BLIND TRIAL, Brian Deer [top 10 motivational books .txt] 📗

“But I’m only a corporate guy,” said MacKenzie/McKechnie. “I’m only the weekend guy, fixing bail.”

At 17:21, she was nearly hit by a car, running to a corner near the hospital. Then a quarter hour later she leaped from a taxi and paid the driver without waiting for change. Only then did she realize she still wore a lab coat and had slipped a capless pen in the pocket. A puddle of black ink soaked through the white cotton, through her blouse, and into her skin.

The granite facade of the Hall of Justice building receded like a Hitchcock dream. She’d seen its seven floors a thousand times from the freeway, but never had grounds to go in. She’d never been ticketed for blocking her wheels wrong, or parking where street cleaning was due. On the steps, she’d hesitated, as if once she went in, in some sense she might never come out.

A half hour back, MacKenzie/McKechnie appeared in the waiting area. He was trim, in his sixties, with backswept silver hair, and the suit of an Italian prince. “Might take a while,” he said, retreating through the doors. As they swung, he called back, “Thanks for coming.”

She imagined the cells, somewhere deep in the building. Were they part of the modern extension? Were they clean and bright, or dirty and gloomy? She felt for Hiroshi’s desperation. Even that the charge was filed might destroy him. Could he, or Sanomo, bear the shame?

He didn’t do it. She was certain. She knew he was innocent. But is innocence always enough?

THE DOORS opened. And wider. First, MacKenzie/McKechnie. Then Hiroshi, with hesitant steps.

He stared at the floor, his face pale and pained, like the survivor of a catastrophic quake. His white shirt hung open at the neck and cuffs, a black suit-leg was snagged in a sock. His shoes: unlaced. His jacket: creased. His red tie trailed from a pocket.

The lawyer stepped aside as she moved toward her lover. He was in her arms now. But no words. She held him, frightened, uncomprehending, paralyzed, as the doors swung open and shut.

Forty-two

THE CHOCOLATE silk pie didn’t deliver on its promise. It was silky but far too sweet. The dark mousse filling and white whipped topping were adequate to follow the ribeye. Certainly. But, as Dr. Viraj Grahacharya plunged a spoon and shoveled, he experienced too much of a rush.

He stared around the tables in the Garden Cafe before returning to his cellphone screen. With the vaccine’s license Monday, there was so much to do, and barely enough hours left to do it. He closed the proofs of a brochure, “Has the Time Come For You?” after correcting typographical errors. Next, he checked his column for HIV Today, zeroing-in on figures and charts.

At times like this he felt blessed by his heritage as the scion of an astrologer sub-caste. His forebears had grappled with the heavens’ infinities, like he probed the Earth’s infinitesimals. They’d watched for movements among the stars and planets, like he did in microbes and cells. They’d looked outward; he looked inward. The same spirit of inquiry brought to both.

Another glance around the restaurant and he shivered with disgust at the proximity of degenerate souls. In a booth to his right, a round-shouldered couple pressed corn to their faces like squirrels. A waitress’s complexion was more creased than a sari left forgotten overnight on a stone. A Bengal herdsman would hardly feel lucky to raise a stick to such run-out stock.

But who was this now? Who was this at the door? Who was this with his hand raised, waving? He knew that face. He knew that person. My word, Mr. Louviere. Ben.

HE ACCESSED a smile and installed it on his face as he picked his way across the busy restaurant. The executive vice president sat in a booth in the back, with his cellphone propped on a dish. A puffy right hand clutched a white cloth napkin which he patted round his forehead and cheeks. His nose sported a dab of dark chocolate mousse, as if he’d forgotten the location of his mouth.

“Is Mr. Hoffman with you?” Doctorjee’s eyebrows twitched. “My word, what a surprise.”

“Still with Dr. Mayr talking about, you know, what needs to be shared. Sent me over to gas the car and grab a coffee.”

“I see. Very well.” Doctorjee pointed to a chair. “That is very satisfactory. A relief.”

Ben glanced through the menu—lots of meat and vegetables—but felt more like vomiting than eating. “Maybe I’ll just have the coffee to wake me up. Still a way to drive yet tonight.”

The EVP lowered the napkin and whispered across the table. “He has appraised Dr. Mayr of the, shall we say, her situation?”

“Enhanced progression,” Ben whispered back. “Yeah, everything. Complicated stuff.”

“I see. That’s good. And how did she take it? Trudy Mayr can be prodigiously difficult.”

“Well, not wanting to speak out of line, or anything, sir, but I think you might be off her Christmas card list.”

A waitress approached, poured coffees, and walked away.

“He told her how much? He told her everything?”

“Yup. The whole thing.”

“And my contribution?”

“All that. Yeah. Sure. The whole thing. Must have been difficult for you. Took her a while taking that in.”

Doctorjee graced the room with his trademark half-smile as the chocolate nosedab bobbed. “Then this matter may be resolved, you think, tonight?”

“She’s none too delighted, that’s for sure.”

“Of course. None of us are. But what will she do, do you know? Did she say? Did she indicate she’s on board with our solution? I assumed she would perhaps be exhorting blue murder until she’s had sufficient time to reflect on her predicament.” He raised the napkin and rubbed his lips. “With Trudy you can never predict.”

“Pretty big thing to get your head round.”

Doctorjee reached and tapped Ben’s shirt sleeve. “Ahh, yes, but she will get over it. You see, we may change the world with this vaccine. Yes, we might. We might accomplish all our aspirations. But it