“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to free into my care every animal currently in your lab. I want you to issue a public statement that you will no longer use animals for your research. Instead, you’ll tell the media you’ve decided to explore humane alternatives to animal testing.”
Hutchinson’s eyes widen in incredulity with each demand. “Do you realize what you’re asking?”
“Yes. I’m asking you to save your daughter’s life.”
“You’re asking me to throw away thirty years of research!” he says. “Research that could eventually regenerate nerve cells, that could offer a cure for the thousands of quadriplegics and paraplegics in this country.”
“If you haven’t found a cure in thirty years,” I ask softly, “what makes you think you’ll find it in the next twenty?”
“I’m so close,” he says fiercely, desperately.
“Not close enough. Not for the animals. And not for your daughter.”
“You don’t understand. I don’t have the authority to make that kind of decision.”
“You’re the lead researcher,” I point out. “If you tell everyone an animal model isn’t giving you the results you want, they’ll listen.”
“But I comply with all the animal health care regulations.”
I snort. “The regulations are a joke.”
“What if I allow more transparency in the lab? I’ll open it up to regular inspections by whichever welfare organization you nominate.”
Listening to Hutchinson trip over himself to offer up a list of compromises, I realize I’ve committed a critical error. I assumed, correctly, that Amy is the passionate focus of Hutchinson’s life, but I’ve neglected the insidious influence his work has over him. I have to break that hold.
“Let me make it clear who you’re dealing with,” I tell him. “We’re not reformers, we’re abolitionists. We don’t want bigger cages; we want empty ones. It’s all or nothing. You choose nothing and your daughter suffers the consequences.”
Hutchinson draws in a ragged breath. “If I don’t do as you ask, what will you do to Amy?”
I keep my voice indifferent. “Exactly what you do with your lab animals once you’re finished with them.”
His face pales. “If you touch her, if you harm her—”
I cut him short. “What happens to your daughter is now up to you.”
He closes his eyes, and I watch the man exert tremendous effort to gain control over his emotions. After a moment, he asks, “How much time do I have?”
“I want all our demands met by July twenty-fourth.”
“That’s less than two weeks away!”
“July twenty-fourth,” I repeat firmly. “And don’t even think of going to the police. I’ve been on the force a long time and I have contacts all over. The minute you call them, I’ll know, and your daughter dies.”
15
GRAHAM
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After the man slips out as quietly as he came in, I sit down heavily. Despite the black chasm my brain has become, I think of all the questions I still managed to ask:
Is it money you really want?No.
How do I know Amy’s still alive?You’ll hear from her soon.
How do I contact you?You don’t.
