Prophet (70 page)

“On the one hand, abortions are lucrative; you can bring in a lot of
money in a short time with minimum effort. The more abortions you do, the more money you make, so the natural inclination is to do them as quickly as possible and cut corners if you can. You get the procedure down to just a few minutes, you get an assembly line going, and you don’t hire RNs to help in the back rooms because they get too picky about procedure, sterilizing the equipment, sanitation. All that stuff takes time, and you can have some thirty girls waiting in line. So instead you hire health-care workers—often marginally trained—to do all the assisting, attending, and observing, most of whom are there because they’re cause-oriented. They’re dedicated to the cause of abortion at any cost and aren’t about to jeopardize that cause by making waves or finding fault.

“On the other hand, you’ve got the intense political pressure over this whole issue, which makes you circle the wagons all the tighter to protect yourself from intrusion, discovery, regulation, standardization. If you slip up, the last thing you want is for anyone to know about it, least of all your peers. There’s also an unwritten code out there: you don’t snitch—you don’t make trouble. Couple that with the women who get the abortions. Most of them are there secretly. They come in secretly, they go out secretly, they even use false names a lot of the time, and if something goes wrong, they’re not likely to say anything to anyone about it because they don’t want to be discovered—the young girls especially, and sometimes . . .” Matthews picked up the autopsy report and slapped it down on his desk for effect “. . . sometimes this is the result. And the whole thing was secret, from start to finish. It took a search warrant for anyone to even know about it.”

Henderson asked, “Did Governor Slater know about it?”

Matthews knew that was a ticklish question and balked just a little before answering. “He knew his daughter died from an abortion, yes. I’m the one who told him.”

“Uh . . . when was that?” John asked.

“The day after . . . that would be Saturday. Hillary died Friday evening, we did the autopsy the next day, and then . . .” Matthews fidgeted a little, looking around the room in frustration. “And then the governor came for a conference with Dr. Leland Gray, his personal physician who handled the case, and I was in on that meeting to share my findings.”

Henderson held up his hand. “Now hold on, Doctor, let me be sure I’m following this. You say you and Dr. Gray sat down with the governor and told him exactly what happened to Hillary?”

“Yes, sir, we did.”

“And you told the governor she died from a botched abortion?”

“I used the same words with him as I just now used with you in describing the cause of her death.”

“So . . . where did this wrong-drug story come from?”

Matthews sighed and stared at the report. “Gentlemen, I did my job as best I could. I performed the autopsy and submitted my findings to the attending physician, Dr. Gray. After that, I was out of the loop. Dr. Gray filled out the death certificate, changing the last entry as to cause of death from obstetrical hemorrhage to warfarin overdose. And as you know, that’s the story that was released to the press, with the governor’s full knowledge and approval. Obviously much of my report was . . . circumvented, ignored.”

“They circled the wagons,” said John.

Matthews nodded. “You’re getting the picture.”

“And . . . all the time you knew this and didn’t say anything? You didn’t take any action?”

“Try it yourself sometime. Just see what happens. Dr. Gray is not one to be tangled with if you value your job.”

Henderson quipped at John, “Looks like you’re about to stir the waters up a little.”

John looked at the camera case on the floor. “Well . . . what do you think, Dr. Matthews? You’re talking about it now.”

Matthews shrugged. “The governor’s already made it public, so it’s going to come out anyway, and most importantly . . .” He pointed to the search warrant. “. . . you made me.”

John reached tentatively for the camera case. “Well, since you’ve already made the information somewhat public . . . and the governor has too . . .”

“And somebody out there is going to wonder why he thought it was a warfarin overdose all this time and only recently found out it was obstetrical hemorrhage . . .”

“Yeah, right.”

Matthews hesitated, then went on, “And since the fingers are going
to be pointing and will have to land on somebody . . .”

“You, do you think?”

Matthews thought a moment, then said, “Set it up.”

John grinned and opened the case. “It could take a while. I don’t have a cameraman, so I’ll have to do it all myself.”

Matthews got up. “Let me help. I can handle that tripod.”

“Where’s an outlet for these lights?” asked Henderson.

TV LIGHTS ILLUMINED
the wall of the reception area in the Human Life Services Center. Seated in shadow, a silhouette in front of their hot, white glow, “Mary” was talking honestly and directly with Leslie Albright, reporter for NewsSix, as a television camera perched on a tripod beside Leslie captured it all.

“Mary’s” real name was Cindy Danforth. She was eighteen, black, and insecure, but had some new friends. She’d recently spoken with Shannon DuPliese by telephone. They’d shared their fears, wounds, and sorrows, and the healing process had begun for them both. The greatest balm for Cindy was just finding someone else who could identify with her experience, especially her experience at the Women’s Medical Center.

But Shannon was not the only supporting influence that had brought Cindy to this point. Rachel Franklin, the waitress who first told John and Carl about Annie, was right there in the room at this moment, behind Cindy 100 percent. Mrs. Westfall had introduced Rachel and Cindy to each other only yesterday, and now they were like sisters. Again, they had an experience, a particular place, in common.

Deanne Brewer was also there, a loving mother who actually understood and accepted everyone as they were and where they were. Also, the fact that she was Annie’s mother evoked a deep and warm respect from the girls. They’d welcomed Deanne into their lives.

So now, even though the camera would see only her silhouette, the protective screen from the last visit was gone, and Cindy faced Leslie Albright directly to tell her story. The interview lasted almost an hour.

Leslie asked a closing question, still using Cindy’s code name. “Mary, why have you come forward to tell us your story? What do you hope to accomplish?”

Cindy spoke in a timid voice, but had a firm grip on the answer. “Well, you know, I don’t want to hurt anybody, and I’m not out for revenge, but . . . after what happened to Annie, I just have to do what I can to keep it from happening to somebody else. Hillary Slater died, and nobody said anything; so then Annie died, and now if I don’t say anything about Annie, somebody else might die. Somebody has to say something, and somebody has to do something, that’s all.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to say, anything that I haven’t asked you about?”

Cindy thought for just a moment. “Just . . . I just want to tell all the girls out there, be careful. Abortion isn’t worth going through.”

“Thank you. You’re a courageous young woman.”

Cindy smiled shyly. “Thanks . . .”

Leslie looked around at the others—at Mrs. Westfall, Rachel, and Deanne Brewer. They were all quite pleased and proud of Cindy. They began to applaud.

“Guess that’ll do it,” said Leslie, standing up to turn off the camera. “Great job. Really great job.”

“When’s this gonna be on TV?” Cindy asked.

Leslie answered honestly. “I really don’t know, Cindy. It might get on TV, and maybe it never will. What matters is that it’s on record. You’ve told your story, and someday it will hopefully make a difference.”

Rachel was matter-of-fact. “It might not be news.”

Leslie encouraged them, “But it’s still the Truth, and someday . . . someday people are going to know.”

“That’s why we’re doing any of this,” said Mrs. Westfall. “That’s why Shannon talked on-camera back east—and why Mr. and Mrs. Brewer did an interview. Someday the story’s going to be heard, but first
we
have to tell it.”

Leslie reached through her carry bag. “That reminds me . . . I got a copy of Shannon’s interview today, and she said to be sure you got a copy.” She pulled out a VHS cassette and gave it to Cindy.

Cindy received it but looked troubled. “Um . . . we don’t have a VCR.”

Mrs. Westfall offered, “You can use ours.”

Rachel asked, “I’d like to see that myself.”

“Well, you can all watch it,” said Leslie. “Shannon wants you to see it. And by the way, she’ll be coming back in a few days. She’s withdrawing from Midwestern. She wants to go to school here like she originally planned. So you’ll all have a chance to meet each other.”

Mrs. Westfall asked, “Do you think there’s any possibility of legal action? There just seems to be so much information coming out now.”

Deanne shrugged. “We just aren’t sure yet. We’re thinking of getting everyone together to talk to Aaron Hart, the lawyer. If getting on TV doesn’t work, maybe going to court will.”

“Oh!” Leslie was reminded of something else. “Cindy, I was supposed to ask you about those Post-operative Instructions the clinic gives out . . .”

Cindy remembered it too. “Oh yeah. Just a minute.”

She went back into Mrs. Westfall’s office, rummaged through her schoolbooks, and came back with a wrinkled, slightly torn, original green copy of the Post-operative Instructions from the Women’s Medical Center. “I always kept it in case something went wrong later on. I didn’t know what was gonna happen.”

Leslie reached into her carrying bag and took out the copy she’d gotten from Shannon DuPliese. The two were identical, with the clinic’s name, address, and telephone number clearly printed at the top.

“Bingo.”

IT COULD BE
a music video. Amid stage smoke, pulsating, hot-colored lights, and bare-chested male dancers slick with sweat, Anita Diamond, rock music legend and poser for porn, high-kicks, jerks, and swivels her way through a bombastic song-and-dance routine, wailing something about not touching her body unless she asks you to, and if you make her happy, you’ll see what she can do . . . to you . . . yeahhhh!

The speaking voice of Anita Diamond rises as the music sound track falls. “This is Anita Diamond, coming to you free and easy. I know what I want out of life, and so do you . . .”

Lap dissolve. Now Anita walks down the long aisle of an empty concert hall, dressed in her trademark black leather, a cocky tilt to her head as if one earring weighs several pounds. “I’m free to sing and make you happy because I was free to choose. Sure, I had an abortion.
I wasn’t afraid of it then, and I don’t regret it now. Someday I’ll have a family, but right now I’m making music and making love with you, and that’s me, you know?”

She spins in a hot dance step, then prances up the aisle, the huge stage behind her, the camera dollying back in pace with her. “That’s what I like about Hiram Slater, your governor. He wants people like me to be free to be all we can be, and he’s one governor who won’t slow you down! So keep Hiram working for you, and we’ll all take life in our own hands, call our own shots, and do it!”

Lap dissolve back to the thunderous, hot, song-and-dance number on the smoke-filled, brightly lit stage. Anita Diamond spins, leaps, and ends the song with one long, soulful wail as . . .

Freeze frame.

Title above Anita’s grimacing face: “Hiram Slater cares about women.”

Small title across bottom of screen: “Paid for by the Committee to Reelect Governor Slater, Wilma Benthoff, Chairperson.”