Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (61 page)

“That’s what we’re hoping for; it means that even more extensive research will be possible.”

“It also means that people have no way to know what they’re really giving you. It’s like asking them to sign a blank check.”

“But the check is not from their personal account. Don’t forget, Dr. Polchak, they give this gift anonymously. No one knows who you are.”

“Yes—’PharmaGen promises complete confidentiality.’ That’s a big promise, Mr. Truett.”

“As you said, this whole thing is built on trust.”

Nick slowly folded his arms across his chest. “So I give you infinite knowledge of my genetic makeup, and in return you promise to keep it a secret—is that the trade? You called yourself an
evangelist
—if I remember my Latin, the word means ‘messenger of good news.’ You definitely are a messenger, Mr. Truett, the best I’ve ever seen. My question is: are you sure this is good news?”

Truett let out a laugh. He pulled the lady in red in close and planted a kiss on her, as though he just now became aware of her existence. She was a prop, Nick thought, just a visual aid in his presentation, and this was his way of making a transition. He was sprinkling pixie dust on everyone, trying to lift the ship out of troubled waters.

“I understand that you two might have some cautions about all
this,” he said. “I find that better-educated people often do. That’s why, early on, PharmaGen established an ethics advisory board to advise us on controversial issues like genetic privacy.”

“Your own ethics advisory board? Isn’t that like asking senators to vote for term limits?”

“Not at all. These are professional bioethicists, very accomplished and well-respected in their fields. They are not employed by PharmaGen, nor are they remunerated by us in any way.”

“Who sits on this advisory board?”

“Our founding member was Dr. Ian Paulos. He’s a professor of ethics at Trinity Episcopal School for Ministry over in Ambridge. He’s been with us from the beginning—he helped us shape all of our privacy policies. If you really want to pursue this issue of genetic privacy, you should take it up with him.”

“Thanks,” Nick said. “I just might do that.”

To the west, in the distance, there was a cannon retort followed by a booming echo. Three seconds later a brilliant red starburst illuminated the sky, dropping sparkling silver tentacles on every side. It was the signal flare, the opening volley in the Zambelli Family’s annual fireworks extravaganza at the Point. On board the
PharmaGen
it was all hands on deck now, and the whole group pressed against the starboard railing to witness the aerial display. Each couple pressed tightly together, holding hands and standing side by side or cheek to cheek. Nick glanced at Riley standing stiffly beside him, and he wondered what would happen if he put his arm around her. Not an all-out embrace, not even a perceptible squeeze—just his left hand resting on her left shoulder. What would she do? He took a mental accounting of the night’s activities: he had lured her out to the middle of the Allegheny River in a rowboat, then dumped her in the water; he had caused her to lose her shoes and purse, and had ruined her dress; and he had forced her to stand almost naked and dripping in front of better-dressed women. Nick could imagine her taking out a scalpel and severing his hand at the wrist.

He glanced at her again.
I dare you,
Nick said to himself,
I double-dog dare you.
He lifted his arm and rested it gently across Riley’s shoulders.

Riley did nothing.

Nick smiled. “I love fireworks,” he said.

The
PharmaGen
’s twin diesels rumbled patiently, holding the boat steady in the water as the lower gates to Lock Number 2 slowly opened upriver. In the cockpit, Tucker Truett watched a handful of pleasure boats cautiously emerge, then gun their engines and curl off, leaving white streaks of foam in the black water behind them. Truett waited for a dozen or so smaller craft to enter the lock before him. It was more than civility that caused him to hold back. When the lock was filled and the great upper gates opened northward, the wake from the
PharmaGen
’s twin screws could turn smaller boats behind him into floating bumper cars.

Truett heard the lockmaster’s go-ahead on his marine band radio. He nudged the throttle forward and pulled slowly into the lock, the great swan and her cygnets returning to roost upstream at the Oakmont and Fox Chapel marinas. He tossed a bow and stern line up to the lockmaster to secure his position, and then came the low, grinding sound of hydraulics as the lower gates swung closed behind him.

Truett had taken the
PharmaGen
up and downriver through the Allegheny’s locks a hundred times. The process was as second-nature to him as riding an escalator. But this time when the lower gates locked shut behind him, sealed tight by the pressure of the rising water, a strange thought wormed its way into Truett’s mind: Can the doors be reopened? Can the process be reversed? If he lay on his air horn, if he signaled the lockmaster, could he open the massive doors again and allow the
PharmaGen
to gently back out onto the peaceful lower river?

When is it too late to change your mind?

Truett sat alone in the cockpit now, staring silently ahead at the warning pattern on the black upper gates, watching the yellow stripes slowly dip into the water and disappear as the level began
to rise. For the next twenty minutes, he had nothing to do but sit and stare and remember.

“To the ethics advisory board,” Truett said, raising his glass in a toast. “May you keep us on the straight and narrow.”

“And to fortuitous meetings,” Zohar replied, raising his glass in return. “‘When comets cross, do the skies illumine.’”

The two men sat across from one another at the S-shaped conference table in PharmaGen’s newly commissioned boardroom. The flowing curves of the table accented the soft, organic shapes of the chairs and other furnishings, all washed in tones of olive and gold and sienna. On the walls, a row of stark black frames featured digital photographs of Heinz Field, PNC Park, and, largest of all, the
PharmaGen
yacht.

“I want you to know how much I appreciate your joining our board,” Truett said. “I know what a busy man you are.”

“I consider it a great privilege.” Zohar smiled. “I’m never too busy to help with a strategic new venture. Perhaps you could tell me a little more about your vision for this board.”

Truett leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach. “Ultimately, I’d like to have a dozen or so members—well-known, highly respected ethicists like yourself, from all different philosophical perspectives.”

Zohar smiled. “Then you see this board as largely a public-relations effort. I’m disappointed.”

“No, not at all,” Truett said. “Our efforts here at PharmaGen are going to raise a lot of concerns about genetic privacy and bioethics. I want to meet those concerns head-on, and I want the ethics advisory board to spearhead that effort.”

Zohar ran his index finger gently around the rim of his glass. “Have you ever served on an ethics panel yourself?”

“Can’t say as I have.”

“Let me tell you how they operate. They always begin very politely, everyone sharing the same goal, colleagues all. Then individual differences in perspective begin to appear—not superficial differences, mind you, but disparities in fundamental philosophical assumptions. Soon each member becomes entrenched in his own position, defending his own precious
a priori,
becoming more and more intractable and defensive.

“They’re like a group of travelers who came to a fork in the road long ago, and each chose a different path. Now all they can do is shout to one another to abandon their path and join them on their own. No one is willing, of course; they’ve all traveled far too many miles to turn back now. Soon the members tire of all the bickering and the backbiting, and the panel begins to cool down and collapse like a dying sun. The truth is, Mr. Truett, asking a diverse group of ethicists to form a panel is like asking Congress to have a discussion about politics.”

Truett rocked slowly back and forth in his chair. “Then what do you suggest?”

“As I see it, Mr. Truett, I have two things to offer this wonderful venture of yours. First of all, you were very wise to form this ethics advisory board. There will be many concerns, and it will be a tremendous advantage to be able to assure the public that you are addressing them. And you need to address them—but not by collecting a smorgasbord of ethical opinions. As a leader, Mr. Truett, I doubt that you make most of your own decisions by committee; that would bring your company to a grinding halt, now, wouldn’t it? So there’s the dilemma: you need to address ethical concerns, but you need to get things
done.
May I suggest a simple solution? You need to work from a single ethical perspective.”

“Your
perspective?”

Zohar smiled and spread his hands. “Why not? I think you’ll find we have much in common, Mr. Truett—a vision for the future, an appreciation of technology, and most of all, a certain
force of will.
Like you, I like to make things happen. That’s the first thing I can do for you, Mr. Truett—I can help you make things happen.”

“And the second thing?”

“I can help you refocus your vision.”

“Does my vision
need
refocusing?”

“If you’ll forgive me, I believe it does. Do you know the difference between a dreamer and a visionary? Focus. Any child can conceive some grandiose scheme or utopian future; it takes a visionary to recognize the attainable part of that dream and bring together the necessary resources to make it happen. You are more than a dreamer, Mr. Truett. You’ve proven that already. But visionaries need to learn to
refocus
their visions, or their visions may end up nothing more than dreams.”

“Refocus
as in keeping a single-minded purpose? Keeping your eye on the prize?”

“Just the opposite, actually. You see, there’s also a difference between a visionary and a fanatic. A fanatic focuses only on the destination; a visionary learns from the journey. The true visionary understands that, though he has a clear destination in mind, other opportunities may present themselves along the way that have even greater potential. The visionary must be determined, but he must remain flexible. How does the proverb go? ‘The mind of man plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps.’

“Perhaps an example will help. When automobiles first appeared in our country, the railroad barons were kings—they had enormous wealth and power. When the automobile industry began to grow, the railroads were in a perfect position to buy them out—but they didn’t. Do you know why? Because of a simple lack of vision. The railroad owners told themselves that they were in the
railroad
business—and what does a railroad have to do with automobiles? If they had only had the foresight to say, ‘We are in the
transportation
business,’ today we would all be driving Union Pacific Town Cars and Santa Fe SUVs.”

“Interesting,” Truett said. “So how does this apply to us?”

“I’d like to encourage you to think outside the box, Mr. Truett. Regardless of your current mission statement, despite what it says in your annual report, you are not in the business of personalized medicine.”

“Oh? What business am I in?”

“The business of
applied genetic information.
”

Truett let out a laugh. “I’m sorry, Dr. Zohar. That sounds like semantics to me.”

“I assure you it’s not. Your ultimate goal is to develop personalized medicines—but along the way to that goal, I think you’ve generated some other very lucrative possibilities for PharmaGen to explore.”

“Such as?”

“Applied genetic information,” Zohar said again. “You know, I really have to congratulate you on what you’ve already accomplished here.”

“I wouldn’t break out the champagne just yet. We need a salable product first. We need a clear path to cash.”

“But you have a salable product right now. Don’t you see? It’s the genetic information you’ve collected from over a quarter of a million residents of western Pennsylvania.”

“That information is strictly confidential.”

“I couldn’t agree more. The information you collect should never be sold, transferred, or released to any second party. However, the good people of Pennsylvania have entrusted PharmaGen with this information, which allows the possibility of certain secondary applications
within
your company.”

Truett shifted uneasily in his chair. “What sort of
secondary applications
are we talking about?”

Zohar looked at him penitently. “I must confess something to you, Mr. Truett. Our introduction last week at that reception was not, strictly speaking,
fortuitous.
I intended to meet you there. You see, I’ve been observing the progress of your company from the very beginning. It’s just the sort of pioneering venture I might have attempted myself, as a younger man. I’ve collected quite a bit of information on PharmaGen—not just from your brochures and glowing press releases, but from other sources—external sources. I have contacts among your major investors, and they tell me that PharmaGen has all but exhausted its original venture capital. The cost of your population studies has been enormous, and it’s now a race against the clock to see if you can produce that salable product before your company goes the way of so many other promising tech startups. How many ambitious young entrepreneurs have faced the same dilemma? To attract ongoing investment, you have to promise success. But to deliver that success, you require ongoing investments. And so, like so many other young companies, you find yourself out of cash—and you’re doing your very best to hide it, aren’t you?