Michael Crichton - A Case of Need

We climbed the steps and rang the doorbell.

RELUCTANTLY, the butler led us into the living room. It was no larger than the average-size basketball court, an immense room with a huge fireplace. Seated around the roaring fire were Mrs. Randall, in lounging pajamas, and Peter and J. D., both with large snifters of brandy in their hands.

The butler stood erectly by the door and said, “Dr. Berry and Mr. Wilson, sir. They said they were expected.”

J. D. frowned when he saw us. Peter sat back and allowed a small smile to cross his face. Mrs. Randall seemed genuinely amused.

J. D. said, “What do you want?”

I let Wilson do the talking. He gave a slight bow and said, “I believe you know Dr. Berry, Dr. Randall. I am George Wilson. I am Dr. Lee’s defense attorney.”

“That’s lovely,” J. D. said. He glanced at his watch. “But it’s nearly midnight, and I am relaxing with my family. I have nothing to say to either of you until we meet in court. So if you will—”

“If you will pardon me, sir,” Wilson said, “we have come a long way to see you. All the way from the Cape, in fact.”

J. D. blinked once and set his face rigidly. Peter coughed back a laugh. Mrs. Randall said, “What were you doing on the Cape?”

“Watching a bonfire,” Wilson said.

“A bonfire?”

“Yes,” Wilson said. He turned to J. D. “We’d like some brandies, please, and then a little chat.”

Peter could not suppress a laugh this time. J. D. looked at him sternly, then rang for the butler. He ordered two more brandies, and as the butler was leaving, he said, “Small ones, Herbert. They won’t be staying long.”

Then he turned to his wife. “If you will, my dear.”

She nodded and left the room.

“Sit down, gentlemen.”

“We prefer to stand,” Wilson said. The butler brought two small crystal snifters. Wilson raised his glass. “Your health, gentlemen.”

“Thank you,” J. D. said. His voice was cold. “Now what’s on your minds?”

“A small legal matter,” Wilson said. “We believe that you may wish to reconsider charges against Dr. Lee.”

“Reconsider?”

“Yes. That was the word I used.”

“There is nothing to reconsider,” J. D. said.

Wilson sipped the brandy. “Oh?”

“That’s right,” J. D. said.

“We believe,” Wilson said, “that your wife may have been mistaken in hearing that Dr. Lee aborted Karen Randall. Just as we believe that Peter Randall was mistaken when he reported his automobile stolen to the police. Or hasn’t he reported it yet?”

“Neither my wife, nor my brother, were mistaken,” J. D. said.

Peter coughed again and lit a cigar.

“Something wrong, Peter?” J.D. asked.

“No, nothing.”

He puffed the cigar and sipped his brandy.

“Gentlemen,” J. D. said, turning to us. “You are wasting your time. There has been no mistake, and there is nothing to reconsider.”

Wilson said softly, “In that case, it must go to court.”

“Indeed it must,” Randall said, nodding.

“And you will be called to account for your actions tonight,” Wilson said.

“Indeed we may. But we will have Mrs. Randall’s firm testimony that we spent the evening playing chess.” He pointed to a chessboard in the corner.

“Who won?” Wilson asked, with a faint smile.

“I did, by God,” Peter said, speaking for the first time. And he chuckled.

“How did you do it?” Wilson said.

“Bishop to knight’s twelve,” Peter said and chuckled again. “He is a terrible chess player. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times.”

“Peter, this is no laughing matter.”

“You’re a sore loser,” Peter said.

“Shut up, Peter.”

Quite abruptly, Peter stopped laughing. He folded his arms across his massive belly and said nothing more.

J. D. Randall savored a moment of silence, then said, “Was there anything else, gentlemen?”

“YOU SON OF A BITCH,” I said to Wilson. “You blew it.”

“I did my best.”

“You got him angry. You were forcing him into court.”

“I did my best.”

“That was the lousiest, rottenest—”

“Easy,” Wilson said, rubbing his scar.

“You could have scared him. You could have told them how it would go—the way you explained it to me in the bar. You could have told them about the pictures….”

“It wouldn’t have done any good,” Wilson said.

“It might.”

“No. They are determined to take the case to court. They—”

“Yes,” I said, “thanks to you. Strutting around like a self-satisfied bastard. Making cheap threats like a penny tough. Demanding a brandy—that was beautiful, that was.”

“I attempted to persuade them,” Wilson said.

“Crap.”

He shrugged.

“I’ll tell you what you did, Wilson. You pushed them into a trial, because you want one. You want an arena, a chance to show your stuff, a chance to make a name for yourself, to prove that you’re a ruthless hotshot. You know, and I know, that if the case ever comes to trial, Art Lee—no matter what the outcome—will lose. He’ll lose his prestige, his patients, maybe even his license. And if it comes to trial, the Randalls will also lose. They’ll be smeared, shot through with half-truths and implications, destroyed. Only one person will come out on top.”

“Yes?”

“You, Wilson. Only you can win in a trial.”

“That’s your opinion,” he said. He was getting angry. I was getting him.

“That’s a fact.”

“You heard J. D. You heard how unreasonable he was.”

“You could have made him listen.”

“No,” Wilson said. “But he’ll listen in court.” He sat back in the car and stared forward for a moment, thinking over the evening. “You know, I’m surprised at you, Berry. You’re supposed to be a scientist. You’re supposed to be objective about evidence. You’ve had a bellyful of evidence tonight that Peter Randall is guilty, and you’re still unhappy.”

“Did he strike you,” I said, “as a guilty man?”

“He can act.”

“Answer the question.”

“I did,” Wilson said.

“So you believe he’s guilty?”

“That’s right,” Wilson said. “And I can make a jury believe it, too.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“Then it’s too bad. Just the way it’s too bad that Mrs. Randall was wrong about Art Lee.”

“You’re making excuses.”

“Am I?” He shook his head. “No, man. You are. You’re playing the loyal doctor, right down the line. You’re sucking up to the tradition, to the conspiracy of silence. You’d like to see it handled nice and quietly, very diplomatic, with no hard feelings at the end.”

“Isn’t that the best way? The business of a lawyer,” I said, “is to do whatever is best for his client.”

“The business of a lawyer is to win his cases.”

“Art Lee is a man. He has a family, he has goals, he has personal desires and wishes. Your job is to implement them. Not to stage a big trial for your own glory.”

“The trouble with you, Berry, is that you’re like all doctors. You can’t believe that one of your own is rotten. What you’d really like to see is an ex-army medical orderly or a nurse on trial. Or a nice little old midwife. That’s who you’d like to stick with this rap. Not a doctor.”

“I’d like to stick the guilty person,” I said, “nobody else.”

“You know who’s guilty,” Wilson said. “You know damned well.”

I DROPPED WILSON OFF, then drove home and poured myself a very stiff vodka. The house was silent; it was after midnight.

I drank the vodka and thought about what I had seen. As Wilson had said, everything pointed to Peter Randall. There had been blood on his car, and he had destroyed the car. I had no doubt that a gallon of gasoline on the front seat would eliminate all evidence. He was clean, now—or would be, if we hadn’t seen him burning the car.