Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  Mel knew the gist of the story and set to work, the camera perched on his shoulder, walking up and down the street to get some establishing shots of the building and the pro-lifers.

  “Oh, and be sure to get some shots of those cars,” said Leslie, pointing at the BMWs.

  She brought out her reporter’s pad and jotted some thoughts for possible voice-over. “The Women’s Medical Center, contrary to appearances, is not a peaceful place. This is where two oceans of sentiment and conviction clash with opposing tides. Anywhere else, the issue of abortion is debated, even fought over, in abstract terms, but here it is felt, it is seen. Here is where words become actions and sentiments become deeds.”

  Too wordy perhaps, but it was how Leslie felt right now. The whole area was tight with tension.

  She gave her watch a nervous glance. It was 8:25. The clinic had been open since 8.

  “Deanne . . .”

  “Mm-hm.” Deanne was visibly nervous, trying not to crinkle the envelope that held the Request for Medical Records.

  “I think it would be a good idea to get a shot of you going up the front steps of the clinic while no one else is around.”

  “By myself?” She didn’t like that idea.

  “It’s an establishing shot, something to give the viewer the idea of you going into the clinic with your letter.”

  “But aren’t you going in there with me?”

  “Sure, I’ll go with you, but I’m the news reporter, so I can’t be in the picture.”

  Deanne crinkled her face with puzzlement. “Huh?”

  Leslie tried to explain. “Well, you see, it’s not you and I who are requesting those records, it’s you. I’m the reporter covering the story, I’m not part of the story. So when we shoot this and then show it on TV, we’ll probably have me saying something like, ‘Deanne Brewer, legally appointed as personal representative for her daughter Annie’s estate, hand-delivered a request for her daughter’s medical records,’ and while the viewer hears me reading that off-camera, they see you going up the front steps and through the door.”

  Deanne looked across the street at the clinic and the front walkway. “I have to walk through the door all by myself?”

  “No. You can stop before you open the door. We just need a shot of you walking down the sidewalk and up the front steps with that letter in your hand.”

  She shook her head. “Man, this is like Hollywood.”

  Leslie admitted, “Well, it’s . . . it’s television. We have to give the viewers something to look at. We have to have pictures of what we’re talking about.”

  Deanne shook her head, shrugged, and said, “Okay . . .”

  “Oops. Hold on.” A car pulled into the clinic’s parking lot. Mel was a short distance up the sidewalk. Leslie waved to get his attention and then pointed to the two young women getting out of the car. One was dressed in sweatpants and a jacket. She was probably the patient; clinics often advised their patients to wear loose, comfortable clothing to their abortions. The other young woman was probably the friend who would drive the patient home.

  The women immediately encountered the three pro-lifers, and Mel caught the scene as a short conversation ensued on the sidewalk in front of the clinic. Good grief, Leslie thought, those people stand out there and do that all day long! She jotted another note in her notepad. “. . . where women still come to exercise their right, but not without confrontation . . .”

  The patient and her friend ended the conversation abruptly and brushed by the pro-lifers. Mel followed them with his camera until they went in the front door.

  “Well, okay,” said Leslie, “let’s shoot it and then let’s do it.”

  She advised the pro-lifers of what was coming, and they were happy enough to serve as extras on the sidewalk, subtly holding their signs toward the camera and being peaceful.

  Deanne walked down the block until Leslie said she was far enough, then turned around and walked back toward the clinic, the letter visible in her hand, not knowing where in the world to look as Mel backpedaled in front of her, the camera on his shoulder, capturing her “performance.” When she got to the front walk, she turned and approached the clinic’s front door, hoping Leslie would say, “Cut” before she had to open it. Mel stayed on the sidewalk, now shooting her walking away from the camera, toward the clinic, while Leslie looked over Mel’s shoulder, directing. Deanne felt better with her back to the camera.

  She went up the steps and almost got to the door when Leslie called, “Good. Great. Come on back.”

  Relief! She hurried away from the door, glad it was over.

  But it wasn’t. Suddenly the drama became real. She heard the clinic door open and a curt voice behind her demand, “Can I help you?”

  Mel kept the camera on the scene as Deanne turned to face a stern-looking woman now peering out the clinic door at her. Deanne froze, clutching the letter in both hands, holding it close.

  The lady gave Mel and Leslie a wary eye and said to all of them, “Unless you have business here, you’ll have to leave.”

  Deanne thought of Annie and forgot about being nervous. She didn’t like this lady’s tone. “Are you open for business?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Then we do have business here.”

  Now the lady was looking at the pro-lifers too. “What business?”

  Deanne held the letter high. “A Request for Medical Records.”

  Mel kept grinding away. Leslie stayed behind the camera. This was great stuff.

  The lady was still staring icily at the pro-lifers. Deanne demanded her attention again. “I’m not with them! I represent myself and my daughter’s estate, and I’m here on my own business!”

  This lady wasn’t quick to believe her. “So what about the camera there?”

  “If you don’t want your picture taken, why don’t you invite me in and close the door?”

  The lady considered that for about one second and then said with a jerk of her head, “Come on.”

  Deanne looked over her shoulder at Leslie. “Come on, Leslie, let’s go.”

  “Uh-uh, no way!” said the lady.

  Deanne objected, “She’s a friend. We go way back.”

  “She’s press! Don’t try to fool me!”

  Leslie had come alongside Deanne by this time. “I would think by now that you were used to the press dropping by from time to time. Besides, have we ever hurt you before?”

  The lady studied both of them. “Why are you here really?”

  Deanne answered, “I told you. I have a Request for Medical Records, and I’d like to have it taken care of.” She looked at Leslie. “And if I have a friend along, well, that’s my choice, isn’t it?”

  The word “choice” seemed to work. The lady hesitated, then swung the door open. “All right, you can come in, but the camera stays outside.”

  Leslie and Deanne went up the steps. Then the lady blocked their path. “You don’t have any hidden microphones on you, do you?”

  Leslie only laughed. “You watch too much television.”

  The lady let them in. Mel switched off the camera and waited.

  The waiting room was large, with enough chairs to handle at least a dozen patients, if not more. The young woman who was driving for her friend was the only one in the room at the moment. She stole a quick glance at them, then returned to focusing on nothing in particular. Here and there stood a large potted plant, and on the walls were posters of pleasant countrysides, fuzzy animals quoting witticisms, and happy, independent people who’d made the right decisions in planning their families.

  The lady—her name badge said “Laurel”—walked across the room and stepped behind a white, Formica-topped counter where a young receptionist busied herself with some patient charts and stayed out of the discussion.

  “Now,” she said coldly, “how can I help you?”

  As Leslie stood at her side, watching and listening, Deanne opened the envelope and ceremoniously unfolded the letter. “I have here a Requ
est for Medical Records for my daughter, Annie Brewer, also known as . . .”

  “Annie Brewer’s the name,” Leslie cut in, catching Deanne’s eye.

  Deanne said no more.

  Laurel smiled a meaningless business smile and replied, “I’m sorry. That information is confidential. We can’t release it.”

  “Can we speak to the person in charge?” asked Leslie.

  “I can make an appointment for you.”

  Deanne unfolded the letter just enough for the Hart, McLoughlin, Peters, and Sanford letterhead to show, and let Laurel see it. “Laurel, you aren’t talking to the Weeping Mothers Sewing Circle. We’re talking about legal action here. We want to see the person in charge.”

  Laurel seemed confused. “I’ll have to talk to her. Would you like to have a seat please?”

  “Thank you.”

  Laurel left the room, going through a big blond door that latched with a metallic clunk.

  They took two chairs near the counter, not saying a word, and not hearing one from the young woman sitting across the room all by herself. She never looked at them, and they only stole quick glances at her. Without being told, they knew the unspoken rule: You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, and hopefully we’ll never see each other again.

  Deanne whispered, “They’re not going to find anything under Annie’s real name.”

  Leslie whispered back, “I know. I just don’t want to let any cats out of the bag until we’re eye to eye with the director.”

  The front door opened, and some cool air wafted in. They stole a glance to see three teenage girls enter. Two were hesitant and uncertain, their eyes on the walls, on the floor, on anything but other people. The third seemed more sure of herself. As her two friends found chairs and sank into them, she remained standing, looking for a familiar face. One of her friends began to whimper, and she bent down to whisper comfort to her. “It’s okay—you’ll be okay.”

  Laurel returned through the big blond door, stepping quietly but quickly into the waiting room. She came just close enough to Leslie and Deanne to say softly, “She’ll be right with you,” and then went straight to the three girls who had just come in. They had a hushed conversation, and then Laurel brought the two uncertain girls some forms on clipboards for them to fill out. One girl took time to read the sheet in front of her. The other just signed it.

  Leslie and Deanne tried to be careful about staring, but they were both thinking the same thing: Forms. Paperwork. Records. Clues.

  The big blond door opened again, and a woman entered the room, her appearance immediately catching their attention. Beautiful? Yes, but in a perverse sort of way, with black hair oddly pinstriped with gray, cascading in waved locks over a snow-white silk blouse. Mascara and eye shadow made her dark eyes even darker, and her polished fingernails were long and curved.

  “Yes,” said the woman, “can I help you?”

  “Come into my parlor,” said the spider to the fly, thought Leslie.

  Leslie stood to meet the woman, but stood alone. She looked back at Deanne, who remained in her chair.

  Deanne had lost her strength. She was trembling.

  “Hello,” Leslie said to the woman. “I’m Leslie Albright, and this is my friend”—she reached and touched Deanne just to get her moving—“Deanne Brewer.”

  Deanne forced herself to her feet, took a few steps, and faced the woman with Leslie at her side. “Hello.”

  “Hello,” said the woman, offering her hand. “I’m Alena Spurr, director of the Women’s Medical Center. How can I help you?”

  Deanne’s hands were still trembling as she tried to get the letter out of its envelope. “I’m Deanne Brewer, and I’m here to get my daughter’s medical records. I believe you gave her an abortion back in May . . .”

  Ms. Spurr looked at Deanne with nothing but disdain in her eyes. “Brewer . . .” she said, now recalling the name. “Mrs. Brewer, I already told your husband that we had nothing to do with your daughter’s death. I’m sorry it happened, but we were in no way involved. I just don’t know how I’m going to get that through to you.”

  “You could take us through your records.”

  Ms. Spurr smiled the same business smile. “I’m sorry, but that information is strictly confidential and protected by law. We can’t release it.”

  Deanne hesitated. Leslie was just about to speak for her, but Deanne found some new strength and pressed ahead. “You need to look at this letter.” She held it up for Ms. Spurr to see. “You see, since my daughter is dead . . .” Her voice cracked with emotion. She kept going, her voice clearing. “. . . I’ve been appointed as personal representative of her estate. So . . .” She took a breath and spoke firmly. “So you’re not talking to Annie Brewer’s mother. You’re talking to Annie Brewer. And Annie Brewer wants her records!” Deanne read from the letter: “. . . ‘any and all medical and other records in your possession, custody, or control that relate directly or indirectly to medical services or any other services provided or performed for the deceased, Ann Delores Brewer . . . ’”

  Ms. Spurr’s eyes were icy as she looked at Deanne, then the letter in her hand, and then asked, “Will that satisfy you?”

  “It’s the only reason we’re here today. All we want are Annie’s medical records.”

  “Very well. I’ll tell you what. Just to satisfy you once and for all, I’m going to violate the rules and maybe even the law and let you come back into our office to see for yourself.”

  She went to the big blond door and swung it open, her posture inviting them to step through it.

  They found themselves in a large hallway lined with shelves, supplies, some small workstations, more posters, and a weight scale. There were several rooms off this hall, but at the moment every door was closed. There was no sign of a nurse, or a doctor, or a counselor, or a patient, but behind one of the doors were muffled voices, and a machine was running with a low hum.

  “Come this way please,” said Ms. Spurr, hurrying them along. They followed her lead through a door into an office with voluminous file shelves against one wall. She entered after them and closed the door. “Now, you want the charts for Annie Brewer, correct?”

  Deanne looked at Leslie, and Leslie nodded. “And for Judy Medford. That was the false name Annie used when she came here.”

  Ms. Spurr froze on the spot. “Excuse me?”

  Deanne held up the letter again. “It’s the last item, right here on the second page. You might have Annie’s records filed under her false name, Judy Medford. We’d like you to look under both names.”

  Ms. Spurr stood perfectly still, digesting this new development. Then with a slow, deliberate turn she called to a young woman, apparently a secretary, “Claire, we need to pull schedule sheets, patient charts, and consent forms for Annie Brewer and Judy Medford.”

  Claire hesitated, looking at Leslie and Deanne with a perplexed expression.

  “This is Annie Brewer’s mother,” Ms. Spurr explained. “She has a lawyer’s letter requesting her daughter’s records.”

  Claire rose from her desk and went to the file shelves to look.

  Ms. Spurr went to help her. “Let’s just pull out the sections . . .” There had to be hundreds, if not thousands of color-coded folders, and with Claire’s help Ms. Spurr pulled out an armload of them and brought them to a table in the center of the room.

  Deanne stepped forward, anxious to find her daughter’s name, but Ms. Spurr stopped her politely. “Excuse me . . . these files are private. If you’ll give me just a moment, I need to cover the names—at least the last names—to protect our patients’ privacy, you understand.”

  Deanne looked at Leslie, who nodded and said, “It’s okay.” Deanne stepped back while the two women spread the first group of documents across the table in a neat, overlapping row with just the patients’ names showing. Then Ms. Adams covered the last names with some sheets of paper, leaving only the first names exposed. At her signal, Deanne and Leslie approached the table.


  “You are seeing something no one else will ever see—I hope you realize that. These are the patient charts—all the information pertaining to each patient and the service they received, filed alphabetically. You’ll notice the signed consent forms are included. We pulled everything from Ba- to Bu-, so Brewer would be in this group. You’ll notice I’ve concealed the last names. I hope you’ll scan them now and look only for the name of your daughter.”

  There were at least fifty charts. They scanned down the names. They did not find an Annie, nor a Delores. Deanne’s face sank a little.

  “How about Medford?” Leslie asked, hoping.

  “All right, step back please,” said Ms. Spurr, and then she and Claire repeated the process, laying out the other set of files in the same way as the first, again covering the last names. “All right.”

  Leslie and Deanne approached the table and scanned the names. Deanne’s heart leaped. “There she is!” She pointed at a Judy about a third of the way through the stack.

  Ms. Spurr carefully pulled that file from the others, looked it over, and then risked showing it to Leslie and Deanne. “Are you sure about your daughter’s code name? This Judy’s last name is not Medford. She’s white, twenty-five, has two children already and a husband named Jack, and she was here a year and a half ago.”

  Leslie grabbed at a possibility, “Perhaps the first name was wrong. Are there any Medfords in here?”

  Ms. Spurr’s voice and expression were especially grim. “What I’m about to do is unlawful. But just to show you how serious I am about settling this matter . . .” She lifted the paper away from the files just enough for them to scan the last names. “I never let people see these records, and Claire is my witness, but here—let me pull these . . .” She pulled out about a dozen files to show them. “Here, see the names? Mavis, Meacham, Mead, McKling, Medina, Meaker, Melanetti, Melvin, Mendelson, Michaels, Mitchell, Montgomery. No Medford.”

  “But she’s got to be in here somewhere,” said Deanne.

  Now Ms. Spurr actually used a comforting tone. “Mrs. Brewer, there are eight different abortion-providing facilities like ours in this town. Your daughter could have gone to any one of them.”