by Brian Deer
Hoffman circled the car, pressing shapes under the cover. The polypropylene felt as smooth as baby skin. “And what you tell her? I mean the old girl. What you tell Trudy Mayr about him being there?”
“Nothing yet. Haven’t seen her since yesterday. It’s only twenty after six here.”
“Good. That’s good. Now you don’t tell her nothing. Don’t say anything about the Jap. Nothing at all.”
“Sure. No problem.”
Through the cover, he felt a trunk as tough as a tank’s. Then his fingers found a curve, sloping upward from the lid, form-fitted around the rear body panel. “Look, we’re gonna need to do some thinking here… So… you say he’s got a proposition… She says he’s a tourist… Our license is Monday… He knows the old girl’s there…”
“Uh huh.”
“What else?”
“Nothing, I guess. But you know, I got his phone number. He was talking about meeting up for lunch. I mean, I didn’t say I’d do it. Told him, ‘not sure, I’m pretty busy.’ Thought I should check that with you.”
“Lunch? The fuck. Yeah, I reckon he would be talking about lunch with one of our people right now. But you don’t do that. Least, not till I’ve thought this out.”
Hoffman bent and stroked a hidden wheel arch. Then he tugged free a bowtie at a grommet. “With that Sanomo guy there, I’m thinking maybe I better come out there myself.”
“Sure… But won’t that make it look even more as if something major’s going down if you’re here too? I mean, that’s three of us.”
“Not if they don’t know I’m there. Which they won’t. And you’re not telling them, any of them, unless you want your next laptop delivered up your nose. You say nothing to anyone. Nothing.”
“Sure. Not saying anything to anybody. Got it.”
Hoffman moved to the front of the car and tugged another tie. “Yeah… Okay… Now I think I’m coming out there. I’ll call Corinna now… But watch out for the old girl. She’s one dangerous lady. Don’t tell her any of this.”
He couldn’t wait another minute: this was worse than Christmas morning. No Sanomo guy would wreck the occasion. The general counsel signed off, tore at more ties, and the silver cover slithered onto oil-stained concrete from a masterpiece in blood red steel.
THE KEYS in his hand felt bigger than they ought to. But the leather fob and split ring hadn’t grown. Rather, Hoffman shrank to the day he found them: a gift to his daddy from friends. They felt the way they felt at the Jeffries Homes housing project, next to the John C. Lodge Freeway, Detroit. They felt the way they felt when he pulled them from the mailbox when he, Teddy Hoffman, was ten.
His father came down, eleven floors to the street, and stood almost fainting to see it: a Pontiac Firebird Trans Am, V-8, SD-455. Direct from the factory; vintage 1979; dealer plates; nine miles on the dial. With the Shaker air scoop and the ducktail rear spoiler, T-top removables, and aluminum dash. With the big bird insignia—a rising phoenix on the hood—and chrome exhaust splitters. The car.
He unlocked the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel. The look of her. The feel of her. The smell. Insurance: unbelievable. Gas consumption: terrifying. But this car? This car changed his life.
Hoffman twisted the ignition: once, twice, and again. The engine fired: the truckers had fixed it. Then he squeezed into the back—the place he knew best—clamped shut his eyes and breathed.
How much of himself was tied up with this coupe? So much would be different without it. Nobody in the family could drive when it came. His mother was first to get the knack. Then his daddy wised-up—“Never hit nothing once”—and in ’79 the Hoffmans went Motown. They went supermarket shopping, took Sundays by the lake. His father’s getting-to-work time was slashed. This car brought freedom, revealed a world beyond the projects. Teddy Hoffman hoped for better than he knew.
Eyes shut, he reached forward and gripped the driver’s seatback, and now caught the breath of the Jeffries. The odor of city housing: meat frying, squash boiling, urine on the stairs, disinfectant. And catching in his throat, an indefinable stale smell: the indefinable stale smell of being poor.
As he breathed, he listened to sounds at a window: his mother, sitting high, looking low. “See how she walks… Betcha dollar that’s a Bible… Can tell that man’s a pimp… Know what that is?”
And all the while, the freeway hummed, showcasing the latest: Porsche 911s, Corvette Stingrays, Lincoln Continental Mark Vs.
HE SQUEEZED from the car, bumped shut the door, and spread his fingers wide on the hood. Was it more than three decades since he looked through that windshield and saw his youth burning full whack? Had he seen Henry Louviere with Rose Daws and Christine Bray, yelling at the streets, Saturday nights? Had they ever been young in that shambling old city, with everything to happen still to come?
And now he saw Henry, with piano-white teeth, his sapphire-sharp eyes never resting. Hoffman’s buddy was the student, looking up from a torts primer, bastardizing some nugget from his dad. “Don’t forget we’re children of the Great Society, Teddy. We’re on a mission in the people’s cause.”
Hoffman raised his hands, and the decades snapped forward in less time than his fingers took to fold. He locked both doors, shrouded the pony car with silver, crouched, and re-threaded the ties. Then he walked to the elevator, hit 33, and in two minutes was inside a closet.
He lifted an alloy case: twelve by nine inches, by four-and-a-half inches deep. He blew a skim of dust, sprang a pair of combo locks, and gazed without affection on the only firearm he’d ever owned: a nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson, model 3953, pressed snug in egg-crate foam. Double action. Eight plus 1. Aluminum and stainless. With the Hogue synthetic grips.
Eighteen
TRUDY’S HANDS trembled as she stabbed at the keyboard of a workstation in consultation suite 7. She’d left her medications in her room at the Hyatt, and this morning her Parkinson’s flip-flopped back and forth, switching between off and on. What she most needed now was 50 milligrams of Sinemet.
What she’d got was Frank Wilson’s damned files.
She’d propped back the door so Dr. Honda, across the corridor, could monitor the work in progress. Trudy wanted things right, to make an honest effort. She wouldn’t cut corners. Even now. The troublesome young clinician could see for herself the lengths the company went to for integrity.
An hourglass icon froze on the screen: a frustrating start to the day. But what were seconds or minutes compared with thirteen years since her quest for the vaccine got serious? Naysayers muttered that such a feat was hopeless. Many sneered, “She’ll never do it.” Yet the research went forward with mice, rabbits, and macaques. Then the government let her try it in humans. She designed a phase I trial—124 volunteers—and the phase IIs: 8,227. Finally, the phase III—the randomized double-blind—with 26,712.
Any time, she might have failed. Many times, she thought she would. She’d never been rashly optimistic. So often it seemed like casino roulette, with her loading each win onto red. The work went forward—the wheel had spun—as she waited, fists clenched, heart pounding. And each and every time the ball clattered to rest, it clattered to rest on red.
Ten minutes back, Dr. Honda stepped in and left five sheets of paper on the desk. They listed names, addresses, birth dates, and ID numbers for volunteers who’d gone lost to follow-up on the trial. Trudy counted fifty-six, from more than sixteen hundred enrolled at the San Francisco center. Seven on the list were picked out with yellow highlighter and two of those were double-underlined.
Nice try, Trudy thought. Those seven would be Frank’s. But all fifty-six must be checked.
The hourglass vanished and a welcome screen appeared.
BERNEWERNER REMOTE ACCESS
LOGIN:
PASSWORD:
She entered: [email protected]
Pr0tecT10n!
The young lawyer, Ben Louviere, stood swaying behind her, casting a moving shado
w across the desk. He swayed toward the screen—now a brown and yellow “Welcome”—then back to sneak a glance across the corridor.
“Dr. Honda,” Trudy called.
“Yes, Dr. Mayr?” She appeared and stood in the doorway.
“Now, I want to do this right. You want me to look at these ones you’ve yellowed, is that right?”
“I think you should.”
“What about the others?”
“Whatever you think’s best, of course.”
Dr. Honda withdrew. Trudy tried to grin. Ben flashed a smile: so handsome.
“Now then.” She keyed the first ID into the system, and a case summary appeared on a plain white background with the volunteer’s photograph and details.
WV000847: Noah James Greenspan, twenty-two at enrollment, with an address in Mill Valley, California. Dr. Abhilasha Dutta signed him up, with informed consent, and remained his clinical contact. A bar tender, African American, self-reported heterosexual, with no history of IV drug use. He’d received both shots by the time of the unblinding. Status code: LTFU.
Trudy tapped through the file. Virology: HIV-negative, antibody and antigen. Unblinded as receiving placebo. Biochemistry… immunology… microbiology… clinical. Nothing of interest. Adverse events reported: stiffness in the arm, flu, a skateboard fall, food poisoning twice. Trivia. All information available in Atlanta. No concerns flagged by Dr. Dutta.
She clicked a link to the federal SPIRE study, not accessible to trial center staff. The white screen turned green, and a dialogue surfaced from the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases in Bethesda, Maryland, with information on follow-up inquiries. Txt sent? Yes. Outcome? No response. Emailed? Yes. Outcome? Returned undelivered. Phoned? Attempted. Outcome? Disconnected. Postal inquiry from trial center? Yes. Outcome? Reply form returned to SPIRE.
Trudy clicked on “Reply form,” and the scan of a printed document appeared. It was a letter from the hospital’s academic services unit, headed “Sustaining Participation, Involvement, and Retention Endeavor” and the client’s name, “Re: Noah James Greenspan.”
The above-named volunteer has been participating in a research project associated with the hospital. Recently however s/he has failed to attend, and contact records may be incomplete.
If you are Noah, we would be grateful if you could contact the SPIRE unit at the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, via any of the email, toll-free phone, or text numbers given overleaf, or complete the reply form attached and mail it to the SPIRE unit in the pre-paid envelope.
If you are a relative, friend, neighbor, or a new resident at the address, we would appreciate your cooperation in this valuable federal research endeavor by contacting the unit using the contact information overleaf, or by mailing the reply form, checking the appropriate box(es) and providing a forwarding address or contact (if known).
Trudy clicked a link to an email attachment from a respondent named Terry Wolchinsky.
Gotten a letter from you about Noah Greenspan. Rented this apartment five months ago. Previous tenants left no forwarding info.
Trudy lifted a ballpoint and ticked the printed list. Frank wasn’t involved at any stage. “Oh, dear God,” she sighed, wiping her lips with tissue. “Only fifty-five more to go.”
Ben swayed forward. “Anything interesting?”
“Interesting? I wish. But no.”
Next, a Black woman: particularly disappointing to lose from the study’s enrollment. WV003977: Isabelle Dada, aged thirty-five. A care assistant in downtown Oakland. Seen by Dr. Honda. Virology… biochemistry… immunology… microbiology… clinical. Nothing of significance at all. HIV-negative, antibody and antigen. Unblinded as randomized to placebo.
Adverse events: trivia. SPIRE dialogue. Txt sent? Yes. Outcome? No response. Emailed? No. Outcome? n/a. Phoned? Yes. Outcome? Volunteer relocated Las Vegas, Nevada. Postal inquiry from trial center? No. Outcome? n/a.
Fifty-four remaining.
“Ben, could you ask Ardelia where we can get some coffee around here? Probably best you go out for it after what they gave us yesterday.”
As he squeaked down the corridor, Trudy grabbed her purse, scuttled to the bathroom next to Dr. Honda’s office, and fired up a Doral Ultra Lite. For five minutes she relaxed with her panties round her ankles and watched smoke rise to a window. Then she dropped the last inch of the cigarette into the toilet, where it struck blue water with a fizz.
Source data verification. Never again.
BACK AT THE workstation, she pressed on with the list until, ninety minutes later, she’d cleared nearly half—and found nothing remarkable with any. No complaints about Frank. No suspicious information. A few date-stamped corrections and a little missing data. But nothing unusual for a project of this size. Certainly, she’d sinned worse herself.
She took a second break before returning to the task, with twenty-nine cases still to check. Mr. Louviere asked permission to visit with Dr. Honda, squeaked across the corridor, and shut the door. Perfunctory giggles and laughter followed, then fifteen minutes of silence. When they emerged, they dispersed in different directions: Sumiko to the bathroom and Ben back to the consultation suite, where he now swayed smelling of liquor.
Next, WV004001: one of Dr. Honda’s underlined cases. Here was Ed C. Bernstein, aged eighteen, who’d drowned after missing an appointment. Trudy’s eyes skipped across lab and clinical findings, then she clicked on the story from SPIRE. Txt sent? Yes. Outcome? Fatality reported. Emailed? Yes. Outcome? Mother rpt: fatality; boating accident, Los Angeles County…
Trudy minimized the database, opened a Google search box, and located press reports on the incident. Seven students had gone out in a borrowed speedboat which sank northwest of Santa Monica. There were touching tributes to Ed in the coverage and an agonized confession from a girl who made it ashore and said she hadn’t known he couldn’t swim.
Now WV005318: Denis Kowalcyzk; forty-two; male; white; Honda client; two shots; randomized to vaccine arm. Nothing. Virology… biochemistry… immunology… microbiology… clinical. Nothing. And WV005991: Machado; twenty-nine; female; Latina; Wilson client; one shot; vaccine arm. Nothing.
“Dear, oh dear, where will it end?”
She’d found no problems, issues, or irregularities, apart from the occasional slip. Indeed, she reflected, the data were heartening. Of those randomized to vaccine, and who stuck with the trial long enough for their histories to be meaningful, none seroconverted with HIV.
But she tempted fate. No sooner did she feel that flush of satisfaction than just such a case turned up. Here was WV006974: Helen Glinski, a retail manager from Corona Heights, and the second underlined on the list. She was aged thirty-three at the time she signed the consent—initially as a client of Dr. Mohammed Shah—and was signed off as lost to follow-up by Frank. Both shots given. Virology… biochemistry… immunology… microbiology… clinical. Nothing there you’d want to hold your breath over.
Trudy leaned back, stung with regret. At a population level, WernerVac was remarkable. It might hobble the virus for good. But the trial confirmed efficacy at only sixty percent, within statistically significant parameters. That meant splendid performance at disrupting viral transmission, without guaranteeing individual protection.
She switched to Google, summoned the San Francisco Chronicle, and located a paid-for obituary.
GLINSKI, Helen Allison… born San Luis Obispo… Survived by husband Peter… Popular manager of Glinski Home & Hardware… active supporter of Bay Area Breast Cancer Awareness…
Trudy straightened her back and rubbed her neck. The center’s plastic chairs were unbearable. SPIRE dialogue. Txt sent? Yes. Outcome? No response… Another case where the printed form was returned.
The above-named volunteer has been participating in a research project associated with the hospital. Recently however s/he has failed to attend…
A scan of the standard letter. Trudy studied the
ticked boxes:
Husband…
Gone away…
Forwarding address unknown…
Signature:
Peter Glinski
The volunteer’s address was unknown to her husband? This sounded like a divorce with no children. But Helen died months after she missed her last appointment, so any explanation hardly mattered.
Next: Mellon; thirty-one; Honda client; one shot; vaccine arm. Nothing… Li; thirty-four; Dutta client; one shot; vaccine arm. Nothing.
Trudy set off to suck another Doral before completing this morning’s torture. Just a handful more, and this session would be over. She’d finish up the rest this afternoon.
Passing Dr. Honda’s door, she put her head in and waved. Sumiko smiled and rattled at her keyboard. But if there was one thing the complainant wasn’t doing this morning it was any more meddling in the database. On the Washington Mall, Saturday, Trudy phoned security in Atlanta and (aligned with the company’s operational procedures) the trial network was locked down for investigation. Only Trudy, Doctorjee, or approved center managers could log in until this task was complete.
With the cigarette smoked, she was back at the workstation with the next of Dr. Honda’s fifty-six. WV008010: Rafael Ramirez, a convenience store clerk of Clementina Street, in the city. Aged twenty years at enrollment. This was the volunteer Frank threw off the trial. Randomized to the placebo arm. HIV-negative. He complained of fever, later an eczema rash, a torn cartilage, and a suspected SARS-CoV-2 infection. Virology… biochemistry… immunology… microbiology… clinical. Nothing of interest.
“Dear God.”
Trudy clicked through to SPIRE, expecting to find nothing, since Frank had withdrawn the client. But the dialogue was completed, nevertheless, and a printed form returned to SPIRE. She clicked on “Reply form,” and a scan of the standard letter appeared on the screen with Q&A boxes, like the others.