"But only suggestive." He shook his head slowly. "This is already a confused case, John. I'm not going to make it more confused by throwing in a diagnosis I'm not sure about. After all, I may be called into court to defend it. I'd rather not stick my neck out. If the prosecution or the defense wants to find a pathologist to review the material and stick his his neck out, that's fine. The material is here for anyone to see. But I'm not going to do it. My years in the courtroom have taught me one thing, at least." neck out, that's fine. The material is here for anyone to see. But I'm not going to do it. My years in the courtroom have taught me one thing, at least."

"What's that?"

"Never take a position unless you are certain it can be defended against any onslaught. That may sound like good advice to a general," he said, smiling, "but then, a courtroom is nothing more than a very civilized war."

FOUR.

I HAD TO SEE SANDERSON. I had promised to see him, and now I needed his advice badly. But as I entered the lobby of the Lincoln Hospital, the first person I saw was Harry Fallon.

He was slinking down a corridor, wearing a raincoat and hat pulled down over his forehead. Harry is an internist with a large suburban practice in Newton; he is also a former actor and something of a clown. I greeted him and he raised the brim of his hat slowly. His eyes were bloodshot and his face sallow.

"I hab a code," Harry said."Who are you seeing?"

"Gordon. The cheeb residend." He took out a Kleenex and blew his nose loudly. "Aboud my bat code."

I laughed. "You sound like you've swallowed cotton.""Thang you bery mugh." He sniffled. "This is no labbing madder."

He was right, of course. All practicing doctors feared getting sick. Even small colds were considered bad for your image, for what is loosely called "patient rapport," and any serious illness became a matter for the utmost secrecy. When old Henley finally developed chronic glomerulonephritis, he went to elaborate lengths to be sure his patients never found out; he would visit his doctor in the middle of the night, sneaking about like a thief."It doesn't sound like a bad cold," I told Harry."Hah. You thingh so? Listen to me." He blew his nose again, a long, honking sound, somewhere between a foghorn and the death rattle of a hippopotamus."How long have you had it?"

"Du days. Du miberable, miberable days. My padends are nodicing."

"What are you taking for it?""Hod toddies," he said. "Besd thing for a virus. Bud the world is againsd me, John. Today, on tob ov my code, I got a tickud.""A thickud?""Yes. For double-barking."I laughed, but at the back of my mind, something was bothering me, something I knew 1 should be remembering and thinking about, something I had forgotten and ignored.It was a strange and irritating feeling.I MET SANDERSON IN THE PATH LIBRARY. It's a squareroom with lots of chairs, the folding kind, and a projector and screen. Path conferences are held here, in which autopsies are reviewed, and they are so frequent you can practically never get in to use the library books.

On the shelves, in boxes, were autopsy reports for every person done in the Lincoln since 1923, the year we began to keep good records. Prior to that time, n.o.body had a very good idea of how many people were dying from what diseases, but as knowledge of medicine and the human body increased that information became vitally important. One proof of increased interest was the number of autopsies performed in 1923 all the reports filled one slim box-but by 1965 it required half a shelf for all the records. At present, more than seventy percent of all patients who died in the hospital were autopsied, and there was talk of microfilming the reports for the library.

In one corner of the room was a portable electric coffeepot, a bowl of sugar, a stack of paper cups, and a sign that said, "5 cents a cup. Scout's honor." Sanderson was fussing with the pot, trying to get it to work. The pot represented an ancient challenge: it was said n.o.body was permitted to finish his path residency at the Lincoln until he had mastered its workings.

"Someday," Sanderson muttered, "I'm going to electrocute myself on this d.a.m.ned thing." He plugged it in; crackling sounds were heard. "Me, or some other poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Cream and sugar?"

"Please," I said.

Sanderson filled two cups, holding the pot at arm's length. Sanderson was notoriously bad with anything mechanical. He had a superb, almost instinctive understanding of the human body and its functions of flesh and bone, but mechanical, steel, and electrical objects were beyond him. He lived in constant fear that his car, or his TV, or his stereo would break down; he regarded them all as potential traitors and deserters.

He was a tall, powerfully built man who had once rowed stroke for the Harvard heavyweights. His forearms and wrists were as thick as most men's calves. He had a solemn, thoughtful face: he might have been a judge, or an excellent poker player."Did Weston say anything else?" he asked. No."You sound unhappy.""Let's say I'm worried."Sanderson shook his head. "I think you're barking up the wrong tree here," he said. "Weston wouldn't fake a report for anybody. If he says he was unsure, then he was.""Maybe you should examine the slides yourself.""I'd like to," Sanderson said, "but you know that's impossible."He was right. If he showed up at Mallory and asked to see the slides, it would be taken as a personal insult by Weston. That kind of thing just wasn't done.I said, "Maybe if he asked you . . .""Why should he?""I don't know.""Weston has made his diagnosis and signed hisname to it. The matter closes there, unless it comes up again during the trial."I felt a sinking feeling. Over the past days, I had come to believe very strongly that there must not be a trial. Any trial, even an acquittal, would seriously damage Art's reputation, his standing, and his practice. A trial had to be prevented."But you think she was hypopit," Sanderson said."Yes.""Etiology?""Neoplasm, I think.""Adenoma?"1"I imagine. Maybe craniopharyngioma.""How long?""It couldn't be very long," I said. "X rays four months ago were normal. No enlargement or erosion of the sella turcica. But she did complain of vision trouble.""What about pseudotumor?"

Pseudotumor cerebri is a disorder of women and young children. Patients get all the symptoms of a tumor, but don't actually have one. It is related to withdrawal of steroid therapy; women sometimes get it when taking birth-control pills. But as far as I knew, Karen wasn't taking pills. I told Sanderson.

"Too bad we don't have slides of the brain," he said.I nodded.

1 A chromophobe adenoma is the most common tumor of the pituitary. It is slow-growing and relatively benign, but it presses on the optic nerve, causing visual symptoms, and it may create endocrine dysfunction.

"On the other hand," Sanderson said, "an abortion was performed. We can't forget that."

"I know," I said. "But it's just another indicator that Art didn't do it. He wouldn't have aborted her without doing a bunny test first, and such a test would have been negative."

"That's only circ.u.mstantial evidence, at best." "I know," I said, "but it's something. A start." "There is another possibility," Sanderson said. "Supposing the abortionist was willing to take Karen's word that she was pregnant."

I frowned. "I don't understand. Art didn't know the girl; he had never seen her before. He wouldnever-"I'm not thinking of Art," Sanderson said. He was staring at his feet, as if he had something embarra.s.sing on his mind."What do you mean?""Well, this is all highly speculative. . . ."I waited for him."A lot of muck has been thrown already. I hate to add to it," he said.I said nothing.

"I never knew it before," Sanderson continued. "I thought I was pretty well informed about these things, but I never knew it until today. As you can imagine, the whole medical community is buzzing. J. D. Randall's girl dies from an abortion-you can't keep other doctors from talking about that." that." He sighed. "Anyway, it was something one of the wives told my wife. I don't even know if it's true." He sighed. "Anyway, it was something one of the wives told my wife. I don't even know if it's true."

I wasn't going to push Sanderson. He could take his time in telling me; I lit a cigarette and waited patiently."Oh h.e.l.l," Sanderson said, "it's probably just a rumor. I can't imagine I'd never heard of it before.""What?" I said finally."Peter Randall. Peter does abortions. Very quiet and exclusive, but he does them.""Jesus," I said, sitting down in a chair."It's hard to believe," Sanderson said.

I smoked a cigarette and thought it over. If Peter did abortions, did J. D. know? Did he think Peter had done it, and was covering up for him? Was that what he meant by "a family matter"? If so, why had Art been dragged into this?

And why would Peter abort the girl in the first place? Peter had evidence that there might be something wrong with the girl. He was a good enough doctor to think of a pit tumor. If the girl came to him saying she was pregnant, he'd certainly think back to her vision trouble. And he'd run tests."Peter didn't do it," I said."Maybe she put pressure on him. Maybe she was in a hurry. She only had one weekend.""No. He wouldn't respond to pressure from her.""She was family.""She was a young and hysterical girl," I said, remembering Peter's description.Sanderson said, "Can you be sure Peter didn't do it?""No," I admitted.

"Let's suppose he did. And let's suppose Mrs. Randall knew about the abortion. Or that the girl told her, as she was bleeding to death, that Peter had done it. What would Mrs. Randall do? Turn in her brother-in-law?"

I could see where he was leading me. It certainly provided an explanation for one of the puzzles of the case-why Mrs. Randall had called in the police. But I didn't like it, and I told Sanderson so."The reason you don't like it is you're fond of Peter.""That may be.""You can't afford to exclude him or anyone else. Do you know where Peter was last Sunday night?""No.""Neither do I," Wes Sanderson said, "but I think it's worth checking.""No," I said, "it's not. Peter wouldn't do it. And even if he did, he wouldn't have botched it so badly. No professional would have.""You're prejudging the case," Sanderson said."Look, if Peter could have done it-without tests, without anything-then so could Art.""Yes," Sanderson said mildly. "That has occurred to me."

FIVE.

I WAS FEELING IRRITABLE when I left Sanderson. I couldn't decide exactly why. Perhaps he was right; perhaps I was unreasonably and illogically searching for fixed points, for things and people to believe in.But there was something else. In any court action, there was always the chance that Sanderson and I could be implicated, and our role in fooling the tissue committee brought out. Both Sanderson and I had a large stake in this business, a stake as large as Art's. We hadn't talked about that, but it was there in the back of my mind, and I was sure in the back of his as well. And that put a different interpretation on things.

Sanderson was perfectly correct: we could put the squeeze on Peter Randall. But if we did, we'd never know why we did. We could always say it was because we believed Peter was guilty. Or because it was expedient, to save a falsely accused man.

But we would always wonder whether we did it simply to protect ourselves.

Before I did anything, I would have to get more information. Sanderson's argument made no distinction between Mrs. Randall knowing that Peter had done the abortion and merely suspecting that he had.And there was another question. If Mrs. Randall suspected that Peter had done the abortion and wished to keep him from being arrested, why had she named Art? What did she know about Art?Art Lee was a circ.u.mspect and cautious man. He was hardly a household word among the pregnant women of Boston. He was known to a few physicians and a relatively small number of patients. His clientele was carefully chosen.How had Mrs. Randall known he performed abortions? There was one man who might know the answer: Fritz Werner.FRITZ WERNER lived in a town house on Beacon Street. The ground floor was given over to his office-an anteroom and a large, comfortable room with desk, chair, and couch-and to his library. The upper two floors comprised his living quarters. I went directly to the second floor and entered the living room to find it the same as always: a large desk by the window, covered with pens, brushes, sketchbooks, pastels; drawings by Pica.s.so and Miro on the walls; a photograph of T. S. Eliot glowering into the camera; an informal, signed portrait of Marianne Moore talking with her friend Floyd Patterson.Fritz was sitting in a heavy armchair, wearing slacks and an enormous bulky sweater. He had stereophonic earphones on his head, was smoking athick cigar, and crying. The tears rolled down his flat, pale cheeks. He wiped his eyes when he saw me, and took off the earphones."Ah, John. Do you know any Albinoni?""No," I said."Then you don't know the adagio.""I'm afraid not.""It always makes me sad," he said, dabbing his eyes. "Infernally, infernally sad. So sweet. Do sit down."I sat. He turned off his record player and took off the record. He dusted it carefully and replaced it in the jacket."It was good of you to come. How was your day?""Interesting.""You've looked up Bubbles?"'Yes, I did.""How did you find her?""Confusing.""Why do you say that?"I smiled. "Don't a.n.a.lyze me, Fritz. I never pay my doctor bills.""No?""Tell me about Karen Randall," I said."This is very nasty, John.""Now you sound like Charlie Frank.""Charlie Frank is not a complete complete fool," Fritz said. "By the way, did I tell you I have a new friend?" fool," Fritz said. "By the way, did I tell you I have a new friend?""No," I said.

"I do, a marvelous creature, most amusing. We must talk about him sometime."

"Karen Randall," I said, bringing him back to the point.

"Yes, indeed." Fritz took a deep breath. "You didn't know the girl, John," he said. "She was not a nice child. Not at all. She was a mean, lying, unpleasant little child with severe neuroses. Bordering on psychosis, if you ask me."He walked into the bedroom, stripping off his sweater. I followed him in and watched as he put on a clean shirt and a tie."Her problems," Fritz said, "were s.e.xual in nature, stemming from a repressed childhood with her parents. Her father is not the most well-adjusted man I know. Marrying that woman is a perfect example. Have you met her?""The present Mrs. Randall?""Yes. Ghastly, ghastly ghastly woman." woman."He shuddered as he knotted his tie and straightened it in the mirror."Did you know Karen?" I asked."It was my misfortune to do so. I knew her parents as well. We first met at that marvelous, glorious party given by the Baroness de-""Just tell me," I said.Fritz sighed. "This girl, this Karen Randall," he said, "she presented her parents with their own neuroses. In a sense she acted out their fantasies.""What do you mean?""Breaking the mold-being s.e.xually free, not caring what people said, dating the wrong kinds ofpeople, and always with s.e.xual undertones. Athletes. Negroes. That sort of thing.""Was she ever your patient?"He sighed. "No, thank G.o.d. At one point it was suggested that I take her, but I refused. I had three other adolescent girls at the time, and they were quite enough. Quite enough.""Who asked you to take her?""Peter, of course. He's the only one with any sense in the family.""What about Karen's abortions?""Abortions?""Come on, Fritz."He went to a closet and found a sports coat, pulled it on, and tugged at the lapels. "People never understand," he said. "There is a cycle here, a pattern which is as easily recognizable, as familiar, as an MI.1 You learn the pattern, the symptoms, the trouble. You see it acted out before you again and again. A rebellious child chooses the weak point of its parent-with unfailing, uncanny accuracy-and proceeds to exploit it. But then when punishment comes, it must be in terms of the same weak point. It must all fit together: if someone asks you a question in French, you must answer in French." You learn the pattern, the symptoms, the trouble. You see it acted out before you again and again. A rebellious child chooses the weak point of its parent-with unfailing, uncanny accuracy-and proceeds to exploit it. But then when punishment comes, it must be in terms of the same weak point. It must all fit together: if someone asks you a question in French, you must answer in French.""I don't understand."

"For a girl like Karen, punishment was important. She wanted to be punished, but her punishment, like her rebellion, had to be s.e.xual in nature. She 1 Myocardial infarction, a heart attack.wanted to suffer the pain of childbirth, so she could compensate for breaking with her family, her society, her morality. . . . Dylan put it beautifully; I have the poem here somewhere." He began rummaging through a bookshelf."It's all right," I said."No, no, a lovely quotation. You'd enjoy it." He searched for a few more moments, then straightened. "Can't find it. Well, never mind. The point is that she needed suffering, but never experienced it. That was why she kept getting pregnant.""You talk like a psychiatrist.""We all do, these days.""How many times did she get pregnant?""Twice, that I know of. But that is just what I hear from my other patients. A great many women felt threatened by Karen. She impinged upon their system of values, their framework of right and wrong. She challenged them, she implied that they were old and s.e.xless and timid and foolish. A middle-aged woman can't stand such a challenge; it is terrifying. She must respond, must react, must form an opinion which vindicates herself-and therefore condemns Karen.""So you heard a lot of gossip.""I heard a lot of fear."He smoked his cigar. The room was filled with sunlight and blue smoke. He sat on the bed and began pulling on his shoes."Frankly," he said, "after a while I began to resentKaren myself. She went overboard, she did too much, she went too far.""Perhaps she couldn't help it.""Perhaps," Fritz said, "she needed a good spanking.""Is that a professional opinion?"He smiled. "That is just my human irritation showing through. If I could count the number of women who have run out and had affairs- disastrous affairs-just because of Karen. . . .""I don't care about the women," I said, "I care about Karen.""She's dead now," Fritz said."That pleases you?""Don't be silly. Why do you say that?" Fritz . . ."Just a question.""Fritz," I said, "how many abortions did Karen have before last weekend?""Two.""One last summer," I said, "in June. And one before that?""Yes.""And who aborted her?"

"I haven't the slightest," he said, puffing on his cigar.

"It was somebody good," I said, "because Bubbles said that Karen was only gone for an afternoon. It must have been very skillful and nontraumatic."

"Very likely. She was a rich girl, after all."I looked at him, sitting there on the bed, tying his shoes and smoking the cigar. Somehow, I was convinced he knew.

"Fritz, was it Peter Randall?"Fritz grunted. "If you know, why ask?""I need confirmation."

"You need a strong noose around your neck, if you ask me. But yes: it was Peter."

"Did J. D. know?""Heaven help us! Never!""Did Mrs. Randall know?""Hmmm. There I am not certain. It is possible but somehow I doubt it.""Did J. D. know that Peter did abortions?""Yes. Everyone knows that Peter does abortions. He is the the abortionist, believe me." abortionist, believe me.""But J.D. never knew Karen had been aborted.""That's correct.""What's the connection between Mrs. Randall and Art Lee?""You are very acute today," Fritz said.I waited for an answer. Fritz puffed twice on his cigar, producing a dramatic cloud around his face, and looked away from me."Oh," I said. "When?""Last year. Around Christmas, if I recall.""J. D. never knew?""If you will remember," Fritz said, "J. D. spent the months of November and December in India last year working for the State Department. Some kind of goodwill tour, or public health thing.""Then who was the father?""Well, there is some speculation about that. But n.o.body knows for sure-perhaps not even Mrs. Randall."Once again, I had the feeling that he was lying."Come on, Fritz. Are you going to help me or not?""Dear boy, you are immensely clever." He stood, walked to the mirror, and straightened his jacket. He ran his hands over his shirt. It was something you always noticed about Fritz: he was continually touching his body, as if to a.s.sure himself that he had not disappeared."I have often thought," Fritz said, "that the present Mrs. Randall might as well have been Karen's mother, since they are both such b.i.t.c.hes in heat."I lit a cigarette. "Why did J. D. marry her?"

Fritz gave a helpless shrug and fluffed a handkerchief in his pocket. He tugged his shirt cuffs down his jacket sleeves. "G.o.d only knows. There was great talk at the time. She comes from a good family, you know-a Rhode Island family-but they sent her to a Swiss school. Those Swiss schools will destroy a girl. In any event, she was a poor choice for a man in his sixties, and a busy surgeon. She grew rapidly bored sitting around her cavernous home. The Swiss schools teach you to be bored in any case."

He b.u.t.toned his jacket and turned away from the mirror, with a final glance over his shoulder at himself. "So," he said, "she amused herself."

"How long has this been going on?""More than a year.""Did she arrange Karen's abortion?"

"I doubt it. One can't be sure, but I doubt it. More likely it would be Signe."

"Signe?""Yes. J. D.'s mistress."

I took a deep breath and wondered if Fritz was kidding me. I decided he wasn't.

"J. D. had a mistress?"

"Oh, yes. A Finnish girl. She worked in the cardiology lab of the Mem. Quite a stunner, I'm told."

"You never met her?""Alas.""Then how do you know?"He smiled enigmatically."Karen liked this Signe?""Yes. They were good friends. Rather close in ages, actually."I ignored the implications in that."You see," Fritz continued, "Karen was very close to her mother, the first Mrs. Randall. She died two years ago of cancer-r.e.c.t.u.m, I think-and it was a great blow for Karen. She never liked her father much, but had always confided in her mother. The loss of a confidante at the age of sixteen was a great blow to her. Much of her subsequent . . . activity can be attributed to bad advice.""From Signe?""No. Signe was quite a proper girl, from what I'm told.""I don't get it.""One of the reasons Karen disliked her father was that she knew about his propensities. You see, he has always had women friends. Young ones. The first was Mrs. Jewett, and then there was-""Never mind," I said. I had already gotten the picture. "He cheated on his first wife, too?""Wandered," Fritz said. "Let us say wandered.""And Karen knew?""She was quite a perceptive child.""There's one thing I don't understand," I said. "If Randall likes variety, why did he remarry?""Oh, that's quite clear. One look at the present Mrs. Randall and you'd know. She is a fixture in his life, a decoration, an ornament to his existence. Rather like an exotic potted plant-which is not far from the truth, considering how much she drinks.""It doesn't make sense," I said.He gave me an amused, askance look. "What about that nurse you have lunch with twice a week?""Sandra is a friend. She's a nice girl." As I said it, it occurred to me that he was astonishingly well informed."Nothing further?""Of course not," I said, a little stiffly."You just happen to run into her at the cafeteria on Thursdays and Fridays?""Yes. Our schedules-""What do you think this girl feels about you?"

"She's just a girl. She's ten years younger than I am."

"Aren't you flattered?"

"What do you mean?" I said, knowing exactly what he meant.

"Don't you derive satisfaction from talking with her?"Sandra was a nurse on the eighth-floor medical service. She was very pretty, with very large eyes and a very small waist, and a way of walking, . .."Nothing has happened," I said."And nothing will. Yet you meet her twice a week.""She happens to be a welcome change from my work," I said. "Twice a week. A rendezvous in the intimate, s.e.xually charged atmosphere of the Lincoln Hospital cafeteria.""There's no need to raise your voice.""I'm not raising my voice," I said, lowering it."You see," Fritz said, "men handle things differently. You feel no compulsion to do more than talk to this girl. It is enough that she be there, hanging on your every word, mildly in love with you-""Fritz-""Look," Fritz said. "Let's take a case from my experience. I had a patient who felt a desire to kill people. It was a very strong desire, difficult to control. It bothered the patient; he was in constant fear of actually killing someone. But this man finally got a job in the Midwest, working as an executioner. He electrocuted people as his livelihood. And he did it very well; he was the best electrocutioner in the history of the state. He holds several patents,little techniques he has developed to do the job faster, more painlessly. He is a student of death. He likes his work. He is dedicated. He sees his methods and his advances much as a doctor does: a relief of suffering, an improvement, a bettering.""So?""So I am saying that normal desires can take many forms, some legitimate, some not. Everyone must find a way to deal with them.""We're a long way from Karen," I said."Not really. Have you ever wondered why she was so close to her mother and so estranged from her father? Have you ever wondered why, when her mother died, she chose the particular mode of behayior she did? s.e.x, drugs, self-humiliation? Even to the point of befriending her father's mistress?"I sat back. Fritz was being rhetorical again."The girl," he said, "had certain stresses and strains. She had certain reactions, some defensive, some offensive, to what she knew was going on with her parents. She reacted to what she knew. She had to. In a sense, she stabilized her world.""Some stability.""True," Fritz said. "Unpleasant, nasty, perverse. But perhaps it was all she could manage."I said, "I'd like to talk with this Signe."

"Impossible. Signe returned to Helsinki six months ago."

"And Karen?""Karen," Fritz said, "became a lost soul. She had no one to turn to, no friends, no aid. Or so she felt."

"What about Bubbles and Angela Harding?"Fritz looked at me steadily. "What about them?""They could have helped her.""Can the drowning save the drowning?"We walked downstairs.SIXCRUSHER 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 ma.s.sive, 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-embarra.s.sed 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, 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." 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 Ma.s.sachusetts 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, Commonwealth versus Viera, which decided that use of an instrument with intent const.i.tuted 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 which decided that use of an instrument with intent const.i.tuted 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 abortionistof 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 Commonwealth versus Wood ruled that the consent of the patient was immaterial and did not const.i.tute 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." ruled that the consent of the patient was immaterial and did not const.i.tute 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 unsta- ble 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 an 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 inst.i.tutions 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 a.s.sa.s.sinations. 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 Sh.e.l.ley, 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 G.o.d. He believed in thunderbolts from heaven striking a sinner to the ground. He believed in h.e.l.lfire and d.a.m.nation 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. n.o.body 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.

SEVEN.

WILSON 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 Sat.u.r.day 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. 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. 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."Wh.o.r.e you?""Dr. Berry. My wife and children are inside."He stepped aside and I went in.

They were all in the living room. Betty Lee was crying; Judith was taking care of the children. There was broken gla.s.s all around. Two of the children had been cut deeply but not seriously. A policeman was questioning Mrs. Lee. He wasn't getting anywhere. All she said was, "We asked for protection. We asked for it. We pleaded with you, but you never came. . . ."

"Jesus, lady," said the cop."We asked. Don't we have any rights?""Jesus, lady," he said again.I helped Judith bandage the kids."What happened?"Suddenly the cop turned on me. "Who're you?""I'm a doctor."

"Yeah, well, high time," he said and turned back to Mrs. Lee.

Judith was subdued and pale. "It started twenty minutes ago," she said. "We've been getting threats all day, and letters. Then it finally happened: four cars pulled up and a bunch of kids got out. They set up the cross and poured gasoline over it and lighted it. There must have been about twenty of them. They all stood there and sang 'Onward Christian Soldiers.' Then they started to throw rocks when they saw us looking at them through the window. It was like a nightmare.""What did the kids look like? Were they well-dressed? What were the cars like?"

She shook her head. "That was the worst part. They were young, nice-looking kids. If they had been old bigots, I could understand, but they were just teen-agers. You should have seen their faces."

We finished bandaging the children and got them out of the room."I'd like to see the letters you've received," I said.Just then the Lees' year-old baby crawled into the living room. He was smiling and making little gurgling, drooling noises. The glinting gla.s.s on the carpet obviously intrigued him."Hey!" I said to the cop at the door. "Get him!"The cop looked down. He had been watching the baby all along.Now he bent over and stopped the baby by holding on to his pudgy ankle."Pick him up," I said to the cop. "He can't hurt you."Reluctantly, the cop picked him up. He handled the baby as if he might be diseased. You could see the distaste on his face: abortionist's baby.Judith walked over, her shoes crunching on the gla.s.s. She took the baby from the cop. The baby didn't know how the cop felt. He had been happily playing with the cop's shiny b.u.t.tons and drooling on his blue uniform. He didn't like it when Judith took him away from those b.u.t.tons.I heard the other cop say to Mrs. Lee, "Well, look, we get threats all the time. We can't respond to them all.""But we called when they burned that . . . that thing thing on the lawn." on the lawn.""That's a cross.""I know what it is," she said. She was no longer crying. She was mad."We came as fast as we could," the cop said. "That's the truth, lady. As fast as we could."Judith said to me, "It took them fifteen minutes. By that time, all the windows were broken and the teenagers were gone."

I went over to the table and looked at the letters. They had been carefully opened and stacked in a neat pile. Most were handscrawled; a few were type- written. They were all short, some just a sentence, and they all had the breathless hiss of a curse.Dirty comminist Jewlover n.i.g.g.e.r lover killer. You and youre kind will get what you deserve, baby killers. You are the sc.u.m of the earth. You may think you are in Germany but you are not. Unsigned.Our Lord and Saviour spake this 'Suffer the little children to come to me.' You have sinned against the Lord Jesus Our G.o.d and you will suffer the retrobution at his Almighty Hands. Praise G.o.d in his infinite wisdom and mercy. Unsigned.

The decent G.o.dfearing people of the Commonwealth will not sit idly by. We shall fight you wherever the fight is to be. We shall drive you from your homes, we shall drive you from this country. We shall drive all of you out, until our Commonwealth is a decent place for all to live. Unsigned.

We caught you. We'll catch all your friends. Doctors think they can do anything, a) Driving those big Cadillacs. b) charging high costs. c) making patients, wait that's why they call them patients because they wait patiently. d) But you are all evil. You will be stopped. Unsigned.You like to kill kids? See how it feels to have yours killed. Unsigned.

Abortion is a crime against G.o.d and man and society and the newborn yet to be. You will pay on this earth. But the Lord in his infinite way will burn you in h.e.l.l forever. Unsigned.

Abortion is worse than murder. What did they ever do to you? Answer that and you will see I am right. May you rot in jail and your family die. Unsigned.There was a final letter, written in a neat feminine hand.