A Case of Need: A Novel (25 page)

We walked downstairs.

¹
Myocardial infarction, a heart attack.

C
RUSHER THOMPSON
used to be a wrestler in the fifties. He was distinguished by a flat, spatulalike head, which he used to press down on his opponent’s chest once the man was down, and thus crush him. For a few years, it was good for some laughs—and enough money to buy a bar which had become a hangout for young professional men. It was a well-run bar; Thompson, despite the shape of his head, was no fool. He had some corny touches—you wiped your feet on a wrestling mat as you entered—and the inevitable pictures of himself on the walls, but the overall effect was pleasing.

There was only one person in the bar when I arrived, a heavyset, well-dressed Negro sitting at the far end, hunched over a martini. I sat down and ordered a Scotch. Thompson himself was bartending, his sleeves rolled up to expose massive, hairy forearms.

I said, “You know a fellow named George Wilson?”

“Sure,” Thompson said, with a crooked grin.

“Tell me when he comes in, will you?”

Thompson nodded to the man at the far end of the bar. “That’s him, right there.”

The Negro looked up and smiled at me. It was a half-amused, half-embarrassed look. I went over and shook his hand.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m John Berry.”

“It’s all right,” he said, “this is new for me, too.”

He was young, in his late twenties. There was a pale scar running down his neck from his right ear, disappearing below his shirt collar. But his eyes were steady and calm as he tugged at his red striped tie and said, “Shall we go to a booth?”

“All right.”

As we walked to a booth, Wilson turned over his shoulder and said, “Two more of the same, Crusher.”

The man behind the bar winked.

I said, “You’re with Bradford’s firm, is that it?”

“Yes. I was hired a little over a year ago.”

I nodded.

“It was the usual thing,” Wilson said. “They gave me a good office with a view out to the reception desk, so that people coming in and out could see me. That kind of thing.”

I knew what he was saying, but I still felt a twist of irritation. I had several friends who were young lawyers, and none of them had gotten an office of any kind for several years after joining a firm. By any objective standard, this young man was lucky, but it was no good telling him that, because we both knew why he was lucky—he was a kind of freak, a product which society had suddenly deemed valuable, an educated Negro. His horizons were now open and his future was good. But he was still a freak.

“What kind of work have you been doing?”

“Tax, mostly. A few estates. One or two civil proceedings. The firm doesn’t have many criminal cases, as you might expect. But when I joined them, I expressed an interest in trial work. I never expected they’d drop this one on me.”

“I see.”

“I just want you to understand.”

“I think I do. They’ve stuck you with a dead horse, is that it?”

“Maybe.” He smiled. “At least, that’s what they think.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think,” he said, “that a case is decided in the courtroom, not before.”

“You have an approach?”

“I’m working on one,” Wilson said. “It’s going to take a lot of work, because it will have to be good. Because that jury’s going to see an uppity Negro defending a Chinese abortionist, and they won’t like it.”

I sipped my drink. The second round was brought and set at one side of the table.

“On the other hand,” Wilson said, “this is a big break for me.”

“If you win.”

“That,” he said evenly, “is my intention.”

I suddenly thought that Bradford, whatever his reasons for giving Wilson the case, had made a very wise decision. Because this kid was going to want to win. Badly.

“Have you talked with Art?”

“This morning.”

“What was your impression?”

“Innocent. I’m sure of it.”

“Why?”

“I understand him,” Wilson said.

OVER THE SECOND DRINK
, I outlined what I had done for the last few days. Wilson listened in silence, not interrupting me, though he occasionally made notes. When I was through, he said, “You’ve saved me a lot of work.”

“In what way?”

“From what you’ve already told me, we can close the case. We can get Dr. Lee off easily.”

“You mean because the girl wasn’t pregnant?”

He shook his head. “In several cases, among them
Commonwealth versus Taylor,
it was concluded that pregnancy is not an essential element. Nor does it matter if the fetus was already dead prior to the abortion.”

“In other words, it makes no difference that Karen Randall wasn’t pregnant?”

“None.”

“But isn’t it evidence that the job was done by an amateur, a person who did not first run a pregnancy test? Art would never perform an abortion without checking first.”

“Is that going to be your case? That Dr. Lee is too skilled an abortionist to make so simple a mistake?”

I was chagrined. “No, I guess not.”

“Look,” Wilson said, “you can’t conduct a defense based on the character of the accused. It won’t work, no matter how you try it.” He flipped through his notebook. “Let me give you a rundown on the legal situation. In 1845, a Massachusetts General Law stated that it was an offense to procure an abortion, by any means. If the patient did not die, the sentence was not more than seven years; if the patient did die, it was five to twenty. Since then the law has been enlarged upon. Some years later, it was decided that an abortion, if necessary to save the life of the mother, was not an unlawful abortion. That doesn’t apply in this case.”

“No.”

“Later revisions include
Commonwealth versus Viera,
which decided that use of an instrument with intent constituted a crime, even without proof that miscarriage or death resulted. This might be very important. If the prosecution attempts, as I am sure they will, to show that Dr. Lee is an abortionist of many years’ standing, they will then imply that an absence of direct evidence is not sufficient to get Lee off the hook.”

“Can they do that?”

“No. But they can try, and it would be immensely damaging to our case.”

“Go on.”

“There are two other rulings that are important, because they show how the laws are slanted against the abortionist, with no interest in the women involved.
Commonwealth versus Wood
ruled that the consent of the patient was immaterial and did not constitute a justification of abortion. The same court also concluded that the ensuing death of a woman is only an aggravation of the offense. In effect, this means that your investigation of Karen Randall is, from a legal standpoint, a waste of time.”

“But I thought—”

“Yes,” he said, “I said that the case is closed. And it is.”

“How?”

“There are two alternatives. The first is to present the Randall family with the material at hand, before the trial. Point out the fact that Peter Randall, the deceased’s personal physician, is an abortionist. The fact that he aborted her previously. The fact that Mrs. Randall, the wife, had had an abortion from Dr. Lee, and hence might be bearing a grudge against him, causing her to lie about what Karen had said. The fact that Karen was an unstable and unsavory young lady, whose dying words in any case were open to question. We could present all this to the family, in the hope of persuading them to drop charges before the trial.”

I took a deep breath. This kid played rough. “And the second alternative?”

The second is an extension, within the courtroom. Clearly, the crucial questions concern the relationships of Karen, Mrs. Randall, and Dr. Lee. The prosecution’s case now stands on Mrs. Randall’s testimony. We must discredit it, and her. We must destroy her until no juror dares believe a word she says. Then we must examine Karen’s personality and behavior. We must demonstrate that she was a habitual drug-user, a promiscuous person, and a pathological liar. We must convince the jury that anything Karen said, whether to her stepmother or anyone else, is of doubtful veracity. We can also demonstrate that she was twice aborted by Peter Randall and that in all likelihood he performed the third abortion.”

“I’m certain Peter Randall didn’t do it,” I said.

“That may be,” Wilson said, “but it is immaterial.”

“Why?”

“Because Peter Randall is not on trial. Dr. Lee is, and we must use anything we can to free him.”

I looked at him. “I’d hate to meet you in a dark alley.”

“You don’t like my methods?” He smiled slightly.

“No, frankly.”

“Neither do I,” Wilson said. “But we are forced into this by the nature of the laws. In many instances, laws are slanted against a doctor in the doctor-patient relationship. We had a case only last year of an intern at the Gorly Clinic who performed a pelvic and rectal exam on a woman. At least, that was what he said. The woman claimed he raped her. There was no nurse present at the examination; no witnesses. The woman had been treated three times in mental institutions for paranoia and schizophrenia. But she won the case, and the intern was out of luck—and out of a profession.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“View it rationally,” Wilson said. “The law is clear. Right or wrong, it is clear. It offers both the prosecution and the defense certain patterns, certain approaches, certain tactics in regard to the present statutes. Unfortunately, for both prosecution and defense, these approaches will come down to character assassinations. The prosecution will attempt to discredit Dr. Lee as thoroughly as they know how. We, the defense, will attempt to discredit the deceased, Mrs. Randall, and Peter Randall. The prosecution will have, as an advantage, the innate hostility of a Boston jury to anyone accused of abortion. We will have as an advantage the desire of any random jury from Boston to witness the defilement of an old family.”

“Dirty.”

He nodded. “Very dirty.”

“Isn’t there another way to handle it?”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course. Find the real abortionist.

“When will the trial be?”

“A preliminary hearing next week.”

“And the trial itself?”

“Perhaps two weeks later. It’s gotten some kind of priority. I don’t know how, but I can guess.”

“Randall pushing his weight around.”

Wilson nodded.

“And if an abortionist isn’t found by the trial?” I asked.

Wilson smiled sadly. “My father,” he said, “was a preacher. In Raleigh, North Carolina. He was the only educated man in the community. He liked to read. I remember once asking him if all the people he read, like Keats and Shelley, were white. He said yes. I asked him if there were any coloreds that he read. He said no.” Wilson scratched his forehead, hiding his eyes with his hands. “But anyway, he was a preacher, and he was a Baptist, and he was strict. He believed in a wrathful god. He believed in thunderbolts from heaven striking a sinner to the ground. He believed in hellfire and damnation for eternity. He believed in right and wrong.”

“Do you?”

“I believe,” Wilson said, “in fighting fire with fire.”

“Is the fire always right?”

“No,” he said. “But it is always hot and compelling.”

“And you believe in winning.”

He touched the scar along his neck. “Yes.”

“Even without honor?”

“The honor,” he said, “is in winning.”

“Is it?”

He stared at me for a moment. “Why are you so eager to protect the Randalls?”

“I’m not.”

“You sound like you are.”

“I’m doing what Art would want.”

“Art,” Wilson said, “wants to get out of jail. I’m telling you I can get him out. Nobody else in Boston will touch him; he’s a hot potato. And I’m telling you I can get him out.”

“It’s dirty.”

“Yes, Christ, it’s dirty. What did you expect—a croquet game?” He finished his drink and said, “Look, Berry. If you were me, what would you do?”

“Wait,” I said.

“For what?”

“The real abortionist.”

“And if he doesn’t turn up?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I said.

“Then think about it,” he said and left the bar.

W
ILSON HAD IRRITATED ME
, but he had also left me with plenty to think about. I drove home, poured myself a vodka on the rocks, and sat down to put it together. I thought about everyone I talked to, and I realized that there were significant questions I had never asked. There were gaps, big gaps. Like what Karen had done Saturday night, when she went out in Peter’s car. What she had said to Mrs. Randall the next day. Whether she had returned Peter’s car—it was now stolen; when had Peter gotten it back?

I drank the vodka and felt a calm settle over me. I had been too hasty; I had lost my temper too often; I had reacted more to people than to information, more to personalities than to facts.

I would be more careful in the future.

The telephone rang. It was Judith. She was over at the Lees.

“What’s going on?”

In a very steady voice, she said, “You’d better come over here. There’s some kind of demonstration outside.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a mob,” Judith said, “on the lawn.”

“I’ll be right over,” I said and hung up. I grabbed my coat and started for the car, then stopped.

It was time to be more careful.

I went back and quickly dialed the city desk of the
Globe.
I reported a demonstration at the Lees’ address. I made it a breathless and melodramatic call; I was sure they’d act on it.

Then I got in my car and drove over.

When I got to the Lees’, the wooden cross was still smoldering on the front lawn. A police car was there and a large crowd had gathered, mostly neighborhood kids and their stunned parents. It was still early evening; the sky was deepening blue and the smoke from the cross curled straight upward.

I pushed through the crowd toward the house. Every window that I could see had been smashed. Someone was crying inside. A cop stopped me at the door.

“Who’re you?”

“Dr. Berry. My wife and children are inside.”

He stepped aside and I went in.