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and wheeled it to Laura. Tim frowned. The ambulance was sent from Hahnemann University Hospital, not the University of Pennsylvania, which would have been his preference, where her daughters were residents. But Hahnemann was a fine hospital, and speed was of the essence.
    â€œSir, do you know the woman?” asked one of the paramedics, who now knelt beside Tim, assessing Laura’s condition as he spoke.
    â€œYes. She’s Dr. Laura Nelson. She was visiting me from Tampa. Was on her way home.”
    The second attendant had joined them. “She’s a doctor? Wow, she took a bad fall.”
    Tim stood, his teeth chattering, trying not to shake with cold and concern as the two men worked wordlessly to secure Laura’s neck in a cervical collar, then carefully unfolded her from her twisted shape on the ground.
    â€œHurry,” Tim heard himself say. “Get her to the hospital.”
    â€œGotta splint the arm. And the hand looks deformed.” When Tim followed the younger paramedic’s gaze, his heart fell, almost stopped beating. Laura was right-handed; her right hand was her livelihood. His clinical impression: that hand was beyond repair.
    â€œLift,” the paramedic said, kicking aside the plastic cover of Laura’s coffee container. They placed her on the stretcher and steered toward the ambulance in a jerky motion as they navigated the snow and ice. “You going with us, sir?”
    â€œYes,” Tim said. He started to shake, violently now, and the limo driver took off his coat and placed it over Tim’s shoulders.
    â€œNo,” Tim started to say.
    â€œLeast I can do, Dr. Robinson,” the driver said, his arm around Tim as he climbed into the ambulance behind the stretcher. “Godspeed.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    M ONDAY , F EBRUARY 17
    The Monday morning media had been glowing in their praise of government and industry working together for the common good, blah, blah. Jake headed to his windowless office at the behemoth FDA Parklawn Building on Fisher’s Lane in Rockville, Maryland. He was prepared to block, in any way he could, the wave of enthusiasm he knew would overrun his department following the Immunone Advisory Committee meeting. The FDA likes to look good and they did when their medical officers and Keystone Pharma’s doctors and consultants all went for fast-track approval on this lifesaving drug for organ transplant recipients.
    Addie did not subscribe to newspapers so Jake had to wait until he got to work for a chance to check the
Washington Post
. He wanted to see the headlines about Dr. Fred Minn’s fate—whatever the outcome. With Keystone Pharma now about to launch a blockbuster drug, for sure, the Minn incident would get much more media attention than it would have only a week ago.
    Jake grabbed a coffee and a paper as he passed through the Office of New Drugs staff lounge. You weren’t supposed to remove the newspapers from the break area, but he needed privacy. Reaching his office, he closed the door and spread the paper out on his cluttered desk. Second page: “Keystone Pharma Scientist Struck Down in Philadelphia: Doctor Fred Minn Victim of Hit and Run.” Minn had been pronounced dead on arrival atJefferson Hospital emergency room. So he
had
killed the old man. The article went on to expound on Minn, his career, Immunone’s likely approval. Paul Parnell, Keystone’s chairman of the board and former CEO, was “shocked and saddened.” As well he should be.
    Working for the FDA is what you make of it, Jake knew. The vast majority of his coworkers put in their time. Show up. Stay eight hours. Take long breaks. Drink free coffee. Eat out of brown paper bags, skip the government cafeteria food. Go home. What happens in between, no big deal. Plug in the numbers. Give your bigwig bureaucrats what they seem to want. Come back the next day. Collect paycheck. Get pension.
    But for a few, the job was about power, or