It soon became clear to the Compound J team that Judy Novick’s attitude—wariness and skepticism mingled with hope—would be the norm among those drawn to the protocol. Most metastatic cancer patients tend to put up a brave front for a time. But eventually, physically debilitated and emotionally drained, they begin making peace with the apparently inevitable. Only a modest percentage, aware of the risks involved and the odds against long-term success, are ready to subject themselves to the hazards of experimental treatment.
Yet, for precisely that reason, as the roster pool began filling out—with five women having signed on the bottom line by late March, the end of the second month—Logan was already looking upon the Compound J patients with admiration and gratitude. As word of the protocol spread, the patient accrual phase began clicking along surprisingly smoothly. Some days now there were as many as a half dozen serious inquiries; sometimes producing three or four legitimate prospects at the Screening Clinic a week.
In fact, a greater concern now became the screening evaluations themselves—especially after Logan learned that Allen Atlas, while on clinic duty, had tried to disqualify a woman from the Compound J test who, in most respects, seemed an excellent candidate.
“Get out of my face,” shot back Atlas, when Logan called him on it, “the woman has high blood pressure.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Atlas,” he told him. “We both know what you’re trying to do.”
“Right, asshole, my job. So let me do it.”
“Uh-uh. You were doing a job, all right. For Larsen and Stillman.”
Atlas’s face reddened, and for a moment Logan thought he might’ve gone too far; for all the viciousness of ACF politics, the junior associates pretended, at least, to be collégial. Such a charge, implying as it did deliberate sabotage of a protocol, was extremely serious. If brought to higher authorities, it could land one or the other of them in very hot water.
But Atlas, enraged, didn’t even bother with the formality of a denial. “At least,” he spat back, “those guys know what the hell they’re doing.”
When he calmed down, Logan was warier than ever. He and his colleagues decided that from now on, when any of their adversaries was slotted to screen a Compound J candidate, one of them would drop by the Clinic to oversee the exam. The silent, smoldering looks they had to endure were small cost for the certainty that no likely prospects would fall through the cracks.
That is why Logan happened to be in the Screening Clinic when he was alerted by the beeper on his waist to an incoming call. The woman with whom he was talking, one Sally Kober, was missing a kidney as a result of an auto accident in her teens; since she was sixty-six, this was of little consequence—but under other circumstances, it might have been used to keep her out of the program.
When the beeper sounded, Logan switched it off and smiled at the patient. “I’ll get that in a few minutes.”
“Don’t you have to get it now? It might be an emergency.”
“No emergency. Just a doctor calling about someone else who might be interested in this protocol. You’re already here.”
“And immensely good company,” she observed, laughing.
Though he tried always to keep a professional distance, Logan couldn’t help but be struck by this woman. A veteran of a radical mastectomy twenty years before, she seemed to be taking the appearance of the new node above the clavicle—an exceptionally ominous development—with amazing calm.
“Now, just so I know where I stand,” she said, “—this thing I’ve got is pretty desperate, isn’t it?”
“I wish the news were better,” he replied evenly.
“Well, then, you seem to be in the majority.”
Unconsciously, she passed a hand over her steel-gray hair. “Are you a football fan?”
He nodded, confused. “The Dallas Cowboys.”
“Oh, please, you struck me as someone with common sense!” She smiled. “I love the Giants.”
“You’re excused—you live in New Jersey.”
“I will bet you, right now, on the first game the Giants and Cowboys play next season.”
“Why’d you want to do that? It wouldn’t be right taking your money.”
She laughed. “It’s called faith. It’s a convenient way of betting on myself to still be here.”
“I’ve only known you fifteen minutes, but that’s a bet I’ll take.”
She waved her hand. “Please, enough flattery. Go return that call.”
“Mrs. Kober, how much do you know about this protocol? Have you read the Informed Consent Document?”
“My doctor recommended it, and you seem all right. I can’t see any good reason not to do it.”
“I’m afraid that’s not good enough. I’m going to want you to read it over very carefully.”
She thrust out her hand. “Hand it over. I’ll read it while you make your call.”
As he dialed, still chuckling, he noted approvingly that the area code—804—was central and southern Virginia; little likelihood of transportation problems with this one.
“Hello,” answered a male voice.
Logan was momentarily taken aback. At a hospital or clinic, he generally got a receptionist. “Yes. I hope I have the right number. This is Dr. Daniel Logan at the American Cancer Foundation—I was given this number but no name.”
“Yes, Dr. Logan. You’ve got the right number.”
“Did you call? Are you a doctor?”
“Yes, I’m a doctor. But I’m afraid I don’t have a patient to refer to you. My name is Ray Coopersmith.”
As soon as Logan walked into the Hotel Jefferson in Richmond, he knew why Coopersmith had chosen it for their meeting. A vestige of the antebellum South, all potted plants and faded upholstery, this was as distant from the high-tech, high-pressure world of the ACF as one could get. Logan, jumpy throughout the two-hour drive south, was instantly heartened; their chances of being spotted here were roughly the same as coming up with a cure for cancer in a bathroom sink.
Though it was early on a Saturday evening, the lobby was nearly deserted. Logan was about to take a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs beyond the imposing main staircase when he happened to look up. There he was: at a table behind a wrought-iron railing on the second floor, a man was nodding at him!
“Nice place, don’t you think?” said Coopersmith, when Logan reached the top of the stairs. “I thought for a second you wouldn’t see me.” He extended his hand. “Ray Coopersmith.”
“Dan Logan. Yes, very nice.”
Logan didn’t know what he’d expected, but this wasn’t it. Though probably no more than a few years older than himself, Coopersmith looked middle-aged. Tall and rail thin, with dark hollows beneath penetrating eyes and thinning hair in need of a trim, he had the same edgy, unfocused quality Logan had noted in gamblers and junkies.
As they took their seats at the small wicker table, Logan noticed, with a rush of sympathy, that the worn suit jacket the other man wore didn’t quite match the pants.
“You want a drink?”
“Me too.” Coopersmith motioned for a waiter.
Coopersmith ordered a gin and tonic, Logan a beer.
They stared at one another for a long moment. Logan had no idea how to proceed and Coopersmith didn’t seem inclined to help.
“You come here a lot?” Logan finally spoke up, lamely.
“No.”
“Do you live in Richmond?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“Place called Hopewell. About twenty miles from here.”
“So what are you doing with yourself these days?”
“I’m getting by,” he said, with sudden, unmistakable rancor. “Don’t worry about me, I’m practicing medicine.”
“Where’s that?”
“At a clinic. In Petersburg. Why, you gonna check me out?”
Logan chose to ignore this. “I read your protocol. It was very impressive.”
The waiter brought the drinks, and they momentarily fell silent.
“You’re obviously a gifted researcher,” picked up Logan.
Incomprehensibly, Coopersmith snickered. “Maybe I’ll read yours sometime.” He tapped the side of his head and smiled. “Breast cancer. Smart. A glamour disease.”
Logan didn’t know whether to be amused or offended. The remark was obviously intended as a put-down, but the man making it was more worthy of pity than scorn. “That isn’t why we’re doing it.”
“No, of course not. Me—genius!—I go after prostate—try to get funding for that.”
This was the opening Logan had been looking for. “I heard it wasn’t lack of funding that got you in trouble.”
Spasmodically, Coopersmith’s head jerked left, then right. “Who said that?”
“Steven Locke. He said you faked your data.”
“Bullshit! They wouldn’t give me the resources I needed. The people. The money.”
“That doesn’t sound—”
“What am I supposed to do? There was too much damn data, I couldn’t monitor it all. But I’m a scientist! I didn’t make up anything!”
Logan nodded. What was the point in arguing with the guy?
“The data was good data,” he insisted. “But they said it was uninterpretable.”
“Who’s that?”
“Larsen. Stillman. Kratsas. That whole bunch. They’re scum, they were against me from the start. What I’d give to ream out those fuckers!”
Logan stared at him. That’s why this guy had gotten him down here? “Look, Ray, I appreciate the warning, but it’s not news about these guys. They’re already making all the problems for us they can.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, you don’t know the half of it.”
“Really, I understand what you’re saying. But we’re not in the same position you were. There are three of us. And ours is just a mini-test—fifteen patients.”
“You’re such an arrogant SOB. You fit right in at that place!”
Logan was caught short by the savagery of the attack. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.
“Arrogant, complacent, and dumb as shit.” He shot him a malicious grin. “Bet you don’t like hearing that, do you?”
Logan glanced at his watch. “Look, I’ve gotta be getting back.”
“Before someone sees you with me?”
“Because I don’t think this is doing either of us any good.”
“It’s done me lots of good. I found out what disgusting little ass-kissers that place is turning out these days.”
Unsettling as this was, Logan found it useful too—even reassuring. Who could doubt that this guy was wildly unstable? Or that—for all his accusations and complaints—that fact had been at the very heart of his problems?
“Wait a minute,” said Coopersmith with sudden contrition, “don’t go yet. I don’t get to talk serious science much anymore.”
“Sorry, I really can’t.”
“C’mon, just one more beer.”
Logan held up his glass, still more than half full. “No. I’ve got to drive back home.”
“You’re being careful?” The other’s sudden, strangled laugh caught him by surprise. “You’re such a fucking jerk, Logan!”