Elizabeth Holmes and the Art of Repentance
In Charles Dickens's David Copperfield, there is a remarkable scene in which David visits a prison and encounters Uriah Heep, a man whose dishonesty and manipulation have finally landed him behind bars.
Heep has become a model prisoner. He is humble, obedient, grateful and apparently repentant. The prison authorities are delighted with his transformation. They proudly present him as evidence that their methods work.
David Copperfield, who knows Heep rather better than they do, is considerably less impressed.
There is something wonderfully unsettling about this scene. Dickens understood that a person who has spent a lifetime manipulating others does not necessarily abandon that talent upon entering prison. He may simply discover that the circumstances now require a different performance.
And that repentance, too, can be performed.
I was reminded of Uriah Heep while watching a documentary about Elizabeth Holmes titled You Can See Everything.
An interesting title. Go and play the shell game. You can see everything there, too.
Holmes, the founder of Theranos, who persuaded some of the most powerful and experienced people in America to believe in a medical technology that did not work as advertised.
What astonished me about Theranos was not simply the scale of the deception. It was how long it continued after serious evidence had emerged that something was terribly wrong. Again and again, I found myself wondering: How is this still going on? How can she still have these people defending her?
Henry Kissinger sat on the board. So did George Shultz. Rupert Murdoch invested millions. Holmes had managed to surround herself with people whose reputations alone seemed sufficient to silence uncomfortable questions.
And yet the questions were there. So was the evidence. There were people inside the company who knew that the technology was not delivering what Holmes promised. But somehow her story continued to prevail.
Eventually, reality intervened.
Theranos collapsed. Holmes was convicted of fraud and sent to prison.
And now there is another story.
This time, Elizabeth Holmes is presented as a mother, a partner, a woman trying to rebuild her life. There are intimate glimpses of family life, emotional interviews and talk of future medical innovations.
Perhaps everything is sincere. Perhaps she has changed. People do change.
But whether Elizabeth Holmes believes her own story is not really the question. She may have believed the previous one, too. What matters is whether anyone else has good reason to believe her.
And after Theranos, sincerity alone is a remarkably poor credential.
I have no particular difficulty with the idea that people deserve second chances. I work in social services. I have spent enough time with people who have made serious mistakes to know that human beings are capable of change. Sometimes remarkable change.
But there is a difference between allowing someone to rebuild their life and pretending that their past no longer matters.
If someone acknowledges what they have done, accepts responsibility and genuinely tries to make amends, I am all for it. That is precisely what rehabilitation should be about.
But if someone continues to insist that they never did anything wrong, that the world misunderstood them, that they were somehow the real victim, then I have a problem.
What exactly has changed?
Holmes has maintained that she did not commit fraud. Contesting a conviction is, of course, her right. But when it comes to rebuilding public trust, the question of whether she acknowledges the wrongdoing for which she was convicted is rather more important than the sincerity of her latest public image.
And now we are apparently invited to consider another version of Elizabeth Holmes, one that is more vulnerable, more domestic, perhaps more sympathetic.
Fine. She can tell whatever story she likes.
But why should anyone believe it?
For those of us watching from a distance, the latest chapter in the Elizabeth Holmes story may simply be entertainment. We have lost nothing. We were never deceived by her, never invested our savings in Theranos, never trusted its medical claims. We can watch the documentary, marvel at her extraordinary personality and wonder whether she deserves another chance.
For the people who were actually deceived, the spectacle must look rather different.
Tyler Shultz, one of the whistleblowers who helped expose Theranos, has publicly warned about the striking similarities between the old company and the new blood-testing venture launched by Holmes's partner, Billy Evans.
Shultz knows this story. He worked at Theranos. He saw what was happening behind the carefully constructed public image. He challenged the company's claims, even as his own grandfather, former Secretary of State George Shultz, continued to defend Holmes. The consequences reached into his own family.
And now, as another medical venture emerges and Holmes once again attracts public fascination, he is sounding the alarm. That does not mean the new venture is fraudulent, or that Holmes is secretly running it. But surely it means that the people involved should expect some particularly uncomfortable questions.
One can almost hear the question behind his warning: Have you people learned absolutely nothing?
I find it difficult to understand why anyone would even consider entering into a business relationship with Holmes without demanding extraordinary evidence of honesty, transparency and accountability. This is not about refusing to forgive. It is about exercising elementary judgment.
If someone has demonstrated an exceptional ability to deceive people, including people far more experienced and influential than most of us, surely the sensible response is not to become fascinated by their next story.
It is to become considerably more careful.
Perhaps Holmes has genuinely changed. I cannot know that. But I would expect someone seeking to regain public trust to begin by acknowledging the deception that destroyed it.
Without that, I am not particularly interested in the performance.
Dickens wrote David Copperfield in 1850. In Chapter 61, he takes us into a prison where the authorities are enormously impressed by the apparent moral transformation of their inmates.
They see repentance.
David Copperfield sees Uriah Heep.
Sometimes that is all one needs to say.