Most Wanted (14 page)

“But he came around. You both wanted the child. Marcus is not going to come around.”

“He has to.”

“No, he doesn't. He can't have a feeling he doesn't have.” Christine reached for another Kleenex and dried her eyes, bucking up. She didn't want to cry anymore. She was sick of feeling sorry for herself. She was working on a plan in the back of her mind.

“I hate that this happened to you guys.”

“Me, too.” Christine felt relieved that Marcus was out of town tonight. She needed the house to herself, and it was quiet, still, and dark except for the bedroom. A light summer rain fell outside, tapping at the roof and blowing the sheers from time to time.

“He gets that you're not having an abortion?”

“Oh, he gets
that
all right.” Christine swallowed bitterly. She dropped her Kleenex into the wastecan.

“He didn't really mean it. He was just exploring his options.”

“That's what he said, but still.” Christine's gaze found the TV across the room, playing CNN on mute, with closed captioning. The words ran across the screen in a red banner, SENATE DEMOCRATS ANNOUNCE A NEW EDUCATION INITIATIVE. She'd turned on the TV in hopes of seeing something about Zachary Jeffcoat, but so far, no luck. She realized that she had forgotten to tell Lauren about calling the reporter, there had been so much to tell to bring her up to speed.

“So what do you do now?”

“I decided to go see his lawyer. I don't really have another choice. I want to know if our donor is Jeffcoat, and I have to work with Marcus.” Christine hesitated, then confided her deepest fear. “I don't know what happens with him and me, going forward. I mean, Lauren, is my marriage in trouble?”

“No! Don't get crazy. You guys love each other. You don't even fight. Josh and I have couple-envy.”

Christine couldn't smile. “The thing is, we're not fighting, even now. We just have really different views, and that's a lot worse. How can I ask him to parent a child he can't love? How can a marriage sustain that? And no child deserves to be born into a family like that. I went through hell to have this child. So did he.”

“Right, he had that TESA operation, where they opened up his balls.” Lauren groaned.

“We wanted a baby. This was the most wanted child in the world. But not to him, anymore. He already believes that a tendency to violence is hereditary, and he's going to find a doctor to tell him that.” Christine knew that Marcus was so proactive, he was probably making the phone calls in the airport, trying to find another genetics counselor. “Even so, let's say he comes around. Do I really want a husband who's half-interested? Half-loving our baby?”

Lauren moaned.

“I want to be on the same page with him. I want us to be in this together, completely. That's why I'm going to the lawyer. I mean, remember, there's still a possibility that our donor isn't Jeffcoat.”

“You want me to go with you to the lawyer? I want to. I'm free tomorrow. My kids are still in school, remember?”

“Okay, and I have my OB-GYN appointment tomorrow, too. I hear the heartbeat.” Christine had been looking forward to her first ultrasound, but that was tainted now. Marcus wouldn't even be there, and she could hear the heartbeat of a baby he didn't want.

“Oh, can I please go with you, too? You can't hear the heartbeat for the first time all by yourself.”

“Aw, thanks, yes, come,” Christine answered, touched. “I still can't believe this. It's all happening so fast, it's like everything went to hell in a handbasket in just one day.”

“Everything's going to be okay, honey.”

“You think?” Christine wanted to believe her, but didn't. She checked CNN, where political pundits were arguing, and the closed captioning read REPUBLICANS BACK NEW JOBS BILL.

“Yes, I do. You guys are too good together.”

“We used to be. I don't want to sue Davidow, but I feel like it's the only way I can make Marcus happy. The way I look at it, I'm trying to save my marriage.” Christine swallowed hard, feeling a wrench in her chest.

“This is not going to break up your marriage.”

“I don't want a divorce. I love my husband. I do.”

“I know you do,” Lauren said, warmly.

“But I'm not giving up on this baby,” Christine said, meaning it, too.

“Hang in. Let's see what the lawyer says.”

“Right, because lawyers are always so helpful.”

And they both laughed.

 

Chapter Thirteen

Christine and Lauren exchanged glances as they sat down in the waiting room of Leonardo & Associates, with its unique decor. According to a wall of laminated news articles, Gary Leonardo was known as “The Lion” of the Medical Malpractice Division of the Connecticut Bar Association, and his firm name was engraved into a gleaming bronze plaque in the shape of a lion's head. Two gold-toned lion statues held up glass end tables, and the lamp bases were black statues of roaring lions. They flanked the black leather wing chairs on which the women found themselves.

Lauren leaned over. “He likes lions. We
get
it.”

“Bingo.” Christine forced a smile, knowing her best friend was trying to cheer her up.

“He inspires fear. He's the king of Connecticut.” Lauren snorted, quietly. “It can be very dangerous here. Those hedge funders, they bite. Plus, he's very manly.”

“Obviously.”

“He has plenty of sperm. Sperm to spare.” Lauren clammed up as the pretty, dark-haired receptionist rose, with a pleasant smile.

“Gary will see you now,” she said, motioning them forward.

“Thank you,” Christine and Lauren said in unison, rising. They followed the slim twenty-something as she sashayed down the hallway in a flashy red jersey dress, with Christine and Lauren distinctly unfashionable by comparison. Christine had on a blue-checked shirt, blue cotton skirt, and her good sandals, and Lauren had on a navy blazer over a tan muslin smock with her best Danskos, so they both looked like it was Parents' Night.

“Ladies, welcome!” boomed Gary Leonardo, who pumped Christine's hand, practically pulling her into his office. “Now I know the whole family! Come in! Siddown, take a seat!”

“Well, thanks.” Christine smiled, off-balance, since Gary struck her as completely caffeinated. His dark eyes danced with animation, and he flashed a broad smile with lightened teeth. He was tan for early summer, and his shiny hair was suspiciously jet-black. He was trim in a European-fit dark suit, crisp white shirt, and a jungle-print silk tie, and though he was on the short side, it did nothing to diminish his power, which seemed to emanate from his life force, like Al Pacino with a law degree.

“I have to win you over!” Gary's eyes narrowed, with a mischievous glint. “I haven't yet! But I will. I will
win you over
.” Gary turned to Lauren. “And you are—”

“Lauren Weingarten, her best friend.”

“The best friend! Happy to have you! Welcome!” Gary beamed, pumping Lauren's hand. “Believe me, I know how important the best friend is. My wife Denise has a best friend. Together, they run my life. They rule my world. They are my sun and moon. Here, sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thanks.” Christine sat down in another black leather chair, and so did Lauren.

“Ladies, you want a coffee? You want a Diet Coke? I know you do.” Gary gestured at the receptionist. “Theresa, get 'em some Diet Cokes?”

“Thank you, but can I have a water instead?” Christine said, turning to the receptionist, who smiled back before she left.

“Christine, don't get the wrong idea. Theresa's my niece. My wife Denise is my paralegal. She's at a client's or I'd introduce you. Nothing funny's going on here. I'm a faithful guy.”

“Good to know.” Christine and Lauren both smiled, as Gary scampered around the side of his massive desk, of antique mahogany with carved curlicues. Matching built-in bookshelves lined the office, bursting with lawbooks, notebooks, files, family photographs, pictures of lions, toy lions, rubber lions, and even a Pez dispenser with a lion top, which Christine recognized as being from
The Lion King
.

“Welcome to my den!” Gary threw open his hands and plopped into his chair, also of black leather, but the tallest chair in the room. He looked over as Theresa returned with two drinks on a gold-toned tray, which she set down in front of Christine and Lauren, with ice in a glass and napkins for each.

“Thank you,” they both said.

“You're welcome,” Theresa answered, then sashayed to the door and shut it behind her, which was when Gary's expression changed, growing instantly serious, and his manner became strictly business.

“Christine, your husband says you're not on board with this litigation. Tell me why.” Gary opened his palms. “I'm all ears.”

“I don't think Dr. Davidow did anything wrong. He referred us to the best bank in the country, one that his sister has used.” Christine thought a moment. “Plus, I like him, personally. I don't want to sue him.”

“Okay, you win.” Gary shrugged. “I only wanted him for leverage anyway. You convinced me.”

“I did?”

“Yes.” Gary flashed his lightened smile. “I want you happy and comfortable. I don't push my clients. You got the doc off the hook. But Homestead is a different matter. Homestead stays on the hook. My legal advice? Sue the bastards.”

“Tell me why,” Christine said, taking a page from his book.

“I want to give you some background first.” Gary held up an index finger, with a manicured nail. “You need to know where I'm coming from. I'm Italian-American. My family came over in the 1930s, settled in Mystic, my grandfather was a plumber, my father was a plumber, my brother is a plumber. I didn't want to be a plumber. You know why?”

“No, why?”

“No stakes.” Gary shrugged again. “Nobody cares. Nobody cries. Nobody does something wrong. Nobody does something right. You follow, ladies?”

“I'm following,” Christine answered. It wasn't difficult.

“Me, too,” Lauren chimed in.

Gary continued, “Also, plumbers, they're little guys. I come from a long line of little guys. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a little guy.” He gestured down at himself. “So I feel for the little guy. I get the little guy. I'm feisty, and I'm loyal, and so I fight for the little guy.” Gary gestured to the photographs of the lions on his wall. “I took those pictures. I go on safari every year. To Botswana, the Serengeti, I been all over Africa. I drag my wife Denise. I drag her best friend, since she's divorced. It's a whole thing. I don't shoot anything. I would never kill a lion. I'm a vegetarian. I take pictures. I have memories.” Gary pointed to his head. “I remember the lions I take pictures of. The lion, he takes care of every member of his pride. You're my cub, now.” Gary frowned. “You think you're in Connecticut, but you're in the jungle.”

Christine waited, sensed he was coming to some relevant point. Or she hoped he was.

“Let me tell you the facts about the sperm banking industry, and believe me, it
is
an industry. It is a big, big, business. And in my opinion, it is lawless. As lawless as the jungle.” Gary puckered his lips. “There are no laws governing the screening and testing performed by sperm banks in this country. The United States Food and Drug Administration has some requirements with respect to screening sperm donors, but they apply
only
to contagious or infectious diseases, like venereal diseases or HIV, which 3319 was screened for.”

Christine perked up at the mention of her donor, and she began to realize that Gary had read their file, probably given him by Marcus.

“There are only two professional associations, the American Society for Reproductive Medicine and the American Association of Tissue Banks, that have anything to do with the screening and testing provided by sperm banks. They make guidelines for additional screening, like genetic screening, but they are only recommendations. Guidelines, not laws. They're not enforceable, they have no teeth.” Gary glowered. “As a practical matter, sperm banking is a multibillion-dollar business, and they make their own laws. They're the boss. They're the king of their jungle.”

Christine was starting to wonder if she had misjudged Gary. He might have been bombastic, but he was shrewd.

“To come specifically to the point”—Gary pointed directly at Christine—“there are absolutely
no
laws that require Homestead or any other bank to conduct psychological screening for sperm donors. And because it would cost them money to conduct such screening, they don't do it. Nobody tells them they have to spend money, so they don't. They're a business. They want to maximize their profit margins. They don't want to spend any money that they don't have to.”

Christine swallowed hard.

“So they hire nice women to sit down and interview the donors. The interviewer is a college graduate. Is that enough?
No.
The interviewers don't have degrees in psychology. They don't even have a master's in social work. They're not a mental health professional, an MHP.” Gary scowled. “Is an interview enough? No. That is
not
a psychological screening. That is
not
psychological testing. That's not the Personality Assessment Inventory Test, administered by a psychologist or other MHP, after an hour and a half of a clinical interview by a psychologist or other MHP.”

Christine understood what he was saying and couldn't disagree.

“Some banks, like Homestead, administer a Myers-Briggs test. That's not the equivalent of a psychological evaluation. That's a test that reveals temperament or style, but it doesn't tell you any of the psychopathology of the putative donor.”