Matchless

by Brynley Bush

  However, before long he shows up at the door of his office with two steaming mugs.

  “I brought you coffee,” he says. “Griffin said you might need a cup.”

  “Where is Griffin?” I ask him, barely glancing up from my laptop.

  “Giving you some space, I would imagine,” he says casually, sitting down in the chair across from me and setting both cups of coffee on the massive oak desk. “He says you’re pretty angry with him for not telling you about his history.”

  I look up from the screen coldly. “It would have been nice to know since he considers me his girlfriend as well as his lawyer. But right now I’m less concerned about that than I am about filing a new motion tomorrow based on this recent information that could protect your work. Although I’m starting to think that Griffin has misjudged your need for his protection. After all, it was quite a coup for you to adopt the boy who defied medical logic. It must have been convenient to have all of that medical history and blood and tissue samples readily available to you. Not to mention the money he got from the oil company. I imagine that would fund quite a lot of research.”

  I know I’m being a bitch but I don’t care. My heart is breaking for the little boy who lost his mother and his home in order to become a research project for a doctor with his own agenda.

  “Mila, I understand your anger with me as well as your accusations, despite the fact that they are false,” he says calmly. “Most people would assume the same thing, which is one of the many reasons we have never disclosed that Griffin was the boy with leukemia or that his case is what all of our research is based upon. But I believe you owe it to me, and to Griffin, to at least hear my side of the story.”

  “I’m listening,” I say brusquely.

  The older man takes a sip of coffee and leans back comfortably in the wingback chair. “When I first met Griffin he was sickly and barely a year old. I knew from a simple blood test that he had leukemia, and living in the rainforest, there was absolutely nothing I could do to help him. Hell, even if he had lived in the States the odds were that he would have died. I gave his mother some medicine to make him comfortable, but there was nothing else I could do. I fervently wished I had something more to give her because I knew full well the grief that would be hers to live with when her son was gone. My own mother died of cancer when I was just a boy. I knew well the devastating grief of those left behind. My heart broke for both the boy and his mother, and I came back to the States shortly thereafter more determined than ever to find a cure for this terrible disease that indiscriminately steals lives.”

  He rubs a hand over his face and is silent for several long minutes before he continues. “I have always been a man of faith. After my mother died, I was angry with God for quite some time, but eventually that anger changed to an understanding that it wasn’t God’s fault. I don’t believe God afflicts His people with cancer. In fact, most times cancer is the result of the choices our society makes as a whole, choices to pollute the air we breathe, or destroy the forests that protect us, or poison the food we eat. I daresay His heart breaks the same as ours at the suffering of His people.

  “After I returned to the States, I begged God to use me and to use my gift for medicine to help me find a cure. I prayed for a sign. A year later I met and married a beautiful young anthropologist named Sylvia and together we returned to the Amazon. Eventually, we visited the neighboring tribe and there was Griffin, now a sturdy, mischievous, raucous four-year-old. Surely this was a sign if there ever was one that there was hope. I believed this was my chance to find a cure for the disease that robs so many of life and love.

  “At first, I had no intention of adopting either Griffin or Beckett. I had no need to. There were no procedural requirements or privacy practices or restrictions in the Amazon. I had as much access to Griffin medically as I needed. Because the boys’ mother had died of malaria a year or two before my arrival and none of the other members of the tribe were able to tell me how Griffin had gotten better, I began talking to both boys to try to figure out what might have led to Griffin’s dramatic cure.”

  He looks me square in the eye. “You can believe me or not, but I fell in love with those two boys during that time. Maybe it was because I had lost my own mother, much like they had, or maybe it was just simply that they were meant to be mine.”

  He smiles in remembrance. “Beckett was so serious even then, and I could see the weight of responsibility he carried with him to protect and take care of his little brother. And Griffin was simply incorrigible. He was an impossibly adorable little imp with curly blond hair, and he knew exactly how to play his brother to get what he wanted, but you could tell there was no greater hero in his eyes than his big brother.

  “It was quite apparent that the boys were mostly left to their own devices. They were given food and a place to sleep, but that was pretty much all. When it was time for Sylvia and me to return to the tribe we were staying with, Beckett and Griffin followed us. We had no idea until we woke up the following morning and found Griffin curled up asleep next to his brother outside our tent.

  “Beckett begged us to let them stay and my sweet Sylvia was soft-hearted and begged me and the tribe chief to let them. The chief of the tribe we lived with traveled to their tribe to inform them of their safety.”

  His face grows grim. “The chief—their father—sent back a message. Estan muertos para mi. They are dead to me.” He sighs. “The boys stayed. Griffin began calling Sylvia mama and Beckett followed me everywhere, so inquisitive about everything I did. Eventually, Sylvia found out she was pregnant. We knew we had to return to the States but we simply could not leave the boys behind. They had lived with us for almost a year. For all intents and purposes, they were already our sons. So we officially adopted them and brought them home.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I had no idea.”

  Dr. Black waves my apology away. “You love my son,” he says simply. “It’s gratifying to me that you should be defensive on his behalf. He deserves a woman like you who will always have his back, even if it’s against his own family. I find it quite admirable.”

  He continues. “What the oil company did was despicable. They treated the indigenous people poorly. They raped their land, sickened their people, and took advantage of the fact that they were removed from normal society to try to get away with it. A child in the tribe I lived with died of leukemia. I filed a class action suit against Laredo Oil for the people of the Amazon. Of course Griffin benefitted as well, but that was never my intent. He didn’t need the money. The Black family has plenty, thanks to my father who invested wisely in a small start-up company called Wal-Mart and my own work as a fairly successful scientist.

  “Instead it was put in a trust fund for Griffin, which became available to him when he turned twenty-one. I have never touched a penny of it and I never will. Luckily, I was successful in raising Griffin to be a man who believes in working for what he gets rather than expecting it to be handed to him, and he has never used that money for anything other than a few real estate investments. Although he has never told me this himself, I have learned that he takes every penny of the interest that he earns and donates it to various organizations that help childhood cancer patients. His favorite thing to do as a Navy SEAL is to visit cancer patients at the children’s hospital in his dress blues and tell them how he used to be sick just like them, proving to them that they can grow up to be a Navy SEAL, or a teacher, or a zoologist, or a rock star.”

  Apparently, Griffin has kept more than just the secret of his parentage from me, but somehow I don’t care anymore.

  “I’m sorry I misjudged you,” I say sincerely. “Emma told me I was wrong, but I guess I needed to hear it myself. However, I have to know for the case just how much of your research is based on Griffin’s medical history. Have you continued to monitor and study him all of this time? Are his blood or tissue samples integral to the research you’ve done on guanabana?”

  Dr. Black takes a deep breat
h. “When I returned to the Amazon and first encountered Griffin so obviously healthy, I took blood samples as soon as possible and sent them to my research partner, Dr. Penworth, who was Camille’s father. I was flabbergasted and understandably curious. He confirmed that there was no sign of cancer in the boy. Once we returned to the States and resumed our research on the guanabana leaves, we did not use Griffin’s blood or tissue for any further research. I had banked a considerable supply I’d obtained when we were in the Amazon which we used to create a cell line that we would infect with cancer cells and then test with molecules derived from the guanabana, but I did not take any more tissue or blood sample until Griffin was here last.”

  “When was that?” I ask.

  “A few months ago when everything happened with Camille. He insisted on me taking more to make sure I would be able to continue my research.

  “Of course there is an argument for the greater good of society, and if I had needed blood or tissue samples in the course of my research I would have asked Griffin for it, and I have no doubt he would have altruistically given it. But fortunately, that was not necessary.” He shrugs. “He’s my son. I wanted him to have a normal life.”

  “But Griffin told me he remembers having his blood drawn a lot as a child,” I say.

  “Griffin’s immune system wasn’t strong, probably a combination of both the cancer and his lack of exposure to regular childhood diseases, and he spent a lot of his elementary years sick. We may have over-reacted a little when he got sick, afraid that the cancer had returned,” he admits a bit sheepishly. “At the time we didn’t know exactly how well the guanabana had worked or if the cancer would reoccur. As a precaution, an oncologist checked his blood periodically to make sure he remained cancer free.”

  “Who was his oncologist?” I ask.

  “Evan Penworth,” Dr. Black says heavily.

  I don’t know where Griffin is, but he’s not there when I temporarily emerge from Dr. Black’s office at Agnes’ insistence at dinnertime, nor is he there when I finally shut off my laptop and climb into bed three hours later.

  I am lying in bed, staring out at the moonlit night, when I hear the click of the door opening. Griffin slips into bed beside me and wraps his arms around me, pulling me against his chest.

  “To hell with Agnes,” he growls. “I’m not spending another night without you.”

  I sigh and wriggle further backward into him.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to. I would cut my own heart out before I would intentionally hurt you, Mila.”

  “I know,” I say quietly, turning in his arms to kiss his soft lips gently. “I’m sorry I got so mad at you. I was just hurt that you didn’t trust me. Sometimes I forget that this…thing we have can’t last.”

  He delicately traces the arch of my eyebrow with one gentle finger, his eyes sad. “Mila, I trust you with my life. Never think that what we have isn’t real just because it can’t last.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Monday morning, Dr. Black, Griffin, and I drive together to the courthouse for the ten o’clock hearing. The traffic in Houston is insane, and I’m glad Griffin is the one to navigate it since I’m more than a little preoccupied going over the points I intend to present to the judge. Emmaline and Beckett meet us just inside the glass doors of the tall, brown, brick building, and together we walk down the marble halls of the Harris County Courthouse, the tension we all feel palpable.

  Mitchell Raines, our local counsel, is waiting for us and offers to go downstairs and file the Motion for Summary Judgment I drafted regarding Griffin’s tissue rights relative to the research while the rest of us head to the courtroom. I catch a glimpse of Camille Penworth’s attorney, who not surprisingly is one of the most well-known attorneys in Texas and possibly the nation.

  “I wish Marcus was here,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Nervous?” Griffin asks me sympathetically.

  “Camille has one of the most expensive and well-known attorneys in Texas representing her in what is known elsewhere as the ‘Good Old Boy state,’and he has a reputation for being a bit corrupt, particularly when it comes to juries. You’re represented by a thirty-year-old female attorney from California,” I grumble.

  Although I’m usually pretty confident in my abilities in the courtroom, I’m suddenly feeling a little out of my league, wondering if this has been a monumental mistake. This case is huge, and Griffin’s entire family is counting on me. What if I lose?

  “The best thirty-year-old attorney from California,” Griffin corrects, squeezing my hand. “Marcus wouldn’t have given you this case if he hadn’t known without question that you could handle it.”

  “Right,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I’ve got this.”

  “We’ve got this, sweetheart,” he says.

  “Well, isn’t that adorable?” a cultivated feminine voice with a touch of a Southern drawl says behind us.

  I turn and find myself face to face with Camille Penworth. Up close, I can see she’s in her early forties, although she’s clearly had some work done in an attempt to hold onto her youth. She is the picture of a moneyed Houston socialite with expensively highlighted blond hair, tanned skin, a brittle frame that borders on anorexic, perfectly manicured nails, and carefully applied makeup accentuated by a bold slash of red across her unsmiling mouth.

  “You must be the Blacks’ attorney,” she says, looking down at me condescendingly. She lowers her voice confidentially. “Tell me, darling, who did you fuck to get this job?” She laughs shrilly. “Or maybe I should ask Griffin who he fucked over to get stuck with you instead of someone more experienced. I daresay the ink is still wet on your law degree.”

  “Ms. Kingston is one of the best intellectual property attorneys in the United States,” Griffin says evenly. “Quite frankly, I’d rather have a young but honest attorney representing me than one known for his underhandedness.”

  She narrows her eyes and says to me, “Oh, I see now who it is you fucked. Or perhaps I should use the present tense.” She laughs mirthlessly.

  Emmaline and Beckett silently flank us on either side, and I can feel the solidarity of their support.

  “While I appreciate your concern for my clients, I can assure you that I’m more than capable of representing them,” I say coldly. “I suggest you worry more about your own case.”

  “Oh, don’t get your feathers all ruffled,” she says with a harsh laugh. “I think it’s fabulous. I’m ready to resolve these pedantic legal issues so that I can have free access to what is rightfully mine. I’m sure that with your less experienced representation, that will be sooner rather than later.”

  I am aghast at how blatantly offensive she is.

  “That will be for the judge to decide,” I say calmly. “But I wouldn’t count us out quite yet. When this is over, you’ll be leaving empty-handed.”

  “Oh, I’ll get the research,” she says smugly. “You can be sure of that. If I lose this round, I’ll keep trying.” She looks at Beckett. “I won’t stop fighting you for this until I’m dead. And unless you share the research, I’ll make this a living nightmare for you even after I’m dead.”

  “Well that’s perfect, Camille,” Beckett says dangerously. “Because I’d rather see you dead than making money off of my father’s work and screwing the public over making money on a medicine that is a natural product.”

  He turns abruptly and we all follow him silently to the courtroom, leaving Camille standing alone.

  All three of the Black men and Emmaline take a seat in the courtroom gallery while I set my briefcase on the plaintiff’s counsel table and organize my notes, trying to move past the confrontation with Camille and focus on the case. Now more than ever I want to win this case for the Blacks.

  Mitchell arrives and approaches the court clerk to hand him a copy of the motion we have just filed and they have a few words before he comes back to the table. The bailiff announces the judge and we all rise as
he enters. He is an imposing looking older man with an unsmiling demeanor, and I hope Mitchell is right about him being fair and unbiased.

  The proceedings start and I set forth our evidence, methodically building a document trail that shows how Camille coerced Emma’s ex-husband, Tim, into giving her confidential information from Emma’s notes for the book, how Camille leaked the information to the press, thus making what was a trade secret public knowledge, and how her possession of the research would give Coker Pharmaceuticals an unfair market advantage that would hurt the Blacks personally as well as the world of medicine.

  After I finish, Camille’s attorney sets forth their case. He alleges that because of Camille’s father’s involvement with the original clinical trials, she is entitled to equal access to the research, including new developments, because she’s his heir. He also maintains that any research information she has obtained is essentially public knowledge and therefore unprotected. We have a lengthy discussion about what the law says about the definition of trade secrets, particularly for medical research and pharmaceutical development, and how that applies to our case. The judge sternly reprimands Camille for divulging Dr. Black’s research for her own personal gain.

  “The new development in the research of guanabana is public knowledge because of your client,” the judge says sternly to Camille’s attorney. “It is not the intent of the law to encourage the theft of trade secrets. The fact that your client manipulated the release of this new information in order to make it public does not entitle her to it. In fact, I am inclined to judge to the contrary.”

  Mitchell and I exchange a quick look. This is exactly what we’d hoped for.

  The judge continues, “However, the general knowledge that a natural plant might contain a molecule to fight or cure a particular disease is quite broad and not necessarily considered a trade secret.” He addresses me, “Counselor, is your client working on a specific drug derived from the guanabana seeds?”