Solomon's Knife

by Victor Koman

  XIII

  Karen insisted on watching the transplant. "I don't care what any lawsuit says." She spoke through the mask of her isolation garb. "She's my daughter, and I want to be there for her." Dr. Fletcher nodded, laying two sacks of pulpy red material on the cart. "Marrow transplants are no big thing. It'll be just like receiving an injection."

  David stood by his wife to place a protective arm around her. "Will it hurt?"

  "Oh, no," the doctor said in an easygoing tone. "We'll be injecting right into that IV tube." Karen's eyes goggled when she saw the two huge 60 cc sy-ringes Fletcher had prepared. She quavered slightly upon see-ing the thick, soupy fluid withdrawn from the sacks. The doc-tor calmly and efficiently unfastened the tubing from the bag of IV fluid, connected the syringe, and bore down on the plunger.

  Renata was awake now and stared at her parents with the blank, noncommittal stare of a newborn. Karen knew in her heart that the little girl was taking all of this in without any idea of what was going on. Being fed by tubes and diapered regularly, she was physically content. She must assume, Karen thought, that everything else must also be the normal way of life: electrodes, lights, beeps, plastic cribs, heat lamps, people in white robes wandering in and out.

  She wondered what effect all this would have on her daughter's later perceptions of life. She wanted so much just to hold and cuddle the pale little child. Renata looked up at her, jerked her arms suddenly, and grinned a wide, toothless grin. The tubes shook.

  "Hi, sweetie," Karen said, her voice catching despite her brave smile. She waved with broad motions. "We love you, little honey."

  Evelyn met with the expected resistance. Bone-marrow stem cells were much thicker than blood. She put her shoulder into play, pressing firmly against the plunger with the palm of her hand. Slowly, a red strand of color mixed in with the IV fluid at the top of the tube. The entire length of clear plastic took on a red hue, then grew cloudy. The line of crimson life entered the isolation box, disappeared under cloth tape on Renata's chest, and began its short but vital journey along her veins to hidden chambers in her young bones.

  After a minute of steady pushing, the first syringe was empty. Fletcher quickly inserted the second and continued the trans-plant.

  David coughed into his mask. "Will we see some change?"

  "Not immediately." Fletcher pushed the remaining few mil-liliters of Valerie Dalton's bone marrow into Renata's blood-stream. "It will take a couple weeks or even a month before we know if all three cell lines recover. Until then, it'll be touch and go, with ordinary blood transfusions as needed. There are a few new things we're doing to make it easier for her. We've found that the drug thalidomide can prevent graft versus host disease."

  David immediately grew worried. "Doesn't that cause birth defects?" Fletcher shook her head, nodding toward Renata. "She's al-ready born. Its use is only contraindicated for women during pregnancy, something she's a bit young for. What I wish we could get is a lymphokine called GM-CSF. It could speed her recovery dramatically. It's only just been developed, though, and it's still hard to come by."

  Karen put an arm around her husband for support. "I guess I did expect something dramatic. You think of transplants, you think of teams of doctors and hours of surgery and an instant improvement as the new parts replace the old."

  Fletcher shrugged. "On the other hand, she wasn't put in such a dangerous situation as surgery. The wait will be tougher on you than on her. She has no idea what's going on." She waggled her fingers at the baby. "Do you, you little huggly wuggly?" She looked up at the parents. "I received a message from my lawyer, Terry Johnson. He wants us to know that ev-erything is going according to plan. He's pushing for an early trial date so that we can get this cleared up as soon as pos-sible. I don't think we have anything to worry about."

  "What about the-" Karen's voice caught on a word. "What about Valerie Dalton? What does she think of all this?" She waved an arm at the syringes.

  "She was very cooperative. I think we can avoid quite a bit of enmity if we remember one thing." The doctor covered the stained syringes on the tray with a Tyvek cloth, then turned to check the monitors recording Renata's heart rate and tempera-ture. "Whatever the trial decides, the more important outcome is that the baby regains her health, right?"

  The Chandlers nodded in urgent agreement.

  "Then we're all on the same side." She looked at the young pair and spoke in soft tones. "We've all made choices that will have consequences for the rest of our lives. If we can come to a civilized decision about what to do next, our lives-and es-pecially Renata's-will be made easier. We musn't see Valerie and Ron as strangers who are trying to steal your baby. I will do my best in court to convince them that we aren't, either. The blame for all of this will fall on me, and I'll gladly handle it. You should just concentrate on letting Renata see how much you love her. That will help her recover as much as anything I can do. Babies need smiles." She waved at the little one. "I wish you could give her hugs, too. Real ones, not glove-box caresses." She fell silent, staring at the protective cage that kept out both germs and affection.

  "How's Valerie?" Karen asked. Her voice was subdued.

  "She was very cooperative. We tranqued her out so that she could sleep without pain. But with ninety-three holes in her sternum, she's going to feel it tomorrow morning." Karen turned white. "

  A burning pain in Valerie's chest awakened her from a dreamless sleep. Somehow, she had rolled over onto her stom-ach. Now the aching forced her eyes open. In groggy semicon-sciousness, she pushed up on an elbow and rolled over again.

  That's when it hit.

  In a surge of intense fire, the agony seared every nerve in her body. It caught her by surprise, rendered her unable to take a breath. Every drop of adrenaline in her body seemed to jet into her bloodstream at once.

  "Ron!" she cried out breathlessly. Fingers clenched around the low bars of the hospital bed, eyes tried to shut out the red haze within them, teeth ground together for a hellishly long instant. She forced herself not to move. Lowering ever so slowly back to the sheets, she rediscovered the ability to inhale. The events of the previous day came back to her in an overpowering rush of memory.

  "Ron?"

  "He's in court," said an unfamiliar voice, "arranging the trial." Valerie rolled her head over toward the speaker. The dark-haired woman standing near the bed watched Valerie with undisguised curiosity and apprehension.

  "You're Mrs. Chandler."

  Karen nodded. After a moment of hesitation, she extended her hand. "I want to thank you for what you did."

  Just staring at the proffered hand caused her chest to ache. "I didn't do it for you. I did it for my baby."

  "Please." Karen lowered her head, fighting hard to suppress her conflicting emotions. Here, after all, was the real mother of the child she gave birth to, ready to use the might of the state to force her return. Even so, she had endured a torturous operation for that same child. "We both love Renata. What you did yesterday may very well save her life. I just want to thank you... for her." When Karen gently grasped her hand, Valerie did not pull away. She returned the clasp, tears coming to her eyes. The small sobs hurt deep in her chest. It didn't matter. So much more pain was being released by the tears.

  "Hey!"

  Both women looked up to see Ron standing in the doorway. With a dozen white roses in one arm and a box of Godiva choco-lates in the other, he looked like a suitor coming to call. But he looked none too pleased.

  "I won't have you in here disturbing Valerie."

  "It's all right, Ron." Valerie reached for a tissue, but the pain stopped her arm. Karen pulled one out of the wall box and handed it to her. "She's here to tell me how Renata's doing." Ron's lips curled inward meditatively until beard and mus-tache met. "Okay," he said with a sigh.

  "But I don't think it's a good idea for plaintiff and defendant to fraternize." He smiled with a reflexive sort of mock-friendliness. "I guess I mean sororize." He extended his hand. "I'm Ron Czernek."


  "Yes," Karen said, taking his hand for a minimal duration. "I've seen you on the news."

  "Well," he said cheerily, "you'll see a lot more of both of us real soon. Jury selection begins on Monday."

  "What?" Valerie cringed at the pain associated with speak-ing.

  "I asked the court to exercise its inherent power to set the earliest possible date. Much to my surprise"-he stared at Karen-"the other side agreed not to demur. I pointed out that the immediate health risks to the baby required that we deter-mine custody as soon as possible." A wave of illness permeated Karen.

  "Fletcher's lawyer got the judge to spike my application for our taking temporary custody. The judge said that it was moot, since the child was in the hospital for the time being. And Shawn Deyo-the hospital's lawyer-he got the judge to sever the case against Bayside from the rest of the suit because they'd turned Fletcher in the moment they found out about it. We lost a deep pocket, but on the other hand, we'll get this over with in no time. Don't worry." He stood over Valerie and stroked her golden hair.

  Karen stepped back from the bed. "I'll go, now. I hope you'll feel better soon."

  "Thank you," Valerie said.

  Ron muttered something under his breath.

  When Karen's footsteps receded down the corridor, Valerie asked him what he had said.

  "Nothing." He continued to stroke her head. "I'm sorry I couldn't show up earlier. It's just been a bitch of a morning. Want to hear it?"

  Valerie closed her eyes for a moment. "Not really." She opened them. Her voice was soft but strained. "Could you call the nurse? I really need something to handle this pain."

  "

  Mark Landry would have preferred not to run into Dr. Fletcher, but by the time he saw her, there was no graceful means of escape.

  "`Morning, Doctor," he mumbled. He tried to keep walking, but Fletcher took him by the arm.

  "Don't worry," she said in an even voice. "I'm not going to break your neck." Her hand released him.

  "It was all bound to come out sooner or later. I just objected to your sneaking around instead of confronting me directly."

  "You evaded my questions."

  "You didn't ask what was on your mind." She folded her arms and looked at him with that weary expression doctors reserve for when they are particularly professionally frustrated. "Look, let's just ignore all that. I've got to concentrate on Renata and all my other patients and a lawsuit. You saw that line of pickets out there this morning. And the cops. And the reporters. Any-one in white coming and going here is going to be considered fair game. I admit I brought this down on all of us, but-"

  "You certainly did," growled the voice of Dr. Lawrence. He strode up to the pair, dark anger across his brow. "I wish the board would get off its duff and agree to file a cross-suit against you. We had to admit one of our own residents with a gash on his head from one of the protesters. Damned pro-lifer tried to beat the kid to death with her picket sign." He narrowed his gaze to Fletcher. "I hear the trial begins next week."

  "Actually, just jury sel-"

  "I'd advise for everyone's safety that you attend all the pro-ceedings and come here only under the most urgent neces-sity."

  "I can't do that," she replied.

  "Try." He turned to the young man. "And you, Landry. Back to the lab." He continued on his way.

  "Pompous jerk," Landry muttered after the administrator turned a corner. He looked at Dr. Fletcher.

  "I always wondered why you seemed so unconcerned to be running both the baby factory and the abortion mill. I think I understand why you had to do things the way you did. Maybe after the trial I'll find out why you bothered at all. It doesn't seem to pay to rock the boat either way." Fletcher's voice was grim. "Sometimes a boat has to be rocked hard to steer a new course."

  XIV

  Terry smiled with satisfaction. Using every peremptory chal-lenge in his possession, he had managed to put three women on the six-person jury. Czernek had engineered three men. Now the battle for their souls could proceed.

  He gazed at the six. He had wanted the full twelve, but Judge Lyang had pressured him to settle for six in order to save court time. He agreed-it was only fair, since Lyang had been kind enough to arrange for a speedy trial. Two of the women were in their thirties, both housewives. The third was in her fifties, a real estate professional. He figured he could get the young ones to side with Karen, the older one to identify with Dr. Fletcher. His task was to convince the men to see his side of it. Piece of cake.

  Ron smiled with satisfaction. Having exhausted his peremp-tory challenges, he wound up with three men to counter Johnson's women. He wanted men who would side with his own interests as the genetic father in this case. While he wor-ried that his unmarried status might put them off, he hoped that he had tap-danced around the problem by making Valerie the sole plaintiff. The three men were all fathers, in their for-ties, from working-class backgrounds that most likely did not cotton to newfangled medical shenanigans. He pondered the women with amusement. If Johnson thought they would save him, he was wrong.

  Rhetoric Ron will have you weeping for Valerie by summa-tion time.

  L.A. Superior Court Judge Madeline Lyang watched the court clerk swear in the jury. They had to demand a jury, she thought. Since the odd, hybrid suit dealt with issues of fact, though, and not just equitable relief, they had a right to it. A small sigh escaped her. Juries always meant greater histrionics on the part of the lawyers. In her fifteen years on the bench, she had developed a fair instinct for determining how a case would proceed.

  This one will be a killer.

  She was a woman of moderate height. Sitting at the bench, though, she looked impressive and forbidding. At fifty, she still retained the smooth, sculpted features of her Chinese ances-try. Open and expansive in private life, she capitalized upon the myth of oriental inscrutability in the courtroom setting, maintaining an impassive, unreadable expression when she wanted or needed to. Custody cases usually demanded that. Such trials involved few villains and fewer heroesÛjust two people trying to do what they saw as best for the children.

  While this was not strictly a simple custody battle, it had wound up in her docket by those most powerful of judicial forces, expediency and mere chance. She knew on first sight, though, that this case would be a publicity H-bomb.

  She used the gavel she'd received in high school, where she had served as chief (and only) justice of the student court.

  "Court will come to order. In the case of Valerie Dalton ver-sus Evelyn Fletcher and David and Karen Chandler, jointly, I'd like first to address the question of televised proceedings." Here we go, she thought, expecting the first of many tugs of war. "Counsels will please approach the bench."

  "The plaintiff," Ron whispered to the judge, "favors allow-ing the presence of the press." Terry chimed in immediately. "The defendants welcome the opportunity to let the truth be heard." Judge Lyang permitted a smile to cross her face. Publicity hounds. "Fine." She addressed the courtroom. "Permission is gran-"

  The sound of plastic and metal scraping and sliding ema-nated from the back of the courtroom. Photographers and video crews lined the back wall, eagerly setting up their equipment. Lyang rapped once. "Granted, but on condition that court-room decorum is maintained back there. Quiet down." She gazed at the plaintiff. Valerie Dalton sat beside Czernek. She wore a stereotypically middle-American house dress in light blue. It made her eyes take on a sapphire hue and went flatteringly well with her blond hair and very light makeup. Per-fect, the judge decided, for someone playing the part of be-trayed innocent. She admired Czernek for stopping at a solid color and not going all the way to gingham and bows. His own outfit was a solid navy business suit with a light blue oxford cloth shirt under a midnight-blue tie with the smallest, most tasteful maroon-dot pattern. The defendants seemed to be using much the same tactic. David Chandler wore an unimpressive grey business suit, not expensive enough to seem like a spendthrift, yet just well fit-ting enough to imply fitness for
fatherhood status. His wife wore a simple beige Victorian-collared blouse and matching skirt. Neither woman wore any extra jewelry, though-in ad-dition to her wedding ring-Mrs. Chandler sported a nice little cameo on the collar of her blouse.

  Darling, thought Lyang. Their lawyer, she mused, must have been brought up watching reruns of The Paper Chase-he wore appropriately rumpled brown tweed slacks and jacket over a sky-blue shirt with thin white vertical and horizontal lines. His tie was tan and narrow. He indeed looked the part of an energetic, young defense lawyer working sleepless nights to prepare his valiant case. Dr. Fletcher was the only one who failed to fit in. Dressed in a dramatically white business suit that Lyang had seen the week before at Nordstrom's, she sat between Johnson and Mrs. Chandler with a notebook and pen at the ready. Her black hair, peppered with grey, was in place but for one strand that curled toward her right eye despite occasional efforts to brush it back.

  She was the magnet that drew the gaze of the jurors and the spectators. Who, they must wonder, was this doctor who had performed such bizarre surgery? Judge Lyang took a deep breath and prepared to find out.

  "Counsel for the plaintiff, you may present your opening statement." Ron Czernek stepped from behind his table to address the jury. He made a point of stepping around the overhead projec-tor that Johnson had asked to have available.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he said in a conversational, un-dramatic voice. "We're here today to decide something that's never been decided before. There have been countless trials in the past between husband and wife over the custody of their children. There have been battles between unmarried persons for children born out of wedlock. There have even been highly publicized cases of surrogate mothers demanding custody of the children they gave birth to under contract to others.

  "But no one, ever before, has been asked to decide the fate of a child," he turned to gaze at Dr. Fletcher, "kidnapped be-fore it was even born, and secretly planted in the womb of an-other woman." Johnson rose to object to the prejudicial remark but hesi-tated. Maybe he would want equal latitude with his own open-ing statement. Letting the lawyer get away with it, however, was no guarantee that Czernek would reciprocate. He quietly sat down. It was worth the gambit.