by Lewis Perdue
"We will speak heresy today," I continued. "Because like Copernicus, our search for truth requires that we see things as they are, rather than as we would like for them to be. This means setting aside politics, social engineering, and corporate profits to accept the unwelcome pain of unexpected discoveries. Unlike our reductionist colleagues" — I singled out Bouvet with a glance— "we will deal with science rather than fantasy."
Bouvet mumbled something derogatory, and I continued without acknowledging him.
"Our quest for the truth begins with three important steps:
"One, free will derives from consciousness. Two, consciousness is our perception of reality. Three, reality is weird."
This produced a titter of nervous laughter.
"There's no real argument over the first two steps," I continued. "Because without the awareness provided by consciousness, there can be no exercise of free will. And even the most orthodox priests of reductionism agree that consciousness is perception. But the nature of reality divides us bitterly.
"The reductionists believe we live in a classical, clockwork universe as defined by Sir Isaac Newton where any future action can be predicted by knowing all the data about its starting point and every starting point can he determined by reversing the process.
"The classicists also believe that all action must be local. But entanglement—the foundation of quantum cryptography now being tested by banks for money transfers— proves that actions on a particle here can instantaneously affect an entangled particle anywhere else in the universe.
"Uncertainty and entanglement mean that biological reductionism is about as right as the Vatican was about astronomy in Copernican days. Quantum physics has trumped Newton's classical physics in everything from semiconductors, global-positioning satellites, and nuclear bombs. Despite this, classicists cling to predictability despite quantum physics' proof that uncertainty rules the universe.
"In our quantum world, we cannot even predict the behavior of a single electron or proton in any atom of your body. We can calculate probabilities of its behavior, but nothing is certain—not even whether that particle will exist a nanosecond from there. Thus, classical reductionism falls short because quantum reality prevents it from determining starting conditions, and this means they cannot forecast actions based on those conditions. In place of their fantasy clockwork, reality consists of infinitely nonpredictable sets of mathematical probabilities. In other words, uncertainty is the only thing of which we can be certain."
"I can't sit here and let you mislead these people." Bouvet's angry interjection riveted the room. "Your theory is misleading because quantum physics determines science at the very small levels of atomic and subatomic particles, whereas people and the cellular structures that govern life and our behavior are many times larger. A biological system is too large, too warm and messy, for any sort of coherence or quantum phenomenon to govern it."
He jutted his jaw at me like the tip of a spear. Eyes flitted from him to me and finally fixed me with expectations.
"An excellent recitation of the current dogma," I said, nodding evenly at Bouvet. "But one rooted in the erroneous belief that biology and physics operate by different rules."
Bouvet snorted.
"Biology is not immune to the laws of physics," I responded. "Every atom in our bodies obeys the same rules, adheres to the same quantum mechanical properties as every other atom in the universe.
"Biology is chemistry; chemistry is physics; and quantum mechanics rules physics," I said. "Biology may seem like the study of large, messy systems, but all life depends on chemical reactions: metabolism, cell division, DNA replication—you name it. Chemical reactions depend on electron bonding orbits, and those are entirely quantumbased. What's more, every atom in your body is composed of the very same subatomic particles as those in a doorknob or a distant star.
"Let's do an experiment. Imagine your head, then visualize your brain." I saw some eyes close. "Pick a neuron, any neuron. Then select a random molecule, and from that molecule, single out one atom. I paused to let people focus as more eyes closed.
"Okay, focus on a particle in the atom—proton, neutron, electron—doesn't matter. Particle physics tells us that particle is a wave and a particle at the same time, which says that even though the results of our experiments allow us to perceive it as one or the other, it is in reality probably neither. Superstring theory indicates that energy and matter are just different patterns of vibration from space-time, the basic fabric of the universe. That is the ultimate weird nature of the reality we must understand in order to comprehend consciousness and, through that process, come to grips with free will."
"But you're still confusing the rules!" Bouvet interrupted. "Quantum mechanics applies to the very small, not to biology."
I gave Bouvet an indulgent smile. "If you'll allow me, Doctor?" He slid sullenly into his seat without replying.
"Quantum effects underlie all processes, even those with large, observable effects which—"
"Name one!" Bouvet's temper burned down toward the limits of my patience.
"Well, Doctor, a nuclear bomb fits pretty well. Hard to miss one of those, and yet quantum processes underlie the whole thing."
"But—"
"Every biological process including consciousness is rooted in quantum physics, which carries the inherent uncertainty that makes it impossible to determine the fixed starting point you and other reductionists and behaviorists need to predict anything at all. Doctor, classical physics is dead. You need to get a grip on that."
In the front, a slight young man with thinning sandy brown hair tentatively raised his hand. I nodded at him.
"Doesn't that just shift the issue of free will around from the tyranny of biological predestination to the chaos of rolling dice?"
Bouvet smiled at the young man, then shot me a challenging look.
"You might think so," I said, "if not for some very good published studies into cognitive behavior therapy—CBT—showing that people with various problems— depression for example—can create new interneuronal connections through directed thought. What's more, the research proves these people overcome their psychological problems in far more significant and lasting ways than those who pop a pill."
I looked around the room and, for the first time, saw Jasmine inside the door, leaning against the far wall nearly hidden in the standing-room crowd. I took a deep breath and desperately scanned my notes for an intelligent thought. Her hair framed her face like an aura and created the perfect backdrop for the dazzling diamond studs in her ears. Her eye shadow sparkled faintly violet, and she wore a bright cornflower-blue polo shirt and khaki slacks with lots of pleats. A large leather bag hung over her shoulder.
"CBT upsets the reductionists because classical physics offers no provision for something as ethereal as the mind to act on the physical world. In other words, their dogma rests on matter creating thoughts, but they have absolutely no intellectual explanation for thoughts that can create matter."
Bouvet squirmed and fidgeted. He was beside himself now, barely able to contain his growing indignation. Orthodoxy fed such incredible anger, I thought, and it didn't matter whether the beloved dogma was religious or scientific.
"How's this possible?" asked the brown-haired man in front. "Is this your fantasy or is there a plausible scientific explanation?"
"As a matter of fact, new work in this centers on a small set of nano-capable structures in every neuron called microtubules. These work on a quantum-level scale, possibly through a biological variant of a Bose-Einstein condensate in surrounding water molecules, which enables them to achieve a quantum coherence. World-renowned physicist Roger Penrose and his colleague Stuart Hameroff theorize that quantum consciousness may entangle itself in space-time, which means our thoughts may even permanently alter this basic fabric of reality."
"So, why don't we read more about CBT?" The question came from a crowd near Jasmine. I smiled at her, then said, "Mainly because the mu
ltibillion-dollar drug industry has a vested interest in keeping the truth covered up. CBT research fails to get research funding because the pharmaceutical companies can't afford for the world to know their products are a poor chemical Band-Aid that does not fix the underlying problem and that their science is based on the buggy-whip science of classical reductionists who do get funded by these megacorporations. In a real sense, those who are addicted to the big research bucks are not seekers of the truth, but seekers of grants. And you don't get grants by challenging the establishment's dogma even if it is provably wrong,"
"Bullshit!" Bouvet's anger finally overran his self-control. "I've had enough of your insupportable, insulting, and completely unscientific speculation!"
I watched him search the assembled faces for some support. Finding none, Bouvet elbowed his way toward the door.
Jasmine shifted slightly and nudged Bouvet off-balance. The pompous Frenchman ricocheted awkwardly off the doorjamb, then disappeared.
I couldn't tell if she had done it on purpose. Then she offered the room a faint conspiratorial smile. Mona Lisa again for an instant. Then applause resonated in the small conference room and spilled from the doorway.
CHAPTER 28
The heels of Jasmine's open-toed pumps drummed a light tattoo on the polished linoleum as we hurried toward my office. I checked my watch.
"I thought they'd never let me go," I muttered, "We're going to be way late. I hate being late. Really hate it,"
"You gave a remarkable presentation."
"You think so?" I checked my watch again.
"It's no wonder Mom talked about you so much."
"She did?" Surprise, joy, and the old regrets about the path not taken set me off balance.
Jasmine gave me a curious smile and nodded as we rounded the last corner. She seemed to have as many enigmatic ways of smiling as Sonia did for saying "Oy!"
"All the time. Mom said you were the smartest human being she had ever met."
"She must have met a lot fewer people than I would have imagined."
Sonia stood in the office doorway.
"Mom kept a file of articles about you."
I nearly stumbled over my own feet.
"You okay?"
"Fine," I lied. I visualized my Vanessa clip file, waterlogged at the bottom of the channel. "I need more sleep."
"You do know she was wildly in love with you."
"Oh, jeez ..." My voice cracked. "You're kidding, right?"
Jasmine gave me a penetrating gaze.
"God's truth." She paused and I saw the puzzle pieces of some decision falling into place behind her eyes. "I'm pretty sure I understand why now."
As we approached my office, a small dark shadow passed over Sonia's face as she connected my expression with the fond look on Jasmine's face.
"I called Pacific Hills already for you and told them you would be a bit late," Sonia said. I was about to introduce Jasmine, but Sonia turned too quickly and stepped inside the door.
"A couple of the people who work with that nice Mr. Sloane brought your truck for you."
I stepped through the door as Sonia sat behind her desk. "He left it in your spot." She pulled open the middle drawer and pulled out a set of keys. I walked over while Jasmine hovered outside in the corridor.
"You need to hurry. The doctor won't be able to wait for long."
"Is everything okay?"
Sonia paused. Her eyes went to Jasmine, then back to me.
"She's beautiful. Be careful." Sonia whispered.
I had no good reply. "Of course," I said, and left.
Jasmine and I quickly found my truck and drove in silence, through campus and up to Sunset, where I headed west. Jasmine gazed up at the Getty Museum as we crossed the 405, which, even this early in the day, was already clotted with vehicles creeping to the beat of their own mysterious rush-hour drummer.
From the corner of my eye, I admired the strong, lithe muscles of her neck as she craned her head up. It was the first time I had seen her up close in the sunlight. The warm sheen of her skin and the way it tautly wrapped her elevated cheekbones and classic jawline captivated me.
Jasmine turned to me. "Where are we going?"
The realization hit me that we were rushing to visit my comatose wife and I had not told Jasmine anything. It also struck me as significant that Jasmine had not asked.
"Pacific Hills," I said, stalling to arrange my thoughts. "It's a ... long-term care facility."
The light at Barrington remained green as we came around the curve.
"Your wife," Jasmine said with no notes of a question in her voice. "I read about it in Mom's scrapbook."
"Amazing."
She nodded and retreated into a far-off gaze I recognized as grief and remembrance. She caught me looking and offered a small, understanding smile.
I concentrated on my driving then, guiding the big truck along Sunset Boulevard's infamously serpentine course.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Jasmine said finally.
I didn't, but instead of shaking my head, I surprised myself when my own words reached my ears, words I had not spoken since I'd related them to the policeman who had taken the accident report.
"Six years ago," I said. "Another life."
I concentrated on the road for a bit, easing off on the gas as the lateral g-forces urged us toward the outside of a clockwise turn.
"Around ten on a Saturday night; coming back from a birthday party in Westwood for a programmer who works for me. I drove Camilla's minivan. She sat next to me. Lindsey and Nate were strapped in their car seats behind us. We had the green heading south on Westwood Boulevard. I drove across Wilshire and up the hill when this big Lexus came out of nowhere heading north."
I shook my head and struggled with the emotions. For an instant, I saw the Lexus crest the hill and actually leave the ground. Witnesses testified that the Lexus's driver lost control when the car landed. It happened fast enough for me to see, too fast for me to react.
"The Lexus veered away, ricocheted off a parked car, and slammed into Camilla."
I remembered the Lexus again and the look of joy on the well-publicized face behind the wheel. I took a deep breath against the angry riptide that memory always triggered.
"The impact tore the minivan in half, killed my kids instantly."
Jasmine said nothing as I drove silently for a long time through the tunnel of the trees that lined Sunset, past the Riviera Country Club, and finally to the final steep hill that slinked down to Pacific Coast Highway.
"The Lexus driver, a famous producer tanked up on some outrageously trendy Napa Valley cabernet, gets a bruise or two." I used all my willpower then to loosen my white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.
"So then, Mr. Studio Exec spends a wad on an entire law firm and a battalion of expert witnesses to fabricate this obscure metabolic disorder to explain his intoxication. It doesn't matter that he killed my family as long as his defense team can convince the jury he really didn't mean to and he couldn't help himself because he had this questionable physical syndrome supported by a bunch of quacks and expert trial whores. It also didn't help that half the jury had a talent agent or a screenplay in their desk drawer, so they suck up to this guy and he gets off despite a drunk-driving rap sheet longer than Pinocchio's nose."
"Hard to believe."
I nodded as I turned right onto Pacific Coast Highway.
"Didn't I read that he died in another accident a couple of years later?" I nodded again and could not hide my smile.
We navigated a strip of gas stations, shabby convenience stores, and odd, timeworn retail stores and made pretty good time before getting snarled a couple of miles later in a line of traffic oozing past a Caltrans road repair crew shoring up a concrete and metal-mesh rockslide barrier.
Jasmine looked up the steep slope, then over at the beach, then at the Pacific, and finally over at me.
"I don't know what to say."
I shook my head. "No need to
say anything."
The deep growls of heavy machinery grew louder as we trickled past the work site and picked up speed. Behind me a black Audi two-seater flashed its brights, then pulled out across the double yellow lines, tailgated by a motorcycle, its rider clad in black leather. Blond hair trailed from the back of her helmet.
"So what do we do next?" Jasmine asked. "I mean, after you see your wife?"
Wife. She said it so casually but it rekindled all the guilt and indecision that had kept me orbiting the body of a woman I had once loved.
"I'd like to drop in on a friend of mine who lives down toward the end of Topanga Canyon." I told her about Chris Nellis and what he had found during his short dive. Without worrying about her discretion, I replayed everything Vince had said, overlaid with my opinions and fears and confusion over what was happening.
"That fits," Jasmine said.
"It does?"
"I took a look at the MicroSD memory chip from Mom's Blackberry last night." She pulled her own Blackberry from her bag and turned it on.
"I have the same model as she does"—her face lost its composure for an instant— "as she did." Jasmine concentrated on the screen for a moment. "From what I can tell, the MicroSD chip contains a test dossier of some sort, and I think it came from Darryl Talmadge's former defense lawyer, the one who got booted after the military claimed national defense jurisdiction and Patriot Act violations. Or it might have come from someone working with the lawyer."
"A test dossier?"
"Bait. Bona fides."
"I don't get it."
I slowed as we made our way into the southern end of Malibu.
"I think this is what got Mom interested in Talmadge's case. I think the lawyer promised her a taste of bigger things to come, something explosive that would make her commit to a deal and throw our legal foundation's muscle behind Talmadge's defense."
"Far-fetched, wouldn't you say? I mean, given the crime?"
"Not so far-fetched. Mom's been pretty out front about opposing the death penalty, especially in places like Mississippi where white people still get jail time for the exact same crimes that send blacks to the gas chamber. So, no—it's not all that far-fetched."