Paul Goldstein - A Patent Lie

“And do you recall what company provided that treatment?”

“Why, of course, St. Gall.”

There was a gasp from the jury box, but Seeley didn't turn.

Cordier said, “They stole the treatment from Vaxtek, no?”

Before Fischler could object, Seeley said, “I have no further questions.”

Leonard said, “I thought the cross-examination would be longer.” They were in a taxi on their way from the courthouse to an early dinner. Palmieri was in charge of tomorrow morning's witness, but Gabriela Vega, the Heilbrun, Hardy associate who was preparing Seeley's afternoon witness, had less experience than Palmieri, and Seeley wanted to be there to help if needed. But Leonard insisted. This would be their last chance to talk before he went to Washington on Wednesday for meetings at the FDA, and he promised that the Tadich Grill, only a short walk from Heilbrun, Hardy's offices, wouldn't be busy at this hour.

Seeley said, “She kept the cross short because the jury liked Cordier. She wouldn't do her client any good trying to trip him up.”

Even so, Seeley thought Fischler had been more solicitous than she needed to be, and had scored only once, when she got the physician to concede that, unlike the vaccines for measles or polio, a single AV/AS inoculation might not be enough to prevent the onset of AIDS. But the setback was small. Cordier had established a strong legal foundation for their case and, even more important, a powerful emotional one.

“Why didn't the old guy question him?”

“Thorpe's controlling every move in this case.” Seeley explained to Leonard how the change in their order of witnesses had put the defense team off balance. “Fischler doesn't ask a question she hasn't reviewed with him.”

“You ought to think about moving your practice to San Francisco.” When Seeley didn't answer, Leonard cocked his head toward the side window. “You have to admit it beats Buffalo.”

“The weather is pleasant,” Seeley said. After that, they didn't talk until they reached the restaurant.

Tadich was quiet, as Leonard promised. The woodwork was studded with ancient brass fittings and darkened by a century's layers of varnish, but the high white ceilings looked freshly painted. A few customers were at the mahogany counter that ran down the center of the long room, and others were at tables. Quartered lemons in porcelain bowls and massive chunks of crusty sourdough were set within arm's reach. The sounds of silver and china being arranged on linen echoed gently through the dining room. Knives chopped and pans clattered in the open kitchen at the back, and a vague but agreeable fragrance of buttery sauces wafted through the place. Suffusing it all was the easy self-assurance of an old and popular restaurant in the hour before the dinner rush.

A white-coated waiter recognized Leonard and took them to a table in one of the private, wood-paneled booths.

“You made quite an impression on Renata.”

Seeley looked at the menu. For some reason, at the mention of Renata, he thought of Lily, surprised to discover how close below the surface of his thoughts she was. He found himself comparing Renata's catlike aggressiveness to Lily's laconic sensuality.

“She hasn't stopped talking about you since you got here.”

Leonard was going to try to sell him something.

“I was hoping you could stop down and see her, maybe take her to dinner while I'm away. I'm not coming back until late next week.”

Was it Renata's flirtatiousness or Leonard's misshapen hopes for the family circle that made Seeley hesitate at the prospect of dinner with his sister-in-law?

“I'm in the middle of a trial, Len. I have witnesses to prepare.”

The waiter returned to take their order. As if to re-create the lunch with Lily, Seeley ordered the fried oysters. Leonard shot him a bemused look, patted his waistline, and ordered broiled sole.

Before Leonard could return to Renata, Seeley said, “What do you know about Alan Steinhardt's lab notebooks?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he keep two sets of books?”

“Of course not.”

Seeley watched for the small bulge in Leonard's cheek where, as a boy, he pressed his tongue when he lied, but there was nothing. “It wouldn't be the first time an inventor cooked the books to get an earlier invention date.”

Leonard said, “Alan's miles above doing anything like that. He knew St. Gall's lawyers would be all over his notebooks, and they were. If anything was wrong, do you think St. Gall would have stipulated priority?”

The perfectly drawn charts and well-crafted paragraphs in the notebooks Seeley examined were as neat and precise as the scientist's custom-tailored lab coat. “How did the notebooks look to you?”

“They were fine.”

“You told me the other day you didn't have time to review your scientists' notes.”

Leonard picked up his beer coaster and played with it. “Are you cross-examining me?”

When Seeley didn't answer, Leonard shook his head and grinned. “We're not going to lose this case. We have Michael Seeley representing us.” He went on talking about his trip to Washington, his dealings with the FDA, and how busy he was. “I promise, I'm telling you the truth about the notebooks.”

The ambience of the suave San Francisco restaurant was nothing like that of the dark and fetid Germania Social Club, but it was the Germania, to which his father would drag Leonard and him when their mother was off on one of her church outings, that drifted into Seeley's thoughts. While his father drank with his friends, he and Leonard would crawl under one of the rough trestle tables and build fortresses out of coasters and empty beer bottles. It startled Seeley to realize that there had in fact been pleasant interludes in a childhood that he was accustomed to thinking of exclusively in shades of black and gray.

The waiter brought their dinners and Leonard busied himself with the food. “No one broils fish the way they do here.”

The starched linen tablecloth and heavy silver were steps above Barbara's Fish Trap, but the oysters, even topped with thick strips of smoky bacon, didn't come close to Seeley's memory.

“It would mean a lot to me if you could stop in and see Renata.” Leonard mopped his plate with a crust of sourdough and shot Seeley a kid brother's look. “You're not afraid of her, are you?”

Leonard had always gotten on well with women. Where Seeley's reflex as a boy was to fight back, Leonard navigated the brutalized household through manipulation, using first Seeley, then their mother as a shield. While Seeley was acquiring the habit of solitude-he could be completely alone even in the middle of football practice-Leonard was practicing the social skills that drew people to him. Maybe this was why women had always liked Leonard. He was attuned to their thoughts and moods in a way Seeley knew he would never be.

“I don't know why you need me to babysit your wife.”

For the first time since they left the courthouse, Leonard lost his bounce. “Renata drinks when I'm away. Sometimes I'll call, and I can hear it in her voice. It's eleven or twelve at night and she's slurring her words. Five, six hours later she's prepping for surgery. I worry about her.”

“I'd think you'd worry about her patients.”

Leonard shrugged. “You're a single man. Marriage is complicated.” He chewed at the bread, then remembered something. “I'm sorry.” He watched to see if Seeley wanted to talk. “I'm sorry about your divorce. I never met Clare.”

Seeley was thinking not of his former wife, but of Gabriela Vega and Lionel Kaplan, the witness she was preparing for tomorrow afternoon. Other work, too, waited at the office. He caught a passing waiter's attention and signaled for the check.