Jerry Trotter had another secret, one that weighed on his mind more heavily than any other. It had nothing to do with women. Not only had Jerry taken a very sizable personal stake in LifeDeals, in addition to the position his fund had acquired publicly, but he had made a third and completely clandestine investment that was larger than the other two stakes combined. Jerry had studied what Edmund and Russell had set up with LifeDeals, read the business plans, and pored over the sales reports. He had commissioned his own secret research and paid lawyers hefty fees to set up financial instruments ready to be sold at a few days’ notice. And then, masked by a series of offshore shell companies, he had set up the bare bones of a parallel company that would mimic LifeDeals, right down to the type of policies it went after. As Edmund never tired of saying, life insurance was a $26 trillion business in the USA alone. There was plenty of money to go around.
Edmund and Russell’s bad news about regenerative medicine had hit Jerry Trotter like a hammer blow, much more than Edmund could have guessed. His due diligence had completely missed it, as had Edmund’s. To his partner and his firm, LifeDeals’ predicament was unfortunate but it hardly threatened the hedge fund’s success, even in the short term. But Jerry stood to lose much more. His personal stake was very large but also survivable. But if the shadow company that he was rolling out went down, he was probably ruined. The various subsidiaries were already buying policies. Individually, each was tiny compared with LifeDeals’. Together, Jerry had once been proud to think, they were larger.
Over the course of approximately eighteen-plus hours, from the moment he’d left the Terrasini restaurant, Jerry Trotter had become an extremely desperate man. He hadn’t slept all night, instead using his old calculator and various files and portfolios to try to figure out ways in which he could emerge from this intact. He knew he was clutching at straws with Harry Hooper, but he was hoping against hope that Edmund Mathews had something more than just money at stake, something that would mean Jerry didn’t have to try to fix this mess all on his own. Jerry had few qualms, but he much preferred to delegate the truly dirty stuff, the stuff that could get you thrown in jail or worse.
21.
ONE CENTRAL PARK WEST NEW YORK CITY MARCH 4, 2011, 11:55 A.M.
By noon Jerry was near to being a basket case. After finishing the call with Harry Hooper, he went back to doing what he’d done at the end of the night: surfing the Internet just to have something to do. Jerry was buzzing on the amphetamines he’d taken to keep him awake and he knew he had thirty-six to forty hours until he crashed. Every couple of hours he drank a Red Bull, and he chugged Diet Cokes constantly. His wife, Charlotte, had no idea what was going on but was familiar enough with the routine to keep well out of her husband’s way. For Jerry the Internet was a wonderful resource and babysitter, so to speak. You could find out anything you wanted to know on it, as well as plenty of things you didn’t know you wanted to know. It couldn’t help much with finding the Fountain of Youth or proving the existence of God, but otherwise, it was golden.
The Internet was particularly useful when it came to providing practical solutions to all manner of problems. Jerry had recently discovered how to tune his universal remote so that it operated the controls on his TV, and he was grateful for that. This was a different kind of problem. As he sat alone in his darkened study with the shades drawn, he stared at the screen on his Mac, following threads in obscure discussion groups, piling up memberships in esoteric organizations, clicking on links that took him to some tortured recesses of our collective consciousness as represented on the World Wide Web.
Some of Jerry’s on-screen reading reminded him of being at medical school. What he wouldn’t have given to have had this resource back then! The dry phrasing of the medical material hadn’t changed in thirty years. Jerry thought he’d perhaps spent a couple of hours reading about salmonella when he was a student. He’d always been slightly germophobic, especially when it came to the more powerful microbes, and reading about this one made him uncomfortable. But Dr. Rothman’s first specialty, the one that brought him his first Nobel, was fascinating.
It was such a versatile and dangerous bacteria.
The longer he sat at his desk, the more convinced Jerry became that only one course of action was open to him. He was initially horrified by the thought, but it looked like there were no other options, and he hated to be backed into a corner. Whenever he got squeamish, Jerry pondered the prospect of being broke and disgraced. If it all came crashing down, he’d be a laughingstock. Some ambitious hack would write a book about him, and he’d come across like a buffoon, an idiot. He would avoid that fate at any cost.
Once Jerry had the idea percolating in his mind, really all he needed was the resolve and the money. Spending hours researching certain specialized activities on the Internet had convinced him of something else: Money really could buy you anything. He had the money. He just had to convince himself he could follow it through.
Now, toward midday, the throwaway cell phone rang again. Trotter was hoping for Hooper, but he got Brubaker.
“What do you have?” Trotter said.
“Confirmation that those two guys are definitely the leaders in this organ-making field. Way out in front. Independently confirmed beyond that source I mentioned. And no one can be precise on the timeline because it depends on the results of tests that no one can predict. They might do a test and it doesn’t work, which sets them back a week, a month. Or it does work and it’s on to the next one.”
“But eventually it’s going to work?”
“That’s what I’m hearing.”
“Too much to hope that it blows up in their face.”
“If you’re looking for them to fail, doesn’t look like it’s gonna happen. From every source, they’re very confident.”
“How do you know?”
“So I’m told. Plus they’ve formed a private company to control the patents that have been applied for. And it’s not one patent. It is a whole series of patents to be sure they’ll control the whole field.”
“Thanks, I figured. That means they’re close.”
“Not necessarily-just means they’re confident they’re going to get there.”
“How’d you find out about the company?”
“You really wanna know?”
“Indulge me.”
“Okay, boss. I have a friend in the New York State Division of Corporations. Can find out when people register corporations or LLCs. Comes in handy when guys set up limited liability companies to hide money from their wives.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Rothman Medical they call it. So it wasn’t hard to find. Registered two weeks ago. They probably registered it overseas too, in better tax locations. As I said, they’re being thorough.”
“And who are the partners?”
“The members of the company? Just the same two guys.”
Jerry ended the call. Rothman and Yamamoto. It seemed like the two of them were piloting the whole ship on their own. Jerry checked his watch. It was nearly twelve-thirty, almost four and a half hours since he’d spoken with Hooper. Suddenly Jerry felt crushingly tired. It was vital to him that Hooper find something he could use as leverage on Edmund Mathews. His brain was close to fried; he had to have someone help him with this. He knew Hooper would call him the second he had anything, but like the previous evening, he couldn’t resist calling.
“It’s me,” he said redundantly when Hooper picked up.
“Is there a problem?”
“Just checking in,” Jerry said, trying to control his voice.
With his antennae constantly up, Hooper sensed there was a problem, and the problem was Jerry. Jerry had said only five words, but it sounded to Hooper like Trotter was tweaking on crystal meth. Having been a policeman, he’d had to deal with all manner of drugs. “You don’t sound so good.”
“I’m tired is all.”
