BLIND TRIAL by Brian Deer (best books to read for beginners TXT) 📗

for relaxation. But Hoffman smelled the stink of betrayal. At least with the other kids he’d recruited through the scholarships, there was the distance of professionalism: assessments, discussion. They’d gotten their jobs on merit. But with Ben it was different. There was this whole other thing. And this whole other thing was bringing shit.

“So what you fucking tell the old girl for?”

The kid leaned away, his right elbow through the window. His mouth stayed shut. Which was wise.

Hoffman stabbed buttons and the windows shuddered shut, forcing Ben to pull his arm inside the car.

“So, this is what you do to me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Didn’t I tell you, come to me if you got any problems? Didn’t I say that? And what you do? You poke your stick down Trudy Mayr’s hole.”

“But you weren’t around. You said you were busy today at FDA, and Sumiko, Dr. Honda, only wanted me to set up a meet with Dr. Mayr. Nothing else. Didn’t seem anything much. I thought what she said might be important, before she said it to anyone else.”

“Important thing now for you kid is that final warning you got from Dr. Crampton. Huh? Important thing for you is what might happen to your ass Monday morning. And the important thing for you is what other folks will think. How it plays when it reaches Centralia.”

Doctorjee: “Centralia? Would that be a school?”

Ben said nothing. Which was wise.

Five

HOUSEKEEPING CALLED while Ben was at the meeting. When he pushed open the door to room 1115 of the Marriott at Metro Center, floor-length drapes were pulled against the evening, a patterned coverlet lifted to a closet, and fresh towels racked in the bathroom. In a three-second inventory, he verified his baggage: a gray backpack, a blue-orange-and-white Cubs bag, and a black-cased Gibson guitar.

He dragged off his jacket, shoes, and socks, and in two steps was out of his pants. He moved to the bathroom, stripped his shirt and shorts, and hurled them against a wall by the door. He twisted the shower faucet, climbed into the bath, and stepped underneath a tepid spray.

His mind swirled. Hoffman’s words enveloped him.

“How it plays when it reaches Centralia.”

Water streamed through his hair, across his shoulders, down his back. He pressed his forehead, cold, against tiles. In a mirror above the basin, he watched his body fade as a skim of steam settled on the glass.

He covered his eyes. Water trickled through his fingers. He tried to fill his mind with something else. He thought of Crampton’s letter; Doc Mayr at the airport; the slim and tight Sumiko in the module.

But the general counsel’s words kept coming and coming: a severed hand crawling across the floor.

Now it all made sense: the assignment to marketing; the shit work; airport duty. They’d promised him a real job: maybe regulatory affairs, or liaison with the Capitol Hill lobbyists. But they must have found out. And now they didn’t trust him. They knew about his father: Henry Louviere.

In Hoffman’s car, Ben clenched his abs, as if pumping a deadlift at the gym. Street sounds hollowed. Colors dimmed. The words hammered his ears like a kick drum.

“How it plays when it reaches Centralia.”

Henry Louviere: the man the Sun-Times dubbed “the fixer” during his first trial, in federal court. Henry Louviere: the topic of a WGN special feature when, years later, state prosecutors nailed him. Henry Louviere: disbarred, disgraced, corrupt lawyer.

“How it plays when it reaches Centralia.”

His son stepped from the bath, padded footprints to the windows, toweled himself down, and grabbed his phone.

“Hey bro.”

“What’s up Pudge?” His best buddy, Luke, panted. “Running from the park here. Just crossing Lakeshore. Hold on. Gonna sit on a wall.”

Luke called him “Pudge” after the great Carlton Fisk: once the greatest of White Sox catchers. It had caught on as a nickname so far back even Luke said he couldn’t remember when.

“Yeah man, back with you. How’s it hanging?”

“Get ready, bro. I think I’m coming home. Haven’t rented out my room yet, have you?”

Now Ben heard a blowing sound he’d heard a lot lately: a kind of do-I-really-need-this exhalation. They’d driven to Atlanta over Memorial Day weekend, with his stuff in the back of Luke’s Fiat Spider. But, even since then, the dynamic had shifted. An edge in Luke’s voice said it all.

“Look, Mario’s practically signed the lease here. What you talking about anyhow? You just got there.”

“I think it’s over. I’m fucked. Pretty certain they’re gonna terminate me Monday.”

“Congratulations, man. Seven weeks. Way to go. What you do, fuck the CEO’s wife?”

“Didn’t do anything. Can’t lay this one on me. Worst thing was I lost a fucking laptop.”

Another exhalation: Luke’s signal for complexity. Friday evening wasn’t his evening for complexity. “Look man, had a shit day in traffic court. Up to my ass in administrative suspensions.”

“Reckon yourself lucky you don’t work for these assholes.”

“The scales drop from his eyes. It’s a biotech company. They’re the guys who are fucking with our food.”

“Medicine’s different. It’s not the same thing.”

“Yeah, your guys are fucking with our genomes.”

“Yeah, well, right now they’re fucking with me. And they’re fucking me out of my job.”

Another blowing sound. “Did I not say when you were scuffing my Spider…”

“Screw your Spider.”

Now not a sound, but a Luke-style quiz. “So… what you talking about this time?”

“I mean, they know about him. They know about Centralia. They know. They know. So that’s it.”

“What, you told them about him? Must be out of your mind.”

“You know I never tell anyone.”

“Well, there’s clips online, if you know what to Google. And the divorce made Court TV.”

“Whatever. They know. Just hit me with it now.”

“Yeah, but so what? The fuck’s he to do with you?”

“You know what they say, ‘Like father like son.’ He’s a crook, so I must be also.”

“Chill out. Take it easy. You’re probably reading too much into this. Catastrophizing, as ever.”

“And that’s why they won’t let me near anything worth doing. That’s why I’m working that crappy module B hog house. Mom’s right about