Garden of Lies

by Eileen Goudge

  “Don’t,” she said, and she meant it. She squeezed his hand once, then let go. “You were right, what you said before. If we had gotten married ... well, maybe I wasn’t ready then for anything less than perfect. Like that fort up on the roof. Our own little world. But it wasn’t real, was it? It was just made up. Like those stories you used to write.”

  “Rose ... what I felt for you, that was real.”

  “I know. I know that now.” She slid sideways, and stood up. “I have to go now, Bri. There’s something important I forgot to do.” I just hope it’s not too late.

  He rose, and awkwardly put out his hand. “Good-bye, Rose.”

  Ignoring his hand, she kissed him lightly on the cheek, feeling a knot in the back of her throat. “Good-bye. And good luck. I hope everything works out for you. You know, it’s funny, but in spite of everything, I still believe in happy endings.”

  Rose turned back into the crowded bar, trailed by the lonesome rill of a saxophone, and said a silent prayer that Max would be home when she called.

  Chapter 35

  The judge brought his gavel down with a perfunctory thunk that sent a shudder through Rachel. She felt so tense, the muscles in her back and shoulders locked in place, as if the slightest movement would snap her in two like a dry twig.

  God, let this be over soon.

  She had handled worse, far worse, in Vietnam. Broken, bleeding men. Dying babies. But she had been strong then, knowing what to do, and doing it. Here she felt powerless to help even herself, her future in other people’s hands.

  “Continued trial, Saucedo versus Rosenthal ... ,” the clerk called out loudly for the benefit of the stenographer bent over her little machine, tapping away at it like some manic overgrown insect.

  The preliminaries observed, jury attendance taken.

  And now the show begins, Rachel thought, glancing about, seeing the faces around her sharpen with attention, hearing the din fade away. She fingered the charm hanging from the chain about her. neck—a tiny gold caduceus, symbol of the physician. Kay had given it to her at the start of the trial.

  “I almost got you a Star of David,” she’d said. “But I chose this instead. I figured you’d need reminding—so okay you’re not God, you’re a doctor ... but a damn good one.”

  She wished Kay were here now. But Rachel had insisted, despite Kay’s protestations, that she stay at the clinic. There was too much to do, and they were short-staffed as it was.

  Though after this trial, there might not be a clinic, she reminded herself bitterly.

  Well, it wouldn’t go on much longer. Whatever the outcome, the agony would soon be over. Then there was life to be faced without Brian, and she’d have to find a way to deal with that. But at least the secrets, the lies, would be finished.

  [469] A strange exhausted relief stole over her.

  It’s in Rose’s hands now. The perfect weapon. She can save me and destroy me in one stroke. Reveal everything about David and me, save me from his lies ... and damn me with my own.

  She looked over at Rose, rising from her chair, tall and somehow invincible. She seemed to dominate the courtroom, a blaze of determination. She wore a blouse of deep crimson, tweed skirt, black leather boots. A crucifix at her throat, with pearls looped below. That odd, lone ruby earring. Her dark hair riding her shoulders like a thundercloud.

  She’s different. Stronger. Something’s happened to her. Brian? Has she been with Brian?

  Rachel imagined them together, Rose and Brian. Intertwined in bed, touching, kissing, loving each other without barriers, without secrets. She felt as if her heart had been sliced open.

  She missed Brian, more than she would ever have thought possible. She had not seen him in two days, except here in the courtroom. They had not spoken. Not since she’d gone to stay with Mama. She had left him a note, asked that he not try to contact her, at least not for a little while.

  He would know why soon enough.

  She willed herself not to turn around, not to search for his dear, familiar face. But she could feel his presence. Warming her, supporting her. Despite everything, he would give her his loyalty.

  But soon he’d know how she’d lied to him. What then?

  Her life was in Rose’s hands now. Everything depended on Rose. Why had she confided in Rose? Why put a loaded gun in the hands of the one person who had the most to gain by destroying her?

  Because I’m tired, she thought, exhausted from lying.

  So exhausted she felt ill.

  Suddenly she couldn’t bear the thought of everyone knowing, Brian, Mama, all these bloodthirsty strangers. Her secret—how she had forced David to abort his own child—dragged into the light like some grotesque insect from under a rock. People would never understand, they’d see it as her monstrous revenge, something vile and depraved. And how could she explain it, make people believe that [470] what she’d wanted was something decent, something her conscience could live with?

  Don’t do it, she pleaded silently, watching Rose approach the bench, the white-haired judge lean toward her. Oh, please, don’t.

  “Your Honor, I wish to cross-examine Mr. Di Fazio’s last witness, Dr. Sloane,” Rose said, her 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 sou
nd 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?