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CH086

T
he Oxnard
courtroom was small and so cold Bob Koch thought he would catch pneumonia. He was feeling none too good anyway. His hangover had left a very sour feeling in his stomach. The judge was a youngish guy, about forty, and he looked hungover, too. But maybe not. Koch cleared his throat.

“Your Honor, I am here representing Alexandra Burnet, who is unable to be here in person.”

“This court has ordered her to appear,” the judge said. “In person.”

“I am aware of that, Your Honor, but she and her child are presently being pursued by a bounty hunter who intends to remove tissue from their bodies, and she is therefore in flight to prevent that.”

“What bounty hunter?” the judge said. “Why is there a bounty hunter involved in this?”

“We would like to know exactly that, Your Honor,” Bob Koch said.

The judge turned. “Mr. Rodriguez?”

“Your Honor,” Rodriguez said, standing, “there is no bounty hunter per se.”

“Well, what is there?”

“There is a professional fugitive-recovery agent at work.”

“With what authorization?”

“He is not authorized per se. In this case he is making a citizen’s arrest, Your Honor.”

“Arrest of whom?”

“Of Ms. Burnet and her son.”

“On what basis?”

“Possession of stolen property, Your Honor.”

“To make a citizen’s arrest, the possession of stolen property has to be witnessed by the person making the arrest.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“What has been witnessed?”

“The possession of the property in question, Your Honor.”

“You are talking about the Burnet cell line,” the judge said.

“Yes, Your Honor. As previously documented before this court, that cell line is owned by UCLA and licensed to BioGen, in Westview. The ownership is attested to by several prior court rulings.”

“How, then, is it stolen?”

“Your Honor, we have evidence that Mr. Burnet conspired to eliminate the cell lines in possession of BioGen. But whether that is true or not, BioGen has the right to restore the cell lines that it owns.”

“It can restore them from Mr. Burnet.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Presumably so, since the court has ruled that Mr. Burnet’s cells belong to BioGen, they can at any time take more. Whether the property is actually within Mr. Burnet’s body or not is immaterial. BioGen owns the cells.”

“You are denying Mr. Burnet’s right to the integrity of his body?” the judge said, raising an eyebrow.

“With respect, Your Honor, there is no such right. Suppose someone took your wife’s diamond ring and swallowed it. The ring is still your property.”

“Yes,” the judge said, “but I might be required to wait patiently for it to reappear.”

“Yes, Your Honor. But suppose for some reason the ring becomes stuck in the intestine. Don’t you have the right to retrieve it? Clearly, you do. It can’t be kept from you. It’s your property wherever it is. Whoever swallows it assumes the risk of retrieval.”

Koch thought he’d better move in. “Your Honor,” he said, “if I remember my high school biology correctly, anything swallowed is not
actually inside the body, any more than something inside a doughnut hole is inside the doughnut. The ring is outside the body.”

Rodriguez began to sputter. “Your Honor—”

“Your Honor,” Koch said, raising his voice, “I trust we can all agree that we are not talking about diamond rings that have been stolen. We are talking about cells that reside inside the human body. The notion that these cells can be owned by someone else—even if the appellate court has upheld a jury finding—leads to absurd conclusions, as you see here. If BioGen no longer possesses Mr. Burnet’s cells, then they have lost them by their own foolish actions. They are not entitled to go back and get more. If you lose your diamond ring, you can’t go back to the diamond mine and get a replacement.”

Rodriguez said, “The analogy is inexact.”

“Your Honor, all analogies are inexact.”

“In this instance,” Rodriguez said, “I would ask the court to stick narrowly to the issue at hand, and consider the previous findings of the court that are relevant to the issue. The court has held that BioGen owns these cells. They came from Mr. Burnet but they are the property of BioGen. We argue that we have the right to retrieve these cells at any time.”

“Your Honor, this argument directly conflicts with the Thirteenth Amendment, against chattel slavery. BioGen may own Mr. Burnet’s cells. But they don’t own Mr. Burnet. They
can’t.
”

“We never claimed to own Mr. Burnet, only his cells. And that is all we are asking for now,” Rodriguez said.

“But the practical consequence of your claim is that you effectively own Mr. Burnet, since you
do
claim access to his body at any time—”

The judge was looking weary. “Gentlemen, I see the issue,” he said, “but what does any of this have to do with Ms. Burnet and her son?”

Bob Koch stepped
back. Let Rodriguez bury himself on this one, he thought. The conclusion he was asking the court to draw was inconceivable.

“Your Honor,” Rodriguez said, “if the court accepts that Mr. Burnet’s cells are my client’s property, as I believe it must, then said cells are my client’s property wherever they are found. For example, if Mr. Burnet gave blood at a blood bank, the donated blood would contain cells that we own. We could assert ownership of those cells, and demand to extract them from the donated blood, since Mr. Burnet is not legally able to give those cells to anyone else. They are our property.

“Similarly, the same cells that we own—the identical cells—are also found in Mr. Burnet’s children and descendants. Therefore we have ownership of those cells as well. And we have the right to take the cells.”

“And the bounty hunter?”

“The fugitive-recovery specialist,” Rodriguez said, “is making a citizen’s arrest on the following basis. If he sees Mr. Burnet’s descendants, then, since they are by definition walking around with our property, they are self-evidently in possession of stolen property, and can be arrested.”

The judge sighed.

“Your Honor,” Rodriguez said, “this conclusion may strike the court as illogical, but the fact is that we are in a new era, and what seems strange to us now will in a few years not seem so strange. Already a large percentage of the human genome is owned. The genetic information for various disease organisms is owned. The notion that such biological elements are in private hands is only odd because it is new to us. But the court must rule in accordance with previous findings. The Burnet cells are our cells.”

“But in the case of descendants, the cells are copies,” the judge said.

“Yes, Your Honor, but that is not at issue. If I own a formula to make something, and someone Xeroxes that formula on a sheet of paper and gives it to another, it remains my property. I own the formula, no matter how it is copied, or by whom. And I have the right to retrieve the copy.”

The judge turned to Bob Koch. “Mr. Koch?”

“Your Honor,
Mr. Rodriguez has asked you to rule narrowly. So do I. Previous courts held that once Mr. Burnet’s cells
were out of his body,
they no longer belonged to him. They did not say that Mr. Burnet was a walking gold mine that could be plundered at will, again and again, by BioGen. And they certainly said nothing to imply that BioGen had a right to physically take these cells no matter who carried them. That claim goes far beyond any implication of the court’s prior finding. It is, in fact, a new claim made out of nothing but wishful thinking. And we ask the court to require BioGen to call off this bounty hunter.”

The judge said, “I do not understand on what basis BioGen has simply acted on its own, Mr. Rodriguez. This appears hasty and unwarranted. You could certainly wait for Ms. Burnet to appear before this court.”

“Unfortunately, Your Honor, that is not possible. The business situation of my client is critical. As I said to you, we believe we are victims of a conspiracy to deprive us of what is ours. Without going into details, it is urgent that the cells be replaced immediately. If the court forces a delay, we may lose an enormous business undertaking in the meanwhile, such that our company goes out of business. We merely attempt a timely response to an urgent problem.”

Bob could tell
the judge was going for it. All that timeliness crap was working on him; he didn’t want to be responsible for putting a California biotech company out of business. The judge swiveled in his chair, glanced at the wall clock, swiveled back.

Bob had to pull it out. And he had to do it now.

“Your Honor,” he said, “there is an additional issue that bears on your decision. I would like to bring to your attention the following affidavit from Duke University Medical Center, dated today.” He handed a copy to Rodriguez. “I will summarize the contents for Your Honor, and how it affects the issue before you.”

Burnet’s cell line, he explained, was capable of making large quantities of a chemical called cytotoxic
TLA
7
D
, a potent anticarcinogen. It was that chemical that made BioGen’s cell line so valuable.

“However, last week the U.S. Patent Office issued a patent for the
gene
TLA
4
A
. This is a promoter gene that codes for an enzyme that snips out a hydroxy group from the center of a protein called cytotoxic T-lymphocyte associated protein 4
B
. This protein is the precursor of cytotoxic
TLA
7
D
, which forms when the hydroxy group is removed. Unless the hydroxy group is snipped out, the protein has no biological activity. So the gene that controls the manufacture of BioGen’s product is owned by Duke University, and they assert ownership in the document now in your hands.”

Rodriguez was turning very red. “Your Honor,” he said, “this is an attempt to confuse what should be a very simple case. I would urge that you—”

“It
is
simple,” Bob agreed. “Unless BioGen makes a licensing agreement with Duke, they cannot use the enzyme made by the Duke gene. The enzyme and its product are owned by someone else.”

“But this is—”

“BioGen owns a cell, Your Honor,” Bob said. “But not all the genes inside that cell.”

The judge looked again at the clock. “I will take this under advisement,” he said, “and give you my ruling tomorrow.”

“But Your Honor—”

“Thank you, gentlemen. Arguments are concluded.”

“But Your Honor, we have a woman and her son being hounded—”

“I believe I understand the issue. I need to understand the law. I will see you tomorrow, counselors.”

CH087

T
he Kendalls
were screaming as the Hummer raced forward, but Vasco Borden, snarling through his aching teeth, one hand holding the bandage against his bleeding ear, knew what he was doing. He drove the car up onto the lawn and pulled to a stop, blocking the front door. Then he and Dolly jumped out, grabbed Alex’s Jamie off the lawn, pushed the kid’s stunned mother to the ground, leapt back into the Hummer, and roared off. While the others just stood there and stared.

“Just like that, baby,” Vasco said, shouting. “If you’re not inside the house, you’re mine.”

He roared off down the street.

“We lost our ambulance, so we go to plan B.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Dolly, honey, get the next operating room going. Tell ’em we’ll be there in twenty minutes. One hour from now, this is all a
done deal.
”

Henry Kendall was
in shock. There had been a kidnapping right on his front lawn; he hadn’t rushed forward to stop it; his own son was sobbing and clutching his mother; and Dave had dropped some guy’s
ear
on the lawn; the other kid’s mother was getting to her feet, screaming for the cops, but the Hummer was gone, down the street and around the corner, and
gone.

He felt weak and emasculated, as if he’d somehow done something wrong, and he was embarrassed to be around Lynn’s friend, so he went
inside and sat down again at the computer. It was just where he had been sitting five minutes before, when Dave screamed and all this started.

He still had the TrackTech web site up, where he’d entered the names and the serial numbers. He had done it for Dave, and for Jamie, but he hadn’t done it for the other Jamie. Feeling bad, he did it now.

The web site switched to a blank, featureless map, with an entry spot where you typed in the unit you were looking for. The first unit he entered was Jamie Burnet’s. If the sensor was operating, he would have seen it moving down the street. But the blue spot wasn’t moving, it was static. The address showed 348 Marbury Madison Drive, which was his own house.

He looked around the living room and saw Jamie’s white sneakers over in the corner, with his little travel bag. He’d never even put the sneakers back on.

Next, he typed in the sensor for his own son. Same result. The blue spot was fixed at his own home address. Then it moved a little. And his son Jamie walked through the door. “Dad. What are you doing? The police are outside. They want to talk to everybody.”

“Okay, in a minute.”

“His mom is really upset, Dad.”

“In a minute.”

“She’s crying. Mom said to get a tissue.”

“I’ll be right with you.”

Quickly, Henry typed in the third serial number—Dave’s number. The screen went blank. He waited a moment. He saw the map as it was redrawn. It now showed roads leading north of town, in the area of Torrey Pines.

The blue dot was moving.

North, Torrey Pines Road, ENE, 57 mph.

As he watched, the dot turned off onto Gaylord Road, heading inland.

Somehow, Dave’s sensor was in the Hummer. It either came out of his shoe, or they had taken his shoe. But the sensor was there, and working.

He said, “Jamie, go get Alex. Tell her I need to see her for a minute.”

“But Dad—”

“Do it. And don’t say anything to the police.”

Alex stared
at the screen. “I’m going to get that son of a bitch and I’m going to blow his head off. You touch my kid, you’re dead.” Her voice was flat, cold. Henry felt a chill. She meant it.

“Where’s he going?” she said.

“He’s left the coast and heading inland, but he may just be avoiding the Del Mar traffic. He may go back to the coast again. We’ll know in a few minutes.”

“How far away is he?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Let’s go. You bring that,” she said, nodding to the laptop. “I’ll get my gun.”

Henry looked out the front window. There were three cop cars flashing their lights at the curb, and six cops on the front lawn. “Not that easy.”

“Yes, it is. I’m parked around the corner.”

“They said they want to see me.”

“Make an excuse. I’ll be in my car.”

He told them
Dave needed medical attention, and he had to take him to the hospital. He said that his wife, Lynn, had witnessed everything and could tell them what had taken place. He said he would give a full statement when he returned, but he needed to take Dave to the hospital.

Since Dave’s hands were bloody, they accepted it. Lynn gave Henry a funny look. He said, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He walked around the back of the house and cut through the property behind. Dave followed him.

“Where are we going?” Dave said.

“To find that guy. The guy with the black beard.”

“He hurted Jamie.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I hurted him, too.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“His ears came off.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Next time his nose.”

“Dave,” he said. “We need to show restraint.”

“What’s re-straint?” Dave said.

It was too complicated to explain. Alex’s white Toyota was up ahead. They got in the car. He got in front, Dave got in back.

“What is this?” Dave said, pointing to the seat beside him.

“Don’t touch it, Dave,” Alex said. “That’s a gun.”

She put the car in gear and drove off.

She called
Bob Koch, on the off chance that he had news.

“I do,” he said. “But I wish it were better.”

“He let it go?”

“He held over until tomorrow.”

“Did you try—”

“Yeah, I tried. He’s confused. It’s not the usual legal area for Oxnard judges. That’s probably why they filed there.”

“So, tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks,” she said, and hung up. There was no point in telling him what she was about to do. She wasn’t even sure she would do it. But she thought that she probably would.

Henry was riding
shotgun, looking at the computer. Now that he was out here, in a car, the connection sometimes dropped out for a minute or two. He began to worry about losing it altogether. He glanced back at Dave, who was shoeless. “Where are your shoes?”

“They camed off.”

“Where?”

“In the white car.” He meant the ambulance.

“How?”

“One was in his mouth. The man. Then the car falled.”

“And your shoes came off?”

“Yes, they camed off.”

Apparently Alex was thinking the same thing, because she said, “Then his shoes are still in the ambulance. Not the Hummer. We’re following the wrong car.”

“No, the ambulance crashed. It can’t be the ambulance.”

“Then the signal…”

“It must have fallen out of his shoe, and slipped into the guy’s clothes. Somehow.”

“Then it could slip out again.”

“Yeah. It could.”

“Or they could find it.”

“Yeah.”

She didn’t say anything after that.

He continued watching the screen. The blue dot went north, then east. Then north. And finally east again, passing Rancho Santa Fe, going back to the desert. Then it curved onto Highland Drive. “Okay,” he said. “I know where they’re going. Solana Canyon.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a spa. Very big. Very high-end.”

“With doctors?”

“I’m sure. They may even do surgery. Maybe face-lifts, liposuction, something like that.”

“Then they have surgical facilities,” she said grimly. She stepped on the accelerator.

The one hundred acres
known as Solana Canyon represented a triumph of marketing. Only a few decades earlier the region was known by its original name, Hellhole Palms. It was a flat, boulder-strewn region, without a canyon in sight. Thus Solana Canyon had no canyon, and precious little to do with the coastal town of Solana Beach. The name simply tracked better than the other choices, which had been Angel Springs, Zen Mountain View, Cedar Springs, and Silver Hill Ashram.
Compared to the other choices, the name Solana Canyon conveyed a muted, understated quality in keeping with a resort that charged thousands of dollars a day to rejuvenate the bodies, minds, and spirits of its clients. This was accomplished through a combination of yoga, massage, meditation, spiritual counseling, and diet help, all delivered by staff who greeted guests with prayerful hands and a heartfelt “Namaste.”

Solana Canyon was also a favorite spot for celebrities to dry out.

Alex drove right past the adobe-style main gate, artfully concealed behind giant palms. They were following the tracking signal, which was going around the back of the resort.

“He’s taking the service entrance,” Henry said.

“You’ve been here before?”

“Once. A lecture on genetics.”

“And?”

“I wasn’t invited back. They didn’t like the message. You know the old saying. Professors attribute the intelligence of their students to environment and the intelligence of their children to genes. Same with rich people. If you’re rich or good-looking, you want to hear that your genes make you that way. That enables you to feel inherently superior to other people—that you deserve your success. And then you can give other people as much crap as you—hold on, they’re stopping. Slow down.”

“What now?” she said. They were on a side road, and there was a service entrance up ahead.

“I think they’re in the parking lot.”

“So? Let’s get them right there.”

“No.” He shook his head. “There’s always a couple of security guys at the parking lot. You show a gun, and there’ll be trouble.” He watched the screen. “Stationary…now moving again. Now stationary.” He frowned.

She said, “If there’s security guards, they’ll see Jamie struggling when he gets out.”

“Maybe they’ve drugged him. Or…I don’t know,” he said quickly, seeing the pain on her face. “Wait, moving again. They’re going around the back road.”

She put the car in gear and drove to the service gate. The gate was open. Nobody was on duty. She drove through, into the parking lot. The back road was at the far corner of the lot.

“What do we do?” she said. “Follow them down the road?”

“I don’t think so. If we do, they’ll see us coming. Better park.” He opened the door. “Let’s take a walk through beautiful Solana Canyon resort.” He looked at her. “You going to leave that shotgun here?”

“No,” she said. She popped open the trunk, found a towel, wrapped the shotgun in it, and said, “I’m ready.”

“O-kay,” Henry said. “Here we go.”

“Goddamn it,”
Vasco said, stepping on the brakes. He was driving around the back road to park behind the surgicenter. The plan was for Dr. Manuel Cajal to come out of the surgicenter, slip into the Hummer, do the biopsies, and go out again. Nobody sees it, nobody’s the wiser.

But now the back road was blocked. Two backhoes, digging some big trench. No way across, and no other road. A hundred yards from the surgicenter.

“Damn, damn, damn,” he said.

“Take it easy, Vasco,” Dolly said. “It’s no big deal. If the road is blocked, we just walk to the center, go in the rear door, and do it there.”

“Everyone will see us walking through the resort.”

“So what? We’re just visitors. Besides, everybody at this place is completely self-absorbed. They have no time to think about us. And if they did, and if they decided to call someone—which they never would—the procedure’d be finished before the call was finished. Manuel can do it faster in there than out here.”

“I don’t like it.” Vasco looked around, stared at the road, then at the spa grounds. But she was right. It was a quick walk through the garden. He turned to the kid. “Listen,” he said. “This is how it is. We’re going to take a walk. You just be quiet. And everything will be fine.”

“What’re you going to do?” he said. “To me.”

“Nothing. Just take a little blood.”

“Are there needles?”

“Just a little one, like at the doctor’s.”

He turned to Dolly. “Okay, call Manuel. Tell him we’re coming. And let’s get going.”

Jamie had been
diligently taught to yell and scream and kick if anyone ever tried to kidnap him, and he had done those things when they first grabbed him, but now he was very frightened, and he was afraid they would hurt him if he made any trouble. So he walked quietly along the path of the garden, with the woman keeping her hand on his shoulder and the big mean guy walking on the other side, wearing a cowboy hat so his ear wouldn’t show.

They passed people in bathrobes, women mostly, chatting and laughing, but nobody really looked at them. They walked on through another garden area, and then he heard a voice say, “I say, do you need help with your homework?”

He was so startled he stopped. He looked up.

It was a bird. A sort of gray-colored bird.

“Are you a friend of Evan?” the bird said.

“No,” he said.

“You’re the same size as he is. What’s eleven take away nine?”

Jamie was so surprised, he just stared.

“Let’s go, dear,” Dolly said. “It’s just a bird.”

“Just
a bird
!” the bird said. “Who are you calling a
bird
?”

“You really talk a lot,” Jamie said.

“And you don’t,” the bird said. “Who are these people? Why are they holding you?”

“We’re not holding him,” Dolly said.

“You gentlemen aren’t really trying to kill my son, are you?” the bird said.

“Ah Christ,” Vasco said.

“Ah Christ,” the bird said, exactly duplicating his voice. “What’s your name?”

“Let’s get going,” Vasco said.

“My name is Jamie,” Jamie said.

“Hello, Jamie. I’m Gerard,” the bird said.

“Hello, Gerard.”

“All right,” Vasco said. “Let’s get a move on here.”

“That depends on who’s in the saddle,” Gerard said.

“Dolly,” Vasco said, “we have to keep to our schedule.”

“Well, a boy’s best friend is his mother,” the bird said, in an odd voice.

“Do you know my mother?” Jamie said.

“No, son,” Dolly said. “He doesn’t. He’s just saying things he’s already heard before.”