BLIND TRIAL

by Brian Deer

  TWO WHITE Nissan Sentras sat parked on Potrero Hill: one facing west, the other north. One glowed in streetlight, the other skulked in darkness, not fifteen yards from each other. In the first: nobody. In the second: Ben Louviere. Both cars had cooled here for hours.

  Between Ben’s legs rested Hoffman’s transparent bag. It felt like it weighed about a pound. Inside, the brown package was open at one end, exposing a polythene sachet. That too was unsealed, and crudely closed up. The yellow shopping bag lay on the floor. A rolled-up banknote poked from his shirt, behind which his heart thumped double time.

  When he agreed to deliver it to Murayama’s hotel room, he’d no clue what he’d let himself in for. A joke, he guessed. But what was the punchline? He needed to understand Plan B.

  He’d pulled up at this corner before half past eight in a check for the Sanomo guy. Assuming he wasn’t here, Ben planned to phone Sumiko and ask straight out, “What gives?” He would ask her to explain the proposition she’d gotten, and listen for the flicker of a lie. If she told him the truth, he would have stopped by, and they’d have gotten it together.

  But no.

  He checked the time: 22:25. He’d been waiting here more than two hours. He ran his tongue across his Samsung, licking crumbs of white powder. His lips felt deliciously numb.

  When she’d come on to him before, he’d suspected she was lying. Her body language looked great: all neck-touching and breast-pushing. But it was as phony as a dog playing piano. All those sneaky glances and that “come and see my fish” crap? She was figuring to play him for a sucker.

  Watching her apartment—on the top floor of the three-story—he counted four rooms on the Missouri Street side, with two flat windows and three bay windows: one of which wrapped the corner. Two were screened with venetian blinds, the others with pairs of drapes. Through a gap between drapes, he now saw shadows move. Living room? Bedroom? Hard to tell.

  He tapped his phone and on North Cleveland Avenue the landline rang out unanswered. He’d been calling for an hour. He’d kept trying Luke’s cellphone, but only got voicemail.

  What to do?

  When he accepted the package, he’d thought it was a prank: maybe BerneWerner brochures, or something. Then he remembered Hoffman talking about the Jap seeing “the sights.” More probably it was money: a bribe.

  Or maybe not a bribe, but a sting on Sanomo.

  Not a bomb. Kiddie porn? Or drugs?

  He hadn’t meant to open it. He’d told Hoffman, “You can trust me.” But he needed to know, to be sure. And once it was open, he couldn’t go back. Necessity was the mother of temptation.

  Forty minutes ago, the machine stopped working, and Luke’s cell still cut to voicemail. By then, the package lay unsealed between his legs, and he’d sampled a little—just a tentative, tiny, taster—hardly any—on the tip of a finger. That proved what it was but made him feel anxious. So he took another snort to steady his nerves.

  Again, Luke’s cell. Again, to voicemail. He took another snort to tide him over. Back to the landline, with a snort for composure. He liked it. Deserved it. Why not?

  In a moment, he’d take a modest final toot for closure: the last one tonight. For certain. He’d seal up the package and wrap it in the bags. Then tomorrow he’d find Hoffman, say, “Sorry, no can do,” and return to Atlanta, having failed.

  Luke was avoiding him. What other explanation? He was never out this late Wednesdays. “Answer… Answer… Why don’t you fucking answer? You gotta be home bro. I know you’re home.”

  He rested the phone on a knee, tugged at the package, and dug into the powder with a quarter. He lifted the coin to a nostril.

  Ssss-sss… Ssss-sss.

  Then the other.

  Ssss-sss… Ssss-sss.

  The tang of coke bit. He swallowed. Loved it. The world’s best taste: a coked breast. White rocks cascaded down his shirt and pants, disappearing into the stitching of the driver’s seat.

  He studied her windows: the lighting had changed. One room was dimmer. But why?

  What else could be happening, but foreplay to fucking? They’d probably finished plotting against the company. She’ll have told him all the juicy stuff: every protocol violation, every badly folded reply form perforation.

  Probably what it took to get the Jap’s dick hard. “Cytotoxic T-lymphocytes. Oh baby.”

  He resealed the brown package, and closed the transparent bag, having rubbed his sleeve everywhere he’d touched it. Then he stretched the yellow bag, elbowed the other inside, and let the package’s weight pull it down. He tipped back his head, swallowed warm spit, and hit the car’s ignition. The engine fired.

  What better time than now to bring justice to all? But now—get this right—signal first, brake off. Lights on? Sure.

  Where’s the bag?

  The Sentra pulled away and rolled down Missouri.

  He braked at Sixteenth and turned left.

  THURSDAY JULY 24

  Twenty-four

  THE GRAND Hyatt on Union Square, near the northeast corner of San Francisco, was the classiest place Ben ever stayed. The company’s travel office booked him a “King Bed Bay View” on the twenty-seventh floor, with a king-size bed and bay view. Other features included a fifty-five-inch screen, minifridge, and coffee maker. Plus—most crucial on this bright Thursday morning—a wall of floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains.

  Housekeeping woke him at 11:28. Lights on. “Excuse me.” Lights off.

  When he heard the door shut, he rolled onto his back, spread his legs wide among the bed’s cool cotton, and stretched both arms to their limit. After last night’s caper with the gift for Murayama, he’d collapsed unconscious more than fallen asleep. And now, as the memory of those hours flooded back, he realized he hadn’t taken off his socks.

  From Potrero Hill, he’d driven downtown and parked near Fourth and Stevenson. Then he’d carried the gift into the Marriott Marquis: an Uber guy delivering a meal. With the key card Hoffman gave him, he entered 815 and hit the light switch with an elbow. He knelt beside the bed, yanked open a drawer, and lifted a spare pillow to the carpet.

  Then he let the brown package slide from inside the transparent bag, inside the yellow bag, stuffed the pillow back, shut the drawer with a foot, and folded both bags into his pockets. He unrolled a wad of bathroom tissue, rubbed everything he’d touched, killed the lights, opened the door, and scoured the handles.

  Welcome to San Fran. Enjoy.

  Spreadeagled in bed, he gazed into darkness, and diagnosed the throbbing in his head. At two in the ayem, he’d driven back to Potrero Hill, seen the lights in her apartment on the corner were out and the other white Sentra still parked. At two-thirty, he pulled over in the Tenderloin district and spent forty minutes on the Tinder app. And at nearly four o’clock—almost seven in Atlanta—he opened the door to the space in which he lay, his blood pumping half-and-half coke.

  Now he folded his arms and hugged his chest. Every molecule of his body felt drained. Reaching down, he massaged his thigh adductors, moving upward in circular movements. He kneaded his belly, and up between his ribs, then his shoulders, neck, and temples.

  Breathe in, breathe out. One. Breathe in, breathe out. Two. Breathe in, breathe out. Three.

  His brain hurt.

  Before hitting the sack, he’d fiddled with his phone and installed the BerneWerner app. Then he searched on Google for “Centralia Illinois” and a menu of sites came up. According to Wikipedia, it was sixty miles east of St. Louis, Missouri, with an Amtrak service to Chicago, via Effingham and Homewood, or to New Orleans through Memphis and Jackson.

  Nine… ten… fifty… whatever… He rolled onto his side and groped for a switch, then slowly… slowly… but too, too, fast, the lifesaving curtains edged open on the day, and a fierce summer brilliance filled the room.

  King bed. Check. Bay view. Check. Sore head. Check, check, check.

  AT 13:06 he was slumped at a table in the h
otel’s One Up restaurant. Sat stiffly opposite in a black suit, white shirt, and red tie ensemble: the object of his recent attention.

  Murayama giggled over a purchase that morning: an Elvis Presley movie on disk. “Race car driver gets money for engine.” The cover line: Viva Las Vegas.

  Ben moved slowly, thought more slowly, and spoke more slowly than that. “Staying downtown, then?”

  “They find me a nice hotel,” the Jap in a Suit yelled.

  “They’ll take good care of you, I bet.”

  They studied the menu, skipping to main courses: Cuban Mojito Sandwich; Grand Turkey Sandwich; Straus Grass Fed Grilled Hamburger; Margherita Flatbread; Citrus Alfredo Pasta; Open Flame Corn Risotto.

  “Beautiful city,” Murayama shouted.

  “Not been here before. You got business here, or something? What gives?”

  “Too far to go home and come back. I go to Washington Monday, Nagoya Wednesday. I think I fly too much. Do you also?”

  Ben shook his head and wished he hadn’t as a searing ache burnt between his ears. “Me? Carbon footprint of a three-legged hamster. My idea of travel is Walmart.”

  “That’s in America?”

  “I think so.”

  “Nice.”

  “You’re back to DC then? Something going down?”

  “Ho, ho. You are funny.” The Jap laughed like the last hundred gallons hitting a storm drain. “Monday is BerneWerner’s announcement. I will not want to miss that. A big moment for Trudy Mayr.”

  “You think?”

  “As we say in my country, ‘One last thrill on the way to the cemetery.’”

  “Probably sounds better in Japanese.”

  Ben ordered a burger. Murayama: the turkey sandwich. To drink: a big bottle of water.

  “Going along to cheer, huh?”

  “Ho ho. We have a saying in Japan. ‘Saru mo ki kara ochiru.’”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Even monkeys fall from trees.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you may be very, very good. Like a monkey. Best at what you do. Yes. And make a mistake even so. One day, happy. Next day, boom.”

  “Now if you weren’t such a nice guy, I’d say that sounds like a threat.”

  “No, no, no. Sanomo years behind BerneWerner. Years. I mean only, ‘Who knows?’ Might happen to any of us. Maybe I fall from a tree.”

  “A rope might help with that.”

  Underneath the table, Murayama crossed his legs. “You are here with Trudy Mayr. Tell me, who does she see? I don’t think she travels so much.”

  Ben finished chewing a cold French fry. “Hey, don’t ask me. I’m only a helper here. Only here for general advice.”

  “Trudy Mayr takes advice from you? Be careful what you say.”

  Ben’s Samsung beeped. He turned from the table. WhatsApp: Sumiko Honda.

  I’ve an idea

  Pls call me rt away

  He didn’t want to call her. Not now, or ever. But if he didn’t, what complaints might follow? He cast a shrug at the Jap and tapped the phone. “What’s happening? I’m in a meeting. Need to be quick.”

  “Look, I’m sorry to disturb you.” She sounded shifty enough. “But you didn’t come to the center this morning. And Dr. Mayr didn’t either. Is she okay?”

  “Who knows? Probably getting over last night. Probably had an all-nighter with some random senior.”

  “I thought you’d be with Hiroshi.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Has he said anything interesting?”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” The duplicity glowed like a neon Liar sign. She knew what was interesting alright. “In any case, be careful. He can say strange things. Take anything with a huge pinch of salt.”

  Ben looked at his lunch guest, who’d now removed his suit jacket, and was photographing what was left of his lunch.

  “Look, Ben, this is quite urgent. I actually need your help. I want to visit the home of that other volunteer. You remember, Helen Glinski? The husband: Peter. That’s the other one they forged the signature for.”

  Here we go again. Still hunting for trouble. She could only be digging for dirt.

  “What for?”

  “Oh, just for completeness really. For my peace of mind, just to clear it all up. And it’s such a lovely day outside. Sunny and cool. Be nice to see you as well.”

  He yawned like a Wookiee. What he most needed now was to go back to bed. But maybe another pointless visit couldn’t hurt. “That I’ll need to check. I can’t do anything unless I’m authorized. What’s it now, anyhow? Not more of that—you know—that thing?”

  “Look, I can’t leave it till tomorrow, so I was thinking in an hour or so, if you’re free. It’s only for my reassurance, to be completely complete. It’s such a lovely day. And, you know, my Beetle’s still off the road.”

  “What if I’m busy? I mean, I need to find out first.”

  “Well, in that case I’ll have to go on my own. I can always catch a cab, if I have to. Don’t worry. I thought you might want to come. It’s such a lovely day. Please come.”

  “Or you’ll go on your own?” That might settle the matter. He could report back to Hoffman afterward.

  “Yes. But only if I really have to. I’ve got appointments all day tomorrow. But I thought you might want to come with me. Please come.”

  They fixed a meeting place, and he pocketed his Samsung. “Sorry about that. Issues in Atlanta, you know.”

  “You, me, Trudy Mayr. One big family of science.”

  “Just routine kind of stuff. She’s retiring next week.” He topped up their glasses. “And you? Dr. Honda was talking about your proposition the other day. Think she’ll bite at that? I’m not so sure.”

  Murayama coughed. “Talking? I don’t think so. Very private matters. No, I don’t think Dr. Honda tells you what we speak of.”

  “Yeah, not totally in detail, but she gave me an outline…” He began a scenario he’d come up with in the elevator. But then, across the room, he saw trouble. Big trouble. Doc Mayr had entered the restaurant.

  She was meant to be at the hospital but was talking with a waiter. Then she looked to where they sat—and saw.

  In approving this lunch, Hoffman ordered, don’t tell her. She hadn’t even known the Jap was in town. But now she knew. She most definitely knew. And she wasn’t one hundred percent delighted.

  She shot across the room, feet flapping, arms trailing, and only stopped short of collapsing on the table.

  Twenty-five

  A WHITE Nissan Sentra turned onto Potrero Avenue and, for a moment, Sumiko feared it was Hiroshi. That would just be her luck, with them driving the same vehicles. Thank you, Dollar Rent-A-Car. Terrific. But no, it was Ben, looking cool in his shades. She waved the manila envelope from the curb.

  He signaled, pulled in, and hit the button for the doors. His mouth said it all: he was mad. He lifted the brake pedal, and the car began to creep, even while she still clung to the handle.

  “So, the crap’s hit the fan. You better get in.”

  “Why? What did he say?”

  Ben checked the mirror and signaled to pull out. “Look, let’s just get on with this. Let’s get it over with. I’ve stuff to do myself.”

  She was stunned by his tone. He was like a different person. This wasn’t the Ben Louviere of yesterday. This wasn’t the guy she met in Washington, and walked with, talked with, on the Mall. This wasn’t the guy who would save her from a train. He was more like the asshole who shoved her.

  “Has something happened then?” She slipped the envelope beside the seat. “Did Hiroshi say something? What did he say? What’s the matter?”

  “Doc Mayr’s the matter. She’s all that’s the matter, going up the wall about your friend Murayama. Wants to know what he’s doing in San Fran, and what he’s doing with you.”

  “You only told her today?”

>   “I didn’t tell her at all. Walked right into lunch, she did. Practically dropped dead in the restaurant, yelling and screaming at him. Now she’s saying it’s me in cahoots with him. Now it’s me, not you, she’s saying.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He edged the car into traffic heading north across the city. “Made me drive her over to the center just now. Says she’s calling Marcia Gelding. I’m definitely getting fired over this.”

  “What do you mean, in cahoots? I’m not in cahoots with anybody.”

  “Right. That’s what you say. And I’m Homer Simpson. Sumiko, I was there when he came to your apartment. With his proposition. Okay? So I know.”

  “He told you about that?”

  “It came up.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Yeah, well, you better hope you know him as well as you think you do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Looks a pretty shifty guy, if you ask me. Because I’m telling you he’s not here dealing Elvis memorabilia.”

  She let that pass. He was making no sense. She couldn’t think of any grounds for such hostility. She grabbed the envelope and looked inside. She definitely wasn’t quitting her goal now. “The Glinski address is at Corona Heights. It’s no distance up Market. Won’t take long.”

  She wasn’t even sure if he heard what she said. If he did, he didn’t respond. Then on Sixteenth Street, he braked, pulled over, backed up, and switched off the engine. “Now, look, you tell me, what’s going on? Why’s he here?”

  And wasn’t that a question? But was she ready to discuss it? “He told you the other day: he’s a tourist. He is. And he’s going back to Washington, Monday. Everyone knows they’re announcing the license.”

  Ben tore off his shades and hooked them on the steering wheel. His gaze peppered storefronts behind her. “So, what’s it about you with him? What’s the deal?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He actually sounded… No, that’s insane… But—yes—he actually sounded jealous. “He’s a longstanding friend actually. I mean, really, what’s going on here?”