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“All this happened because there weren’t separate lines on the computer form for payee’s name and donor’s name, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And who made this determination that there should only be one line and not two?”
By now, Binick’s long scaly face was shiny with his nervous perspiration. He drew out a tissue from his pocket and started blotting. “It would have cost more money to have added another line.”
“So it was your decision to pinch pennies instead of providing adequate space on your computer form?”
“I object to that unfair characterization, Your Honor,” Sato said.
“Sustained,” the judge ruled. “No editorials, counselor.”
“I’ll rephrase,” Marc responded. “Mr. Binick, was it your decision to restrict space on your computer form, an action that caused David Demerchant’s sperm to be doled out to your clients instead of preserved?”
“We didn’t just dole it out! We kept track of who got whose sperm and how well the sperm did. When none of the first six women we inseminated with David Demerchant’s sperm conceived, we rechecked it and found that its motility was impaired so it was withdrawn from donor status.”
“Let’s take this one step at a time, Mr. Binick. Did you or did you not make the decision about the space on the computer form?”
“I—”
“Yes or no, Mr. Binick.”
Binick sank even more in his chair, looking like he wished he could slither beneath it. “Yes.”
“Now, would you please explain to this jury in common, everyday language what you mean by the motility of David’s sperm being impaired?”
“In order for sperm to fertilize an egg they have to be vigorous swimmers. When one of our lab technicians checked David Demerchant’s sperm, she found they were lazy and did not meet the high standards we uphold at Bio-Sperm.”
“Are you trying to tell this court that David Demerchant’s sperm could not have produced a child?”
“His sperm were mobile enough for conception, given time. It’s just that our clients pay for each insemination attempt, and they become impatient when nothing is immediately forthcoming. So we try to provide them with only very vigorous sperm to speed up their becoming pregnant. Which is why when we discovered the motility problem, we removed David Demerchant’s storage tubes from the donor storage receptacle.”
“You mean you destroyed his sperm,” Marc repeated for emphasis.
“Yes.”
“You destroyed David Demerchant’s sperm, sperm you were supposed to be holding for him to insure his progeny?”
“I—”
“Yes or no, Mr. Binick?”
Binick’s eyes flitted to the jury, then back to Marc. His tongue darted out nervously. “Yes.”
“You are responsible for destroying sperm that you knew was supremely important to preserve, because it was the only hope for the Demerchant line, yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“And by destroying that sperm, you have destroyed Louie Demerchant’s dream of having a great-grandchild through the surrogate mother of his choice, haven’t you, yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Binick, because of your mistake, you have literally doomed the distinguished Demerchant family line to extinction, haven’t you, yes or no?”
“Well...no.”
“No?” Marc repeated, barely able to believe his ears. “Mr. Binick, did you or did you not just admit that Bio-Sperm destroyed David Demerchant’s sperm?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“But, nothing. It was the only chance that the Demerchant line had of continuing. Now there’ll never be a child to carry on the Demerchant name. Isn’t that true?”
“Well, none to carry on the name, perhaps. But—”
“Perhaps? Mr. Binick, when I took your deposition two months ago, you said none of those six women conceived from David’s sperm. Are you trying to say now that one of them did?”
“Oh, no. None of those women conceived. That’s why the lab technician tested the sperm, destroyed it and inactivated David’s computer file, as I said. That’s also the reason why it wasn’t until last week, when we were updating and cross-checking our files, that we found her, you see.”
“Found her. Found who?”
“I have a computer printout of her record right here,” Binick said, his sweaty hands diving into his pocket, dragging out a piece of folded paper that he subsequently shoved at Marc. “See?”
Marc took the paper, unfolded it and quickly perused its contents. “All I see is a bunch of computer codes, Mr. Binick. What is this supposed to mean?”
“It’s all the details about the seventh client. She didn’t get on David’s computer file because at the same time the recipient was receiving David’s sperm, another lab technician was testing David’s sperm, ordering it destroyed, and inactivating his file. That’s also why the positive take wasn’t subsequently recorded.”
“Positive take? Mr. Binick, are you saying this seventh woman received David Demerchant’s sperm and conceived?”
Binick rubbed his tiny scale of a nose as his thin, pushed-out face spread into its first smile. “She not only conceived, Mr. Truesdale, she gave birth to David Demerchant’s baby nine months later.”
Marc stared at Binick, mute in his shock, unable to ask another question for several seconds. It was just as well. He wouldn’t have been heard anyway. The courtroom had exploded with the impact of Binick’s dropped bomb.
A few members of the press, who had commandeered most of the spectator seats, were jumping up and heading for the door, eager to be the first to get out the news. The judge rapped and called for order, but to no immediate avail. Only after she threatened to clear the courtroom did the spectators begin to quiet down.
And all the time Marc’s thoughts were in a whirl as he contemplated the far-reaching ramifications of what this witness had just said.
A woman had given birth to David’s baby? A part of his friend had survived, after all? No, it was too fantastic. It couldn’t be true. Binick had to be pulling a fast one.
Marc’s eyes swung to his client. Louie Demerchant was staring hard at Binick. Gone was the cold, bitter despair that had dwelt in the faded gray eyes for the past two years. In its place was something that looked suspiciously like hope.
Damn. Of course Louie wanted to believe it. What man in his position wouldn’t? Which was why Binick was perpetrating this fraud. And that’s when Marc realized just how cruel a deception this was. He could taste the heat of growing anger on his tongue.
Finally, the courtroom quieted and the judge motioned for Marc to proceed. He wasted no time.
“Mr. Binick, let me get this straight. You’re now saying that your misuse of David Demerchant’s sperm has produced a child?”
“Yes.”
Marc leaned as close to his witness as he dared and let the sarcastic sneer come through in his voice. “Do you really expect this court to believe that after two years of being certain that David Demerchant’s sperm was destroyed without issue, a week before this trial you just happened to find this seventh woman who just happened to have conceived from David Demerchant’s sperm?”
Binick rubbed his hands nervously across the chair arms. Fresh sweat popped out on his upper lip. He had a scared-but-resolute look in his eyes.
“I know it defies the odds, Mr. Truesdale. But, well, it happened, so it just proves that long shots do come in sometimes.”
“The odds against this long shot coming in must defy all the probabilities of chance,” Marc said in a cold, cutting voice.
“Your Honor, I object,” Sato said.
“Sustained,” the judge said.
“What is the name of this woman?” Marc demanded.
“Remy Westbrook.”
“And you claim this Remy Westbrook came to Bio-Sperm for impregnation and was given David Demerchant’s sperm?”
“I don’t just claim it. I know it to be true.”
“How do you know it?”
“By our records, of course.”
“Would those be the same records that caused you to misdirect David Demerchant’s sperm to the donor banks, and which ultimately led to its destruction?”
Binick sank again in his chair. “I explained how that mistake happened.”
“Yes, you put the wrong name on a form. What makes you so sure you haven’t entered another wrong name on Mrs. Westbrook’s form?”
“I showed you the computer printout. Her record doesn’t have a name, it has David Demerchant’s code. This is not a mistake. She got David Demerchant’s sperm. I swear it.”
“You swear it. Like you swore to Louie Demerchant that you would preserve his grandson’s sperm? What good is your word, Mr. Binick? You were ready to pass off someone else’s sperm as David’s!”
The slithering tongue darted out once more. “It was a joke. I told you that! I wouldn’t have really done it! I’m truly devastated about what happened.”
“You’re truly devastated. How do you think Louie Demerchant feels?”
“But there is a child now! He has a great-grandchild!”
“That remains to be proved, Mr. Binick. How well do you know this Remy Westbrook?”
“I don’t know her. She’s just a computer record to me. But my attorney has arranged for her to be present here today in anticipation that you might wish to talk to her. She’s waiting outside this courtroom right now.”
Marc swung toward the bench. “Your Honor, I would like to interrupt my examination of this witness to call this Mrs. Westbrook to the stand.”
“Does the defense have any objection?” the judge asked.
“No,” Sato replied.
“Then bring her in, bailiff.”
Binick slid out of the witness chair and slunk back to the defense table. Like everyone else in the packed courtroom, Marc faced toward the back, eager to see this woman. He didn’t for a moment believe this preposterous story. He’d get to the bottom of it even if it meant tearing her to shreds on the stand.
She was either dumb and had been duped, or she’d been paid to lie. Either way, he was prepared to deal with her; he knew what to expect.
Or at least he thought he did...until she stepped into the courtroom.
Chapter Two
Remy Westbrook’s brown silk dress rustled its gold-and-persimmon flowers against the long slim legs of her five-foot-eight-inch frame. Her high heels clicked on the tiled courtroom floor, an echoing percussion to the rhythm of her long limbs. She held her head high on well-defined, erect shoulders that swung ever so slightly in sensuous synergy with her hips. Her thick, straight chocolate hair lifted off a lovely, serene face—sailing far down her back as though being blown by a slight breeze.
Despite the fact that the last time Marc had seen those legs they had been rising out of running shoes, he knew he would have recognized them anywhere. He also knew he had been wrong. If he had waited to see Remy Westbrook’s face, he definitely would not have been wasting his time.
Marc had always been a sucker for long legs, high heels and a long romantic dress—the combination never failing to set off a violin string or two in his head. But as he watched her enter the courtroom that morning, he suddenly found every red-blooded male corpuscle in his body throbbing to a steamy, sophisticated, sultry jazz beat.
He stared, openly and admiringly, following every inch of her progress, along with every other male eye in the courtroom. Yet she gave no sign that she was aware of any scrutiny. In complete contrast to the hot pulse of her walk, her pale face and serene cinnamon eyes broadcast an ultracool calm.
She passed within inches of him on her way to the witness stand, yet she did not as much as glance in his direction. He caught her fragrance—sweet spice kissed with pepper—a scent that enveloped his nose in one instant, only to vanish in the next, tantalizing a lot more than just his curiosity.
The court clerk swore her in. She claimed the witness chair on a collected downbeat and nonchalantly crossed those long, luscious legs. She leaned back, effortlessly serene and composed.
He stared at her, this time with a different object in mind. He’d always found quiet staring to be one of his most effective beginning techniques with an unexpected witness; in fact, he was capable of rattling even the calmest of countenances.
But he soon realized that this witness was unaffected by his stare. She sat smack-dab in the middle of this courtroom—clearly the focus of all attention—and yet she also clearly dwelt inside some quiet, self-contained center, totally separate and apart from these proceedings.
The way she walked on those luscious legs could melt any lawyer’s brief. But it was her detached, untouchable air that began to set off all sorts of interesting twitches inside his body. Being ignored by an attractive woman was not something Marc Truesdale was used to—and this one was definitely doing just that. His fascination grew.
“Please state your complete name for the record,” he said.
“Remy Westbrook.”
Her voice was liquid and languid, leaving a pleasant vibration in its wake. Marc honed in on her cinnamon eyes, determined to break through their tranquil shell. He drew his lips back in a smile, the kind of sincere smile that had proved effective on females from eight to eighty.
“Mrs. Westbrook, my name is Marc Truesdale. I’m the attorney for Mr. Louie Demerchant, the plaintiff in this case.”
She reacted not at all to his smile, in either expression or tone. “My name is not Mrs. Westbrook.”
He leaned forward, all polite attention. “Didn’t you just say your name was Westbrook?”
“I’m not married.”
“Oh, I see,” he said with another smile as he rocked back on his heels. Naturally, Binick had selected a single woman. A married one would have involved dealing with a husband, as well. Better to keep the dumb dupes or paid-off confederates few.
“Please excuse the error, Miss Westbrook. Or do you prefer Ms.?”
“I prefer Doctor.”
Marc did a double take. “Doctor? Of what?”
