up the presentation: remind me that the law protected loner iconoclasts as surely as it protected mainstream pharmaceutical giants, throw in some references to Thomas Edison or George Westinghouse, play to the audience in some way. This was just a hearing, yes, but he had billions of reasons to give it everything he had.

  Instead, he said thank you and sat down. He used a little more than half his allotted time.

  There was a stirring in the courtroom. Hemans’ logic had been straightforward enough. It was the delivery itself that struck me—and apparently not just me—as a little flat. What should have been the opening of this lawyer’s life was, instead, wooden and mechanical. Was he just so sure of his position he didn’t feel he needed to embellish it? Perhaps. Sometimes, especially in a matter that is going to be heard by a jaded judge—and not an impressionable jury—starting in an understated way was sound strategy.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hemans,” I said. “Okay, Mr. Worth, it’s your turn.”

  The defendant’s lead counsel stood and walked to the podium that Hemans had just vacated. He moved with measured steps, in no particular hurry.

  He placed his hands behind him. He had no notes.

  “Your Honor,” he began, “if I said I had a patent for a bicycle, and if the US Patent Office had filed it as a bicycle patent, but if the language of the patent went on to describe a bicycle as having four wheels, an engine, and a circular blade for cutting grass, would I really have a patent for a bicycle? No, Your Honor. I’d have a patent for a lawn mower.

  “I am perhaps oversimplifying this case by making this comparison. The science, admittedly, is a lot more complex. It delves into things we can’t see with the naked eye, things we don’t necessarily understand intuitively, things like amino acid chains and peptide bonds. To laymen like you and I, this might seem unimportant. What’s two more carbon atoms within a massive molecule? But to people who spend their lives looking at the world on an atomic level, that’s like saying, ‘What’s two more wheels?’

  “Now, like I said, some of this is going to get pretty technical. I hope Your Honor remembers some of his high school chemistry. I certainly needed a refresher. But what you have to keep in mind as we go through it all in great detail, hearing from some of the very brightest minds in this field, is that the concept really is quite simple. What we have here is a man who claims to have a patent for a bicycle when really he has a patent for a lawn mower.”

  It was around this time that I saw Andy Whipple turn and begin making gestures in the direction of the back door. These, I could guess, were trading instructions. He must have had someone out there to interpret the hand signals, run outside to a phone, and deliver his orders.

  “I know you’re probably wondering how this is possible,” Worth continued. “Your Honor will hear the defendant tell you how smart he is. And I won’t be able to dispute it. Denny Palgraff is as smart as they come. But even smart people make mistakes. Denny Palgraff thought he was working with the PCSK9 protein. If you hooked him up to a lie detector and asked him if he had invented a PCSK9 inhibitor, he would say yes, and he would pass with flying colors. But he wasn’t. The protein in question, while very similar to PCSK9, was not PCSK9. It was almost like looking at identical twins who had slightly different haircuts. They might have many things in common. They might be almost indistinguishable from each other. But they’re still not the same person.”

  As Worth delved into the details of how ApotheGen had been the rightful discoverer of the true PCSK9 inhibitor, I glanced over to the plaintiff’s table, to get some sense of whether Worth’s introduction—a thorough evisceration of the plaintiff’s claim—had any basis in fact.

  Denny Palgraff was staring straight ahead, blank-faced. It was his attorney’s posture that proved to be much more telling.

  Mammoth Roland Hemans was shrinking in his seat.

  * * *

  It was, of course, just an opening. I had certainly presided over proceedings where one-sided beginnings were not borne out during the remainder of a hearing. Worth still had to prove, by a preponderance of the evidence, that what he said was true. No judge decides a matter based on the eloquence of openings alone.

  Yet as we began the testimony, and Hemans called Palgraff to the stand, it was clear to all the plaintiff was in need of rehabilitation.

  Hemans began with a series of softballs, asking his client to talk about his background and credentials as a scientist. Palgraff was only too happy to discuss the early and ongoing manifestations of his unmistakable genius. Hemans then shifted his questioning toward this particular discovery, having his client crawl through the process by which he had come to it.

  Palgraff was predictably pedantic at times, but otherwise smooth and convincing. By the time he was done, the great unseen needle that measures legal momentum had sw
ung back closer to the middle.

  Then Worth came to the podium for his cross-examination, bringing with him a pencil and piece of paper.

  “Your Honor, may I approach the witness?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  Worth walked casually up to Palgraff and placed the paper and pencil in front of him.

  “Mr. Palgraff, could you please draw the protein that your patent describes?”

  Hemans leapt to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. This is just showmanship. My client is a scientist, not an artist.”

  “Your Honor, we’re not looking for artistry here,” Worth countered. “If Mr. Palgraff can’t draw a rough version of the protein he worked with, how can we be sure he even knows what he discovered? This goes to the very heart of why we’re here. If Mr. Palgraff likes, I have a copy of the patent here. He is more than free to consult it in order to make his drawing.”

  I nodded. “Objection overruled. Mr. Hemans, I am well aware Mr. Palgraff is not here because of his drawing ability. And I realize he’s doing this freehand. The court is going to give him a lot of leeway. I’m not going to tolerate you getting picky, Mr. Worth.”

  “Of course not, Your Honor,” Worth said.

  Hemans sat down, his disgust plain.

  “Mr. Palgraff, do you need to look at the patent or any of your notes?” I asked.

  “No,” he huffed.

  “Then please comply with Mr. Worth’s request.”

  Palgraff shot me an annoyed look, then bent his sweat-dappled brow over the paper and set to work. Worth returned to the podium and nodded at one of his associates, a young woman in a tailored suit, who began unpacking and unfolding what turned out to be a large easel.

  Minutes passed. The benches creaked as members of the gallery shifted their weight, crossed their legs, then uncrossed them. I had to fight the urge to peer down at what Palgraff was drawing.

  When he was done, he held out the paper for Worth. But the defendant’s lawyer didn’t leave his spot.

  “Actually, Mr. Palgraff, could you please let the judge inspect your work?”

  Palgraff turned to me, the drawing extended. The court security officer went into action, grabbing it and handing it to me.

  I studied it, to what end I’m not sure. I might as well have been looking at a game of hangman. It was just a jumble of letters, with lines, either single or double, drawn to connect them. I nodded when I was through and gave it back to the CSO, who delivered it back to Palgraff.

  “Excellent, thank you,” Worth said, then nodded at his young associate. She flipped up a large diagram that had been labeled PCSK9 and mounted on a piece of foam board.

  “Your Honor, you will hear testimony from our scientists that this is the PCSK9 protein as we understand it,” Worth said. “You will also hear from independent experts that this is a proper diagramming of the PCSK9 protein. This was sent to your chambers last week, labeled as Defense Exhibit Fifty-eight.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said.

  “Now, Mr. Palgraff, I’d like to direct your attention to this part of the diagram and, in particular, this grouping of elements,” Worth said, expertly aiming a laser pointer at a spot on the upper left corner of the poster.

  Palgraff grunted.

  “Mr. Palgraff, can you tell me, does the drawing you made contain a carbon atom in this exact position?” Worth asked.

  The laser pointer had settled on one harmless-looking little C. Palgraff squinted at the exhibit. The courtroom had gone so pin-drop silent, I could hear his breathing, which was more like a pant. The man shifted in his seat. The leather squeaked under him. There wasn’t an eye in the courtroom that wasn’t trained on Palgraff. The moment of truth had arrived.

  “Mr. Palgraff, is there or is there not a carbon atom here in your drawing?” Worth prompted.

  Palgraff’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He licked his lips.

  “No,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  As soon as the word slipped out of his mouth, Whipple started making frenzied hand gestures. A few men in suits, who had apparently not been thoughtful enough to arrange a runner, started climbing over the spectators next to them and scrambling toward the swinging door at the rear of the courtroom. That, in turn, put a charge in a few others.

  It was like light bulbs were popping on everywhere. And there was one going on over my head too. Palgraff had a tragic flaw, and it was that he was so sure of his own genius—and so dismissive of everyone else—it made him insufferable to be around. And so he worked alone. There was no one around to point out his simple mistake to him.

  He had simply bulled forward, like a mathematician determined to finish an elaborate proof, not realizing he had a multiplication error in his first step that rendered the rest of his work moot.

  I suddenly understood why he had disappeared the previous week. While preparing for his deposition, he must have laid eyes on Defense Exhibit 58 for the first time. When he realized his error, he fled in shame rather than own up to it.

  He had likely told Hemans to drop the case. But the lawyer lured his client back down here because, one, I had threatened to hold him in contempt, and, two, there was still a chance, however slim, that ApotheGen would toss them a few million dollars to go away. It wouldn’t have been the first time a protracted settlement negotiation had finally been concluded on the courthouse steps.

  That none of that had happened explained the tepidness of Hemans’ opening. He knew, at that point, he was beaten. And, yes, it was still worth coming to the courthouse today to see the thing through—settlements had been tendered during lunch breaks too. And perhaps something favorable to Palgraff would happen during the testimony that would make Barnaby Roberts nervous enough to offer one. But even that hope was now slipping away.

  Everyone else watching seemed to realize it too. The exodus from the back of my courtroom was now more like a stampede. There would be no rehabilitating this witness, or this case.

  The financial community had heard enough to decide: Denny Palgraff was getting his ass kicked.

  SIXTY-SIX

  By the time it was done, Worth had put Palgraff through a cross-examination that was the legal equivalent of a trip to the abattoir.

  It left me even more deeply confused than I had been before about who might have my daughter. Hemans and Palgraff clearly had a dog of a case, and therefore every reason to try to win it by other means. And yet the moment they had filed that motion to recuse, they were no longer in play.

  Likewise, ApotheGen and its employees now appeared to have even less incentive for kidnapping. Why resort to something so reckless when they knew they were going to win anyway?

  At 11:40, when Palgraff was finally allowed to flee the witness stand, I called for a lunch recess. To anyone watching the hearing, it looked like a small act of mercy.

  But I had the ulterior motive that was Ben Gardner and the fingerprint results he promised. I scrambled back into my chambers, removed my robe, and exited my office just as Blake Franklin was coming in the main door of the chambers.

  “Hey, there’s the man I’m looking to see,” he said, his drawling voice full of its usual cheer. “Do you have a minute?”

  I didn’t, of course. But Blake was more than likely the only reason I hadn’t been banned from the courthouse by now, so I said, “Yeah. Of course. Come on in.”

  He eased himself through the door to my office. Once it closed behind us, I said, “I’m thinking I owe you a pretty big thank-you.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that.”

  “Have a seat, anywhere you like.”

  “No, no, I really don’t want to take up that much of your time. I know you got a full plate.”

  Blake just stood there, looking strangely ill at ease. From his breast pocket, his phone made a noise at him.

  “Sorry, let me shut this thing u
p,” he said. “I told the guys downstairs I needed to bring this in because of a matter of national security.”

  He fumbled with the device until he got it silenced, then returned it to his pocket.

  “So what’s up?” I asked. “What happened with Keesee? Talk to me.”

  “Well, look, I’m not sure where to start here . . . I . . . Frankly, I’m not sure I should tell you about any of this. But you’ll probably figure it out and I didn’t want you to be mad at me after the fact for what I did.”

  “Blake, what are you talking about?”

  “I tried to do this the good-ol’-boy way. You know, find some dirt on Keesee, get some leverage. You’d think a grown man who spends his time playing with toy trains has a skeleton or two in his closet. Or a little Vietnamese boy. Or something. But he turns out to be as squeaky-clean as they come. So I made him a deal he couldn’t refuse.”

  “And what was that?”

  “That he’d call off the dogs on you, in return for which I’d guarantee his party would pick up a Senate seat this November.”

  “But how can you . . . ,” I began, and then it struck me with a jolt. I just still couldn’t fully believe it. “Wait, Blake, which Senate seat? Yours?”

  “On Monday, I’ll announce that I have greatly enjoyed serving the people of Virginia but that I am no longer seeking reelection.”

  Under any other circumstances, words to that effect from Blake’s mouth would have been said only in jest. His sense of gallows humor was such that he predicted the end of his career roughly three times a week.

  He wasn’t joking now.

  “No, Blake, you can’t—”

  “I sure can. You said it was life-and-death and that it involved your family, didn’t you, now?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t—”

  “Well, then that’s the end of it,” he said. “I’ve had a hell of a run, son. Serving three terms in two different parties is more than a career. It’s a dang miracle. The fact is, guys like me, guys who like to just get stuff done and don’t assume that if a Republican thinks the sky is blue a Democrat has to think it’s green, we’re dinosaurs anyhow. It’s time for me to go extinct.”