by Chris Bauer
What the senator and Higby both knew: Larinda Jordan would be listening. She did not miss a sermon.
“Yesterday an attorney presented to the Supreme Court an argument regarding a case first decided in my home state of Texas, but the case could have been decided anywhere. Texans know the case’s importance, and the reasons the original decision was handed down. To inform women. To let them know that a fetus feels pain earlier than first thought. Not all women, not all Americans, agree it is necessary to teach women with child about the life they carry inside them, and that, my friends, is a shame. However,” he raised his index finger to make his point, visually scanning the studio, connecting with his small audience, “there is such a thing as too literal an interpretation of the Bible. And trust me, my friends in Christ, that I do know me some Bible.” He winked at the senator while he dialed up a little down-home vernacular. “And an eye for an eye only makes everyone blind.
“We need to let this judicial process play out. I, and the rest of the faithful, implore whoever is responsible for these horrific, violent acts against these clinics to please stop. If the urge to commit this violence rears itself again, call me, or the studio, or another clergyman. Call someone. The message you are sending is wrong. The justices our representatives have chosen as our nation’s interpreters of the law are smart, caring people; each of them, young and old, new and not so new, from wherever they hail. They are sworn to follow America’s jurisdictional bible, the United States Constitution. But like us, they are human. Imperfect. And like us, they can be led down a sinful path. God will forgive them if they seek His forgiveness. God will give them the grace they need to make things right, however many times they are called. We, the faithful, pray that this time, they do. That this time when they rule, they will see the light. That they will correct the sins of the past. But they must be given their space to do so. The space to let the process happen, without interference.
“And now I have the distinct pleasure of introducing a U.S. Senate stalwart for over thirty years, a woman who has done everything humanly possible to help shape the American judicial process in God’s image. One of the faithful. A true Christian, a true Texan, and a true American. My friend for over forty years, Senator Mildred Folsom.”
The reverend reached over, offered a fist bump to his tag team partner in Christ. The senior senator returned it. The small audience in the studio clapped and hollered.
“Reverend, thank you very much. I won’t take up much of your time, ’cause I know some of you out there still got to slop the hogs, dig the well or dress some beef before breakfast. (Laughter.) Aside from reinforcing the reverend’s message about non-violence, and adding that I too am a good listener should those who are responsible want to reach out, I have one important notion to get across today. There walks among us, assuming she is still alive forty-plus years after her birth, a person most of us would not believe exists. Someone who is the antithesis of all the other someones whose lives were terminated. Those terminated someones, because of a certain Supreme Court decision, now number in the millions. I speak, of course, of Jane Roe’s baby. Because nature took its course before Roe v Wade was decided, she was not aborted. Yes, she is out there, an adoptee, but no, she has never known who she is.
“So we need to ask ourselves this: If you were this person, how would you feel if you suddenly learned your identity? Would you be happy to have lived your life? Happy to have produced your own progeny? Knowing the alternative, yes, of course you’d be happy, and thankful, for all of it. But would you be thankful enough to want to make a difference for future unborn lives? One would hope so. Now take it a step further and indulge me. One of you is this person. The Roe baby. If given the opportunity to preserve life, as this person you should choose to do so in acknowledgment of the death you were spared. And, again reiterating the reverend, you must have faith in the judicial process. Have faith that we, the faithful, have put the right justices in place to achieve this outcome. What is upon us now is a decision that will stop the marginalization of the unborn. Let the process that is in place for producing that decision produce it. Thank you, and may God bless you.”
There had been four distinct references to, or more like messages from, ‘The Faithful’ on the reverend’s program. Larinda counted them. This was code. It meant listen up, Larinda, this broadcast is for you.
The message: no more clinic attacks, no more violence, period, and oh, by the way, you need to call us. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to talk with her. The blogger, the reverend, the senator. Federal agencies. Everyone wanted her to come in.
She tapped on the steering wheel, processing this. Her SUV crossed the bridge, and a beautiful day that had started out with so much promise in Arlington had soured, rain coming down in torrents on the Georgetown side. She killed the radio, listened to the rhythmic swipe of her wipers as the SUV crept forward in the traffic.
For her, the math was obvious. With the new associate justice in place, every Supreme Court decision Larinda might care about from that point forward would be five-to-four or worse, always the wrong way. She didn’t get the senator’s logic. It was out of character for The Faithful to leave something to chance.
‘Let the decision be rendered. Do not interfere. Trust us. It will all work out.’
They were speaking in tongues. The things she had done at their behest over the years, in the name of God. Horrific things. Larinda was living proof The Faithful did not risk outcomes to random throws of the dice.
Someone, the liberal left, the feminists, the atheists, all of them, holding a gun to their heads. No other explanation. Political blackmail. To get to Larinda. To help neutralize her as a threat.
In Georgetown now, she headed to Waterfront Park, but she made a snap decision. A hard left into an entrance road curled her around under the Key Bridge the blacktop ending at a festively colored boathouse. The thunderheads that shuttled through had dumped their rain and dissipated, revealing a morning sun that blazed against the bridge’s concrete arches, steaming away the dull wet gray, and in that process returning the arches to a clean, Caribbean-sand white. She switched off the wipers, parked, and got out. The Potomac lapped against the boathouse docks, was a bit rough, its aggression left over from the downpour. The boathouse hadn’t opened yet. Fluorescent-colored kayaks were layered haphazardly on the docks like flopped flounder, and next to them were canoes as bright as the kayaks, stacked neatly. Paddleboats were tied to the docks. She breathed in, today’s air crisp but not chilly.
‘Let the Court decision be rendered.’
No.
‘Trust us.’
No.
‘Call someone.’
Maybe. To give them a chance to explain themselves. Plus she needed them to do something.
With the sun out again the river quickly calmed itself, became understated and pleasant. Above her on the bridge beeping horns, accelerating engines and coughing exhaust pipes cluttered the noise scape. Down here, no such congestion, just a quiet river.
She decided. This would be her escape route out of Georgetown. Yes. She’d need to get to the river.
She picked out a few smooth stones from the shore, winged them into the water where they skipped before dropping below the surface like the stones that they were. She took her phone from her pocket.
‘Call someone.’
She keyed in a text message to Reverend Higby, short and to the point.
—I need meds.
Naomi entered the Supreme Court conference room. Wood paneling, built-in bookcases stuffed with law texts, a centered Oriental rug in reds and blacks and blues covering a hardwood floor, plus nine high-backed, wheeled chairs around a long table inlaid with slate. A black fireplace. The room dripped with profundity.
Babineau v Turbin. Her straw vote would be to vacate the Texas ruling. She had arrived at this decision easily. On the side of overturning the ruling, in her opinion and that of her clerks, Stare Decisis ruled here. No new worthwhile info was presented for this
case, which meant for her there was no reason that a person’s right to privacy wouldn’t again prevail regarding the legality of terminating a pregnancy. About the speculation regarding when a fetus felt pain: no new scientific evidence had been posited, but on the side of upholding the lower court ruling, the doctors’ opinions produced as part of the judicial record provided convincing arguments that for sure had tugged at heartstrings and sentimentality.
The preliminary vote didn’t take long: five-to-four in favor of vacating the lower court ruling. Not much more than a temperature check, their straw poll was far from binding, and could be quite changeable the deeper they got into the term. Nevertheless it was a good place to be, the right place to be, as far as Naomi was concerned.
One additional Court housekeeping mention before the Chief Justice dismissed them was that the elevated courtroom security would remain in place until further notice. To blame, the Planned Parenthood clinic hits. What remained unspoken among the justices was that until the case was decided, Babineau v Turbin would keep the justices, as well as the general public, on edge.
Naomi’s iPhone beeped while they filed out of the conference room. It was a text from one of her law clerks:
—Your Honor: The mailroom tried to deliver an overnight package you will need to sign for, from a Chester Plunkett in OK.
Oh my. Chester Fights Like A Badger Plunkett. Texas tribal elder and a law professor at her alma mater, the University of Oklahoma, until his retirement at age eighty. A strong Naomi supporter for her entire career. Her Indian confidant and mentor. Fond memories of his attendance at many of her major life events rushed her as she neared her chambers: college graduating ceremonies, her swearing in as a Texas federal judge, her wedding, and birthday parties for her children. When she reached the door to her chambers she was suddenly overcome by…something. A presence. It took her breath away.
A tingling from deep within spread its warmth throughout her body, and for a wondrous moment a peaceful calm overwhelmed her. She steadied herself against the doorjamb. When she recovered, she was keenly aware that something spiritual had passed through her.
“Chester. My dearest Chester…”
Another text cued up, this one from Chester Plunkett’s daughter. As she read it, tears welled:
—Madam Justice Coolsummer. My dearest Naomi. The spirit of our great and wonderful Badger has left its host to join our ancestors.
TWENTY-NINE
After making it through the line outside the Supreme Court building, then the line inside the building’s concourse, Judge and friends were stuffed into a long pew in the courtroom. Good seats, even if they were tight, second row back from the “bar” the bronze rail that separates the Court, comprised of the justices and case lawyers, from visitors. The courtroom held two hundred fifty general public spectators in three sets of pews five-deep. At floor level it was a busy place, but above them were three stories of empty space bordered by carved inlays, the white marble walls covered by red and gold drapes two stories high. Day two of the fall term’s oral arguments were about to begin.
Each of the justices noticed them, or rather Owen. Associate Justice Coolsummer, the newest judge on the bench, made direct, prolonged eye contact with him. In Judge’s estimation it was an optical illusion kind of thing for them, Owen looking like a disembodied black magic voodoo head from their slightly elevated vantage point. To Judge, Owen could have used a kid’s booster seat, but mentioning this would have gotten them both tossed out on their rude asses for loud, abusive language. Besides, Owen appeared to be in his element. So serious. He studied every inch of the courtroom, the attorneys, the law clerks, the railing, and each of the justices, even scrutinized a number of the courtroom visitors. The majesty of it all showed on his solemn, beaming face. What Judge was seeing here, finally, was some maturity. An awe-inspiring moment for him. When the solemnity disappeared, it was replaced with a pleasant, contented smile.
“Judge.” Owen’s beckoning fingers waved him down to him.
Judge leaned in. “What is it now, Owen?”
“I’ve got a boner.”
A face-palm moment. “All this judicial pomp and you’re going with that?”
“Well, yeah. Easy to bust a nut, all nine judges together like this. Exciting shit, dude.”
His blog entry had telegraphed their intentions, and the bounty said she’d kill Judge’s dogs, and here was Owen thinking he was on a choose-your-own adventure.
“You’re an idiot. I swear to God, Owen…”
Geenie put her finger to her lips to shush them. Judge calmed, all of them settling in to listen to the presenting attorney at the lectern.
The second reason for the visit was to see how security was handled, considering the increased threat. Protocol now included a full body scan like at the airport, and the courtroom walls were lined with armed law enforcement. Judge counted twelve cops. The place looked secure enough that if someone tried to commit a crime here this person for sure wasn’t getting out. Threatening behavior of any kind could be a death wish on the perpetrator’s part.
Owen leaned forward to check out the spectators farther down their row. Geenie’s gaze followed his, Judge’s followed Geenie’s. Across the aisle in the other group of benches, same row as them, two Native Americans in nineteenth century buckskin, beads and feathers sat quietly, a man and a woman, each engrossed in the proceedings. Beyond them were more spectators, all settled in for the Court session, until a woman at the far end of the row leaned forward to face them. Black hair, straight and thick covering both sides of her head. Another appeared Native American, just wasn’t dressed the part. She studied Judge and his friends, didn’t try to hide that that was what she was doing, then sat back in her seat.
Owen reached into his pocket, retrieved the doctored flyer of the bounty and smoothed it out on his small lap for the three of them to see. The doodled nun-habit artwork framed the mug shot same as the straight black hair framed the face of the woman across the aisle.
Whoa. Larinda Jordan. They’d made her.
The woman slipped out of her end seat. Looked like she had made them too.
She walked casually to the closest exit. Judge popped out of his seat, climbed over other Court visitors while keeping his eyes on her. “’Scuse me, ’scuse me, move, move, MOVE.”
At the end of his row he scrambled to the rear of the courtroom, turned on the afterburners and sprinted toward the exit. He yelled at the court cops to stop her, fucking stop her, tackle her, do something, except…shit…what was in his head wasn’t what was coming out of his mouth:
“Fuck her! C-c-cunt! FUUUCK HERRR!”
The court chambers crowd murmured and stared as the court cops converged on Judge, not his bounty. Taking longer and faster strides, she reached the exit. Judge was a few strides behind, still babbling like an epileptic carnival barker. Once in the concourse it was more open, less confining, better visibility and…
A sumo-sized cop crashed into him, jammed his chin into his chest, lifted him off his feet and body-slammed him. A second cop, then a third, joined them. Judge’s Tourette’s outburst eased up only because he had little air left in his lungs.
They flipped him onto his stomach. Knees pressed into his shoulders, and a bony third knee punished his temple, grinding his cheek flat against the chilly marble. The handcuffs were out, his wrists soon attached together behind his back, his shoulder blades feeling the strain…
“…Wuhmun,” came out almost coherent, but was all he had. “Wuh-munnn…!”
The cold steel of a gun barrel bore into his ear. “U.S. Deputy Marshal Trenton. Do. Not Resist.”
Nearby on his left, Owen leaned into Judge’s line of vision, talked to him, yelled at the cops until they tased him and put him onto his stomach, his butt cheeks twitching like electrified jumping beans. The concourse pedestrians stopped to gawk, all except one. Geenie slipped past the commotion, picked up her pace, and kept moving in the direction the target had taken.
; The cops…they needed to know who, what, they’d missed. Soon as they sat Judge down and his head cleared, they would, but the lights started dimming, he was fading…
THIRTY
Larinda pushed through the Court Building’s west exit and descended the steps quickly on light feet, needing to put distance between her and the guy the court cops had taken out. She hit the second set of steps, took them two at a time. Never again would she go on a mission where weapons weren’t permitted. Too exposed, too defenseless. She’d had her fill of the Court, and this incident confirmed that an assassination attempt anywhere inside the Court Building would never work.
Larinda passed a plaza water fountain with a circular pool under it, one of two bookending the front of the building, then she broke into a jog on the plaza’s flat, sculpted concrete. The last set of steps brought her to street level, the entrance to D.C.’s public transit Metro trains a few blocks away. Good weather for a stroll, sunny, with the late morning air crisp and invigorating.
Slapping footfalls behind her. She heard them too late, was tackled and sent shoulder first onto a patch of lawn before sprawling spread-eagle onto her stomach. In her mouth now was a meal of grass and dirt.
Her assailant barked at her. A woman’s voice. “STAY. DOWN!” Knees jabbed the back of her shoulders, immobilizing them, with pressure against her temple coming from a fisted hand, not a gun. She couldn’t see her chatty attacker busy shouting at a nearby pedestrian witness. “Dial 911! This woman is a fugitive. Citizen’s arrest.”
If anyone dialed, Larinda had no idea. She rocked her shoulders then rolled, got off a roundhouse punch against her assailant’s jaw, knuckle to bone. The woman’s jaw snapped out of place, and Larinda pushed out from under her. Her attacker struggled to stand, groaned, but was still able to reach and connect with Larinda’s hand, pressing it backward toward her wrist. She was strong, stronger than Larinda who dropped to her knees from the pain of the hold and the threat of more pain to come. Larinda’s other fist delivered an uppercut to the woman’s dislocated jaw, her assailant reeling from the punch then dropping to her knees, blood streaming from her mouth, the woman still calling to passersby, “…ineun-un…”