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

Four Seasons, he glimpsed a guy breaking bottles. “What you think about your first assignment then? Huh? Enough action for you? Huh? Or you hankering for more Crampton overheads?”

He tuned his hearing to maximum sensitivity. There was no Plan B for Ben. He was a chip off the block: looks and mind. The same soul as his daddy’s looking out. Just watching him move, seeing his wide shoulders roll, had made Hoffman feel young. Yes, young.

“Yes, sir. Interesting. Sure. Lot of dilemmas and stuff. Real-world dilemmas and stuff.”

The thing about the Louvieres was they wanted to belong. More than anything, they needed tight holding. Hoffman lowered the binoculars. “Guess that’s why I love it. Wouldn’t want to do anything else.”

A pause and a sigh: a soft outpour of breath. The kid wasn’t squared. He’d an issue.

“Something wrong?”

Another sigh. “No—well—I’m wondering then, is that the end of it for me then now? Back to marketing. Giving out iPads in that crummy module? Making slide shows for that Vendrecol crap?”

Huh. He was dealing, trying to chisel an advantage. A chip off the block, for sure. “Hell, marketing. That was just to start you off. Gotta remember we don’t always have the openings all the time. Left you hanging around, I know.”

“That’s okay.”

“First you get your raise I promised, then Doctorjee’s got an idea. What you say to a job with the Regulatory Affairs Unit? Some action coming their way after the licensure, I’d reckon.”

He remembered the shirts. If they dried too much, it would mean more time with the Rowenta. “We can talk about this in the week. Come up and see me Tuesday or Wednesday. Check with Corinna. We’ll work something out. Not a problem.”

“I could sure do with a move.”

“We’ll fix it.”

“And I guess there’s still the laptop thing. You know, the final warning from that asshole?”

“Christ, no. Crampton’s gonna write you. Didn’t I tell you? All a mix-up. Crossed wires. We’ll get you a better one: an Apple. And didn’t I say? We’re making your student loan into a grant. Be paid off tomorrow. It’s a new thing we’re doing for all our scholarship intake. Forget about it.”

“Not mad at me then about what happened in California? You know, I got kind of confused about it all, in the heat of the moment.”

“Hell no. It is confusing. But if you not got the full picture, you maybe sometimes don’t see what we’re trying to get done. Too many folks make judgments without all the facts. We all do it. Human nature.”

MONDAY JULY 28

Fifty-nine

ABOVE THE deco-style canopy of the Marriott at Metro Center, three of four flags attached to sloping staffs were disarrayed Monday afternoon. Maryland’s red-and-white crosses and black-and-yellow checkerboards were lowered with Old Glory on the east side of Twelfth Street, as if mourning a public figure. The District of Columbia’s three red-on-white stars and two stripes, meanwhile, were tangled like a bandaged bloody finger.

At a quarter after two, Drs. Honda and Murayama climbed from a taxi which sped them from Dulles airport, and spun through the revolving glass door. Sumiko was dressed in a gray work suit, her partner his usual attire. Each clutched a bag—hers white, his black—with their free hands clasped in each other’s.

They’d nearly gone to the wrong location. Ten days’ back, Marcia Gelding announced that today’s event would be hosted by the National Institutes of Health, ten miles northwest at Bethesda. But Maureen Valentine phoned last night and disclosed a change of venue. Apparently, a public relations firm had advised the company that a hotel was more convenient for the media.

As the couple skirted the pot of lime green chrysanthemums, Sumiko feared Maureen was mistaken. No crowds, news crews, photographers, or signs suggested a momentous occasion. A sleazy bossa nova (piano, clarinet, wire brush, and vocals) spoke only of business as usual.

Hiroshi squeezed her hand. “Can’t be the right place.”

“Maureen sounded incredibly certain.”

Maureen was right. At a pink marble counter, a crisply styled clerk with a titanium smile confirmed a last-minute booking. “Left along the lobby, down the staircase, on the right. See it straight ahead. Have a good one.”

At the foot of the stairs, they reached a security table where a brown-uniformed guard with a red face and blue gloves checked bags with a flashlight and stick. Then they joined a line shuffling forward into a hard-floored foyer: windowless, airless, with a row of double doors that opened to the Grand Ballroom, on the right.

Sumiko felt a pang to see the white BerneWerner module in which, ten days ago, she met Ben. Its outer walls were missing the LED display panels, and the pairs of chrome poles which flanked its entrance arch were strung with a pink banner.

THE TIME HAS COME

And then she saw Ben: in an immaculate black suit, white shirt, and fleur-de-lis tie. He stood by a trestle table, handing out literature as the line edged toward the ballroom. He looked engrossed, content, even happy, she thought. Any danger she’d once seen was gone. The only feature out-of-place for a company stooge was a purple-yellow stain round one eye.

He barely looked up as the line crept forward. He moved like an early-model robot. He lifted three sheets of paper from three piles on the table, added a brochure, a typescript, and a The Time Has Come bumper sticker, bundled them together in a gray-and-pink folder, rapped them on the table, and passed them.

Rap-rap. “Thank you, doctor. Take any seat. We’re trying to fill up from the front.”

Rap-rap. “Thank you, doctor. Take any seat. We’re trying to fill up from the front.”

His expression didn’t change when she reached the table. He looked up, then back to his task. One sheet, two sheets, three sheets, the brochure, the typescript, the bumper sticker, the folder.

Rap-rap. “Thank you, Dr. Honda.” Rap-rap. “Dr. Murayama. We’re trying to fill up from the front.”

She whispered, “Thank you Ben,” and followed the line through the first pair of double doors to the right.

The ballroom