by Victor Koman
"What crime?" Fletcher asked, stubbing out her cigarette angrily. "Show me where the crime is. Valerie Dalton came in for a pregnancy termination. She received one. Karen Chan-dler came in to get pregnant. She got pregnant. If there's any crime there, I can't see it. If anything, I made efficient use of lab equipment by recycling the fetus."
"That's enough!" Lawrence picked up the telephone and punched a button. "Sherry? Get me the district attorney's of-fice. Yes. Frawley himself." He gazed at Fletcher. "We'll see what he has to say." " Someone had called the reporters. Lawrence and the others watched from the administrator's office window as two scream-ing police cars, lights flashing, screeched to a halt in the park-ing lot. Television remote vans pulled up. Station wagons driven by radio reporters and smaller cars loaded with newspaper reporters and photographers disgorged their loads with vomitous urgency. They had not descended simultaneously, but it was obvious that someone had broadcast word of the DA's arrival.
"Election year," Fletcher noted. "And a slow news day, too." Lawrence sighed. The reporters headed toward the police cars with the giddy expectation of heirs around a deathbed.
Big trouble was brewing, and the administrator was deter-mined to control not only what he said but what the DA per-ceived.
"I would advise everyone," he told the other three, "to re-main calm and let me handle the DA." His intercom buzzed. He pressed a button. "Is that the DA, Sherry?"
"Yes," a tinny voice said over the speaker.
"Please send him in."
The door opened to admit Malcolm Frawley, an impressively large man who was once a college football star and radio an-nouncer. He nodded his head of thinning red hair at Lawrence.
"Dr. Lawrence," he said. His voice had the rich, deep tones of a professional orator. "Is this the woman?"
"This is Dr. Evelyn Fletcher," Lawrence said. "Dr. Leo Cospe, Mr. Shawn Deyo." Frawley shook the men's hands. He sat in the chair that Dr. Lawrence indicated. The others returned to their own.
"I must admit, Dr. Lawrence, that your call knocked me off my feet. I haven't heard anything this monstrous since.. well, for a long time. Are you sure it's as you say?" He produced a notebook and a gold Cross ballpoint.
"I'm afraid so. I received a call from a lab technologist who voiced suspicions that confirmed some of my own. I confronted Dr. Fletcher, and she admitted everything. I called you only minutes later. You have my assurance that the medical center knew nothing of this." He eyed the DA with earnest intensity.
"You must understand that we wish to avoid publicity if at all possible. It's the policy of Bayside to assist in the prosecution of doctors who engage in unethical or illegal practices. An eth-ics subcommittee has already-"
"Railroaded me," Fletcher said.
Before Lawrence could continue, his intercom buzzed again. This time he picked up the phone.
"Yes?"
He listened for a moment, thanked the secretary, and cradled the phone. His puffy fingers tapped a few times against the black plastic.
"There you have it," he said. "The valiant press decided to interview members of our permanent floating picket line. They naturally found out what's going on up here. Someone just decided to heave a bench through the lobby window."
Frawley nodded wearily. "I think you'll want to issue a state-ment that my department has everything in hand." He turned toward Evelyn. "As an officer of the court, I'd like to inform you of the following rights. You have the right to remain si-lent. If you give-"
"If you had any understanding of or respect for rights," she said icily, "you wouldn't be here doing this."
Frawley shrugged. Rising to stride over to the office doors, he poked his head through to signal one of the young officers. He promptly entered with a pair of handcuffs.
"Must you?" Dr. Lawrence asked.
Frawley nodded. "It's for her own protection."
Fletcher held out her hands. "What he means is it looks good on TV around election time." The DA shook his head with a disappointed expression and removed his navy-blue jacket, offering it to the manacled woman.
"What's that for?" she asked.
"To cover your face when we go past the reporters."
She threw him a withering glare. "I had reason to be secre-tive. I have none to be ashamed."
"Have it your way," he said, slipping back into the jacket. "Gentlemen." The two officers flanked him by the door. He grasped Evelyn by the arm and said, "Keep your head low and walk with me as fast as the boys can clear a path."
The doors opened. The two officers pushed into the throng, politely asking everyone to stand aside, please, as they shoved with hands and forearms against the human sea of reporters. Frawley pushed forward on Fletcher's arm to set up a quick pace.
She resisted. Rather than cowering to avoid the cameras, she held her head high and walked with a slow gait that Frawley found impossible to quicken. He took a deep, irritated breath and fell in step with her pace, tugging at her arm every so often in an effort to make her appear unsteady. She seemed to sense his strategy and to counter each tactic he attempted to employ.
This was the day she had anticipated for so long. Anticipated, feared, and rehearsed for. She was not going to act the criminal's role.
A raven-haired woman shoved a microphone past the offic-ers while her partner pointed a glaring videocam at the doc-tor. Amidst the din of questions, hers rang through clearly. "How many babies did you steal?"
"Our only comment," Frawley said, "is that a complete in-vestigation is underw-"
"After performing three thousand six hundred eighteen preg-nancy terminations," Fletcher said in a powerful, level tone, "I managed to save one baby from death. I welcome being con-victed of such a crime."
That was enough for Frawley. With a subtle but firm tug at her arm, he caused her to stumble over her own feet. She re-covered, glared at him, and resumed her tall stride.
The cloud of reporters orbiting around Dr. Fletcher encoun-tered a choke point at the elevator. The police cleared out a car, and the four descended.
"I know," Fletcher said, "that it's in your interest to make me look bad before the press. Battery complaints go both ways, though. Don't set the grounds for a civil suit against you when all this is over." Frawley rubbed his nose and stared at the elevator door. "You're right. That was a lame trick. But don't you get your hopes up. You doctor types get so wrapped up in your experi-ments that you think the rest of the world will welcome you as a god floating down from Olympus. Don't count on it. You're a cold, calculating demon, and I'm personally going to see you raked over the coals for this." The doors parted before another swarm of reporters. The faces were familiar, if a bit flushed, from the third floor. They continued their questioning with labored breath. The entire knot of people moved outside.
"Were you driven to this by religious convictions?" shouted one voice.
"How much did the parents pay you?" hollered another.
"How do you justify breaking the law?"
"I broke no law," Fletcher said in a loud and level tone. "Ex-cept the unwritten one that thou shalt not act on conscience. I delib-"
Something hit the side of her head with stunning impact and exploded in a cloud of brown dust. She stared incredu-lously at the man who had thrown the dirt clod. A member of the picket line, he carried a sign that read Abortion Is Mur-der-Save the Future.
"
The attack, caught on video, played for the noon news view-ers.
Terence Johnson sat in his cluttered Long Beach apartment, watching with intense fascination. Surrounded by stacks of law books upon which rested empty fast-food containers from Popeye's, Del Taco, and Gourmet to Go, the twenty-six-year-old man observed the scene with sharp black eyes. His curly almost coal-black hair was longer than was currently fashion-able for his profession, and the cramped quarters of his Sev-enth Street lodgings gave lie to the canard that all lawyers made a fortune. As if any further proof were needed, he wore aging acid-wash jeans that had apparently seen more
acid than wash. The T-shirt clinging to his trim frame bore the smiling face of Captain Midnight, urging everyone to drink their Ovaltine.
He scooped up another mouthful of yakisoba with chopsticks, set the nearly empty carton on his copy of Black's Law Dictio-nary, and concentrated on the woman's expression. He tried to read her personality from her body language and neurolinguistics.
He might as well have used her sun sign for all the informa-tion he was able to glean. He was intrigued, though. Enough to reach for his briefcase, shove a few notes into its crammed interior, slip on a reasonably clean, natural-hued knit sweater, and listen carefully.
The camera shifted to the reporter at the scene. "This bi-zarre story of medical experiments and stolen babies has only just begun to unfold. Dr. Fletcher will be interrogated further in the DA's office downtown. When further word develops on this astonishing-"
Johnson heard nothing more. He slammed the door run-ning and rushed to his battered white Volkswagen.
"
"You can't make any of the charges stick, Mr. Frawley." Dr. Fletcher addressed the DA in cool, precise tones. She was calm now, sitting in a comfortable leather French Provincial chair inside Frawley's well-appointed, wood-paneled downtown of-fice. Lawrence and Deyo sat in similar chairs off to the side. Dr. Cospe had elected to stay behind at the hospital, his stint as a member of the ad hoc subcommittee at an end.
The police officers, at a glance from Frawley, unshackled Fletcher and promptly retired to the outer room.
She spent ten minutes silently listening to what the DA had against her, then struck back.
"Any charge," she said, "related to kidnapping, child abuse, child endangerment, or indeed any charge that implies what I withdrew from Valerie Dalton was in any way human will di-rectly conflict with the Supreme Court's rulings on abortion. If a fetus is human enough that you can accuse me of kidnap-ping, then I accuse the hospital's other abortionists of murder in the first degree. A charge that others have brought with no results." She glanced at Dr. Lawrence for support; he merely stared ahead at Frawley.
Frawley glared back at Fletcher. "For criminal purposes, a fetus can be considered a human being. If you'd shot Ms. Dalton in the abdomen, wounding her and killing the fetus, I could easily charge you with murder."
Fletcher smiled a smile that failed to conceal her contempt. "The problem is that she asked me to remove the fetus. And it's alive. You can't have it both ways or you'll be playing right into the antiabortionists' hands. You can't arrest me for kid-napping someone I was legally permitted to kill." She drew her cigarette package and Zippo lighter from her lab coat.
Frawley cleared his throat. "There's no smoking in city build-ings." She grinned, lighting up. "If you really want to get coverage, add aggravated smoking to the charge of fetal kidnapping. The press loves little touches like-"
The sound of arguing voices drifted into the room. From outside the office a policeman thrust in his head to say, "Sorry, sir. There's a guy out here claims to be her lawyer." Terence Johnson peered inside, waved at Fletcher as if they were old army buddies, and nodded at the DA.
Evelyn looked back at him with a blank stare.
Frawley cleared his throat. "Is he?" he asked.
Tapping cigarette ash into an empty coffee cup, she smiled with wry anticipation. "He said he was, didn't he?"
"What's his name?" Frawley asked her.
"Terence Johnson," the lawyer spouted before Evelyn could react. He let himself in and dropped his briefcase beside an empty chair. "But everyone including Dr. Fletcher calls me Terry." He looked at the bemused doctor. "You really should give a guy a call. I had the toughest time finding you."
"I'll remember the next time I'm busted," she replied, sizing him up with cautious eyes. He looked to be fresh out of law school, full of energy and spirit. If he had legal skills to match his enthusiasm and inge-nuity, he might be worth retaining.
He pulled a canary-yellow notepad from his briefcase. "How much have you told them?" She reiterated the conversations nearly verbatim. He switched on a tape recorder and took simultaneous notes. Occasionally, he used his Pilot Razorpoint pen to brush a curly lock of black hair away from his eyes, back with the rest of his mop.
"Well," he said, jotting quick, almost unreadable notes, "it seems that you don't have any charges centered around child abuse." He looked up at Frawley, then at Lawrence and Deyo. "What else have you got left to try?"
"We've got plenty. Failure to receive informed consent-"
"From whom?" Fletcher asked.
Dr. Lawrence folded his arms and gazed down his nose at Fletcher. "From the women. You'll naturally point out that we can't accuse you of failing to receive informed consent from a fetus since they are not considered humans capable of grant-ing informed consent. But the women were involved in highly risky experimental surgery. The `donor mother,' as you call her, faced the risk of-"
"Valerie Dalton faced the risk," Fletcher said, "that any woman seeking an abortion faced. Pain. Bleeding. Severe cramping. Possible hemorrhaging and loss of blood requiring transfusion. Even the chance of being rendered sterile by the procedure. She signed-"
Johnson cut in. "You don't have to say anything else. I'll handle it from here."
"Don't interrupt me." Her voice was harsher with him than with the DA.
"As your legal counsel, I strongly urge you to-"
"When I hired you," she said in a sharp tone, "didn't we agree that I'd handle this my way?" Johnson gazed at her silently for a moment. The trace of a smile appeared at the edges of his mouth.
"I was hoping you'd changed your mind," the young man said, bending over his notepad. "Do as you like."
Fletcher turned toward Frawley. "Ms. Dalton signed the proper paperwork that's been approved by the ethics commit-tee."
"I looked at those." Lawrence quickly said to Frawley. "They were nonstandard. Wherever the word àbortion' had been in the original, the term `pregnancy termination' was substituted." Fletcher took a drag of her cigarette and blew smoke to-ward an empty part of the office. "The committee approved the use of the euphemism six years ago, if you'll bother to look at the revision number on the form. Since they were unaware that any other form of pregnancy termination existed, I was able to push that through. All your doctors have been using it." She began to look as if she were enjoying the exchange. "Nothing in the contract required that I kill the fetus or inform anyone of the uses to whi-"
"The recipient mother ran just as much risk, if not more, from the implantation procedure." Dr. Lawrence unfolded his hands and leaned forward in his chair. "Don't tell anyone who's had more than a week of medical school that this transoption technique is safe. Anytime you surgically attach foreign matter into a healthy human being, the capability of tissue rejec-tion, trauma, infection, and morbidity exists. You had no ex-perimental basis for this procedure. No animal research, not even peer-reviewed experimental protocols for establish-"
"What do you propose to do?" she asked him. "Convince Karen Chandler to press charges against me for giving her what she most fervently wanted?" She dropped the cigarette in the Styrofoam cup. "Go to her. Tell her what you plan to do. Tell her you want to imprison the doctor who gave her what no other fertility program could. Wait for her answer. Then take a good look at the waiver she signed. The language is legal." She turned to Johnson. "Did you review the copies I sent you?" Poker-faced, he replied, "I'll need more time, but they seem airtight on first glance." Deyo gave Johnson a curious once-over. Dr. Lawrence stared emotionlessly at Fletcher, drumming his fingers on his arm-rest. "There are noncriminal ways of handling this, as you well know. The principle of non-surgical ovum transfer was estab-lished in 1983, under the most rigorous of guidelines. You've chosen to expand that frontier of research in a clandestine, surreptitious, and completely unprofessional manner. This is clearly a matter for the Board of Medical Quality Assurance. I can virtually guarantee the revocation of your license to prac-tice in the state of California. That would effect
ively bar you from practice in the United States."
"Fine," Frawley said with a relieved nod. "We'll formulate any criminal charges based upon the findings of the board." He looked at Lawrence. "That should keep things out of the limelight for a few weeks. Time enough for things to cool down." The D.A. relaxed-at least he was off the hook awhile. Johnson cleared his throat for attention. "Is that what you intend to tell the press out there?" Frawley eyeballed him. "Why?"
Johnson ran his hands through his hair and leaned back, notepad and pen resting on his lap. "Because the subjects of abortion, host mothers, and radical new forms of fertility are all violently emotional subjects. You've got people smashing up your hospital just on the rumor that something strange is going on, fetuswise. What sort of publicity will you generate if you let Dr. Fletcher walk out of here with nothing from you but a `We'll look into it' statement? Everyone would view your position as a wrist slap or as cowardly stalling." He looked at Frawley. "They'll be knocking in your windows tomorrow. Maybe tonight.
"But any of those major charges you arraign her on I'll get shot down in pretrial because no judge is going to go up against the prevailing opinion on the nonhuman status of the unborn." He glanced from Lawrence to Fletcher. "The AMA has too much riding on the billion-dollar-a-year abortion industry. And that charge of battery is ridiculous. Dalton paid for the operation. She got what she wanted. She wasn't touched without her con-sent and I'd love to see you try to prove criminal intent to save a baby's life." Lawrence's face turned the color and texture of unpolished granite. Fletcher merely looked at the bookcase across the room. Her eyes seemed to be looking somewhere far beyond the office. Frawley turned to gaze questioningly at Lawrence. The doc-tor shook his head resignedly, peering at a poker-faced Fletcher. "All right," the DA said. "It's pretty obvious that you've thought all this out rather thoroughly. You must have figured you'd get caught someday." He sat back in his chair with weary heaviness. "You've committed what I personally consider to be a repulsive medical experiment, and you've covered your ass admirably. I'm turning this over to a grand jury, and I'll let them issue any indictments. Until then, you're free to go. And I hope you don't have anything put through your windows."
