FIFTEEN
Trials are theater, a fact that Seeley considered once again, while waiting for Judge Farnsworth to make her entrance. Palmieri was busy at his laptop and Barnum faced the empty jury box, his back to counsel's table. In the bright tiled washroom, Steinhardt preened before the mirror for a full five minutes, patting his already slicked-back hair, running a small ivory comb through the neatly trimmed beard, adjusting and readjusting his tie before finally unknotting and retying it. Coming into the courtroom, he wanted to know where the press was. Was there someone from
The New York Times
?
“They're in the row on your left,” Seeley said, “but, when you get on the stand, don't look at them. Look only at the jury or at me.”
Leonard was two rows back, gesturing that he needed to talk to Seeley. Seeley saw the jury filing in through the back door, and shook his head, no.
The clerk cried for all to rise, and from the same door as the jury, Judge Farnsworth swiftly ascended the bench. Even before she settled into her high-backed chair, she signaled Seeley to put on his witness.
Seeley's original plan was for Steinhardt to describe how AV/AS overcame the four hurdles that Kaplan described yesterday, having him on and off the stand in no more than half an hour. The longer his testimony went, the greater was the risk that he would antagonize the jury; and the wider it went, the greater was the risk that he would say things that Thorpe could use to destroy him on cross-examination. But Steinhardt insisted that he be able to tell the whole story, beginning with his early work at UCSF, and in a conference call Barnum ordered Seeley to go along.
Now, observing Steinhardt on the witness stand, shoulders back, gaze fixed on the row of journalists in the gallery as he answered Seeley's questions, Seeley regretted giving in to Barnum. He took Steinhardt briskly through his years at UCSF, introducing into evidence the lab notebooks that he'd kept there, directing the scientist to specific entries to quicken the pace and to give Thorpe little elbow room on cross. When Seeley introduced into evidence the two leather-bound notebooks from Steinhardt's work at Vaxtek, he slowed the pace only when the witness approached the completion of his experiments.
“And the entry in your laboratory notebook dated September twelfth, 1997, was that also made under your direct supervision?”
An eyebrow arched, Steinhardt's sign of displeasure. “I made the entry myself. You can see from the handwriting.”
“And the signature below yours, of a Daniel Turnley. Who is that?”
“One of the scientists who works for me. As at UCSF—as at any creditable research laboratory—all notebook entries must be witnessed.”
“And, through October third of 1997, when the experiments were completed, there is at least one entry for each day. Is it usual for you to work like that, to be in the lab every day, without a break?”
“When a scientist is on the brink of discovering a new vaccine, he doesn't take the weekend off for golf.”
That got an appreciative murmur from the jury box, and it occurred to Seeley that he may have worried too much about the impact of Steinhardt's self-importance.
“But there are three different witness signatures over this period, September twelfth through October third. Why is that?”
“My staff have families.” Steinhardt cocked his head in a gesture intended to mimic sympathy, but that to Seeley only looked disingenuous. “I don't require them to put in the hours that I do.”
Seeley glanced at the jury and felt a spasm of resentment. Against expectations, Steinhardt was going over well. Only the kid and the juror next to him, the AT&T cable splicer, were impassive. The jurors' acceptance of Steinhardt was good for Vaxtek's case, but the thought that they were being taken in by this pious charlatan angered Seeley.
“And did an event of significance occur in your laboratory on October third?”
Steinhardt ran a manicured finger over the notebook page as if he was reviewing it.
There was a cough from plaintiff counsel's table.
“An event of overwhelming significance.” Steinhardt nodded gravely. “Yes.”
There was a second cough, more insistent, and when Seeley turned, Palmieri was frantically signaling with his eyes for him to stop.
“Please review that entry again,” Seeley said, stalling. He went back to counsel's table.
Line after line filled Palmieri's computer screen, and Seeley immediately recognized Steinhardt's résumé.
“Mr. Seeley.” It was Judge Farnsworth. “Are you finished with your witness?”
On the screen was the section of Steinhardt's résumé that listed his presentations to scientific groups. “No, Judge. I'm just checking a fact.” Seeley would have to keep Steinhardt occupied with harmless questions until Palmieri explained what was on his mind.
“Returning for a moment to your work at the University of California, Dr. Steinhardt, could you tell the court about your work practices there? The size of your team?”
Steinhardt, puzzled, launched into a description of what he called not his team but his staff at UCSF.
Barnum grabbed Seeley's arm. His whisper was harsh as gravel. “What the hell are you doing?” Seeley shrugged him away, not taking his eyes from Palmieri's computer screen.
Palmieri pointed to a line in the résumé. On September 17, 1997, Steinhardt presented a paper in Berlin. He pointed to the next line. On the twenty-fifth, he delivered a paper in Geneva. And on October 3, 1997, the very day that in his laboratory in South San Francisco, California, Alan Steinhardt stood on the brink of discovering AV/AS, he was delivering the keynote address at a conference on immunology to the faculty of medicine of the University of Bologna.
Seeley's clients lied to him all the time. Witnesses lied, too. But, so far as Seeley knew, he had always caught the lie in time and refused to let the witness testify. A lawyer could argue that Steinhardt had not yet lied on the stand. Seeley hadn't asked whether he'd in fact made the entries on the dates indicated, only whether they were made under his supervision. Seeley glanced over to where his brother was sitting in the gallery. Leonard knew that something was wrong. When Seeley looked at Palmieri, he was surprised to see something like triumph playing in the young partner's expression.
A beautiful woman reveals, then instantly conceals, a long white leg. Steinhardt knots his necktie to perfection, but keeps two sets of books. In one set, Steinhardt recorded his experiments as he made them. The other set meticulously copied these entries but gave them earlier dates, well ahead of St. Gall's experiments, to establish Steinhardt as the first inventor of AV/AS. This was Lily's secret, and it was still intact as she slept and Seeley drove back to San Francisco in the five a.m. fog. She had given Steinhardt St. Gall's dates of invention. That was why she was in Steinhardt's lab that night.
Steinhardt had completed his answer to Seeley's last question and the courtroom was silent. Seeley needed time. Ethical obligations required him to tell his client—Barnum—why he had to take Steinhardt off the stand.
“Mr. Seeley?”
“May we request a fifteen-minute recess, Judge?”
“Your witness has been on for less than half an hour.”
“There's some urgency, Judge—”
“You can have your recess when you are finished with your witness. If you're finished now, you can have your recess now. Otherwise, you will please continue.”
Across the courtroom, Fischler was talking intently to Thorpe. If, during the months of pretrial discovery, the St. Gall team had caught the discrepancy between Steinhardt's notebook and his travel dates—how could they miss it?—Thorpe would destroy Steinhardt on cross-examination.
Seeley calculated. He had two witnesses who were going to testify that St. Gall infringed the AV/AS patent and, with some intensive preparation, he could have them describe how AV/AS worked. But he remembered his promise to the jury that Steinhardt would explain the invention; this was why the scientist was on the stand. Leaving the black leather notebook on the table, Seeley returned to the lectern.
“Dr. Steinhardt, are you familiar with the expert's report that Dr. Lionel Kaplan prepared for this lawsuit?” Seeley worked to keep the anger out of his voice.
“I read it. Yes.”
“And do you remember that the report describes four obstacles to the development of an AIDS vaccine?”
“Of course I do. Everyone—”
“Do you agree with Dr. Kaplan's assessment of these obstacles in his report?”
The scientist's narrow face darkened. He didn't like being cut off. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”
“Could you remind the jury of these obstacles?”
Steinhardt fumed as he described the obstacles in clipped sentences. That was fine with Seeley if it kept his answers short.
“Could you describe how AV/AS overcomes these obstacles?”
Steinhardt straightened in the chair and the small chest expanded. This was, finally, his moment. He crossed a leg. “I would be glad to. The idea for taking this approach occurred to me—”
“Please confine yourself to the specific question, Doctor. Just tell the jury how AV/AS overcomes the obstacles that Dr. Kaplan describes in his report.”
Judge Farnsworth leaned forward on the bench, her eyes moving between lawyer and witness. She knew that Seeley was scrambling, that something had gone wrong with his case. Two or three jurors picked up on the judge's interest. But Seeley was not going to let Steinhardt implicate him in perjury by taking credit for being the first to discover AV/AS.
Steinhardt adjusted his tie and looked over to the reporters' section of the gallery, his eyes revealing the profound confusion of a man who was not often confused. He didn't know why Seeley's questions had taken this turn, and this meant that Seeley would need to direct each of his answers.
“How does AV/AS resolve the problem that HIV mutates so rapidly?”
“There is no perfect solution, but I concluded—”
“Not what you concluded, Doctor, just how the vaccine works.”
“The vaccine employs a second-best solution.” Steinhardt's tone was injured, petulant. “Since it is impossible to neutralize the virus completely, the vaccine works instead to contain it.”
“How does that solve the mutation problem?”
“There is in all forms of HIV a genetically conserved region, a portion of the virion—the virus particle—that does not mutate.”
Seeley felt as if he was binding the witness with rope. “If the conserved region of the virion can be neutralized, is that the same as if the entire virion has been neutralized?”
“Effectively, yes. If we can get”—Steinhardt saw Seeley's warning look, and gave the first sign that he understood what Seeley was doing—“if it is possible to get an antibody to bind to just one isolate—one part of the conserved region—that can be enough to block the virus's ability to infect a cell.”
“But there is an obstacle here, too?”
“The forest of mushrooms. With the mushrooms flopping around, and the envelope surrounding the core of the virion constantly slipping and sliding, the conserved region is the hardest part to reach. It doesn't mutate, but what good can you do if you can't reach it?”
“And how does AV/AS reach the conserved region?” Here was the elegant arc of the invention, and for a brief moment Seeley regretted depriving this miscreant, this would-be perjurer, of his shower of glory.
“To reach the conserved region,” Steinhardt again drew himself up in the witness chair, “AV/AS employs a human antibody, specifically a monoclonal antibody, that does not exist in nature but has been synthesized in the laboratory expressly for this purpose. This antibody can specifically target a receptor in the conserved region of the virus envelope, bind to it, neutralize it, and prevent it from infecting cells.”
“Would you say that AV/AS works like an arrow, piercing through this mushroom forest until it reaches its target?”
“Yes, Mr. Seeley”—the familiar arrogance replaced the confusion in his voice—“it works like an arrow, and when it reaches the targeted part of the virus it disables it.”
Seeley imagined the picture in Steinhardt's mind of that arrow piercing his lawyer's heart.
“Thank you, Dr. Steinhardt.” The rhythm of the questions had so far subdued Seeley's rage, but now it rose like a gorge in his throat, making it difficult to speak. “We have no more questions, Judge.” He didn't trust his voice. “May we have a recess?”
Pushing through the courtroom's double doors, Seeley evaded Barnum's reach and, grabbing the man's elbow instead, steered the general counsel to the alcove at the end of the long corridor. Leonard trailed, trading looks with Barnum. Leonard had lied when he told Seeley there was only one set of lab notebooks. Seeley dropped Barnum's arm. “Where's Steinhardt?”
Leonard said, “I've got a plane to catch, Mike. I have to be in Washington tonight.” He looked back down the corridor. “He went to the men's room.”
“You can wait until I finish with your general counsel.” To Barnum, Seeley said, “Your scientist wasn't in his lab when his notebooks say he was, and Thorpe knows that. He's going to chew him up on cross.”
“Maybe Alan got some of his dates mixed up. Thorpe's not going to call him on it.”
Leonard, his back to them, was studying the black-and-white photographs of old-time San Francisco that hung on the alcove wall. The styled, too-blond hair was like a taunt to Seeley, the sum of his brother's contrived innocence. Golden boy.
“The only way the dates got mixed up is if there were two sets of books. Steinhardt wasn't the first inventor.”
“You're forgetting that St. Gall already stipulated priority. Thorpe won't be able—”
Behind them, the double doors of a courtroom opened and the broad black face of a bailiff emerged. The man smiled at them gently and placed a finger to his lips before disappearing behind the doors.
“Bob Pearsall knew about the second set of books, didn't he?” Steinhardt arrived at Barnum's side. “What are you talking about?”
“Your résumé puts you in Berlin, Geneva, and Bologna on the dates your notebooks have you in your laboratory.”
Steinhardt drew his lips into a grim line and dropped his head. On the stand, he must have suspected Seeley's discovery of the amateurish deceit. “You have to understand—”