A Case of Need

by Michael Crichton

It was a young Negro girl.

The legislators are all men, and men don’t bear the babies; they can afford to be moralistic.

But politics and religion are dominated by the men, and the women are reluctant to push too hard. Which is bad, because abortion is their business—their infants, their bodies, their risk. If a million women a year wrote letters to their congressmen, you might see a little action. Probably not, but you might. Only the women won’t do it.”

I keep reminding myself that this was written in 1968.

I looked around the room: the chiefs of service from most of the big hospitals were there. So were the residents, and so were the wives. The wives had clustered in a corner, talking babies; the doctors were clustered into smaller groups, by hospital or by specialty. It was a kind of occupational division, very striking to see.

too—the gadget-oriented Orientals—

He didn’t have a drink in his hand, and he was smoking rather slowly and deeply. “Say,” I said, “you want to watch that.” He laughed. “My social protest for the night.” Judith said, “I tried to tell him somebody would smell it.” “Nobody here can smell anything,” Hammond said. It was probably true; the room was thick with blue smoke. “Besides, remember

“Still. Be Careful.” “Think of it,” he said, taking a deep drag. “No bronchogenic carcinoma, no oat-cell carcinoma, no chronic bronchitis and emphysema, no arteriosclerotic heart disease, no cirrhosis, no Wernicke-Korsakoff. It’s beautiful.”

“It’s illegal.” He smiled and pulled at his moustache. “You’re up for abortion but not maryjane, is that it?” “I can only take one crusade at a time.” A thought came to

There was only one person in the bar when I arrived, a heavyset, well-dressed Negro sitting at the far end, hunched over a martini. I sat down and ordered a Scotch. Thompson himself was bartending, his sleeves rolled up to expose massive, hairy forearms.

I said, “You’re with Bradford’s firm, is that it?” “Yes. I was hired a little over a year ago.” I nodded. “It was the usual thing,” Wilson said. “They gave me a good office with a view out to the reception desk, so that people coming in and out could see me. That kind of thing.” I knew what he was saying, but I still felt a twist of irritation. I had several friends who were young lawyers, and none of them had gotten an office of any kind for several years after joining a firm. By any objective standard, this young man was lucky, but it was no good telling him that, because we both knew why he was lucky—he was a kind of freak, a product which society had suddenly deemed valuable, an educated Negro. His horizons were now open and his future was good. But he was still a freak.

“I’m working on one,” Wilson said. “It’s going to take a lot of work, because it will have to be good. Because that jury’s going to see an uppity Negro defending a Chinese abortionist, and they won’t like it.” I sipped my drink. The second round

Berry. Old enough for me to remember from the days before my marriage, when I took girls to places like this for a wild evening, from the days when Negroes were sort of amusing, not people at all, just a musical

sideshow. The days when white boys could go to the Apollo in Harlem. The old days.

AROUND THE CORNER at the end of the block was a stand-up, self-service greasy spoon. Hamburgers twenty cents.

WHEN I FINISHED THE CALL I was feeling hungry, so I got a hot dog and coffee. Never a hamburger in a place like this. For one thing, they often use horsemeat or rabbit or entrails or anything else they can grind up. For another, there’s usually enough pathogens to infect an army. Take trichinosis—Boston has six times the national rate of infection from that. You can’t be too careful.