There was a miniature television set in the bathroom of Arthur’s hotel suite, and he watched CNN Headline News as he shaved. It startled him when the screen showed the riot that had erupted in front of the Capitol. As Pat had guessed, it was little more than a scuffle. But he had never seen his name on placards before yesterday, never realized the emotions that his work was stirring.
“My god,” he said to himself, “what do they want of me?”
On the front page of the Washington Post there was a picture of demonstrators punching each other. The story about the trial itself was on page three.
Arthur was knotting his tie when the concierge called to tell him that his three visitors were on their way up to him. His doorbell chimed a moment later, and he went in his shirtsleeves to admit three lawyers: an old man, a young man, and a middle-aged woman, all in funereal dark business suits. They reviewed his testimony from the previous day over breakfast in his sitting room.
They accomplished nothing, Arthur thought. The young lawyer felt that Arthur had conducted himself brilliantly, especially when he tried to insist that the court stick to nothing but the scientific evidence. The woman worried that Rosen was maneuvering to establish Jesse as the rightful originator of the regeneration idea and thereby strip Omnitech of any patents or other proprietary rights. The third, older and grimmer, said very little but looked as if the world were going to come to an end within minutes.
Finally, just when Arthur thought they were finished, the older man cleared his throat and said in a rasping voice, “About this business of wrongful death . . .”
Arthur fixed him with a hard stare. “That’s got nothing to do with this trial, no matter what Rosen says.”
“It’s not this trial that worries me,” said the lawyer. His two colleagues, sitting on either side of him, nodded their heads in unison.
“What do you mean?” asked Arthur.
“It seems clear to me that Rosen is trying to establish a connection between your research project and the unfortunate woman’s suicide.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“Perhaps so. Perhaps not. But the testimony in this trial can and undoubtedly will be used in whatever civil or criminal suits are instituted back in Connecticut in regard to her suicide. You are going to have to defend yourself against charges of responsibility for her death.”
“She killed herself,” Arthur snapped. “She was emotionally unbalanced. Is that my fault?”
“You have a high visibility in this matter,” said the old lawyer, his voice like a creaking hinge. “That makes you highly vulnerable. And Omnitech, of course, has the deep pockets that personal injury attorneys look for.”
“Personal injury?”
“She had a family,” said the younger man. “If they can prove wrongful death and fix the blame on you—”
“Nonsense!”
The old lawyer grimaced. “That is for a court of law to decide. A jury of your peers.”
Christ, Arthur told himself, I thought I had picked a jury of my peers here in Washington. If I have to stand trial over Cassie’s suicide—
“You must not respond to any questions about the suicide,” the lawyer said in a tone that sounded already like impending doom. “You must not give them any material they can use against you and the corporation later on.”
“I understand,” Arthur said, realizing that the corporate lawyer was worried about the corporation, not his own life or reputation. “Thanks for the warning.”
Arthur ushered them out of his suite, glad to be rid of them, then went to the bedroom to put on his jacket. A civil or criminal trial in Connecticut. Great. Wonderful. Just what I need. Maybe they will burn me at the stake, after all.
CNN Headline News was still on in the bathroom; they were showing yesterday’s riot again.
The damned limo was nowhere in sight. Feeling angry and depressed, Arthur took a taxi to the Rayburn Building. The limo’s probably taking the lawyers back to their office, he told himself. I’ll have to get Pat to call the service and straighten them out.
The taxi driver was an elderly black man who seemed just as somber as Arthur felt.
“You goin’ to that trial ’bout the doctors?” he asked as they inched through the morning traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue.
“I’m one of the doctors,” Arthur replied.
The driver glanced up at his rearview mirror. “Yeah, yeah—they had a picture of you in the paper Sunday.”
Arthur saw the dark, red-rimmed eyes study him as they waited for a stoplight to change.
“You really can grow a man a new heart?”
“That’s what we’re trying to do,” Arthur said.
“You ain’t really done it yet?”
“Not in humans.”
“Well, hurry it up, Doc. Some of us cain’t wait all that long, you know.”
Arthur smiled at him. “We’re doing our best.”
When the cab pulled up at the entrance to the Rayburn Building, Arthur gave the man a ten-dollar tip.