It was easy enough to keep my head down and look busy. I was busy. I’d fallen far enough behind to experience masochistic pleasure in Sturtz and Gunnisons’ flagellating Molecular Biology course. They expected us to master the precise details of taking out a gene from human brain cells and putting it into frog eggs. I would have liked to have taken out my brain cells containing memory of Ledbetter, put them into a frog and release it deep in the Everglades.

     Our student study group propped me up emotionally. Sheng-Ping mastered molecular genetics more than any of us. He had an excellent analytical mind and was good at manipulating symbols. Grant Shipley, like me, found the subject too nonlinear. Maria fell back on rote memorization and got the answers right most of the time. Cindy Larson arranged for a lot of help from a fourth-year student in Sturtz’ lab. Dave Franklin made like he was interested in molecular genetics when Sturtz and Gunnison were around. But he told us that he really didn’t need to know the stuff: In the future, physicians will be able to order molecular genetic tests from hospital labs the way they order blood chemistry tests today.

     Evenings, Rebecca filled in physiology background for my Cardiovascular Pharmacology, which I was taking ahead of schedule with second-year students. But she had her own courses to worry about. She called to New York quite often and was worried about her father. He had an unexplained illness, was losing weight and was getting sicker by the day.

     Any "free" time left for me during the day was spent in Dr. Kozinski’s lab, doing experiments on regulatory phosphorylation. With my head bowed over the lab bench, I might be spared an eyeball-to-eyeball interrogation on my role in the Ledbetter affair.

     Rebecca was too distracted to pick up all the news from the active med-student grapevine. Dave Franklin had quickly established himself as a one-man liaison committee and general gossip monger between the two groups of students. The med students had an oral tradition that Pharmacology was always a "problem department." Cooper’s predecessor was a high-flying physician with a reputation for coming in drunk for grand rounds. In a "Senior Class Play," the students depicted him walking around, pulling a wheel-mounted IV pole holding an inverted whiskey bottle. And there had been a "scandal" involving a weight-control clinic in the Bahamas. Rob McGregor had once told me that Cooper also repeated these stories to cast aspersions on the Old Guard faculty.

     I heard that Ledbetter was out on bail but was legally restrained from coming back to the lab. He phoned in instructions to Dr. Chiu. One day, the Miami Standard carried a short story, stating that a professor had been arrested "in connection with" the death of a colleague, and that the authorities were refusing to say anything more at this time. The TV-news people ignored the story completely, probably because they couldn’t get pictures and sound bites. But I did get a lot of background in a most curious way.

     While eating my lunch in the outdoor mall between the Med School and the Medical Library, I overheard an extended conversation between two faculty members. The older prof told a younger colleague about a recent meeting of the Faculty Senate. A colleague of Ledbetter’s, reinforced by one of Ledbetter’s lawyers, argued that it was unfair to suspend Ledbetter, violating his academic freedom and prejudicing his case. The University had to let Ledbetter continue his research. Every day that Ledbetter was out of the lab, his Federal grant dollars were wasted. The University’s "precipitous actions" were scaring off Ledbetter’s financial backers and were interfering with his ability to commercialize his medical inventions. He stood to lose several million dollars, and it might be necessary to sue the University.

     "Then the Dean spoke," said the older one.

     "What did he say? Treat me to another parody. My tissue-culture room just got a yeast infection. I need a good laugh."

     And the faculty senator supplied one. He took off his wire-rimmed glasses, puffed up his chest, looked into the distance, as if addressing a large group of people, and mimicked:

     "Bryan Medical School is a high-quality institution which has made great strides in healthcare delivery and medical research, and has lived up to the great humanitarian ideals of our namesake."

     This reference to William Jennings Bryan started the younger one snickering. The bearded one broke character and laughed along with him. It was a caricature of a smooth-talking operator who smugly reveled in bullshit. The mimicked oration was delivered in unctuous tones and seamless sentences, punctuated only by slight pauses for visual emphasis, with glances cast to the left and then right, as if silently demanding affirmation from an unseen audience.

     "Institutions and individuals must face all forms of strain and unexpected challenges, many of them unjust."

     As the character sketch continued, the "Dean" smugly told his audience that although he was enjoined from discussing the merits of the case, he didn’t need to tell anyone in the room that he was Harvard-trained as a cardiologist, with a distinguished career in that field. He was familiar with the statistics on sudden death.

     "I most firmly believe that professionals who are not engaged in healthcare delivery are not entitled to hold expert opinions on such specialized health matters." The Dean went on to further identify the unentitled: Those in professions on the periphery of medical science and physicians who are not engaged in healthcare delivery.

     So the Dean didn’t think Westley was entitled to an opinion because he delivered corpses and not health care.

     The speech ended with the Dean stating that he would present Dade County with a bill for several million dollars after the Ledbetter affair was resolved.

     The younger scientist practically howled at his colleague’s parody on the phrase "healthcare delivery." Biomedical Ph.D.s will often enjoy a good laugh at an M.D.’s expense.

      "Say, George," asked the younger one, "you’ve been around here longer than I have. What was Old Flannel-Lips’ distinguished career in cardiology?"

     "He did a thousand unnecessary bypass operations and published one-hundred case reports." They laughed hard enough to rock their bench.

     But they didn’t think much of Westley, either. The younger one called him "that old fogy of a medical examiner that you read about in the papers every once in a while." They thought Dr. Jane Goddard Cooper was pushing Westley’s case, and they had a low opinion of her.

     "Supposed to be a dietician, but doesn’t know vitamin E from vitamin A. And she thinks free-radical damage is what happens when leftist students go on a rampage!"

     Then the bearded one looked at his watch, and it was all over. It bothered me that the Old Man was far out on the limb. Knowing the truth and having evidence is one thing — but proving it beyond a reasonable doubt is harder. Could our case be blown away by a couple of stuffed-shirt Harvard doctors testifying on sudden death? If Westley’s case blew up in his face, I would have to do more than just "keep my head down."

     The more weeks rolled by, the more cogent seemed Dr. Westley’s advice: "Keep your head down. Maintain your innocence, and do your utmost to keep from getting sucked into this thing."

     But how could I counter nonverbalized suspicion that grew stronger by the day? Sometimes at seminars, I caught Dr. Moore staring at me. Dr. Taylor acted sulky. Ashton no longer bothered with his phony show of friendliness when we passed in the hall. Thinking back, I must have tipped my hand to him with my goofy "Columbo" interrogation. McGregor tried to get me to talk about my experience as a lab tech in the M.E.’s Office. Dr. Westley was right: "A dog that brings a bone will also take one away." I soon learned that someone had carried one away.