A Case of Need: A Novel (12 page)

Judith said, “What’s really happening?”

I shook my head.

“Bad?”

“It’s too early to say,” I said. I sat down behind Art’s desk and started to call Bradford.

“Are you hungry? Did you get anything to eat?”

“I stopped for a bite,” I said, “on my way over.”

“You look tired.”

“I’m O.K.,” I said. She leaned over the desk and I kissed her cheek.

“By the way,” she said, “Fritz Werner has been calling. He wants to talk to you.”

I might have expected that. Count on Fritz to know everything. Still, he might have something important; he might be very helpful. “I’ll call him later.”

“And before I forget,” she said, “there’s that party tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“We have to,” she said. “It’s George Morris.”

I had forgotten. “All right,” I said. “What time?”

“Six. We can leave early.”

“All right,” I said.

She went back to the kitchen as the secretary answered the phone and said, “Bradford, Wilson and Sturges.”

“Mr. Bradford, please.”

“I’m sorry,” the secretary said. “Mr. Bradford has gone for the day.”

“How can I reach him?”

“Mr. Bradford will be in the office at nine tomorrow morning.”

“I can’t wait that long.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I said. “Just find him for me. This is Dr. Berry calling.” I didn’t know if the name would mean anything, but I suspected it might.

Her tone changed immediately. “Hold the line please, Doctor.”

There was a pause of several seconds while I waited in the mechanical humming silence of the “Hold” button. Being on the “Hold” button is the technological equivalent of purgatory. That was what Art used to say. He hates telephones and never uses them unless he has to.

The secretary came back on. “Mr. Bradford is just leaving, but he will speak to you now.”

“Thank you.”

A mechanical click.

“George Bradford speaking.”

“Mr. Bradford, this is John Berry.”

“Yes, Dr. Berry. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to speak to you about Art Lee.”

“Dr. Berry, I’m just leaving—”

“Your secretary told me. Perhaps we could meet somewhere.”

He hesitated and sighed into the phone. It sounded like a hissing, impatient serpent. “That won’t serve any purpose. I’m afraid my decision is quite firm. The matter is out of my hands.”

“Just a short meeting.”

He paused again. “All right. I’ll meet you at my club in twenty minutes. The Trafalgar. See you then.”

I hung up. The bastard: his club was downtown. I would have to run like hell to make it in time. I straightened my tie and hurried off to my car.

THE TRAFALGAR CLUB
is located in a small, dilapidated house on Beacon Street, just down from the Hill. Unlike the professional clubs of larger cities, the Trafalgar is so quiet that few Bostonians even know of its existence.

I had never been there before, but I could have predicted the decor. The rooms were paneled in mahogany; the ceilings were high and dusty; the chairs heavy, padded tan leather, comfortable and wrinkled; the carpets were worn Orientals. In atmosphere, it reflected its members—stiff, aging, and masculine. As I checked my coat, I saw a sign which stated crisply,
FEMALE GUESTS MAY BE ENTERTAINED BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 AND 5:30 O’CLOCK ON THURSEDAYS ONLY.
Bradford met me in the lobby.

He was a short, compact man, impeccably dressed. His black chalk-stripe suit was unwrinkled after a day of work, his shoes gleamed, and his cuffs protruded the proper length beyond his jacket sleeves. He wore a pocket watch on a silver chain, and his Phi Beta Kappa key contrasted nicely with the dark material of his vest. I didn’t have to look him up in
Who’s Who
to know that he lived someplace like Beverly Farms, that he had attended Harvard College and Harvard Law School, that his wife had gone to Vassar and still wore pleated skirts, cashmere sweaters, and pearls, or that his children attended Groton and Concord. Bradford wore it all, quietly and confidently.

“I’m ready for a drink,” he said as we shook hands. “How about you?”

“Fine.”

The bar was on the second floor, a large room with high windows looking out on Beacon Street and the Commons. It was a subdued room, smelling faintly of cigar smoke. Men spoke in low voices and talked in small groups. The bartender knew what everyone drank without being told: everyone, that is, except me. We sat in two comfortable chairs by the window and I ordered a vodka Gibson. Bradford just nodded to the bartender. While we waited for the drinks, he said, “I am sure you must be disappointed in my decision, but frankly—”

“I’m not disappointed,” I said, “because I’m not on trial.”

Bradford reached into his pocket, looked at his watch, and put it back.

“No one,” he said crisply, “is on trial at this moment.”

“I disagree. I think a great many people are on trial.”

He rapped the table irritably and frowned across the room at the bartender. The psychiatrists call that displacement.

“And what,” he said, “is that supposed to mean?”

“Everybody in this town is dropping Art Lee as if he had bubonic plague.”

“And you suspect a dark conspiracy?”

“No,” I said. “I’m just surprised.”

“I have a friend,” Bradford said, “who claims that all doctors are essentially naïve. You don’t strike me as naïve.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“That’s an observation.”

“I try,” I said.

“Well, there’s really no mystery and no conspiracy here. In my case, you must realize that I have many clients, of whom Mr. Lee is just one.”

“Dr. Lee.”

“Quite right. Dr. Lee. He is just one of my clients, and I have obligations to all of them which I discharge as I am best able. It happens that I spoke with the district attorney’s office this afternoon, to determine when Dr. Lee’s case would come up for hearing. It seems that Dr. Lee’s case will conflict with another I have previously accepted. I cannot be in two courtrooms at once. I explained this to Dr. Lee.”

The drinks came. Bradford raised his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

He sipped his drink and looked at the glass. “When I explained my position to him, Dr. Lee accepted it. I also told him that my firm would make every effort to see that he had excellent legal counsel. We have four senior partners, and it is quite likely that one of them will be able to—”

“But not certain?”

He shrugged. “Nothing is certain in this world.”

I sipped the drink. It was lousy, mostly vermouth with a touch of vodka.

“Are you a good friend of the Randalls?” I asked.

“I know them, yes.”

“Does that have anything to do with your decision?”

“Certainly not.” He sat up quite stiffly. “A lawyer learns very early to separate clients and friends. It’s frequently necessary.”

“Especially in a small town.”

He smiled. “Objection, Your Honor.”

He sipped his drink again. “Off the record, Dr. Berry, you should know that I am in complete sympathy with Lee. We both recognize that abortion is a fact of life. It happens all the time. The last figures I saw listed American abortions at a million yearly; it’s very common. Speaking practically, it is necessary. Our laws relating to abortion are hazy, ill-defined, and absurdly strict. But I must remind you that the doctors are much more strict than the law itself. The abortion committees in hospitals are overcautious. They refuse to perform abortions under circumstances where the law would never intervene. In my opinion, before you can change the abortion laws, you must change the prevailing climate of medical opinion.”

I said nothing. The Passing of the Buck is a time-honored ceremony, to be observed in silence. Bradford looked at me and said, “You don’t agree?”

“Of course,” I said. “But it strikes me as an interesting defense for an accused man.”

“I wasn’t proposing it as a defense.”

“Then perhaps I misunderstood you.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said dryly.

“Neither would I,” I said, “because you haven’t been making much sense. I always thought lawyers got right to the problem, instead of running circles around it.”

“I am trying to clarify my position.”

“Your position is quite clear,” I said. “I’m worried about Dr. Lee.”

“Very well. Let’s talk about Dr. Lee. He has been indicted under a seventy-eight-year-old Massachusetts law which makes any abortion a felony punishable by fines and imprisonment up to five years. If the abortion results in death, the sentence may be from seven to twenty years.”

“Is it second-degree murder or manslaughter?”

“Neither, technically. In terms of—”

“Then the charge is bailable?”

“Conceivably so. But in this case not, because the prosecution will attempt a murder charge under a common law act which says any death resulting from a felony is murder.”

“I see.”

“In terms of the progress of the case, the prosecution will bring forth evidence—good evidence, I’m sure—that Dr. Lee is an abortionist. They will show that the girl, Karen Randall, previously visited Dr. Lee and that he inexplicably kept no records of her visit. They will show that he cannot account for several crucial hours during Sunday evening. And they will present Mrs. Randall’s testimony that the girl told her Lee performed the abortion.

“In the end, it will come down to a conflict of testimony. Lee, a proven abortionist, will say he didn’t do it; Mrs. Randall will say he did. If you were the jury, whom would you believe?”

“There is no proof that Dr. Lee aborted that girl. The evidence is wholly circumstantial.”

“The trial will be held in Boston.”

“Then hold it elsewhere,” I said.

“On what grounds? That the moral climate here is unfavorable?”

“You’re talking technicalities. I’m talking about saving a man.”

“In the technicalities lies the strength of the law.”

“And the weaknesses.”

He gave me a thoughtful look. “The only way to ‘save’ Dr. Lee, as you say, is to demonstrate that he did not perform the operation. That means the real abortionist must be found. I think the chances of doing so are slim.”

“Why?”

“Because, when I talked to Lee today, I came away convinced he was lying through his teeth. I think he did it, Berry. I think he killed her.”

W
HEN I RETURNED TO THE HOUSE
, I found that Judith and the kids were still at Betty’s. I made myself another drink—a strong one, this time—and sat in the living room, dead tired but unable to relax.

I have a bad temper. I know that, and I try to control it, but the truth is I am clumsy and abrupt with people. I guess I don’t like people much; maybe that’s why I became a pathologist in the first place. Looking back over the day, I realized I had lost my temper too often. That was stupid; there was no percentage in it; no gain, and potentially a great deal of loss.

The telephone rang. It was Sanderson, head of the path labs at the Lincoln. The first thing he said was, “I’m calling from the hospital phone.”

“O.K.,” I said.

The hospital phone had at least six extensions. In the evening, anyone could listen in.

“How was your day?” Sanderson said.

“Interesting,” I said. “How was yours?”

“It had its moments,” Sanderson said.

I could imagine. Anyone who wanted me out of his hair would put the squeeze on Sanderson. It was the most logical thing to do, and it could be managed quite subtly. A few jokes: “Say, I hear you’re shorthanded these days.” A few earnest inquiries: “What’s this I hear about Berry being sick? Oh? I heard that he was. But he hasn’t been in, has he?” Then a few choice words from the chiefs of service: “Sanderson, how the hell do you expect me to keep my medical staff in line when you’re letting your path people take off all the time?” And finally someone from the administration: “We run a shipshape hospital here, everybody has his job and everybody does it, no deadwood on board.”

The net effect would be an intense pressure to get me back in the lab or find a new man.

“Tell them I’ve got tertiary syphilis,” I said. “That should hold them.”

Sanderson laughed. “There’s no problem,” he said. “Yet. I’ve got a pretty tough old neck. I can keep it stuck out a while longer.”

Then he paused, and said, “How much longer do you think it will be?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s complicated.”

“Come by and see me tomorrow,” he said. “We can discuss it.”

“Good,” I said. “Maybe by then I’ll know more. Right now, it’s just as bad as the Peru case.”

“I see,” Sanderson said. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Right.”

I hung up, certain he knew what I was talking about. I had meant that there was something wrong with the Karen Randall business, something out of place. It was like a case we had three months ago, a rare thing called agranulocytosis, the complete absence of white cells in the blood. It’s a serious condition because without white cells, you can’t fight infection. Most people are carrying disease organisms around in their mouth or body normally—staph or strep, sometimes diphtheria and pneumococcus—and if your bodily defenses go down, you infect yourself.

Anyhow, the patient was American, a doctor working for the Public Health Service in Peru. He was taking a Peruvian drug for asthma, and one day he began to get sick. He had sores in his mouth and a temperature, and he felt lousy. He went to a doctor in Lima and had a blood test. His white count was 600.
¹
The next day it was down to 100, and the next day it was zero. He got a plane to Boston and checked into our hospital.

They did a bone-marrow biopsy, sticking a hollow needle into his sternum
²
and drawing out some marrow. I looked at it microscopically and was puzzled. He had lots of immature cells of the granulocyte series in his marrow, and while it was abnormal, it was not terribly bad. I thought, “Hell, something is wrong here,” so I went to see his doctor.

His doctor had been tracing the Peruvian drug the patient was taking. It turned out to contain a substance removed from the American market in 1942 because it suppressed white-cell formation.