picked up the cylinder. It was light in his hand.
“Adam…”
“I didn’t do anything!”
Josh shook the cylinder. It was empty.
“I thought it was nitrous or something,” his brother said.
“You asshole.”
“Why? It didn’t do anything.”
“It’s for a rat, Adam. You just inhaled virus for a rat.”
Adam slumped back. “Is that bad?”
“It ain’t good.”
By the time Josh pulled up in front of his mother’s house in Beverly Hills, he had thought it through and concluded that there was no danger to Adam. The retrovirus was a mouse-infective strain, and while it might also infect human beings, the dose had been calculated for an animal weighing eight hundred grams. His brother weighed a hundred times as much. The genetic exposure was subclinical.
“So, I’m okay?” Adam said.
“Yeah.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry about that,” Adam said, getting out of the car. “But thanks for picking me up. See you, bro.”
“I’ll wait until you get inside,” Josh said. He watched as his brother walked up the drive and knocked on the door. His mother opened it. Adam stepped inside, and she shut the door.
She never even looked at Josh.
He started the engine and drove away.
CH007
At noon, Alex Burnet left her office in her Century City law firm and went home. She didn’t have far to go; she lived in an apartment on Roxbury Park with her eight-year-old son, Jamie. Jamie had a cold and had stayed home from school. Her father was looking after him for her.
She found her dad in the kitchen, making macaroni and cheese. It was the only thing Jamie would eat these days. “How is he?” she said.
“Fever’s down. Still got a runny nose and a cough.”
“Is he hungry?”
“He wasn’t earlier. But he asked for macaroni.”
“That’s a good sign,” she said. “Should I take over?”
Her father shook his head. “I’ve got it handled. You didn’t have to come home, you know.”
“I know.” She paused. “The judge issued his ruling, Dad.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“And?”
“We lost.”
Her father continued to stir. “We lost everything?”
“Yes,” she said. “We lost on every point. You have no rights to your own tissue. He ruled them ‘material waste’ that you allowed the university to dispose of for you. The court says you have no rights to any of your tissue once it has left your body. The university can do what it wants with it.”
“But they brought me back—”
“He said a reasonable person would have realized the tissues were being collected for commercial use. Therefore you tacitly accepted it.”
“But they told me I was sick.”
“He rejected all our arguments, Dad.”
“They lied to me.”
“I know, but according to the judge, good social policy promotes medical research. Granting you rights now would have a chilling effect on future research. That’s the thinking behind the ruling—the common good.”
“This wasn’t about the common good. It was about getting rich,” her father said. “Jesus, three billion dollars…”
“I know, Dad. Universities want money. And basically, this judge held what California judges have held for the last twenty-five years, ever since the Moore decision in 1980. Just like your case, the court found that Moore’s tissues were waste materials to which he had no right. And they haven’t revisited that question in more than two decades.”
“So what happens now?”
“We appeal,” she said. “I don’t think we have good grounds, but we have to do it before we can go to the California Supreme Court.”
“And when will that be?”
“A year from now.”
“Do we have a chance?” her father said.
“Absolutely not,” Albert Rodriguez said, turning in his chair toward her father. Rodriguez and the other UCLA attorneys had come to Alex’s law offices in the aftermath of the judge’s ruling. “You have no chance on further appeal, Mr. Burnet.”
“I’m surprised,” Alex said, “that you’re so confident about how the California Supreme Court will rule.”
“Oh, we have no idea how they will rule,” Rodriguez said. “I simply mean that you will lose this case no matter what the court holds.”
“How is that?” Alex said.
“UCLA is a state university. The Board of Regents is prepared, on behalf of the state of California, to take your father’s cells by right of eminent domain.”
She blinked: “What?”
“Should the Supreme Court rule that your father’s cells are his property—which we think is unlikely—the state will take ownership of his property by eminent domain.”
Eminent domain referred to the right of the state to take private property without the owner’s consent. It was almost always invoked for public uses. “But eminent domain is intended for schools or highways…”
“The state can do it in this case,” Rodriguez said. “And it will.”
Her father stared at them, thunderstruck. “Are you joking?”
“No, Mr. Burnet. It’s a legitimate taking, and the state will exercise its right.”
Alex said, “Then what is the purpose of this meeting?”
“We thought it appropriate to inform you of the situation, in case you wanted to drop further litigation.”
“You’re suggesting we end litigation?” she said.
“I would advise it,” Rodriguez said to her, “if this were my client.”
“Ending litigation saves the state considerable expense.”
“It saves everyone expense,” Rodriguez said.
“So what are you proposing as a settlement, for us to drop the case?”
“Nothing whatever, Ms. Burnet. I’m sorry if you misunderstood me. This is not a negotiation. We’re simply here to explain our position, so that you can make an informed decision in your best interest.”
Her father cleared his throat. “You’re telling us that you’re taking my cells, no matter what. You’ve sold them for three billion dollars, no matter what. And you’re keeping all of that money, no matter what.”
“Bluntly put,” Rodriguez said, “but not inaccurate.”
The meeting ended. Rodriguez and his team thanked them for their time, said their good-byes, and left the room. Alex nodded to her father and then followed the other attorneys outside. Through the glass, Frank Burnet watched as they talked further.
“Those fuckers,” he said. “What kind of world do