habit of ignoring his own notes once the testimony was rolling.
The lawyer said, “What happened next, Mr. Burnet?”
“I went in for tests. Dr. Gross repeated everything. He even did another liver biopsy.”
“With what result?”
“He told me to come back in six months.”
“Why?”
“He just said, ‘Come back in six months.’”
“How did you feel at this time?”
“I felt healthy. But I figured I’d had a relapse.”
“Dr. Gross told you that?”
“No. He never told me anything. Nobody at the hospital ever told me anything. They just said, ‘Come back in six months.’”
Naturally enough, her father believed he was still sick. He met a woman he might have married, but didn’t because he thought he did not have long to live. He sold his house and moved into a small apartment, so he wouldn’t have a mortgage.
“It sounds like you were waiting to die,” the attorney said.
“Objection!”
“I’ll withdraw the question. But let’s move on. Mr. Burnet, how long did you continue going to UCLA for testing?”
“Four years.”
“Four years. And when did you first suspect you were not being told the truth about your condition?”
“Well, four years later, I still felt healthy. Nothing had happened. Every day, I was waiting for lightning to strike, but it never did. But Dr. Gross kept saying I had to come back for more tests, more tests. By then I had moved to San Diego, and I wanted to have my tests done there, and sent up to him. But he said no, I had to do the tests at UCLA.”
“Why?”
“He said he preferred his own lab. But it didn’t make sense. And he was giving me more and more forms to sign.”
“What forms?”
“At first, they were just consent forms to acknowledge that I was undertaking a procedure with risk. Those first forms were one or two pages long. Pretty soon there were other forms that said I agreed to be involved in a research project. Each time I went back, there were still more forms. Eventually the forms were ten pages long, a whole document in dense legal language.”
“And did you sign them?”
“Toward the end, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because some of the forms were releases to permit the commercial use of my tissues.”
“That bothered you?”
“Sure. Because I didn’t think he was telling me the truth about what he was doing. The reason for all the tests. On one visit, I asked Dr. Gross straight out if he was using my tissues for commercial purposes. He said absolutely not, his interests were purely research. So I said okay, and I signed everything except the forms allowing my tissues to be used for commercial purposes.”
“And what happened?”
“He got very angry. He said he would not be able to treat me further unless I signed all the forms, and I was risking my health and my future. He said I was making a big mistake.”
“Objection! Hearsay.”
“All right. Mr. Burnet, when you refused to sign the consent forms, did Dr. Gross stop treating you?”
“Yes.”
“And did you then consult a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you subsequently discover?”
“That Dr. Gross had sold my cells—the cells he took from my body during all these tests—to a drug company called BioGen.”
“And how did you feel when you heard that?”
“I was shocked,” her father said. “I had gone to Dr. Gross when I was sick, and scared, and vulnerable. I had trusted my doctor. I had put my life in his hands. I trusted him. And then it turned out that he had been lying to me, and scaring me needlessly for years, just so he could steal parts of my own body from me and sell them to make a profit. For himself. He never cared about me at all. He just wanted to take my cells.”
“Do you know what those cells were worth?”
“The drug company said three billion dollars.”
The jury gasped.
CH002
Alex had been watching the jury all during the latest testimony. Their faces were impassive, but nobody moved, nobody shifted. The gasps were involuntary, evidence of how deeply engaged they were with what they were hearing. And the jury remained transfixed as the questions continued:
“Mr. Burnet, did Dr. Gross ever apologize to you for misleading you?”
“No.”
“Did he ever offer to share his profit with you?”
“No.”
“Did you ask him to?”
“Eventually I did, yes. When I realized what he had already done. They were my cells, from my body. I thought I should have something to say about what was done with them.”
“But he refused?”
“Yes. He said it was none of my business what he did with my cells.”
The jury reacted to that. Several turned and looked at Dr. Gross. That was a good sign, too, Alex thought.
“One final question, Mr. Burnet. Did you ever sign an authorization for Dr. Gross to use your cells for any commercial purposes?”
“No.”
“You never authorized their sale?”
“Never. But he did it anyway.”
“No further questions.”
The judge called a fifteen-minute recess, and when the court reconvened, the UCLA attorneys began the cross-examination. For this trial, UCLA had hired Raeper and Cross, a downtown firm that specialized in high-stakes corporate litigation. Raeper represented oil companies and major defense contractors. Clearly, UCLA did not regard this trial as a defense of medical research. Three billion dollars were at stake; it was big business, and they hired a big-business firm.
The lead attorney for UCLA was Albert Rodriguez. He had a youthful, easy appearance, a friendly smile, and a disarming sense of seeming new at the job. Actually, Rodriguez was forty-five and had been a successful litigator for twenty years, but he somehow managed to give the impression that this was his first trial, and he subtly appealed to the jury to cut him some slack.
“Now, Mr. Burnet, I imagine it has been taxing for you to go over the emotionally draining experiences of the last few years. I appreciate your telling the jury your experiences, and I won’t keep you long. I believe you told the jury that you were very frightened, as anyone would naturally be. By the way, how much weight had you lost, when you first came to Dr. Gross?”
Alex thought, Uh-oh. She knew where this was going. They were going to emphasize the dramatic nature of the cure. She glanced at the attorney sitting beside her, who was clearly trying to think of a strategy. She leaned over and whispered, “Stop it.”
The attorney shook his head, confused.
Her father was saying, “I don’t know how much I lost. About forty or fifty pounds.”
“So your clothes didn’t fit well?”
“Not at all.”
“And what was