The Clinic (28 page)

“Spa-a-a-a-a-de! Spa-a-a-a-a-de!”

Ballitser twisted his body, punched his own chest, kicking at the chair, pounding the bolted table, over and over.

“Spade is “why’?” said Milo.

“Fucking why!”

“Why you don’t like Dr. Cruvic?”

“Fucking-A!”

“Spade.”

“Fucking-A! He fucking did it!”The boy began crying, then curled his free hand and ripped at his cheeks. Milo pulled him off, held him still. Darrell’s blemished face was contorted in agony.

“Cruvic did it,” said Milo, gently.

“Ye-e-e-s!”

“He fucking did it, Darrell.”

“Y-e-e-e-s!”

“To Chenise.”

“Y-e-e-s! Spa-a-a-a-de!Like a fuckingdog. Woof-fucking-woof!”

Ballitser clawed the table, panted.

“Chenise,” said Milo.

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Ballitser flopped his neck hard enough to sprain it. He raised his free hand prayerfully. Nothing aggressive in the gesture.

Milo came closer. “Tell me, son.”

Tears spurted from the boy’s eyes.

“It’s okay, tell me, son.”

Darrell’s stick-body shook.

“What’d he do, son?”

Darrell shot a hand into the air. Waved it. His eyes danced wildly.

“He fuckingspayed my lady!”

Twenty minutes later, after conferring with his client, Kasanjian came out smiling. “Well, there’s my extenuating circumstance.”

Angela Boatwright was coming back from the squad room with a cup of coffee.

“Hey, Angie,” he told her, “thanks for the referral. I especially liked walking out on my date.”

“Always glad to help.”

They shot smile-arrows at each other.

Milo said, “Where’s Chenise?”

“Down the hall.”

“Any sign of her mother?”

“Not yet,” said Boatwright, “and still no answer at home.”

I said, “If her mother had something to do with the operation she could be scared for her own safety.”

“What operation?” said Boatwright. “What’s going on?”

“Your doctor hero’s into involuntary sterilization,” said Kasanjian.

“What?”

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“Seven months ago, Dr. Cruvic aborted a child Ms. Chenise Farney was carrying. My client’s child. But my client had no prior knowledge of the procedure, nor was he consulted, despite the fact that Ms. Farney is a minor, leaving my client as the sole adult parent.”

“Adult? You’ve got to be kidding,” said Boatwright.

“To make matters worse,” said Kasanjian, “Dr. Cruvic wasn’t satisfied with a termination: He sterilized the girl without telling her. Tied her tubes. A minor, no valid consent. And guess what, folks: Mr. Ballitser has informed me that Dr. Devane counseled Chenise but never told her she was going to be sterilized. So there was obviously a conspiracy. Meaning your hero is no Boy Scout and his unprofessional conduct is obviously a significant factor in what occurred tonight.

Now, in terms of your even assuming Mr. Ballitser had anything to do with Dr. Devane’s murder, I must insist that you present evidence immediately or relea—”

Milo cut him off with a wave and turned to Boatwright. “Let’s talk to the girl.”

“Yes, let’s,” said Kasanjian.

“Sorry,” said Milo. “Just us cop folk.”

Kasanjian’s mouth worked. He buttoned his suit jacket. “Detective, if she’s a potential—”

“Not tonight, Len,” said Boatwright, pushing hair out of her face. It sounded like something she’d said before.

She cocked a hip and clicked her tongue. The attorney gripped his briefcase. “Have it your way, police-people. But if you choose to indict Ballitser, even for a rinky-dink misdemeanor like attempted battery, we’ll get to her soon enough.”

As he left, Boatwright said, “You’re actually staying with the case?”

“Why not?”

Boatwright shrugged. “Nice to see you finally commit.”

After ten minutes with Chenise, Milo was saying, “I’m still not sure, hon. Did you know what Dr. Cruvic was going to do or not?”

The girl shook her head miserably. She wore tight black jeans, a lacy red midriff blouse, heavy bubble-toed black boots with red soles, a red bandanna for a belt. Her makeup was thick and chalky, just like the time I’d seen her in the waiting room, but the pink highlights in her hair had been replaced by a broad black streak down the middle that turned her coif into a photo-negative skunk. A dazed look, none of the coquettishness I’d seen in the clinic waiting room. She’d spent most of the time weeping, limiting her speech to mumbles and two-word sentences.

“Did Darrell know?” said Milo.

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That raised her head. “Where’s Darrell?”

“On his way to jail, Chenise. He’s in big trouble.”

Her lip trembled and she scratched her arm.

Milo was sitting next to her, hovering, one hand on the back of her chair, the other flat on the table. He shifted slightly closer, she angled away from him.

“Chenise,” he said softly. “I’m not saying you’re in trouble. Just Darrell. So far.”

No reaction.

“Maybe you can help us. Maybe you can help Darrell.”

More weeping.

Angela Boatwright walked over and touched the girl’s knobby shoulder. “Can I get you something, honey?”

Chenise’s mouth dropped open as she considered the offer. Her peg teeth were caramel-colored, her lips chapped and cracked at the edges.

One short thumb scratched her cheek, then the black stripe, then the arm again.

“A snack, Chenise?” said Boatwright. “Or a drink?”

“Candy?” said the girl in a very small voice.

“Sure. What kind do you like?”

“Um . . . Mounds?”

“Okay, and if we don’t have that, what’s your second choice?”

“Um . . . krackel?”

“So some kind of chocolate, huh?” Boatwright smiled at her and the girl nodded. Another touch of Chenise’s shoulder caused her to sink in her chair.

“Be right back, hon.”

When the door closed, Chenise leaned farther away from Milo. Her small size made him look huge. He glanced at me.

“So,” I said, “you and Darrell met in a class.”

Nod.

“Were you both in the class?”

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“Uh-uh.”

“You weren’t.”

Headshake.

“But you met there.”

“Yeah.”

“Where was Darrell?”

“Leaving.”

“Leaving the class?”

Nod.

“He finished the class?”

Nod. “Gradated.”

“He graduated but you were still in the class.”

Nod.

“Do you remember where the class was, Chenise?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where?”

“North Bower.”

“Is that a street?”

Headshake.

“School. In the back.”

“In the back of North Bower School,” I said. “What kind of class was it?”

That seemed to confuse her.

“What kinds of things did you learn in the class?”

“Change.”

“Change?”

Nod.

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“How to change?”

“Like from a dollar.”

“How tomake change.”

Nod.

“And other stuff?” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Like what?”

Shrug.

“Washing up.” She touched behind one ear and a tin earring shaped like a lightning bolt swung back and forth. “Food.”

“Food,” I repeated.

Emphatic nod.

“Making food?”

“Buying healthy food.”

“Was the class called DLS?”

“Yeah!” Big smile.

“Daily Living Skills,” I said to Milo. State grant for educating the borderline retarded that had run out six months ago.

Chenise said, “Dare to live special.It’s also that.”

She batted heavily mascaraed lashes, touched her hard, white tummy, pressed her knees together, then spread them slightly.

“So Darrell finished DLS,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“And you guys met at the school.”

Nod. “He got a job.” Pride.

“For Ready Messenger.”

“He had a room.”

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“His own room?”

“Yeah.” She winked at me. Licked her lips. “Macipated.”

That took a moment to figure out. “Darrell was emancipated?”

Nod.

“Darrell was an emancipated minor?”

The full phrase went right by her.

“Emancipated,” I repeated.

Her eyes narrowed. “Hehit on him.”

“Who did?”

“Lee. Her boyfriend.”

“His mother’s boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“His mother’s boyfriend hit on him?” I said, unsure if that meant beating or sexual abuse.

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“With a belt.”

“So Darrell ran away and got emancipated.”

Nod.

“When?”

“I dunno.”

“Must have been a while ago because he’s nineteen, now.”

She shrugged and licked her lips.

Boatwright came back with a krackel bar.

“Here you go, hon.”

The girl took the candy tentatively, unwrapped a corner, and nibbled at it. “Slow,” she said.

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Boatwright said, “Pardon?”

“Eat slow, don’t choke.”

“Good advice,” I said. “Did they teach you that at DLS?”

“Show up on time, napkins in lap . . . your smile is your . . .”—wrinkled brow—“is your . . .

manner?”

“Banner?” I said.

“Yeah!”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah.” Another wink.

“Like what?”

“Safe sex means life.”

That line recited in a deeper, authoritative voice.

She giggled.

“What is it, Chenise?”

Harder laughter. Saucy smile. The eyelashes worked overtime.

She rubbed the chocolate against her front teeth, turned them brown, licked it away.

“Safe . . . sex,” she said, unable to stop giggling.

“What does safe sex mean?” I said.

Giggle. “Skins. Darrell don’t like ’em.” Rolling her eyes.

“No?”

“Bad, bad boy.” She wagged a finger. Giggled some more. Touched her belly.

“When did you first know you were pregnant?” I said.

She grew serious. Shrugged and nibbled.

I repeated the question.

“No period. Then my stomach puked.” Giggling. “Mom said, “Oh no, shit!’ ”

Giggling.

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“So she took you to Dr. Cruvic.”

Nod.

“Did she tell you why?”

Silence. Suddenly, she hung her head, touched her tummy again.

I leaned in, spoke very softly. “What did your mother tell you about Dr. Cruvic, Chenise?”

Silence.

“Did she tell you anything?”

Long, slow nod.

“What’s that?”

“Youknow,” she said.

I smiled at her.

“Can you tell me, Chenise?”

“Youknow.”

“I really don’t.”

Shrug. “Bortion.”

“She told you Dr. Cruvic would be doing an abortion.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you talk to Dr. Cruvic before the abortion?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Did you talk to someone else before the abortion?”

Nod.

“Who?”

“Her.”

“Who’s her?”

“Dr. Vane.”

“Dr. Devane?”

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“Yeah.”

“What did Dr. Devane tell you?”

“Good for me.”

“Did you agree with that?”

No answer.

“Did you think the abortion was good for—”

“Hadto,” she said in a clear voice. Her eyes were clear, too. Purified by anger.

“Youhad to think it was good for you?”

Hard nod.

“Why, Chenise?”

“Mom said.”

“Mom said you had to—”

“ “You can’t raise it, stupid, and I’m sure as hell not raising your basta!’ ”

She stared at me with defiance, then her head dropped and she began playing with the candy wrapper. The hand dropped to her tummy again. It reminded me of something. . . . The black girl in the clinic waiting room had comforted herself exactly the same way.

“So you knew you were going to have an abortion.”

No answer.

“Cheni—”

“Yeah.”

“Did you know Dr. Cruvic was going to do any other operation?”

Silence. Then a small headshake.

“Did he do another operation?”

No answer. She shoved the candy bar away and it fell off the table. Milo retrieved it, turned it between his thick fingers. Angela Boatwright was in a corner, eyes alert.

“Chenise?” I said.

The girl fingered the lower lace hem of her top. Tugged down, pulled up. Slipping her hand
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under the lace, she began massaging her belly.

“Did Dr. Cruvic do something else to you, Chenise?”

Silence.

“Did Dr. Devane tell you Dr. Cruvic was going to do something else?”

Silence.

“Did Dr. Devane ask you to sign your name to something?”

Nod. She licked her lips and wiped them with the back of her hand. Slid sideways in the chair, putting her body in an awkward tilt.

“Chenise—”

“Spay.” She gave a soft grunt, bobbed her head as if to music.

“Spay,” I said.

She coughed and sniffed.

“What does “spay’ mean, Chenise?”

“Like a dog.”

“Who told you that, Chenise?”

She started to answer, then her lips compressed. The hand continued to rub her abdomen, moving over the navel in rapid cycles. Stopping, pinching the skin, then resuming.

She shifted position, straightening. Slumping. Still rubbing.

Rubbing the navel . . . the entry point for tubal ligation.

“When you woke up from the abortion,” I said, “was there a Band-Aid on any part of your body?”

The hand stopped. Small fingers dug into white belly-flesh. Her top rode up, revealing a shelf of rib cage above a white hollow.

Suddenly, the other hand slammed to her pubis, cupping it.

“Here,” she said, arching her pelvis.

“Andhere. ” Standing, she arched her back, baring the umbilicus.

“Uh. Uh,” she grunted, pressing both sites and showing them again in an awkward bump-and-grind. “Hurt likeshit. Farting allday !”

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“Cramps,” said Boatwright.

“When did you find out Dr. Cruvic had done more than an abortion?”

“Later.”

“How much later?”