Garden of Lies (76 page)

voice ringing out, clear and confident.

Judge Weintraub cleared his throat, nodded, crepe-paper eyelids drooping. “You may proceed,

Counsel.”

Rachel stared down at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap. No. She wouldn’t look at him.

Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction ...

A rustle of cool air passing alongside her, that could only be David. She caught a trace of

something sweet-smelling, cloying. His aftershave. Her stomach twisted.

Then her gaze was drawn upward, in spite of herself, as if by a reverse gravity. She met his

eyes for an instant, and as if she had touched an exposed live wire, an ugly shock kicked through

her. His eyes were utterly cold, devoid of all emotion. The eyes of a department store mannequin.

Rachel watched him take the stand in what looked like a custom-tailored gray suit, French-

cuffed shirt, and Gucci loafers. An impressive-looking man, a formidable witness.

A smooth liar.

Anger made her sit up straighter, tilt her chin back the tiniest bit.
I can’t fight you the way I’d

tike to,
she told him mentally,
but I’ll be damned if I’ll give you the satisfaction of thinking

you’ve beaten me down.

She fixed her eyes now on Rose, standing relaxed and poised before the witness stand, a sheaf

of papers in one hand. Did she
feel
as confident as she looked?

“Dr. Sloane,” Rose began pleasantly, “I’m going to ask you questions, and I’m going to ask

you to keep your voice up and project, if you will, in the direction of the jury so we can all hear

your answers.”

“Happy to,” David replied, smiling a little.

“Doctor, you testified on Friday that before you accepted the position of Chief of Obstetrics at

St. Bartholomew’s, you were on [471] staff at—” she consulted the sheaf of papers in her hands

“—Presbyterian Hospital. Is that correct?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And before that?”

“I was in private practice for a short time.”

“I see.” She consulted her papers once again. “I don’t believe that was mentioned when you

were questioned by Mr. Di Fazio. Perhaps it slipped your mind, Doctor. Would you tell us,

please, when and where that was?”

A tiny frown had appeared to mar the celluloid perfection of David’s demeanor. “Certainly. It

was in Westbury, Connecticut. I was in group practice there with two other doctors. Let’s see,

that would have been from the fall of seventy-one to the spring of seventy-three.”

“A rather short time, wouldn’t you say?”

He shrugged. “Private practice isn’t for everyone. I prefer the challenge of a city hospital.”

“Doctor, do you recall a patient under your care at that time—a woman by the name of Sarah

Potts?”

He hesitated an instant, then, “Yes, of course.”

“Can you describe her condition?”

“She was pregnant.”

“Did you deliver Mrs. Potts’s baby, Doctor?”

“No.”

“Could you tell us—and please do speak up, Doctor, so all the members of the jury can hear—

why
you didn’t.”

Rose’s admonition for David to speak up had just the opposite effect, clearly the effect Rose

had desired, Rachel observed. David’s voice dropped, seemed to stumble a bit even.

“She miscarried in her fifth month. Naturally, I did everything I could, but she was—”

“You don’t have to explain, Doctor. Just answer the question.”

“Doctor, do you recall a patient you examined on January seventeenth of 1971. A patient by

the name of Edna Robbins?”

“Let’s see now ...” He hesitated, appearing uncertain.

“Let the record indicate I’m showing the witness a medical chart, Mrs. Robbins’s. Doctor, do

you recognize your handwriting?”

“My handwriting.” David frowned a little, studying the paper [472] in his hands. “Ah yes, Mrs.

Robbins. It comes back to me now. An unusual case.”

“Unusual in what way? Could you describe for the jury Mrs. Robbins’s condition at the time

you first saw her?”

“She’d been referred to me by her family practitioner for infertility. She and her husband had

been trying to have a baby for years without success.”

“And what treatment, if any, did you prescribe?”

“I ordered the usual tests to begin with. A sperm test for her husband, which showed a normal

count. Then a tubal X ray for Mrs. Robbins ...”

“And was this tubal X ray administered by a licensed radiologist?”

“Naturally.”

“And what were the results of that test, Doctor?”

“I ...” David faltered.

“Isn’t it true, Doctor, that Mrs. Robbins was indeed pregnant, without knowing it, at the time

that test was administered?”

“I ... yes, it’s coming back to me now. So unfortunate ...”

“Why unfortunate?”

“Well, you see, they inject a dye ... and it would have automatically aborted the pregnancy.”

“But couldn’t such a dreadful mistake have been avoided?”

“Mrs. Robbins
came
to me because she and her husband had been trying for a child for more

than five years.” David sounded irritated, and he was beginning to look a little flushed, too.

“But isn’t there a test, Doctor, a
simple
urine test for determining pregnancy in a woman?”

“Yes.”

“And did you administer that test to Mrs. Robbins?”

“No.” The word came out tight, clipped. “What happened was a fluke, one in a million, it ...”

And now, descending like a hammer stroke, “Doctor, isn’t it true you were
asked
by your

associates to leave their practice? That they felt you had a drinking problem that was affecting

your performance?”

The Saucedos’ attorney, Mr. Di Fazio—a little toad of a man, Rachel thought, eyeing him with

revulsion—hopped up, face pink.

[473] “Your Honor, I object. This is entirely out of line! Doctor Sloane isn’t the one on trial

here.”

Rose, unruffled, turned toward the bench, saying, “I am only attempting to establish the

credentials of this witness, since his testimony is so vital to my client.”

The judge turned to Rose. “Unless you’re prepared to substantiate this, Counsel, I’m going to

have to ask you to desist from this particular line of questioning,” he admonished.

“Very well, Your Honor, I’ll withdraw the question, since Dr. Rausch could not be here today.”

Rachel was aware of a stirring behind her, voices murmuring. Jurors who, a moment ago, had

looked bored were leaning forward in their chairs, eyes sharp, attentive. Something big was

happening, she sensed. Something that made the room seem to crackle with electricity, and

caused her scalp to tighten.

Judge Weintraub, frowning, seemingly annoyed, rapped his gavel several times in quick

succession.

Rose hesitated, bowing her head slightly, a small smile fixed on her lips. She toyed with the

crucifix around her neck.

“Let’s move ahead, shall we, Dr. Sloane,” she continued, “to when you were on staff at

Presbyterian, following your ... ah, shall we say,
disenchantment
with group practice in

Connecticut. Isn’t it true, Dr. Sloane, that you were
asked
to leave Presbyterian as well?”

“Certainly not,” David said just a hair too loudly. “I resigned.”

The very tip of his tongue, the tiniest sliver of glistening pink, edged out, sliding over his lips.

“Perhaps you’d care to enlighten us, Dr. Sloane, about the circumstances which led up to

your ... ah, resignation.”

“I’m not sure I know which circumstances you’re referring to.” David was leaning forward

now, his frown deepening, his hands forming a steeple under his chin. “I was offered the position

of Chief of Obstetrics at St. Bartholomew’s, and I took it. It’s as simple as that.” He managed a

smile that was somehow less convincing, less confident than before. “I’m sorry to disappoint you,

but I’m afraid there’s no mystery.”

“But isn’t it true that with your present position at St. Bartholomew’s you took a cut in pay?”

“I don’t know why my salary should be of any concern here.” [474] He spoke through gritted

teeth, and Rachel watched him redden, his composure slipping another notch. “I had reasons ...

good reasons ... St. Bartholomew’s was a challenge ... the OB department in need of proper

management.”

“Dr. Sloane, isn’t it true you were
asked
to resign from Presbyterian, that your colleagues had

threatened to take you before the board of medical ethics if you refused to cooperate?”

“That’s a lie!” David erupted, his handsome face fracturing for an instant into something ugly,

mean. Then he caught himself, and smoothed his face with one long elegant hand, regaining his

composure. Lowering his voice, he volunteered, “There were people ... colleagues ... who were

jealous, didn’t want to see me promoted. I was the best, you see ...”

Something is happening,
Rachel thought, a tiny blade of hope forcing its way up through her

depression.
Dear Lord, look at him, he is losing his cool.

“The best at what, Doctor? Tell us what you were best at.”

“Objection!” Di Fazio roared. “Counsel is badgering the witness!”

“Overruled.”

Rose turned back to David. “Doctor, do you remember a delivery you attended in February of

1974, when you were still at Presbyterian? A woman named Katherine Cantrell, in her seventh

month of pregnancy?” Her voice was soft, almost seductive.

“Katherine Cantrell,” he echoed dully. “Yes.”

“Was it a normal delivery?”

“No ... let me see ... her labor was premature. And there were ... difficulties.”

“You delivered Mrs. Cantrell’s baby by caesarean section. Is that correct, Dr. Sloane?”

“Yes.”

“And afterwards, you performed an emergency hysterectomy? Please correct me if I’m

mistaken, Dr. Sloane.”

“Yes ... yes,” David answered, sounding impatient, wary. “But what has that got to do with—”

“Doctor,” Rose cut in, her voice soft, almost velvety, yet each word somehow distinct, sharp as

nails, “was Mrs. Cantrell’s baby born healthy?” He stopped, staring ahead vacantly. Then said, “It

[475] was premature. There were complications. It ... didn’t survive more than a few hours.”

“It? You mean you don’t even remember the infant’s sex, whether it was a boy or a girl?”

“I ... no, I don’t seem to recall.”

“Let me refresh your memory then, Doctor.” She didn’t look at her notes this time, but stared

straight at the witness. “Lynda Ann Cantrell, weighing three pounds, six ounces, at the age of two

hours and forty-two minutes, died on February the nineteenth, at three-thirty A.M.”

A hush fell over the court.

Then Rose continued softly, “I hope this won’t sound simple-minded, Doctor, but is it true that

after a hysterectomy a woman is unable to bear children?”

“That is correct.”

“To be more specific, Mrs. Cantrell will never have another child?”

“That’s correct.”

“And was this Mrs. Cantrell’s first baby ... her
only
baby?”

“I ... yes, I believe so.”

“You believe so? You mean you aren’t sure?”

“It ... it was some time ago.”

“But, surely, even the busiest doctor would remember such a terrible tragedy. Surely he would

remember it as well, if not better, than a casual comment, made months ago, merely in

conversation
about another doctor’s patient.” She paused. “Dr. Sloane, isn’t it true you were

intoxicated at the time you performed a caesarean section, then a subsequent hysterectomy on

Katherine Cantrell? That the physician who was assisting you, Dr. Roland Church, issued a

complaint to that effect to his superior?”

Rachel watched Di Fazio start to rise, open his mouth to object, but he was too late. David was

on his feet, lunging forward, hands splayed against the wooden barrier in front of the witness

stand.

“Lies! All lies! Church ... that bastard ... he wanted the promotion for himself. ...”

“Your Honor, I’d like to move for a ten-minute recess.” Di Fazio was on his feet, sweating

profusely, wheedling now. “My witness is clearly upset by all this unsubstantiated innuendo.

Miss [476] Santini seems to think, by pointing the finger in another direction, that she can cover

up the wrongdoing of the defendant.”

It was coming back to Rachel now, the gossip she’d heard. She’d run into Janet Needham some

months ago—Janet was now specializing in neonatology at Presbyterian—and she
had
alluded to

rumors about David’s drinking, come to think of it. But Rachel hadn’t taken it too seriously. As

far as she knew, David had always avoided liquor, because of his father.

She felt the muscles in her shoulders and back cramping, sending a sharp ache up the back of

her neck. She knew she ought to be relieved. David had said nothing about
her,
the two of

them ... and yet Rose had nonetheless managed to place his sterling reputation in doubt.

But what Rachel felt was angry. Why should David be let off the hook now? He was obviously

guilty, so why wasn’t
he
on trial?

Rachel felt something building inside her, rising up like a bubble from the queasy tension in

her stomach. Pushing up her throat, inexorably, even while she struggled to control it.

Then bursting forth, a shocking sound in the silence of the courtroom.

She began to giggle helplessly.

Now David was staring at her, his face seeming to swell, turning an ugly bloated scarlet.