Amy Efaw

by After (v5. 0) (epub)

  “Perhaps. Yes.”

  “Could you please give me a for instance, Dr. More?”

  “Objection! Calls for speculation.”

  “Denied,” Judge Saynisch says. “She’s an expert. She’s speaking hypothetically here. Nothing wrong with that. You may answer the question, Dr. More.”

  “Yes, I am happy to. I must please think for a moment.” Dr. More pauses. She frowns, places an index finger between her eyebrows, on the red dot there.

  “Yes,” she says after a short hesitation. “A bruise like this may be resulting from the forceps or the other birth implements. Very rare the placement, though. Usually those instruments cause bruising, sometimes even indentions, near the temples. But that is also occurring behind the ear if the doctor makes the mistake and they slip.” She waves her index finger and shakes her head. “But not for the concussion. Force is required for concussion. You understand this? Also, very important, but the birth did not occur at hospital. The mother gave birth at her home, and is most certain to have not used the forceps. So, my best surmise is blows to the head by the hand of the mother. Unfortunately, this I have seen before, in my practice.”

  “But, Dr. More, you just said your best surmise, your best guess, is that the bruise was sustained due to blows to the head. So, then, you do not know that this is actually what happened?”

  The doctor smiles. “This is true. I do not know. I was not there with her.”

  Dom turns around for a moment, looks down at the floor. Devon sees Dom press her lips together, take a breath. Just like she’s done when she’s been frustrated with Devon.

  When Dom turns back around, she begins questioning the doctor about the other possibilities. The baby could have hit its head on the floor during the birth. The baby was found under two trash bags filled with garbage. Something within those bags, when tossed into the trash can, could have caused the bruise. Or the man who had discovered the baby, Mr. Bingham, could have done something unintentionally while lifting her out of the bag.

  But Devon has lost track of the back-and-forth, the questions and answers.

  She hears, instead, the doctor’s words in her head: Force is required for concussion . . . my best surmise is . . . blows to the head by the hand of the mother.

  Devon looks down at her own hands in her lap.

  Her hands tremble. She tosses the clippers aside. They skitter across the linoleum, collide into the bathroom cabinet, spin once, and finally stop. Devon is breathing, hard and fast. The cord is cut. Sitting on the bathroom floor, a growing puddle of bloody fluids beneath her. She sees the cord dangling from her insides, the blood pulsing out of it—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—matching her own heartbeat.

  She pushes the length of cord back up into herself.

  IT is there, too. Also between her legs, but on the floor. Pushing with ITS feet, jerking ITS knees into ITS chest, up and down like convulsions. Twisting ITS face, the squinched mouth rubbing at the floor like IT’S searching for something. And screaming.

  Screaming, screaming. Like a siren, urgent.

  The horrible cramping starts again, stabbing pain rolling across her gut. She bites down on her lip, hard. Clutches her stomach.

  “STOP!” Devon drops her forehead to her bent knees, sobs. “STOP IT! STOP IT! JUST STOP IT! PLEASE!”

  Finally the pain fades. Devon lifts her face from her knees, panting. Swipes away the sweat that’s dripped down her face. Looks around herself, at the frightening mess.

  IT is still there on the floor, still screaming. Searching and squirming between her feet in its own bloody fluids. Devon reaches for the wrinkled, red thing. Her hands, two pieces of herself, grasp IT. Pull it up by where IT screams, the tiny face between her palms, small like a grapefruit. The legs kicking.

  Devon pushes her hands together, ever so slightly. The small face, so fragile. So loud. She could squeeze it silent.

  Instead she screams, “JUST SHUT UP!”

  The mess—the blood and urine and other liquids, the smeared greenish black gunk, thick and sticky. The smell—the sweet, sickening smell. She can’t leave the bathroom like this. Her mom will freak.

  Devon looks up, sees the sink then. An idea forms in her mind. She holds IT around the chest and under the arms with both of her hands and scoots across the slick linoleum toward the bathroom counter.

  Yes. A secure place to contain IT. She can place IT there, there in the sink’s basin, while she quickly cleans things up.

  She pulls herself up. Carefully lifts IT over the counter. Lowers IT down toward the basin.

  But the intense cramps come again, rip across her abdomen. She cries out.

  IT is slick; the slippery body slips from Devon’s grasp. The body slides into the sink with a thud. The head, unsupported, snaps back. Slams into the faucet. Drops down, following the body, down into the sink.

  Devon shrieks. Yanks the towels from the towel racks, the bath mat from the side of the tub, the hand towel. Throws them all on the floor to soak up the mess.

  She limps out to the kitchen for a trash bag.

  “Yes,” the doctor is saying now, and Devon is suddenly pulled back, shaking, into the courtroom. She swallows. Sees her hands, tight fists, on her lap. “The baby may have hit the head on the floor during the birth. She may have also hit the other garbage. Yes, all of these things and others may have occurred. That is correct. But I do not believe this is what it is.”

  “All right, Ms. Barcellona,” Judge Saynisch breaks in. “I’ve been very patient thus far, indulging you in this very lengthy examination. Your point is that the bruise and concussion may have been caused by some means other than blows to the head. Correct, Counsel?”

  Devon reaches up to her forehead; it’s damp with sweat.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Devon hears Dom say. “There’s a vast difference between alleging that someone had purposefully inflicted harm with malice aforethought and—”

  “Yes, yes,” the judge interrupts. “I get it. Let’s move this along, Counsel.”

  Purposefully inflicted harm. Devon rubs at her forehead. Had she? Had she purposefully inflicted harm? There’s a vast difference between alleging that someone had purposefully inflicted harm and. . . .

  And . . . what? Allowing the harm through her own negligence? Her own stupid decision? Her fear?

  The scene is still there, lingering in her mind. Between her hands, she’d held IT tightly. But then IT was gone, slipped from her grip. The neck limp, no strength there, can’t hold the weight of the unsupported head. The head slams into the faucet, catching the rim of the sink on its way down. The sound, it echoes now in Devon’s mind. The sound of something soft hitting something hard.

  Devon’s head had hit something hard once, too. That rainy day at practice when the dirt in front of the goal had turned to slick mud and she had dove through it.

  “There haven’t been any lasting effects from this alleged bump on the head,” Devon hears Dom saying now. “Correct, Dr. More? In fact, the baby’s doing fine.”

  Alleged bump on the head. Devon touches the spot where the back of her head hit the corner post. She can still remember the throb, the constant ache pulsing through her brain. It had lasted for days.

  IT had felt that, too. That throb, the ache.

  That small head. So tiny. Fragile.

  “Yes,” the doctor says, nodding. “That is correct. There are no lasting effects.” The doctor smiles again. “I am very happy for this.”

  No lasting effects. Devon closes her eyes, lets her breath out. But, somehow, she feels little relief.

  “Thank you,” Dom says. “Your Honor, I have no further questions for the witness.”

  “Prosecution? Care to redirect?”

  “No, Your Honor,” the prosecutor says. “I’m good.”

  “Well, then, thank you for your testimony, Dr. More. You may step down.”

  Randomly, a line from a poem creeps into Devon’s mind—steadfast you hold/this slippery grip on life. Where had she heard i
t?

  Steadfast you hold/this slippery grip on life.

  Devon remembers then—along Point Defiance that night, that walkway with the poetry. Holding Connor’s hand. She’d thought of her mom then, thought of her slippery grip on life. And, in contrast, Devon’s own tight one.

  But . . . it wasn’t tight enough, not That Night. She’d gripped a life in her hands then, a small life, and she’d just let it slip away. Didn’t she? She’d done nothing to stop it.

  “The state calls Dr. Rohit Katial.”

  This is the first person the prosecutor’s called whose name Devon recognizes. She is still shaken from the last witness; she wishes Dom would ask for a short break.

  Devon watches as the man steps up to the front, raises his right hand. When he settles into the witness stand, she notices him smooth down his tie. He turns his face then, and his eyes meet hers.

  Devon feels a jolt, sucks in a hard breath. Her eyes drop to the tabletop before she can read what his say.

  “Please state your name for the record.”

  “Rohit K. Katial.”

  “And what is your occupation?”

  “I am a physician, a general practice physician.”

  “And where do you currently practice?”

  The prosecutor spends a lot of time going over Dr. Katial’s credentials—where he went to medical school, his professional affiliations, and where he had practiced medicine throughout his career. Then he works his way through a series of questions which, by its conclusion, draw out the story of Devon’s appointment back on September twelfth.

  “Do you recall the exam,” the prosecutor says, “or are you relying soley on your records?”

  “I do recall the exam, but I’ve also looked back at my records to refresh my recollection.”

  “And would you please tell the court what the typical sports physical exam entails?”

  “These exams are essentially well-child examinations, which are biennial, occurring once every two years, generally. During these exams, I take a cursory overall look at the patient’s health. In short, I work my way down the body from the head to the feet. I also rely on what the patient says about his or her own health.”

  “Do you routinely take blood or urine samples?”

  “No, not routinely, unless the patient complains of specific symptoms that I’d like to further investigate, or during the course of the examination I hear or feel something out of the ordinary.”

  “So, during this particular appointment, did the respondent complain of having any symptoms?”

  “Yes. Miss Davenport mentioned that she had been experiencing fatigue, which she attributed to her strenuous soccer practices. She also mentioned that she had been urinating more frequently than usual, approximately ten to twelve times each day. Specifically, she related her need to use the bathroom between classes several times throughout the school day. Also during the course of my examination, her mother, who was present in the exam room with her, stated that Miss Davenport had actually vomited that morning before coming to her appointment.”

  “Did the respondent concur with this statement that her mother made?”

  “Yes. Miss Davenport believed she had vomited that morning because the night before she had eaten spoiled tuna salad. In addition, on the morning of the appointment, her temperature was slightly elevated to one hundred point three.”

  “Would you say, Dr. Katial, that the symptoms which the respondent exhibited are consistent with morning sickness, and more specifically, pregnancy?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Katial says, “but vomiting, fatigue, and the need to urinate are symptoms of a number of ailments, not unique to pregnancy specifically.”

  “At the time of the respondent’s appointment, did you think pregnancy was a possibility?”

  “A possibility, yes, but the patient had told me that she had started her menses—her menstrual cycle—that morning, and that she had been menstruating regularly, generally every month. Also, she stridently expressed to me that she was not sexually active. And then an additional factor that I took into consideration was the matter of her slight temperature, which could indicate an infection of some sort. Since Miss Davenport told me she had started menstruating that morning, the likelihood that she could be pregnant fell, in my mind, as less of a possibility than, say, a urinary tract infection or even juvenile diabetes.”

  “Did you believe the respondent when she told you that she had started her period that morning?”

  “Yes. I had no reason to doubt her.” Dr. Katial pauses. “I generally take my patients at their word.”

  Devon has kept her head down during the entire exchange. The doctor knows the end of the story now, knows why he’s sitting in a witness stand answering a prosecutor’s questions. He thinks that she’d lied to him.

  Had she?

  Devon thinks back to the morning of the appointment. I kind of started my period today, Devon had told her mom, and my stomach’s a little crampy from that. Had she lied to her mom then? Because what she’d said hadn’t been the truth. But was desperately hoping that something was true and then expressing that hope to someone else a lie? And then her mom had suggested that Devon wear a pad so the doctor would get the subtle hint that she was menstruating. Is giving a “hint” based on a hope a lie?

  The doctor said he had no reason to doubt her, that he takes his patients at their word.

  Devon wonders what he thinks about that practice now. Has she, Devon Davenport, made it harder for him to ever fully trust his patients again?

  If she could, she’d tell him she’s sorry. I’m not having sex, she’d yelled at him. And that statement hadn’t been the whole truth, either. She didn’t want to face it then, but that day she knew—buried in some deep place inside herself, but still there—that she was being dishonest. She wanted him to believe that she was still a virgin.

  She wanted to believe it herself.

  “To narrow down the possibilities,” Dr. Katial is saying now, “the next step is to order tests. So I asked for a urine sample.”

  “And did the respondent give that sample to you?”

  “No, she did not. Miss Davenport was unable to urinate during the appointment. She was slightly dehydrated, as she had vomited that morning, so I asked that she return a sample to my office within the next day or two. My nurse sent her home with a clean catch urine sample container and instructions on how to do it properly.”

  “Yes, but did the respondent return that urine sample to your office, Dr. Katial?”

  “No, she never did.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Devon watches the prosecutor pace in front of his table. After a moment he says, “Dr. Katial, did you have any reason to believe that the respondent was trying to deceive you?”

  “I didn’t at the time of the appointment, no. But knowing what I know now—”

  Dom’s up. “Objection!”

  “I’ll sustain that.” Judge Saynisch turns to Dr. Katial. “Doc, you can only tell us what you’ve experienced. Not what you’ve learned later.”

  “I have no further questions, Your Honor,” the prosecutor says.

  Devon looks up. She watches Mr. Floyd return to his seat.

  Judge Saynisch looks over at Dom. “Defense?”

  Dom stands, but she doesn’t move from behind the table. “Dr. Katial,” she starts, “does the staff at the Urgent Care Center track whether or not its patients return specimen samples when a physician requests them?”

  “Not generally, no. Hundreds of patients each week require blood work or other specimen samples, or even scheduling for follow-up appointments. To track each and every patient would necessitate several full-time personnel be dedicated to that specific task.”

  “So how then would you know whether or not a patient has returned a specimen sample?”

  “Well, I, as a physician, see the lab results once they come in. I generally contact the patient only if the results are abnormal.”

  “In your experience, Dr.
Katial, do all of your patients follow your advice and return specimen samples, such as urine, to your office?”

  “No, not all. Most of my patients do want to get to the bottom of their medical issues, but, certainly, a small percentage are out there who just don’t follow up, for whatever reason.”

  “Okay, Dr. Katial. Let’s switch gears for a moment.” Dom looks down at a notebook before her, then walks around to the front of the defense table. “Is it possible for a woman to menstruate during her pregnancy?”

  “Not menstruation per se,” Dr. Katial says. “It’s what we call ‘spotting’—basically a bloody discharge, often slightly darker in color than menstrual blood. Spotting can occur when the fertilized egg implants in the uterine wall, usually around the sixth week of pregnancy.”

  “Is it true, Dr. Katial, that approximately one in five women, roughly twenty to twenty-five percent, experience spotting during pregnancy?”

  “I’m not familiar with the exact statistics as I’m sitting here. But, yes, that number sounds reasonable, based on my experience.”

  “And does spotting occur throughout the entire pregnancy?”

  “Generally not. When spotting does occur, it’s usually only during the first trimester.”

  “During the appointment on September twelfth, Devon would’ve been approximately five weeks pregnant, give or take. This would’ve been during the first trimester of her pregnancy, correct, Dr. Katial?”

  “If Miss Davenport had been pregnant for approximately six weeks at the time of her appointment, then yes.”

  “So, as you’re sitting here today, you can’t say definitively whether Devon was or was not spotting at the time of her appointment on September twelfth, can you, Dr. Katial?”

  “No, I cannot.”

  “And while you were examining Devon, did you notice if she was wearing any form of feminine protection, such as a sanitary napkin?”

  “Yes, I did observe that she was wearing a sanitary napkin.”

  “So given the fact that Devon told you that she was menstruating and was actually wearing a sanitary napkin—and because you generally take your patients at their word—you would agree that it is likely that Devon was indeed experiencing spotting at the time. Spotting, which she could have misconstrued as menstruation. True, Dr. Katial?”