She escorted us into an office where two men sat waiting, one directly behind a large desk and the other to his left side. The office was basic: a desk cluttered with files and paperwork, diplomas framed on one wall, shelves of medical-research books on another, and finally a six-foot-tall sculpture in a corner that was an abstract double helix made of polished brass.
The man behind the desk was obviously Orton. He was about fifty with a tall and slim build. He stood up and easily reached across the wide desk to shake our hands. Though ostensibly looking for the cure to baldness, he had a full head of brown hair slicked back and held in place with heavy product. His bushy, unkempt eyebrows gave him the inquisitive look of a researcher. He wore the requisite white lab coat — his name stitched above the breast pocket — and pale green scrubs.
The other man was the mystery. Dressed in a crisp suit, he remained seated. Orton quickly solved the mystery.
“I am Dr. Orton,” he said. “And this is my attorney, Giles Barnett.”
“Are we interrupting something you two need to finish?” I asked.
“No, I asked Giles to join us,” Orton said.
“Why is that?” I asked. “This is just a general interview.”
There was a nervousness about Orton that I had seen before in people unaccustomed to dealing directly with the media. And he had the added burden of worrying about his secret discharge from UCI. It seemed that he had brought his lawyer to make sure the interview didn’t stray into an area Emily and I surely intended to take it.
“I need to tell you at the outset that I don’t want this intrusion,” Orton said. “I rely on Rexford Corporation to sponsor my work and so I cooperate with their demands. This is one of them. But as I say, I don’t like it, and I am more comfortable with my attorney present.”
I looked over at Emily. It was clear our planning for the interview had been for naught. The scheme to slowly lead Orton down a path toward a discussion of his past troubles would now clearly be stopped by Giles Barnett. The attorney had a tight collar and the thick body of an offensive lineman. In my glance at Emily I tried to get a read on whether she thought we should abandon ship or press on. She spoke before I could make a determination.
“Could we start in the lab?” she said to Orton. “We wanted some photos of you in your element. We could get that out of the way and then do the interview.”
She was proceeding with the plan: get photos first because the interview was going to lead to a confrontation. It’s hard to get photos after you’ve been ordered to leave the premises.
“You can’t go into the lab,” Orton said. “There are contamination concerns and a strict protocol. There are, however, viewing windows in the hallway. You can take your photos from there.”
“That’ll work,” Emily said.
“Which lab?” Orton said.
“Uh, you tell us,” I said. “What labs are there?”
“We have an extraction lab,” he said. “We have a PCR lab, and we have an analysis lab.”
“PCR?” I asked.
“Polymerase Chain Reaction,” Orton said. “It is where samples are amplified. We can make millions of copies of a single DNA molecule in a matter of hours.”
“I like that,” Emily said. “Maybe some shots with you involved in that process.”
“Very well,” Orton said.
He stood up and signaled us through the door into a hallway that led to the far reaches of the building. Emily hung back so that Orton was several feet ahead of us, his lab coat flowing behind him like a cape. She took photos as we walked.
I walked next to Barnett and asked him for a card. He reached behind the pocket square in the breast pocket of his suit coat and handed me an embossed business card. I glanced at it before putting it in my pocket.
“I know what you’re going to ask,” Barnett said. “Why does he need a criminal defense attorney? The answer is that it’s only one of my specialties. I handle all Dr. Orton’s legal work. That’s why I’m here.”
“Got it,” I said.
We turned down a forty-foot hallway with several large windows running along both sides. Orton stopped at the first set of windows.
“Over here to my left is PCR,” he said. “To the right is the STR analysis lab.”
“STR?” I asked.
“Short Tandem Repeat analysis is the evaluation of specific loci,” he said. “This is where we hunt. Where we look for the commonalities in identity, behavior, hereditary attributes.”
“Like balding?” I asked.
“That is certainly one of them,” Orton said. “And one of our main points of study.”
He pointed through the window at a device that looked like a countertop dishwasher with a rack containing dozens of test tubes. Emily snapped another photo.
“Where does the DNA for your studies come from?” I asked.
“We buy it, of course,” Orton said.
“From who?” I asked. “You must need a lot.”
“Our primary source is a company called GT23. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”
Nodding, I pulled a notebook out of my back pocket and wrote down his direct quote. While I was doing so, Emily continued her role as photographer.
“Dr. Orton, I know we can’t go into the lab,” she said. “But could you go in and sort of interact with what you see in there so I can take a few shots?”
Orton looked at Barnett for approval and the attorney nodded.
“I can do that,” Orton said.
“And I don’t see anybody in the labs,” Emily added. “Don’t you have staff that helps with your research?”
“Of course I do,” Orton said, an irritated tone in his voice. “They preferred not to be photographed, so they have the hour off.”
“Forty minutes now,” Barnett added helpfully.
Orton used a key to unlock the STR-lab door. He stepped into a mantrap where an exhaust fan roared to life and then died. He used the key to open the next door and enter the lab.
Emily walked up to the glass and tracked Orton through the lens of her camera. Barnett took the moment to move next to me.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Excuse me?” I responded.
“I want to know what is behind this charade.”
“I’m doing a story. It’s about DNA and how it gets used and protected and who’s out there on the frontier of the science.”
“That’s bullshit. What are you really here for?”
“Look, I didn’t come here to talk to you. If Dr. Orton wants to accuse me of something, let him do it. Call him out here and we’ll all talk about it.”
“Not until I know—”
Before he could finish, he was interrupted by the roar of the fan in the mantrap. We both turned to see Orton stepping out. Concern was written on his face, as he had either heard the confrontation or seen the pointed discussion through the lab’s window.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said before Barnett could respond. “Your lawyer doesn’t want me to interview you.”
“Not until I know what the interview is really about,” Barnett said.
All at once I knew the plan for a subtle lead-up was out the window. It was now or never.
“I want to know about Jessica Kelley,” I said. “I want to know how you fixed the DNA.”
Orton stared hard at me.
“Who gave you that name?” Barnett demanded.
“A source I won’t give up,” I said.
“I want you both out of here,” Orton said. “Right now.”
Emily turned the camera on Orton and me and started firing off shots.
“No pictures!” Barnett yelled. “Put that away right now!”