While Justice Sleeps(121)
“And what happened to Dr. Ramji?” Jared asked.
“I don’t know.” Indira lifted her hands defensively. “I truly don’t know. Not until Nigel told me about your father’s research did I realize Ani might have managed to share his information. My investigators tracked him to Chennai, and I notified Major Vance. I assume—”
Nigel sputtered, “You had him killed?”
“I don’t know.” Indira returned to the tableau where the trio stood frozen. “The Tigris incident cannot be allowed to stop this technology from moving forward. It will save an incalculable number of lives.”
“And cure you, too?” Avery asked.
Indira gave a slight shrug. “If I benefit from our creations, then I will have more time to devote to saving others. I see no harm in my salvaging a measure of personal privilege from this debacle. I did not create Tigris, and I did not murder its subjects.”
“You are a criminal, Dr. Srinivasan,” Jared said starkly. “Whether you ordered their deaths or not, you are complicit.”
“Prove it. I will deny this conversation took place. You will be unlikely to find confirmation among the Research and Analysis Wing—India’s CIA.” She motioned dismissively to Nigel. “He may be appalled, but right now, he’s calculating the share price of our stock once we are able to announce that we’ve developed a biogenetic technology to cure Alzheimer’s and arthritis and cancer.”
“We’ll agree to provide affidavits to the Court confirming the documents from Dr. Papaleo on our side,” Nigel offered solemnly. “Indira will locate sufficient information to support your theory without admitting any wrongdoing by Hygeia, beyond the heinous research that preceded her tenure.” He gestured to the photos with a shudder. “These pictures disappear.”
“And you escape unscathed?” Avery retorted, incredulous.
Reaching down to the table, Indira lifted a china cup next to the images of the dead. With a delicate sip of tea, she suggested, “You must choose your poison, Ms. Keene. But as a sweetener, I will also reauthorize research into the antidote to Sleeping Beauty.”
“What’s Sleeping Beauty?” Nigel demanded.
Indira patted his arm soothingly. “The compound that put Justice Wynn into a coma. Developed by Advar. In a few months, GenWorks and Advar will debut a wonder drug that can put humans into lifesaving comas and bring them out, with minimal side effects.” She turned to Avery. “My understanding is that he maintains minimal brain activity, which is what the drug causes. Think of it as low-grade cryogenics. His condition may be reversed, in time.”
Jared demanded, “You barter for his life?”
“Yes. Do we have a deal?”
Jared squeezed Avery’s hand, and, unwilling to demand such a sacrifice of him, she gave a stiff nod. “Yes.”
She’d protected Ani with the rumor that he’d been killed, and now she had to make her final moves.
Indira rose gracefully and summoned several associates from a nearby room. When the documents had been finished and the notary exited, she limped over to the wide bay windows of the suite. “I inherited evil, but I didn’t create it.”
Avery bent to lift the notarized statements. “You didn’t stop it either.”
Jared walked Avery to the door, then gave Nigel a pitying look. “I’d be careful of your partners, Mr. Cooper. Very careful.”
FIFTY
Noah dropped off the complaint at nine a.m.
Judge Kenneth Stapleton was a bluff oak tree of a man, from the dark brown complexion down to the tree trunk limbs. Before taking up law, he’d been on the short list for the Heisman Trophy. Less than a month later, a car accident had ruined his football career, and he’d spent his recovery time studying for the LSAT. His conservative leanings and his stellar career as prosecutor for the state of Virginia had secured him a spot on the District Court of the District of Columbia, courtesy of the first round of appointments by President Brandon Stokes.
In two years, though, his affinity with his benefactor had weakened. To his mind, President Stokes had systematically shredded the Constitution, a document Stapleton held as sacred as the Bible. Both of them sat on his nightstand at home and his desk in the DC District Court.
Lifetime appointment stood as the finest of the perks of federal judgeships. Unless the judge committed an act of hubris that landed him in an impeachment hearing, he couldn’t lose his job. But if he failed to uphold the standards of the party that had brought him to the dance, he wouldn’t move any higher up the ladder.
At fifty-two, Judge Stapleton hadn’t quite decided whether he intended to stay put on the DC court or strive for an appeals court post. But the complaint lying on his desk seemed determined to make the choice for him.
Frivolous complaints landed on his desk every day. Pleas from federal prisoners, immigrants facing deportation, and generally annoyed citizens, intent on leveraging the remarkable accessibility of the federal courts, crowded into the hoppers on his clerks’ desks. Few, however, arrived with his political future attached as an exhibit.
By eleven thirty, he’d memorized the sparely written pages and their arguments. He could act as his gut said he should, summoning the courage that had gotten him through eight months of rehab. Or he could punt, recalling the best advice his old coach ever gave him: “Don’t stand there holding the ball if a freight train’s headed for you. Can’t play in the second quarter if you’re dead.”