The Fortunate Ones

by Ed Tarkington

  Goldberg was lamenting this very fact when Marcus came in, holding a copy of the New Yorker. How many fifteen-year-old kids from the projects killed time reading the New Yorker? The question itself confesses the inherent bias which made us all so smitten with him.

  “I was just reading Jeffrey Toobin’s new piece,” Marcus said. “Have you been following the Carrie Benvenuto situation?”

  Who hadn’t? These were the years before iPhones and Facebook and Twitter, when the lingua franca of populist outrage was still twenty-four-hour cable news. After O. J., there was JonBenét. Monica Lewinsky fed the fix for a while. The 2000 election had turned out even better than Fox and CNN could have dreamed, with the ludicrous recount controversy and made-for-TV characters like the cartoonish Katherine Harris. Then came 9/11 and “shock and awe” and “Mission Accomplished.” But the public had wearied of the war in Iraq, which began as a patriotic movie with a happy ending but had turned out to be a depressingly long documentary series with no heroes or victories. The Benvenuto situation was a great way to give us all something else to argue about.

  In 1996, Carrie Benvenuto suffered a catastrophic stroke. She was thirty-one years old, a dental hygienist in Fort Walton Beach, Florida, with a prescription for Xanax to treat periodic panic attacks and a serious drinking habit she had managed to hide from everyone who knew her, with the possible exception of her husband, Chris, who claimed ignorance but drank heavily himself.

  When she came out of the initial coma, Carrie could not speak or respond in any way suggesting consciousness, but she could open her eyes and move her head. Her doctors determined that her brain function was nonexistent. After a year, her husband petitioned to have her feeding tube removed, in accordance with Florida law. Her parents, Bob and Marie Palacios, filed a motion of their own, insisting that Carrie be kept alive and signed over to their care.

  The story should have ended there, but for one key complication: the Benvenuto and Palacios families were Catholic. The parents insisted that their daughter was still “alive”; that removing her feeding tube was tantamount to murder. The husband refused to relinquish responsibility for her care to the parents and would not agree to a divorce. He’d started dating again and wanted to remarry in the church. There was also the matter of a substantial life insurance policy that would pay out to the next of kin. Even after resolving medical bills, the husband would pocket close to half a million dollars.

  The Palacios family did not seem much less craven than their estranged son-in-law. If he signed his wife’s care over to them, they’d become the policy’s beneficiaries. Furthermore, the right-to-life movement had been looking for a good cause to push back against the legalization of physician-assisted suicide.

  “What’s your point, Marcus?” Goldberg asked.

  “Baird is a doctor,” Marcus said. “I wonder what he thinks about it.”

  “Who cares?” Goldberg replied.

  “Lots of people,” Marcus said. “People who vote.”

  Goldberg stroked his chin.

  “Goddamn, kid,” he said. “You’re a fucking genius.”

  “I don’t follow,” Arch said.

  “Don’t you see?” Goldberg said. “Baird is a man of science. He knows goddamn well that the woman is brain-dead. Keeping her hooked up to a feeding tube is just prolonging the inevitable.”

  “How does that help us?” Arch asked.

  “We just need to force Baird to take a position,” Goldberg said. “He’s screwed either way. The doctors aren’t on the fence. Any rational person can see that the law favors the husband. If he goes with the right-to-life crowd, he gets called out as a liar and a phony. The rubes might love it, but the press will murder him. If he says what he really thinks, he’ll lose the evangelicals. And Baird’s Catholic. He’d be contradicting the motherfucking pope. Every mackerel snapper in the country will call him a traitor.”

  Bart Walsh reddened. “I’m Catholic, you foul-mouthed son of a bitch,” he said.

  “Sorry, Bart,” Goldberg said. “But I’m right, yes?”

  Walsh loosened his tie. “Yes,” he muttered. “But it could backfire. Whatever Baird says, he’ll most likely spin it as dirty politics. A desperation tactic. A distraction. You have a reputation for that, you know.”

  “He’ll never know it came from us,” Goldberg said.

  “How are you going to pull that off?” Walsh asked.

  “What you don’t know, you don’t have to deny, Bart,” Goldberg said. “Leave it to me. Besides, at this point, we’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “Don’t make me look like an asshole, Andy,” Arch said.

  “That’s what you pay me for,” Goldberg said. “And I’m worth every penny.”

  Arch clapped Marcus on the shoulder. “Well done, young man,” he said.

  Marcus nodded and slipped back out the door with his magazine.

  “What do you think, Charlie?” Arch asked.

  I thought the whole story was cheap and manipulative—pure exploitation by the cable news piranhas, shallow on the part of the politicians, tawdry and embarrassing for the families. But something had turned in me.

  The shine had long since come off Arch. The facade of noble compromise—the notion that you had to do a few nasty things to be in a position to do good things—had given way to naked ambition. I no longer believed that Arch wanted to serve the greater good; he just wanted to win. Still, I couldn’t stand Dan Baird.

  Why did I loathe him so? He was what Arch was supposed to be. He loved his wife and appeared to be faithful to her. He had principles. He’d devoted his life to serving others when he could have simply enjoyed his wealth and watched it multiply. He went to church and never once looked like he was doing it to appear holier than the rest of us. He never said a cross word about anyone.

  Maybe this was precisely why I despised him. If Dan Baird was what Arch was supposed to be, where did I stack up? I’d been given so much and done next to nothing of value with it. I lied when it suited me. I had no faith. My only guiding principles were self-interest and a remora-like devotion to Arch—a devotion that had not prevented me from coveting his wife.

  “Well?” Arch said.

  If Baird was truly as good as he seemed, I thought, then Arch was a charlatan, and I was a pig. Maybe this nasty little trap was the answer—the way to prove Arch’s contention that no one could reach the pinnacle without compromising himself.

  “Do it,” I said.

  They held the last debate at Rhodes in Memphis. I stood with Marcus and Vanessa near Andy Goldberg, who watched the moderator’s table the entire night, chewing on his nails, pacing occasionally. Perhaps he wasn’t certain his ploy would come to fruition. He needn’t have worried. The two moderators were both reporters from the Commercial Appeal, which had been hemorrhaging subscribers and advertising revenue for years. Neither one gave a shit about which millionaire ended up as the Republican nominee. No political beat writer would pass an opportunity to get national exposure on Hardball or The O’Reilly Factor or get a story picked up by the Associated Press.

  With about thirty minutes to go, one of the moderators started in.

  “Dr. Baird,” he said. “You’re aware of the ongoing controversy in Florida over the Benvenuto case, are you not?”

  “I am,” Baird said.

  “Then you must also be aware that Congress has been called upon to intervene,” the journalist said. “If elected to the Senate, where would you side on the issue?”

  “Well, it’s a complex case, Carl,” Baird said.

  “Yes, but you’ve seen the video of Mrs. Benvenuto, and you’ve followed the case. As a physician, you must have an opinion.”

  “I am a physician,” Baird said. “But I’m not Mrs. Benvenuto’s physician, nor am I a neurologist. Do I have an opinion? Indeed I do. Everyone has an opinion. You know how much those opinions are worth when you don’t know all the facts? Squat.”

  “But as a celebrated surgeon,” the journalist continued, “su
rely your opinion would matter a great deal to your colleagues in the Senate. So would you mind sharing it with the audience?”

  Baird paused for a moment before answering.

  “I have seen the footage,” he said. “It’s deeply touching to watch. Mrs. Benvenuto smiles. She makes noises, which sound like efforts to speak. She seems to respond as if she were conscious. But I’ve also read summaries of the reports on the tests of her brain function. These tests have been conducted multiple times in multiple facilities by multiple experts. Each time, they have been conclusive. In my judgment, this is not a right-to-life issue. Her heart is beating, but she will never recover consciousness. Her body will never be able to survive without the help of machines. By law, the decision to continue artificial life support or to cease falls to her next of kin. That person happens to be her husband, not her parents. There’s no disputing this fact. Hence, the choice, however heartbreaking, belongs to him. As much as I may personally disagree with his choice, the law in this matter is clear.”

  “If she were your wife,” the journalist asked, “would you do the same?”

  “In my career, I’ve performed dozens of transplant surgeries,” Baird said. “In almost every case, the heart that saved a life came from the body of a person whose loved ones had to confront these exact circumstances. This is why Eleanor and I are both organ donors, and why we have a notarized living will. So yes, Carl, I would do the same, and I know for a fact that, given the choice, Eleanor would also.”

  The audience did not react much one way or the other, but, next to me, Andy Goldberg swelled.

  “I know I’m not an expert like Dr. Baird, Carl,” Arch said. “But do I get to weigh in?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Creigh,” the journalist said.

  Arch placed his hands on the lectern. His smile closed into an expression of solemnity.

  “I, too, have seen the video footage,” Arch said. “I find it hard to believe Mrs. Benvenuto has no brain function whatsoever. She certainly seems to be not just alive, but conscious. But as I’ve said, I’m no expert. I am, however, a man of faith. And my faith teaches me that all life is sacred, regardless of whether it can sustain itself without assistance. That goes for the unborn as well as for the sick.”

  I glanced over at Vanessa. Her eyes were locked on Arch, her jaw set firm, her face calm and serene, unwavering.

  “I believe our elected officials have a moral obligation to protect those who can’t protect themselves, even from their own husbands or mothers,” Arch said. “So while in principle I believe we should defer to the judgment of expert medical professionals, I don’t think it’s appropriate for Congress to just stand aside and let such a sensitive matter be settled with cold reason rather than compassion.”

  “Dr. Baird, fifteen seconds,” the journalist said.

  “You’re right about one thing, Mr. Creigh,” Baird said. “You’re not an expert.”

  “No, sir, I’m not,” Arch said. “But I know what it feels like to lose a child. And I know my wife and I would have given anything for just one more minute with her. And I think if I were Carrie Benvenuto’s father, I’d prefer my daughter’s fate be in God’s hands, not the hands of so-called experts.”

  Vanessa had disappeared. So I went after her.

  I found her on the loading dock outside the theater, clutching herself, gazing out past the lights illuminating the parking lot, watching the dark.

  “Don’t say it,” she said.

  “Say what?”

  “That it’s just politics.”

  “I would never say that,” I said. “You know I wouldn’t.”

  She sighed.

  “Did you ever tell him?” I asked.

  “Did you?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “I made a promise.”

  She turned to face me.

  “That’s right,” she said. “You always keep your promises, don’t you?”

  “Not always,” I said.

  “But you’d keep his secrets,” she said. “And mine.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Come here,” she said.

  I stepped toward her. She grasped the lapels of my jacket and pulled my face close to hers. When her lips brushed against mine, I neither expected it nor was I surprised.

  “You’ve thought about that, haven’t you?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’ve thought about it too.”

  She let go of my jacket and stepped away. In the dim light of the loading dock, her eyes were without pity or anger or desire. “There’s another secret for you,” she said.

  She returned in time to join Arch onstage at the conclusion of the debate, where she smiled and shook hands with Dan Baird and his wife and children.

  In a little over six months, Carrie Benvenuto’s feeding tube would be removed. Two weeks later, she would die, and an autopsy would reveal that she had, in fact, been in a vegetative state. But the special election for US senator from Tennessee would be long over by then.

  The exchange made the national news. Baird didn’t help himself by backing away from his original remarks in interviews. Sound bites and pull quotes are not the ideal media for complexity of thought and reasoning. Right-to-life activists descended upon Tennessee to help get out the vote. By the Friday before the election, the polls gave Arch a slim lead.

  I couldn’t rejoice at Arch’s good luck. I kept thinking of the look that had passed over Vanessa’s face when Arch made those remarks about the rights of the unborn, and the words she’d said to me and the kiss we’d shared. Was it true that Arch didn’t know? I had no idea. I doubted knowing would have changed anything. If Baird had supported the other side of the Benvenuto controversy, Arch would have argued for science and reason and organ donation and cast aspersions on Baird’s fidelity to the code of medical ethics.

  Arch must have sensed my disgust. Or maybe I just looked tired.

  “You should take the night off,” he said.

  We were leaving in less than an hour for a rally in Chattanooga. There were lots of evangelicals and Catholics registered to vote there.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “It’s okay,” Arch said. “I can take Marcus. I bet he’s never stayed in a hotel like the Chattanoogan. We’ll give him your room and let him order a shitload of room service. He’ll love it.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” Arch said. “Get some rest.”

  He didn’t need to twist my arm. I left without speaking to anyone. I drove home in silence. When I went into my house, I walked straight into my bedroom without even turning on a single light and fell face-forward onto the bed. I woke a few hours later to a knock on the door. It was Vanessa.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  She didn’t say a word. She just walked right past me, straight to my bedroom. By the time I’d shut and locked the door, she was already slipping out of her clothes.

  fifteen

  Arch was too preoccupied with his lunch meeting even to ask how I’d spent my night off. He immersed himself in the endless phone calls and the tension of a manic race sliding toward at least a temporary conclusion, buoyed by the growing promise of victory.

  At the end of the day, we were huddled in the campaign office, drinking coffee and listening to Goldberg read off the agenda, when my BlackBerry buzzed. Jamie Haltom’s name and number appeared on the screen.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “I need you to get over here as soon as you can,” he said. “It’s important.” He didn’t sound drunk.

  “Who is it?” Arch asked.

  I put my hand over the receiver.

  “Fucking Jamie,” I said.

  No one seemed able anymore to speak of Jamie without prefacing his name with some profanity.

  “Get rid of him,” Goldberg said.

  “I can’t talk,” I said.

  “You need to come over here,” Jamie said. “To the resta
urant. Now.”

  “What for?”

  “Just do it, would you? This is no joke.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Jamie,” I said.

  “Trust me, I’m not fucking with you.”

  “All right,” I said. “Hold on.”

  I covered the receiver again.

  “He says he needs me to go over to the restaurant,” I said.

  “Now?” Arch asked.

  “He says it’s really important.”

  “Go ahead,” Arch said.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “It’s fine,” he said. “We’re almost done here. Go put Jamie’s fire out and then get some rest.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “No worries, bud.”

  The drive took less than fifteen minutes. Jamie was waiting for me at the door.

  “Come on,” he said. “I put them downstairs.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Jamie had converted the basement into a wine cellar, which also served as a private room for intimate dinner parties. I followed him through the dining room into a dark corridor and down a staircase lit with copper sconces.

  “Go on in,” he said. “I’ll make sure no one comes down.”

  “Cut the cloak-and-dagger shit, Jamie,” I said.

  He shook his head. “I’ll be upstairs,” he said.

  At a large table in the center of the room sat Nick Averett, an open laptop computer in front of him.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  “I think I’ll stand.”

  “You’re going to need a seat after you see what I have to show you.”

  Averett turned the laptop around so I could see the screen. A grainy video was playing. There is no need to describe what it displayed.