BLIND TRIAL by Brian Deer (good books to read for adults .txt) 📕

forced the list back into the envelope. “I thought you might be here to help me. Please help me.”

SHE WISHED she could tell him about the proposition: about everything. One of her secret sisters reckoned she should. As they passed Civic Center and crossed to south of Market, the quarrelsome twins slugged it out. One was of the opinion: telling the truth is always best. The other: if you do, he’ll hate you.

“Next left.”

“Check. No problemo.”

But he did look cool in his shades.

They found Clementina Street: a one-way rat-run, bracketed by Sixth and Fourth. Years back it must have classed as upscale residential but was recently redeveloped for mixed use. Here were anonymous condos, chain-linked parking lots, and garish, budget-clad offices.

“Stop there.” She pointed. “Stop there. Pull in.”

“Check. No problemo.” He stopped.

The Ramirez address was among a short row of properties: flat-fronted, two-story, modern brownstones. On the first floor: a blue door and a white-gate garage. On the second: four wood-framed windows.

She clambered from the Sentra and waited for him to join her. But he didn’t get out of the vehicle.

She knocked at the door and rattled the mail slot. No answer. She rattled again.

Then she heard a scrape as an upper window opened. A guy shouted down, “Si. Quien es?”

A slim young Latino shielded his eyes. He was naked to the waist, at least.

“Hi,” she called up. Her Spanish wasn’t great. “Er, nosotros ah somos er del Hospital General de San Francisco.”

The guy glanced along the street. “Quien es?”

“Uhm, sabas que pasa con Rafael?”

“What? Hospital General?”

“Si.”

The guy shouted inside the house, but she couldn’t hear what. Then he vanished, and a woman appeared.

Sumiko waved. This must be the sister. “Was that Rafael? We’re looking for Rafael. Sabas que paso con Rafael?”

“Hospital General?”

“Si.”

“Yo no tengo nada que decirte. Por favor dejanos solos.”

“Excuse me?”

“Fuck off.”

Twenty-one

PARKED ACROSS the street from the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals Building, Ben watched a posse of teenage boys as they failed at kickflips and ollies. He’d been waiting here on Mission since before five o’clock. And it just turned half past six. Through the car’s open windows, he heard the slap of skateboards and caught the odor of cannabis in the air.

A maroon Chevy Camaro SS coupe braked and reversed to the curb behind him. Hoffman. And with him—shit—the Executive Vice President, Research & Medicine: the form-forging fucker himself.

The Black Bill Clinton scrambled from the two-door clutching a canary yellow plastic shopping bag. “Apologies for lateness,” he said, climbing into the Sentra. “Had to cross town to pick up some groceries.”

Doctorjee didn’t budge, but sat, arms folded, gazing at the rear of the sedan.

Ben summarized events: the forged reply forms, Wilson’s reaction, and the expedition to the Ramirez address. “Seems she’s gone and turned all Quincy on us now. Series 2, Episode 1: ‘Fucked Off on Clementina Street.’”

“What about Murayama and Sanomo’s proposition? You hear any more on that?”

“Hasn’t said anything, but we didn’t talk about him. You said don’t talk to anyone about that, so I didn’t know whether to raise it with her or not. But, one thing, Murayama did send me a WhatsApp this afternoon about inviting me to lunch again. I didn’t get back to him, but he’ll know I got it. Look.”

He pulled out his Samsung and showed the incoming message.

Hoffman dropped the yellow bag between his feet and studied the screen on Ben’s phone. “He’s giving nothing away there, is he? So, you still don’t know about this proposition then? If it was nothing, she’d have said something, wouldn’t she? That’s the elephant in the room here. I’m thinking she’s singing to the Japs.”

“Dr. Mayr did seem to think the reply form thing’s pretty heavy. Was paid for by the government, she said.”

“Screw the government. If Sanomo puts it out that that motherfuckin’ dickhead back there faked paperwork, our vaccine won’t be getting licensed next week. (a) we’re in front of a Congressional committee, (b) BerneWerner stock’ll tank till it hits the South Pole, and (c) the Japs, or more likely the Chinese, will buy the company for pocket change.”

“You think it’s that bad?”

“Listen. This ain’t some cheese-eating lab cheat we got here. That guy behind us sits on the board. He’s fed his face with Donald Trump.”

“Yeah?”

“So, what you figure we do then? Your take on this fuckup is what?”

Ben glanced in the rearview. Doctorjee hadn’t moved: no sign of him joining the conversation. The executive vice president lowered the Camaro’s sun visor and fingered his face in the vanity mirror.

“My take? From me? I don’t know at all, sir. Who looks after the ethical side of things?”

“That’s easy. Nobody.”

Ben tapped his teeth.

“You know Janice Hughes? Your fellow scholarship kid? They got her shredding notebooks over InderoMab.”

“Who did?”

Hoffman gazed out the window. “You ever have a skateboard? Or were you only BMX?”

AT THE COURTHOUSE steps, one kid, another, another, then the rest, pushed off toward the corner of Seventh. Ben felt a prod of childhood memory as they passed. His switch-stance was the talk of Lincoln Park.

Hoffman lifted the yellow bag from between his feet and moved as if to exit the car. But he didn’t get out. He stretched to the radio and searched for the sound of violins. Then he tipped back his head, pulled the bag against his chest, and folded his arms in a cradle. “Berlioz,” he said. “Can’t beat Berlioz. ‘Marche au supplice,’ I’d say.”

Ben absorbed the sounds of bows sawing strings before taking his chance with a question. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, you can. Told you before, think of me as a resource.”

“Well, you know, like, you know Henry Louviere?”

“Yes, I do. Yes, I do.”

“Well, like, you know, how does he strike you? I mean as a person, would you say? I mean, like what kind of person would you say, as a person?”

Hoffman’s face widened as if he remembered an old lover. “Best commercial lawyer since they bought Alaska. I’ll say that. Mind as sharp as