Authors: April Smith
“There wasn’t a shred of evidence to indict the doctor.”
“Not enough evidence? We gave you times, dates, dosages—”
“I’m sure you know it takes more than one person’s accusations to make a case in court.”
“There is something here that is not right.”
“I was the chief investigator and I’m satisfied the case should be closed.”
“I am not satisfied in the least.”
“That’s your privilege.”
Stockman has refrained from raising her voice, still speaking in a deep monotone of authority, the Henry Kissinger of personal managers: “We feel enormously let down by you, Ana.”
“We do?”
“We believed that as a woman you would understand the deeper issues.”
“As a woman”—I am spitting mad and having a hard time censoring myself from being slanderous—“I think you and your client haven’t got a clue about the deeper issues.”
But she just rolls on in that smooth, inevitable tone:
“We must prevent Dr. Eberhardt from doing this again. Jayne wanted to keep everything quiet and discreet but the time has passed for discretion. I’m going to recommend that my client file a lawsuit against Dr. Eberhardt today and you can be certain the whole world will know about it tomorrow. I hope you don’t get caught in the crossfire, Ana. I wouldn’t want that to happen to someone as bright and promising as you.”
When I hang up, the Bank Dick’s Undercover Disguise gives Magda Stockman the finger. Hey, it wasn’t me.
• • •
The next day I am awakened at five a.m. by the beating of my own heart. I lie on my stomach, face in the pillow, my whole body vibrating to a bass percussion as if listening to a pair of kettledrums through stereo headphones.
With the Mason case on ice I had decided I would leave work early and go over to the bank, get the papers from Poppy’s safe-deposit box, and be on the freeway heading out to Desert Hot Springs before the traffic. It is going to be a long and stressful day, I rationalize, maybe that is why I woke myself up so painfully prematurely, to get ready.
But I am in such an edgy state that the only possible thing to do right now is to swim. I figure I can make the 5:30 a.m. workout run by the Southern California Aquatics Masters at the Santa Monica College pool. Believe it or not, fifty people show up regularly before dawn. You can swim to compete or to stay in shape or just because you are terrified that you are losing control of your own thoughts.
I bundle up in sweats and swing the Barracuda out onto Washington Boulevard. It is still dark and maybe fifty degrees and riding the empty streets matches my restless mood. I change in the un-heated locker room, listening to the chatter of some UCLA students for whom this first swim of the day is just a warm-up for their friendship. They will breakfast together and meet later tonight to run a 5K. Alone, I stalk outside into the chill. The lights are on in the huge outdoor pool, all the swimmers gathered at the wall in Day Glo-colored caps, a bright vivid Kodacolor against the white steam rising off the surface into an indigo sky.
Then we are ten lanes of synchronized elbows and feet, neat masses of churning water chugging back and forth to a rhythm set by the coach. I am part of the pattern and nothing more, two swimmers behind the leader, five seconds apart, four laps in ninety seconds repeated six times and on to the next set. Halfway through the workout my mind gives up and accepts the beat. The panic subsides, at least for an hour.
I return to my apartment to take a hot shower and grab some things for the trip out to the desert and already there are two messages on my answering machine from the dispatcher, saying that Special Agent in Charge Galloway is looking for me.
Now the pounding of my heart makes sense. It is as if my body woke up this morning knowing the Mason case was not over yet.
Forty minutes later my hair is still wet and I’ve still got owl eyes from the imprint of the goggles as I hurry breathlessly into Galloway’s office. He had been calling my machine from his car and was tied up in traffic, so I get to stare out the window at the full-blown bright day for twenty long minutes until he strides inside, closing the door with a slam. He is clenching a dead cigar in his teeth and his arms are full of newspapers which he tosses at me all at once.
I fumble through the headlines:
J
AYNE
M
ASON
S
UES
D
OCTOR;
M
ALPRACTICE
C
ITED
“M
Y
D
R
. M
ADE
M
E AN
A
DDICT”—
J
AYNE
M
ASON
“I A
M A
V
ICTIM,”
S
AYS
J
AYNE
M
ASON IN
D
RUG-RELATED
S
UIT
J
AYNE
M
ASON
A
LLEGES
D
OCTOR
P
RESCRIBED
N
ARCOTICS;
FBI I
NVOLVED
I have just a moment to absorb the impact like a quick jab to the solar plexus when he grabs a chair and pushes it up close to me, leaning forward so our knees almost touch. I recoil slowly against the sofa.
“The case is reopened.”
“Because of the publicity?”
“You bet because of the publicity. I was on the phone with Washington past eleven last night. The Mason case is now a top story and it’s going to be played in the media like the National Anthem.”
“But we completed our investigation.”
“Apparently it wasn’t thorough enough.”
“Yesterday you thought it was fine.”
“I said
apparently
. It might have been good for us but it wasn’t good for them.” He jerks his head toward the window, indicating the entire civilian world.
“You know that stuff in the paper is a bunch of junk. It was planted by Magda Stockman.”
“That’s right. But I have to answer to the Director.”
“You’re going to reopen the case just for show?”
“Let’s say it was a good investigation, but it didn’t go far enough.”
“How much farther can we go?”
“Undercover.”
I blurt out. “We already went undercover.”
“When was this?”
“You may not remember.”
My forefinger is picking at a cuticle. Galloway is looking at me with the superior penetration of a law enforcement officer about to snag a suspect in an irrevocable lie.
“Help my memory, Ana.”
“I went undercover to see if the doctor would give me illegal drugs. He didn’t. In fact, he suggested I go to a clinic.”
“You did this without authorization?”
“Correct.”
“Who else was involved?”
“Nobody,” I lie. “I had a microcassette in my purse.”
I know my face is scarlet.
Galloway shakes his head in exasperation.
“Jesus Christ, Ana, all we need is to be sued for entrapment.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You realize I have to put a memo in your file.”
“That’s okay. My file is starting to look like target practice.”
Galloway stares at me.
“If you want me to manufacture something against the doctor, I’ll do it.” I meet his eyes.
“You’ll be out on your ass.”
“Then tell me what you want.”
Galloway stands up. ‘What do I want? What do I
want?”
He spreads both hands in the air as if grabbing something ineffable, then rubs the tips of his fingers together as if it had just flown away.
“I see my mistake. Back in New York you and the media are family. Maybe not with every local bozo, but you and the TV news director and the cop shop reporter—you’re working opposite sides of the street, but after hours you’re going to meet in the same joint in Chinatown and eat egg foo yung. Out here nobody knows anybody, everything’s a national story because Los Angeles is the capital of the world, and everybody’s an adversary because they’re only going to be around five minutes, so they’ve got five minutes to score. It’s different …” He seems to be searching for the right word.
“It’s Hollywood.”
“What do I want?” He grabs one of the newspapers and holds it up in a crumpled bunch. “You see all this bullshit publicity of hers? I want to fight fire with fire. I want hot publicity for the Bureau on the same scale. Fanfare, visibility, the whole nine yards. I want the public to see we are doing our job.”
“The doctor may have been suckered in,” I say quietly. “Maybe she got him to write a prescription or two, but I’m telling you he’s clean.”
“Then let him come clean in lights. In lights across the fucking sky and we’ll be fucking out of it.”
I am sorry, more sorry than I could have ever imagined, that Galloway, for all his New York smarts, turns out to be a wimp like everybody else.
• • •
I call Poppy and Moby Dick answers the phone.
“What are you doing there?”
“I drove your grandpa for his treatment. He’s back now. He’s taking a nap.”
“What kind of treatment?”
“Radiation therapy.”
Hearing words of any sophistication coming from those beer-sucking lips causes you to sit up and make sure you’re still tuned to the right channel, but these words are truly terrifying, because they mean that even Moby Dick has been forced to learn a new vocabulary concerning my grandfather—the vocabulary of serious illness.
“Tell him I’ll be there soon, I’m just wrapping up a case. How’s he doing?”
“A little wiped but bad as ever. You know the Commissioner.”
• • •
Under the best of circumstances, a search and seizure takes a week to push through but I am empowered by fear. Aside from the excruciating pressure from Galloway I know I must go out and take control of Poppy’s situation as soon as possible, so I heave myself against the bureaucracy the way you would bench-press twenty pounds more than you were ever capable of before, on the exhale and praying for a miracle.
I bully and beg. Little by little we build momentum. I get the title report back in a record six hours. It confirms that the converted Victorian on Fifteenth Street is owned by the Dana Orthopedic Clinic, Inc., of which Randall Eberhardt is chairman of the board. I go in person to the Federal Building on Los Angeles Street and hassle with the forfeiture attorneys, leaving with the paperwork in hand that the U.S. Attorney’s office needs to issue a warrant and writ of entry, which will enable me to walk into Dr. Randall Eberhardt’s office and take possession of all evidence in clear view on behalf of the federal government.
Twenty-four hours later—
fanfare and visibility
—six burly federal marshals wearing bright orange raid vests converge on the doctor’s office as if it were a crack house in East L.A., accompanied by—
the whole nine yards
—a caravan of reporters and photographers and minicam crews from the local and national news who were leaked the information by our press relations department.
I have it on videotape, me leading the charge, Randall Eberhardt coming out to the reception area after his nurse has told him something unpleasant is going on.
“Good morning. I am Special Agent Ana Grey with the FBI. We have a seizure warrant for your office.”
The doctor looks at me quizzically.
“Don’t I know you? Did I ever see you as a patient?”
“It’s possible. May we come in?”
“No, you may not come in.”
“I have a warrant, sir.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that the contents of these offices are now the property of the United States government.”
A search and seizure is generally the end of the line for the bad guys, because it means you have finally come around to collect the evidence that will indict them. They also don’t like it because someone is taking away their toys and they are used to being the one who take from others. They’ll rant and shout and deny or point their weapons or try to escape or break down and cry, but you rarely see a subject retain his dignity the way Dr. Eberhardt did that morning.
“Is this a result of the outrageous charges made by Jayne Mason against me in the press?”
“I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“I’d like to know,” he says evenly. “Just for my own personal sense of the absurd.”
“Maybe you would like to call your attorney.”
“Maybe so. I’ve never been in the center of a media circus before.” He picks up the phone but lowers it again without dialing when he sees the marshals heading for the examining rooms.
“Wait a minute, I have patients back there!”
I march past him like an S.S. commandant leading the infantry and Dr. Eberhardt’s confidence gives way to horror as he realizes these indifferent thugs are truly going to invade his world, the world of medicine, like Nazis tramping through the great libraries of Poland and burning them to the ground, a thousand years of reason perishing in the flames. Dread rises as Dr. Eberhardt begins to understand that reason won’t protect him here; a lifetime spent puzzling out the exquisite logic of the bones can also be obliterated by a single senseless act.