Fertile Ground (30 page)

“Great decision, although I kind of like your sofa.” He grinned, then in a serious voice said, “Joking aside, I don’t have to tell you how important your safety is to me.”

“I know, Sam.” She rested her hand on his arm. “I care a great deal about you, too.”

He gazed at her tenderly, then leaned closer. His breath was warm on her face, and her stomach tightened because she knew he was going to kiss her and she wanted him to. Suddenly he pulled away.

“I gotta tell you, keeping kosher and Shabbos is a hell of a lot easier than not touching you,” he said with forced lightness. “I haven’t always been careful about following this halacha, and you’re not making it any easier.” He smiled. “Benjie’s been working on me, giving me pep talks. I think I need another one.”

“Probably.” Sam was thinking about religion; she’d been thinking about Matthew. Her face was flushed, tingling with desire and guilt. “You said you have a pa dent?”

He cleared his throat. “Right. You need help taking your stuff to the Presslers?”

“I’m not taking much. I plan on going to my place every day to check my mail.” She went back to her desk.

“Okay, then.” He lingered a moment, then left.

She sat for a few minutes, thinking about what had happened, what hadn’t, then tried working on her files but couldn’t concentrate. She went to Reception.

“Your three o’clock just canceled,” Selena told her. “Why don’t you go home?”

“I think I will. When did these come?” She pointed to a stack of glossy brochures on Selena’s desk.

“Half an hour ago. They look beautiful, don’t they?” Selena sounded wistful. “Dr. Gordon worked so hard on them.”

And now his clinic was on the verge of closing down. Lisa took a few brochures. They were less an advertisement, she thought sadly, than a memorial.

She was returning to her office when she saw Ted Cantrell and Grace standing in the hall, twenty feet away. His hand was on her shoulder, and he was talking quietly. He had an urgent expression on his face. Grace shook her head and walked away.

He caught up with her and stopped her. She turned

toward him. Lisa couldn’t see Ted’s face, but she could tell that Grace was listening attentively.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and almost jumped. Turning around, she saw Norman Weld staring at her.

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said. “I called your name, but you didn’t hear me.” He was wearing a white turtleneck cotton shirt that bleached his already pale face.

“That’s all right, Norman. I’m just a little nervous lately.” She tried a smile. “How can I help you?”

“Mr. McCallister asked me whether I remembered when I last looked at last year’s accession log.” His words were studied, slow. “I’m sure it was several months ago.”

“Thank you, Norman. That’s very helpful.”

“You’re welcome. Dr. Brockman, I know this is a trying time for you, even more so than it is for all of us. It’s hard to understand God’s will. If you want, we can pray together for Dr. Gordon’s soul.” His tone was solemn.

“That’s very kind of you, Norman,” she said softly. “But I feel more comfortable praying by myself.”

His face turned red, as if she’d slapped him. “Of course. I didn’t mean to intrude on your grief.”

“You didn’t intrude at all, Norman. It’s nothing personal. I hope you understand.” He made a little bow, then moved away.

Lisa turned around. Ted and Grace had disappeared.

“I’m so glad you changed your mind,” Elana said. “Benjie and I worried about your being alone in your apartment after what happened in the clinic. Were you nervous last night?”

“Everything was all right, but I decided not to take any more chances.” Lisa wasn’t about to tell the rabbi’s wife that Sam had spent the night on her living room sofa.

“You didn’t bring much with you.” Elana was looking at the small satchel Lisa had placed at the side of the bed.

“I plan to go home every day to check my mail.” She’d stopped at the apartment on the way here and packed a few toiletries and a change of clothing. She’d left a message for Barone, telling him where he could reach her. She knew he’d be relieved. Her parents had been relieved; they must have been surprised that she was staying with a rabbi, but they’d made no comment.

“Dinner is at five-thirty, more or less, so that Benjie can eat before he goes back to shul for minchamaariv,” Elana said, referring to the daily afternoon and evening services.

“Thanks, but I’d planned to eat out.” Whatever was in the oven smelled good, but Lisa didn’t want to take advantage of the Presslers’ hospitality.

“Don’t be silly. Tonight we’re having meat loaf,

mashed potatoes, and a salad—the kids will be disappointed if you don’t join us. Feel free to use the phone. And don’t work too hard.” She smiled and left the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

Sam was skeptical that Lisa would find anything in the files. She wasn’t so sure. Minutes later, when she was sitting on the peach carpeted floor, surrounded by dozens of files, she wondered whether he hadn’t been right, whether she wasn’t being ambitious, especially since she didn’t even know what she was looking for.

One file at a time, she told herself. With a box of paper clips at her side, a pen in her hand, and a yellow legal pad on her lap, she picked up the file closest to her.

Across the length of the pad, she’d created columns:

PATIENT’S NAME & AGE; ATTENDING PHYSICIAN; TREATMENT;

PATIENT’S OVA DONOR OVA; DONOR CODE #; DOCUMENTATION/RELEASES;

CLINICAL PREGNANCY: YES NO

Since she was searching for evidence to refute the charge that the clinic had been switching embryos or stealing eggs, she was interested only in patients who had undergone IVF or other fertility procedures that utilized eggs.

She developed a simple routine: After paper-clipping together the pages of each file, she wrote the patient’s name and age and the name of the attending physician on her pad. Then she checked the lab and embryo forms. If there was a D for “donor” on the lab form, she looked for a release authorizing the receipt of donor eggs. She also cross-checked each file against the list of donors and the Jane Doe list of recipients.

Forty minutes later she was frowning. In the twenty one files she’d examined, three patients had Ds on their lab forms and corresponding releases; four, no Ds and no releases. Six had no Ds on their lab forms and no release forms, but their names appeared on the Jane Doe list.

Holding the six problem files in her hand, she got up and went over to the desk. She hesitated, then picked up the phone receiver and, looking at the top file, dialed the number for thirty-nine-year-old Nicole Bellows. When a woman answered. Lisa had a flash of nervousness but quickly identified herself.

“Why are you calling?” There was definite hostility in the woman’s voice, and fear.

“We’re doing a follow-up on all our IVF patients, Nicole, and I had a question or two to ask.” No response. “According to your file, you had two IVF cycles. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” Nicole still sounded guarded.

“I don’t see a consent form indicating that you received eggs from a donor.”

“I didn’t receive eggs from a donor. For both IVF cycles Dr. Gordon used my own eggs and my husband’s sperm. Are you saying there’s a problem?” She sounded tense.

“No, no problem at all.”

“If you’re suggesting that this isn’t my baby—”

“Of course not, Nicole. I don’t mean to upset you.”

“Well, you have upset me! First these allegations about embryo switching, then you call about donor eggs!”

“I’m sorry. Please don’t—” Lisa was listening to a dial tone. She put the file aside, glanced at the top page of the next one, and dialed the number for Nessa Williams, age thirty-six.

Again she introduced herself, but before she had a chance to ask any questions, the woman snapped, “I have no intention of speaking to anyone from your clinic!” and hung up.

The next patient, thirty-eight-year-old Nettie Lipman, was hesitant, but finally agreed to talk. Like Nicole Bellows, she’d undergone two IVF cycles. Like Nicole, she’d never received donor eggs.

The next three patients Lisa phoned told her the same thing.

She returned to the files and spent another hour checking them. Again she’d amassed a number of files with no Ds on the lab form and no release forms, but the patients’ names appeared on the Jane Doe list.

She phoned the patients. One hung up as soon as she learned Lisa was with the clinic. Two of the numbers Lisa called were no longer in service. She wondered whether these women had changed their numbers to

protect their privacy. Those patients willing to talk to Lisa insisted they’d never received donor eggs.

Maybe they were lying—maybe they were afraid to admit they’d received donor eggs because the custody of the fetuses they were carrying might come into question. Lisa could check the donor codes, one by one, on the clinic computer in the morning.

Or she could do it now. In the morning, the computer data might be confiscated, the clinic shut down.

With the exception of Victor and the custodial staff, the building was empty. Lisa hurried to her office and turned on the computer. Using the password, she opened the confidential donor code file.

The document was blank.

She stared at the screen, chewing nervously on her bottom lip, then exited the program and accessed the general directory, where she found the donor code file.

Ten kilobytes.

From the little she knew about computers, that told her that the file was empty. The last time someone had worked on it was last night at 9:53. When she was in the lab’s anteroom, checking the log.

She scrolled through the directory and found the listing for the Jane Doe recipient file. Ten kilobytes. 9:56 p.m. She accessed the software program again, opened the Jane Doe recipient file, and typed in the donor code number.

This document was blank, too.

So was the backup file.

Whoever had been here last night—whoever had attacked her—had deleted both files. Or renamed them to hide them until he could delete the questionable entries. Victor smiled when he saw her return to the lobby. “Find what you came for?” he asked.

“Not exactly. See you tomorrow, Victor.”

She wasn’t really hungry, but she sat at the table with Elana and Benjie and the children, who were charming and outgoing. Lisa enjoyed listening to their animated chatter about their teachers and classmates. At the same

time, she was anxious to return to her files.

She insisted on helping clear the table, and it was six thirty before she was back in the guest room. An hour and a half later she’d checked the last file and had seventeen patients to call. The file belonging to each one had no D on the lab form and no release form. The patient’s name appeared on the Jane Doe list. She didn’t really have to call them—she was convinced from what she’d already learned that someone had been giving patients donor eggs without the patients’ consent, though she couldn’t figure out why. Still, she was a scientist. She’d taken a random sampling by selecting only the green folders; she was determined to follow through with every problem file.

She dialed the phone number for Noreen Gallagher and heard distrust enter the woman’s voice as soon as Lisa identified herself. But at least she didn’t hang up.

Yes, Noreen had undergone two IVF cycles. No, she hadn’t received donor eggs. “Dr. Cantrell harvested my eggs.”

“I thought you were seeing Dr. Gordon.”

“No. Why would you think that?”

“Sorry. My mistake. Thanks for your time.” Frowning, Lisa hung up and studied the lab form, which listed Matthew as the attending physician. She peered more closely at the photocopy and inhaled sharply when she saw what could have been an erasure where his name was hand-printed.

Had Ted erased his own name and written in Matthew’s? Had he tried to cover up the fact that he’d used donor eggs without a patient’s informed consent?

She checked the other files. The first few listed Matthew as the attending physician, but there were no signs of erasures. She was flushed with relief—obviously this was simply a clerical error—and examined the next file. The attending physician was Matthew. Again Lisa was startled to see signs of an erasure.

She examined the remaining files. Two had what looked to be erasures. She phoned one patient and learned that the number had been

disconnected. She phoned an other, Nicki Sandier, who told her she’d never received donor eggs.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering me when you can speak to my doctor,” Nicki said. “He’s the one who retrieved my eggs.”

“Dr. Cantrell, you mean?” Lisa was guessing, hoping she was wrong.

“Not Dr. Cantrell. Dr. Davidson. Dr. Sam Davidson.”

Lisa had decided to shower at home early Tuesday morning and was rinsing her hair when she heard the doorbell ring over and over, accompanied by the sound of insistent pounding.

She shut the faucets and, grabbing a towel, ran out of the shower to the front door. “Who is it?” she demanded angrily.

“Police. Open up, please. We have a subpoena.”

They were here to confiscate her files. She looked through her privacy window and saw two uniformed policemen and five men in suits. “May I see identification, please?”

One of the policemen held up his badge.

“Who are those other men?” she asked, surprised at how calm she sounded.

“They’re with the medical board. Can we come in, please?”

“I’m not dressed. You’ll have to give me a minute.” She wasn’t frightened—she’d been expecting this—but she was nervous anyway.

“Hurry up, then,” the male voice said with curt impatience.

Half-running to her bedroom, she dressed as quickly as she could. She wanted to towel her hair dry, but they were

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pounding on the door again. They probably thought she was stalling so that she could hide something.

With her wet hair plastered to her head, she returned to the front door and opened it, stepping aside as they filed into her home. The officer who had shown her his badge presented her with a subpoena which, she read, granted him and the others the right to search her premises and confiscate any and all property deemed relevant to the investigation of the clinic.