The Birth of New Fraud Legislation

Imagine receiving a DNA self-test kit as a birthday gift. The anticipation, the excitement, the possibilities. And the answers! Questions like “where do I come from?” and “what makes me who I am?” are almost as embedded in our human coding as the scores of complex proteins and ribosomes that constitute the unique composition of every individual. In just a few short years, DNA technology has evolved enough to allow anyone to hold their genetic story in the palm of their hand. With the help of a simple saliva swab, any paying customer can unearth the secrets hidden inside the intricate web of ancestry that makes everybody who they are.

But that’s the thing about secrets: sometimes, there’s a reason for keeping them buried. The average genetic test-taker (usually customers of companies like 23andMe, GED Match or Ancestry.com) might typically expect to find out, say, what percent Neanderthal they are. But for some, creating a genetic profile can lead to consequences of unfathomable magnitudes. 

A Fraud Scheme Is Born

This was the experience that Jacoba Ballard, a 41-year-old Indianapolis resident, found herself encountering firsthand when she began searching in earnest for her long-lost half-siblings in 2014. Ballard had known since childhood that her parents struggled with infertility and that she was conceived via sperm donation; thus, she figured she might have perhaps one, maybe two other siblings out there who were conceived by the same donor. She began poking around 23andMe: creating a profile, connecting with other users who share her DNA and comparing notes. Before too long, she had located not just one half-sibling, but a whopping eight adults who were all conceived using the same anonymous donor. As Ballard continued investigating, she soon learned the horrifying truth: her biological father was, in fact, the fertility doctor who had treated her mother. For decades, he had deceived his patients into believing that sperm samples being used were from medical students when, in fact, he had been the donor all along.

The doctor in question is Dr. Donald Cline. He and his troubling misdeeds are the subject of a new Netflix documentary, “Our Father.” Onscreen text at the conclusion of the film informs viewers that, at the time of the film’s release, at least 94 donor children have been confirmed as the result of Cline’s fraudulent medical practices — and more are discovered every year.

Setting aside philosophical questions of genetic origins, Dr. Cline’s actions present another insistent inquiry: why? Because he has consistently declined to speak with his donor children or answer questions from law enforcement investigators, Cline’s motives for pulling off such an outrageous charade remain entirely up for speculation. “Our Father” puts forth several compelling theories: possibly, he was a fan of eugenics and trying to create a kind of “master race.” Or it could’ve been a science experiment — maybe he wanted to measure his biological children’s developmental milestones in some way. 

There is some evidence of Cline’s involvement with the “Quiverfull” movement — an extremist arm of evangelical Christianity which seeks to populate the planet with as many children as possible, thus fulfilling Biblical obligations regarding fruitfulness and multiplicity. The possibility also remains that Cline didn’t think he was doing anything wrong and, in fact, may have thought he was actually helping his patients by inseminating them. After all, at the height of his career, Cline was regarded as the leading fertility specialist in the Indianapolis area, long before sperm banks or donor catalogues were as much a part of the zeitgeist as mail-in DNA tests. Cline was known as the doctor who used fresh sperm on his patients when frozen sperm, more commonly utilized at the time, failed to result in a viable pregnancy. 

What he neglected to disclose, however, was the source of the samples. It is now known that Cline was using his own sperm to inseminate his patients, but, until he was caught, he insisted that samples came from medical students and that each donor was responsible for no more than three successful pregnancies total. Regardless of what his true motives were, the fact remains that Dr. Cline misrepresented his services to his patients who, without advancements in technology, might never have grown wise to his fraud. 

A New Fraud Law Is Conceived

Fraudulent as his actions were, the doctor’s victims encountered a frustrating amount of difficulty getting him charged with anything. “Our Father” shows Ballard and her army of half-siblings coming up against one baffling legal stumbling block after another. Upon learning the truth, four of the siblings filed a complaint with the Indiana Attorney General, which triggered an investigation. Initially, they tried to get him charged with rape but were unsuccessful. Ditto with “battery with bodily waste” — the state of Indiana defines this act as a felony only if the assault itself is performed “in a rude, insolent, or angry manner.” Ultimately, Cline was charged with just two acts of obstruction of justice in connection with his response to a letter from the Attorney General’s office, in which he stated that he had never used his own sperm on any of his patients. 

It seems peculiar that no attorney advised any of the siblings to pursue fraud charges against Dr. Cline — after all, he accepted money from clients, entered into a contractual agreement with them, then misrepresented his services rendered, creating pain and trauma of immeasurable quantity. Though, even this legal strategy may have proved fruitless, as this specific type of fraud was not technically illegal under Indiana state statutes at the time. It took grassroots action from Matt White, another one of Cline’s illicitly conceived children, to push for Indiana’s “fertility-fraud” bill, which was signed into state law in 2019. Since then, similar laws have been passed in states like Texas, Colorado and Florida, with others looking to follow suit. The establishment of such laws makes the misrepresentation of sperm sources by fertility doctors a crime punishable by fines or even jail time. The victims of fertility fraud have, in essence, written into existence laws which weren’t there in the first place — laws which arguably should have been on the books all the way back in the 1970s, when the science of infertility was emerging as a serious medical field.

If the power to know one’s own DNA history can be distributed at will, then it stands to reason that an individual may also be called to summon their own justice. After all, if one asks the question but finds the answer unsatisfying, what better way to take back control of the narrative than by rewriting the rules? Although Dr. Cline himself didn’t face any serious consequences for his actions, more legislation might help prevent future fertility fraudsters from carrying out these types of schemes, with the power to shatter numerous lives — and still counting.