Right To Die

by Jeremiah Healy

  "See if anybody's got a sheet?"

  "Yes."

  "Sure, I'll do that. Sure." He rifled his pockets for a pad and pen. I gave him O'Brien, Doleman. and Yary from the threat files, then Walter Strock as well.

  Neely scratched his forehead. "Strock?"

  "Something?"

  "Not sure. I'll run it. You got social security numbers on any of these guys?"

  "No."

  "How about D.O.B.s?"

  "Just the addresses."

  "Even so, gonna get a hell of a list for the O'Brien, although thank Christ it ain't 'John' or 'James,' computer'd be burping all fuckin' night. I'll still give it a try for you."

  The waitress came over with a bowl of salted peanuts. Neely thanked her, his fingers plowing through the nuts like the blades of a backhoe.

  He said, "Anything else you need?"

  I decided to follow Murphy's advice. "You get many of these threat things, Neely'?"

  "Aw, you know how it is. Runs in cycles. Broad like this Andrus, though, she probably could hire a stevedore, haul them away for her."

  I told him about the drawerful of folders.

  "That's my point. I get one of these, I end up chasing after scumbags write the kinda fan mail you wouldn't wish on Geraldo there. Jesus, Cuddy, every day some shithead sees somebody new on the tube, he decides to make the lady his personal project, you know? Guy can barely read the labels in a Seven-Eleven writes a love poem. I then jerks off into the envelope before he licks it. Whaddaya gonna do?"

  "Okay if I follow up on the names? Go talk to them?"

  "Fine. Let me just tell you, think about what you want to have happen here."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Start with the Secret Service, okay?"

  The Secret Service. "Okay."

  "Now, they got thousands of guys, no shit, got nothing better to do than guard a couple of big shots like the President and all, maybe total with the Kennedy kids and Truman's widow, total twenny, twenny-five."

  The Kennedy children were now over-age, and Mrs. Truman left us in the early eighties, but I didn't want to wreck Neely's train of thought.

  "And even the Secret Service can't keep track of all the scumbags writing letters and making phone calls. The calling, I gotta admit, that's gonna slow down some, now they got these computers, you can see the number the guy's at with this little screen thing on your phone there. 'Course, soon's the scumbag union finds out about the screens, they'll just call from some pay phone and a different one every time.

  "But your letter-writing scumbags, now, they're different. All's you got is the handwriting and the postmark and maybe, just maybe, the saliva or cum juice or whatever the fuck other fluid they leave on the envelope, right? Only there's got to be enough of that for some other kind of test that even 1010 don't do but has to farm out. So, you see what I'm saying here?"

  "Even with better physical evidence, not much chance of actually tracing the sender."

  "Right, right. And not only that. What does your client really want?"

  "Want?"

  "Yeah. She want the scumbag to just stop or she want him hung by the balls too?"

  "Probably both."

  "Yeah, well, probably the best you're gonna be able to do for her is scare him off. Even if you catch the guy in the act somehow, what's a judge gonna do with him? Twenty days down to Bridgewater for observation in the rooms with the cushy walls? Shit, we're letting real bad dudes walk now, there ain't enough cells in all the slams to hold 'em."

  "Good point."

  "Yeah. Hey, look, I don't wanna come across like some lug, got no feelings. Jesus, I was the one getting these notes, especially the one by hand in the mailbox there, I'd be jumpy as a pregnant nun too. It's just, even if you do the best you can here, it ain't gonna be that much."

  "Listen, Neely, I appreciate your being so open with me on all this."

  "Don't mention it." He seemed to sniff something in the air. "Say, you pressed or we got time for dessert?"

  8

  WHEN WE FINALLY LEFT VICTORIA STATION, I ASKED NEELY TO drop me off in South Boston. The weather was bell clear, and I hadn't made a visit since Thanksgiving.

  I bent over stiffly, laying the bunched poinsettias lengthwise to her.

  You getting old on me?

  "No."

  John, you're creaking.

  "Finally decided to try the marathon, Beth."

  What, the Ironman Triathalon was already booked up?

  "You're supposed to be supportive of a poor widower rising to a cha1lenge."

  Even when he's being stupid?

  I looked down at the shoreline, the chop smacking against the foot of her hillside. Half a mile out, a Coast Guard cutter was knifing its way toward the harbor. During every season, the cod boats have to be watched over and the drug smugglers watched for.

  Something besides the marathon's on your mind.

  "Tommy Kramer approached me to help a professor who's getting threatened."

  And?

  "The professor is a woman who pushes for the right to die."

  A pause. Why does she bother you?

  "I don't know."

  I half expected Beth to say, "That's not an acceptable answer, Mr. Cuddy."

  John?

  "I guess because when her husband was dying, in a lot of pain and frustration, she helped him to die."

  Another pause. And that makes you feel…?

  "Uncomfortable."

  Why?

  "I suppose because it makes me think back. To your being in the hospital."

  John, we talked about… ending things then.

  I stood up. "No, we didn't. We talked around it."

  And why do you suppose that was?

  "Because I saw it as helping the cancer take you away from me."

  Instead of helping me get away from the cancer.

  "Right."

  John, what we decided to do, or not to do, shouldn't cloud you on other people's views.

  "Of course it should."

  Another pause. There's something else, too, isn't there?

  I kicked at a gum wrapper that somebody should have picked up.

  "Nancy."

  Trouble?

  "It's the holiday business."

  In what way?

  I told her about Nancy's dad and the blow-up over the tree-lighting.

  You remember our first Christmas?

  "Yes. You insisted we have a real tree, even though we couldn't afford a stand for it."

  So you took that glass jug that held – what was it?

  "Grape juice."

  So you took that jug and filled it with water and put the tree in it.

  "Right."

  And what happened?

  "I left the window open, and the water froze solid, cracking the glass."

  Remember the row we had over your lack of holiday spirit?

  I remembered.

  "But that's the point, Beth. While the holidays didn't ever mean all that much to me, at least I remember them, even the tree and the argument and all, as real life, something I was part of."

  What about the holidays since?

  "Empty. I don't know, maybe like a foreigner watching a baseball game."

  And now?

  "Now?"

  With Nancy?

  I thought about it. "Not completely a stranger, but not completely a participant either."

  An invited guest?

  "Who's maybe a little afraid to join in."

  Given her family situation, don't you think that's what Nancy really needs? Someone to join in with her?

  "Maybe."

  John, you want to give it a chance with Nancy, don't you?

  "Yes."

  Then to give it a chance, you might have to take a chance too.

  The other pieces of stone and I watched the Coast Guard cutter pass a point of land and snug back into the harbor.

  ***

  After a purchase at the Christmas Shop on Tremont, I got to the Su
ffolk County courthouse about four P.M., going through the metal detector on the first floor. In the district attorney's office the receptionist told me where to find Nancy.

  I walked into a courtroom on the ninth floor. High ceilings, nondescript carpeting, failing sunlight fuzzing the large windows. There were a few people standing around, but no judge, no jury, and no Nancy.

  I saw a court officer I'd met before and went over to him.

  "Carmine."

  "John, how're you doing?"

  "Fine, thanks. Where is everybody?"

  "Judge excused the jury for the day." Carmine inclined his head toward a door near the bench. "He wanted to see counsel in chambers. Little talking to before the defense starts his case-in-chief."

  The defendant, a sullen white male in his thirties, sat at a table, a court officer on each side of the chair. The defendant noticed me eyeing him and tried a hard-con stare. Couldn't quite pull it off.

  I said to Carmine, "How's Nancy doing?"

  A smile, the head this time inclining toward the defendant. "Lemme put it this way. Our boy was Bob Hope, his theme song'd be 'Walpole by Wednesday'. "

  "He'd better work on that look before he hits the yard."

  "Or put a case of Vaseline in his letter to Santa."

  ***

  "… and then the judge says to my opponent, 'You're going to have your man take the stand. then?' and the defense attorney, who acted like he was on his first heavy case says, 'Yes, Your Honor.' So then the judge turns to me – a twinkle in his eye, but the court reporter can't dictate that into her machine – and he says, 'Ms. Meagher, if I were fairly certain that perjury had been committed in my courtroom, what do you think I should do?' And I can see the defense attorney losing what little color he has left in his cheeks, and I say, 'Why, inform our office, Your Honor, regarding the perpetrator and accomplices, if any.' And the judge says, like he'd never thought about it before, 'Accomplices? Accomplices, yes, yes. Oh, my, yes.' And the defense attorney coughs and says, 'Uh, Your Honor, might I have a… uh…' and the judge says, 'A moment to confer with your client?' and the kid says 'Yessir.' So we go back to the courtroom, and the kid pleads the guy out ten minutes later."

  "And so here we are."

  Nancy and I were finishing dinner at The Last Hurrah, a restaurant in the Omni Parker House on School Street, halfway between the courthouse and the subway. Wearing a soft gray suit and a pearl blouse, she'd been doing most of the talking, embellishing a relatively small victory to fill the air. It felt as though Nancy still wasn't over Saturday night either.

  I reached into my coat pocket and said, "Hold out your hand."

  She did, and I dropped the two-inch-by-six-inch ribboned package into it.

  "What's this?"

  "Open it."

  Nancy tore off the gift wrap and pried open the box. Lifting the Angel Gabriel from enveloping cotton, she hefted him in her palm.

  "Kind of light for a paperweight."

  "Look under the wings."

  "Poor Gabe! He's been disemboweled."

  "By design, Ms. Meagher. He's going to be on top of our tree."

  Nancy canted her head, the table light dancing 0n her eyes like sunshine on a lake. "Our tree?"

  "Our Christmas tree." I reached over and covered the hand that wasn't hefting the angel.

  9

  THE POSTER AT THE DOORS SAID THE DEBATE WOULD BEGIN promptly at eight P.M. with a book signing to follow at Plato's Bookshop. Two Boston cops routinely assessed me as I walked past them. One black and one white, both male and big. You can specify size if you're expecting trouble.

  The Rabb Lecture Hall itself, carved out beneath the new wing of the Boston Public Library, would remind you of a particularly well-kept school auditorium. I wanted to be early enough to see most of the folks as they filed in. The metal chairs, upholstered with black cushions, were bolted onto a steep slope. All the seats faced the stage, someone having sashed off a section of the bottom rows. I sat on the aisle near the back right corner to give me the best scope for faces.

  The stage was spartan. A podium under a baby spotlight. To the left of the podium, a grand piano that probably was easier to ignore than to move. Behind the podium, one chair, positioned subserviently in shadow. To the right of the podium, a longish table in medium light with three chairs. On the table, a paper cloth, a pitcher of water, and three glasses.

  The hall began to fill up. A lot of academics and professionals. More black faces than you usually see outside the predominantly black neighborhoods. A smattering of students, some vaguely familiar from the class at Mass Bay that morning, others too young to be in law school yet. Concerned women with rosaries, their husbands in poorly tailored sport jackets, index fingers between collars and necks, trying to expand a sixteen to a sixteen and a half. The rest of the crowd looked like the sort of people you wouldn't stop to ask for directions.

  I'd just spotted Walter Strock confiding in a cornsilk blonde who had "Kimberly" written all over her when I felt a strong hand on my shoulder.

  I looked up the sleeve into the face of Alec Bacall, a slim black man hovering behind him.

  "John! Glad you could make it. May we join you?"

  "Sure."

  I stood to let them go by me, communion style. Bacall was wearing double-pleated trousers again. They billowed as he shuffled his feet. Bacall sat himself between his companion and me, saying, "John Cuddy, Del Wonsley."

  Wonsley leaned across Bacall, extending his hand. His complexion was deep black, looking almost spit-shined under the strong house lights. The nose was aquiline, a pencil mustache under it and a mushroom haircut above it. Wonsley wore a red sweater with maize horizontal stripes over a knit shirt, collar turned up. His slacks were cavalry twills, the creases sharp.

  Bacall said, "We could sit closer if you'd like, John. The first few rows are reserved for family and friends."

  "Better view from up here."

  "Oh. Yes, of course."

  Wonsley said, "Alec told me about you. Can you believe the turnout for this?"

  He had a flat Chicago A in his voice.

  I said, "Do we know who else is on the program?"

  Bacall said, "A doctor from Mass General and a minister from a Protestant church."

  Wonsley waved to a middle-aged black man in a lower row, who from the expression on his face curdled cream for a living.

  Wonsley said, "Oooo – ooh, the look he gave me. For sitting up here in Sodom and Gomorrah country instead of down there with the Children of God."

  Bacall patted Wonsley's forearm. "The best is yet to come, Del. The Hitler Youth make their grand entrance."

  I was turning as Bacall said it, because I could hear the clumping on the floor. Five white kids, heads shaved, were stamping their boots just enough to attract the attention of the cops. The cops couldn't do much when the kids stopped their noise and held up their hands in mock innocence. They took three seats a few rows below us and two more seats immediately in front of the three. All wore brown leather flying jackets over white T-shirts and studded blue jeans, the jeans bloused into the boots like army fatigue pants. Body language suggested that the kid in the middle, a redhead from his eyebrows, was the leader. One of the others called him "Gun."

  Maybe short for "Gunther," as in Gunther Yary, the author of the white supremacist hate letters in the Andrus file.

  I said to Bacall, "Know them?"

  "No."

  "See anybody else I ought to worry about?"

  Bacall murmured something to Wonsley, and they both craned forward, scanning the room. Each hesitated on a few places as people turned to talk to each other or stood to remove another layer of clothing. Wonsley looked at Bacall, shook his head, and settled back.

  Bacall did the same but pointed toward the sashed area. "I can introduce you later, but the striking man sitting next to Manolo and Inés is Tucker Hebert."

  Hebert was turned sideways, deep in conversation with his wife's secretary. He had broad shoulders unde
r a dull rose blazer. His hair was dishwater blond, but the cleft in his chin caught you even from the bleachers.

  Del Wonsley said, "First time I saw him in tennis shorts, I cried myself to sleep."

  The only empty spaces were around the skinheads. A few late arrivals chose to stand rather than sit near them.

  Without fanfare, a side door on the stage opened, and the crowd began to applaud. A man and three women, one of them Maisy Andrus in her yellow sweater dress, walked out in a line. The man and one of the other women were white and wore suits. The third woman was black and wore a choir robe.

  The skinheads made hooting noises. One of them said, "Christ, Gun, check out old Maisy in the yellow horse blanket."

  Gun said, "Fuck all, Rick. She didn't shave her legs, I'da thought she was a Clydesdale."

  Rick said, "Maybe the guy drives the Bud wagon knocked off a little early, y'know," then ducked his head and shrank from the look Gun gave him. Like it was one thing to feed Gun a line and another to top his joke.

  The white member of the police team came down the aisle. He stopped at Gun's row and leaned in, armpit in a skinhead's eyes. A series of grunts was all you could hear, but when the cop walked back up the aisle, the skinheads were facing front and staying quiet. Wonsley laid his head lightly on Bacall's shoulder. "Ah, for the paramilitary life."

  The white woman on the stage settled the other three into their seats behind the table and moved to the podium.

  As the house lights dimmed, she stood in the baby spot and introduced herself as Olivia Jurick, the manager of Plato's Bookshop. Jurick thanked a covey of public and private benefactors for helping to sponsor the event before thanking everybody for coming out on a cold winter night for such an important and stimulating topic of our time.

  Then, "Our first speaker will be the Reverend Vonetta Givens. Our second speaker will be Dr. Paul Eisenberg, and our third speaker will be Professor Maisy Andrus. After all have presented prepared remarks, there will be an opportunity for questions from the audience."

  Jurick turned a page. "Reverend Vonetta Givens is the pastor of All Hallowed Ground Church of Roxbury. Born in Oklahoma, Reverend Givens is a graduate of Morehouse College in Atlanta and attended several theological seminaries prior to her ordination in 1979. She ministered to congregations in Atlanta, Memphis, and Trenton before assuming her present position in 1984. A charter member of Boston Against Drugs, Reverend Givens leads the African-American community's struggle against the scourge of crack cocaine. She also has been extremely active among the elderly and the infirm."