by Chris Hepler
"Buck fifty for your thoughts," I say cheerily.
"What happened to a penny?"
"I tip."
"I'm debating," he says. "I came out with Deborah when she wanted a smoke, and she slipped me a cigarette before going."
"I thought you quit."
"Was clean eight years. Then, I was in custody. I miss it. Not the smell or the flavor. Just the talking it starts. 'Course, I like not being addicted to something, too."
I snort. "What's that like?"
"Right." He pauses, distant. "Anyway, I was just thinking that every political movement starts with your friends. Then, I had a little insight. Your friends always try to talk you out of things that don't make you happy. Even when it's important to you."
I pull out Ferrero's lighter and put it on the railing between us. "I skip that part and go straight to being an enabler." He doesn't take the lighter. Mirroring his somberness, I ask, "Why are you really out here?"
Morgan exhales a plume of frozen breath, stark in the porchlight. "I was making up my mind. The oral arguments are done, the decision is now… and Cho thinks it's all over. No more hiding for any of you." I nod. Morgan and Cho rehearsed endlessly for the tiny half hour Cho got in front of the justices. “That made me think we'll get a good decision, and I want to turn myself in. Not contest the murder charges. If you want, you can try all night to make me see reason."
I do.
I start with the most obvious argument. If he goes to jail, he can't feed. I go into all the shit I've done to feed him, then the prisoners he'll face, the years of his life he'll waste. Morgan stays with me, never angry or indignant, explaining it all away. Ulan told him that without blood, he'll go into a kind of hibernation, so he thinks he'll do the time in his sleep. It'll be easy to isolate him, and he doesn't fear revenge from law enforcement.
Finally, I blurt, "But we wouldn't know what to do without you. I mean, can you imagine me with this pack of misfits?"
"I actually can," he says. "Between you and Jessica, I think you'd do pretty well."
"Pretty well isn't good enough!" I shout, more forcefully than I intend. "You're great, Morgan. You're one of those people who make it look easy, when the rest of us are living lives of complete fuckupitude. Why is it I'm the one with the gun, and I always think of us as you protecting me? At the toast, I was cataloguing all the people I've run away from. My boyfriend, my prey, my F-prots. I'm injustice incarnate, Morgan. I can't be with anyone longer than a few months before I turn traitor and move on to some other meal."
Morgan takes it in stride. "You've never run from me."
I hesitate. I shot your friend, I don't say. I owe you. But once again, I'm not brave enough to speak it aloud. It'll make a mess that won't convince him to stay. "So, you run from me, is that how it works? We need you."
"This is your brood, too," he reminds me. "When I met you, I was the one in the hole. I can make a speech and work a room, but you're the one who's essential to the pack's survival. And what I have to do, it will work. What's the number one thing people say about me in the outside world? Murderer. Cop killer. And they label us all like that. But if there's one thing this country loves, it's a comeback. They want to see sinners get redeemed. It makes them feel safe. And when they feel safe, it's better for all of you."
I fume but don't explode. What he's saying makes sense. I've seen enough celebrities walk out of court or rehab to recognize that there's a script involved. They apologize, they talk about their struggle with addiction, they tell kids not to do what they did. Always, they gloss over the fact that they ignored such advice from the previous gamut of celebrities. Yet the masses stay glued, and whoever is interviewing them praises them for their forthrightness.
But I can't compare Morgan to the limousine litter. They cut every deal they can to avoid jail time, and that, I guess, is where Morgan's motives lie. He wants to preserve the scraps of nobility that the professional scoundrels throw away.
"Is this just about guilt?" I ask. "I mean, if anyone's a sinner in our crew, it's me. I'm doing the biting."
"You've had to kill, haven't you?" Morgan says quietly.
"No. Maybe… I don't know." Again, the parade of victims. "I've taken more."
"I can take the pressure off. One less mouth."
"That's not going to make anything better if Cass and Ly shoot up an ambulance to piss off BRHI."
"Jessica has a moral compass just as good as mine."
"A compass doesn't work if you never look at it. You're the only one of us they respect."
"Lean on Ly, appeal to Cass's hero complex, and you can do this. You know you can. They're your family now."
I stop, unable to say anything. I've spent a long time running from anyone related to me, but there were moments, clear and happy, in the early days with my mother. I choose to believe Morgan means those.
"Here's the deal," I say, unsure of what'll come out of my mouth next. "Take it before everyone. The whole group is going to be affected by this. They should have a say."
"You like democracy, eh?"
"What do I know? I can't imagine those guys in 1776 had this shit in mind."
"Sure, they did. They left us a system because they wanted people to shape this country. They didn't want to shape it for us."
That's comforting. But not enough. "I haven't changed your mind, have I?"
He softens. "I'm going to miss you."
"Yes, well," I say, adjusting a strand of my hair that fell across my face, "there's a lot of that going around."
I give him a little kiss. Because that's what you do when you say goodbye.
44 - INFINITY
October 19th
I've tried, for many years, not to be a details person. I'm good at them—I've got a head full of verses that can rival Homer if you want me to gab, but it's a buzz-kill. The world of parties and clubs and modeling gigs are all about keeping it hot, not measuring how much carbon you burn. It took the F-prot program to re-engage my brain, and even there, I still went by instinct. When I focus on details, I'm reminded of home, and I end up twitching in hate.
This morning, I'm miserable. I got no sleep the night before. I closed my eyes for what felt like five minutes, and then came the godawful 3:30 alarm. I start cleaning because the dirty plates from last night mean there's no free counter space to turn leftovers into breakfast. In between runs to the trash cans outside, I massage my arms. They itch with the thin cuts of razors I used to feed the pack. I'm exhausted, but I'm also wired, feeling young and tough and ready.
We get out of the house after a few hours, cramming into Ly's van. Ferrero manages to spill his coffee in the front seat the first time Ly comes to a stop. The aroma stinks up the place; I stopped liking the stuff when I got my vipe nose. Deborah keeps the window cracked, letting in the cold air of empty pre-dawn streets.
We get to the Court soon enough, park and step out into the chill. A crow caws from atop a traffic light wire. We set out in sunglasses, coats, and hoodies.
As we reach the marble steps, my radar comes up with threats. Not a handful. Hundreds. The National Mall has been overwhelmed by a massive throng, separated out by police barriers holding back two disproportionate masses. I've never seen so many tents.
The smaller group are a mixed bag. Some are young people in the black leather and lace of vampire fans. Others have gray in their hair or beards to complete a hippie look that's probably older than the chief justice. Many have homemade signs, the largest being a red-white-and-blue banner held at chest level by six protestors, saying, “INALIENABLE” MEANS INALIENABLE, with copious underlining. The other scattered slogans are on posterboard; one saying MY COLD IS A VIRUS, TOO lies next to a pile propped against a tent. I see one BITE ME, JESS, but for a moment I'm not sure which way they mean it.
Then, I realize that the hostile protestors are all on the other side of the steps. My heart freezes because a woman with a megaphone has spotted us, and she starts barking orders. The numbers are at least ten
times that of our defenders and a hundred times as many as the cops. The crowd raises two dummies suspended by nooses. Their faces are rubber likenesses of Morgan and Jessica. Fat wooden stakes have been driven through their chests. Everywhere I look, I see rage—only some of them can see us. The others just don't care who they scream at. Their signs say things like WE ARE ALL SIKORSKI and I’LL GIVE YOU BLOOD with a picture of a pistol next to it. Some of them shout at the cops, who have pulled away a few individuals with pitchforks—actual pitchforks and what look like juggling torches—and are trying to process them without having to pepper-spray everyone in sight.
"Uh," I say, "anyone else see this crowd?"
"Yeah," says Morgan. "Looks like a big one, only smaller."
"How early did they get up?" I ask, more in wonder than curiosity.
Cass shakes his head. "This is normal. It's not personal."
I point at the effigies, but Cass waves it off. "Don't let it shake you. There's people who've waited their whole lives to hear there's real monsters they can shoot."
I look over at the vipe supporters again. "I'm going to go over there and network," I say. "Maybe find willing donors for a change."
"Don't," warns Jessica, with a dangerous edge to her voice. In response to my confused face, she clarifies. "We all want that, but one bad feed, and they'll be back at your door, madder than hell."
I want to argue, but as I turn to Morgan, I see he isn't paying attention. He's staring up at the top of the stairs by the locked double entrance doors, where the media clusters. A pretty-boy talking head with a camera pilot and makeup artist behind him is interviewing a young, black woman holding a wide-eyed girl, probably two years old, on her hip. The girl is warmly wrapped and sucking on a soother. The woman was dressed up in formal Sunday best, but her eyes hold no joy. They are the eyes of a survivor. The pit of my stomach churns, not from hunger.
"Morgan, last chance," I urge. "We can go. We can hear about it over a screen."
Morgan says nothing, enraptured.
I nudge Deborah. "Okay, who's the mom?"
"Luis Rodolfo's wife."
Morgan calls out "Nina?" and cameras of all kinds start to orient on him, from drones to glasses to shoulder-mounted ones like old bazookas. The show is on.
"Are you who I think you are?" Ms. Rodolfo asks.
Morgan pockets his sunglasses. "There's nothing I can say that will make things right. And this is a bad place to say anything private, but I just wanted you to know I came here today to turn myself in." Nina looks disgusted or perhaps so skeptical it's the same thing.
"Why would you do that?" she says.
"You can't get justice and give none back," he replies. By now, the camera drones are circling, trying to get both of them in a shot. The vipes stand in front of the locked doors, fanning out. We draw a look or two, but next to the real story, we might as well be wearing camouflage.
I watch the cameras, mostly multi-lensed, rotor-driven ones that look like they have jumping spider eyes in four directions. Would Darcy see me? Kern, Aaron? Then, I realize, the hell with it—I should show Morgan has a community now. All it'll take to give that impression is three vipes standing behind their spokesman, so I'm in, sure as sin. The pretty-boy interviewer addresses himself to Morgan. I don't recognize him—his microphone has a bird logo on it, and I rarely stop on his station during my channel flipping.
"I'm standing here with Morgan Lorenz at the Supreme Court building just before it opens. Mr. Lorenz, in all probability, the last our viewers heard of you was when you became a fugitive from the law. Did the manhunt for you affect your decision in any way?"
I watch Morgan, nervous over a dozen things that could go wrong. The cops are a breath away and could easily descend on us. The wisdom of holding a press conference first and turning himself in second was never clear to me, but if he did it the other way around, he probably wouldn't get a statement out at all.
Morgan looks cool and even-handed at the camera. "No, and I want to say this without demeaning the police at all. I don't think they were close to discovering my location. I didn't go out in public, so their presence did have an effect, but this day is about me coming in of my own free will."
"Do you believe that the justices will rule in your favor? That they'll say you are medically able to stand on your own and join society?"
"I don't presume to know the mind of the Court, but I believe we've made a strong case, and the truth is on our side. I think we'll do okay."
"I notice you've brought some people with you—"
"Yes, we have Dr. Ulan, as well as some friends."
"Are all these people positive for VIHPS?"
"We're a support group. You guys want to say hi? No, they're shy. I'm the only camera hog." I watch his charm work, broadcasting a clear signal of a regular person doing the right thing, and in that moment, I envy him.
"Here, don't bother my friends. I'll give you the visual you want," Morgan says and gestures for us to back up. He poses underneath the west façade of the Court and raises a hand like he's a rock star. For a second, I think he's gone drunk with fame; then, I realize he's pointing at the words etched in marble over the entrance, reading EQUAL JUSTICE UNDER LAW. Cameras click and chime.
There are more questions, which Morgan answers swimmingly. I exchange glances with Jessica. My self-defense instincts tell me to get the hell away from the hateful crowd, and I'm all too aware that they have a clean line of sight straight to Morgan's head. But no shots ring out. Instead, the crowds swell as everyone presses forward, and chanting starts. Morgan has to speak up to be heard. I see Jessica scowl before I realize what the crowd says:
Not an inch
Not a drop
They kill moms and
They kill cops
For a moment, I think Morgan will yell something back, but he comes out with a big smile at journalists and enemies alike. He doesn't say a word, but I believe he has the right answer to all this.
The doors crack open. The Court's police filter out, identifiable by the badges and patches over their body armor. The media start entering the doors. Then, my heart skips a beat when the police lock eyes with the vipes. One of them points. They approach in a group of five, and Morgan puts a restraining hand on me.
"Mr. Lorenz," says one of the officers, "this way."
◆◆◆
The justices file in. They walk like they're old and tired, but as they look out into the audience, I see them harden. My brain screams danger, but that's guilt-driven paranoia. Chief Justice Fennel has spotted Morgan, and she's not afraid in the least. That's reassuring. It also fits with what Morgan said about her. She's still got shrapnel in her hip from a twenty-year-old bomb blast. I wonder what that's like: sitting on steel wherever you go.
"We will now deliver the opinions of this court in the case of Lorenz v. The Benjamin Rush Health Initiative," announces Fennel. "Justice Trousdale will present the bench opinion. The slip is being distributed, and Web is uploading. Kindly keep the noise to a minimum." Interns walk the aisles with stacks of paper.
Dread begins to squeeze me. Morgan's take on Trousdale was that he's one of those Freedom Forever Party ideologues who'd ban sunshine if he got a chance. Would he be reading the majority opinion if he weren't on its side? I doubt it.
"It is this court's prerogative to address the petitioner's claims first and the respondent's second. But first, I would like to address the fact that the petitioner has not shown his face in either court, though he was quite able, for all the days of trial and oral argument. Now he is here. Let me just say that your absence was noted, Mr. Lorenz, and it did not benefit your case.
"On the first charge, of wrongful infection, the burden of proof lies with the petitioner to demonstrate that the respondent knew the dangers of the VIHPS virus and yet infected him or allowed him to be infected. It is the opinion of this court that this was not adequately proven. Mr. Lorenz was infected by a Ms. Marie Kovar. This is an undisputed fact. Ms. Kovar was no
t an employee of the institute, nor did she represent their goals, nor was she told to infect Mr. Lorenz by a member of the institute. On this count, we conclude that Kovar was the prime contributor to Mr. Lorenz's infection, which she did of her own free will. The burden of guilt rests on the conscious actions of she who transferred the virus and understood its communicability."
I set my teeth. Blaming the victims. I should have expected that.
"On the second charge, of willful and wanton misconduct, the criterion that must be met is to prove that the respondent did or failed to do something that a reasonably prudent doctor or other health care professional would or would not do under similar circumstances.
"It is the opinion of the majority that the Initiative went to great lengths to attempt to contain the outbreak of the VIHPS virus. Reasonable precautions were taken given the science of the time, which was woefully ignorant about the ability of the virus to survive. There was no conduct of a heedless nature. Indeed, if Dr. Ulan is to be taken at her word, their attempts to find and contain the infected were overzealous."
I bite my lip. Is that it? BRHI's entire F-prot program, the targeted abductions, the slumping body when I pulled the trigger to save Yarborough… for all that, they use one word?
"With the petitioner's claims resolved, the court now turns to the constitutionally important question introduced by the respondent's motion to dismiss on lack of standing. The question is this: whether individuals infected with the VIHPS virus in its advanced stages can have all the rights and privileges due every legal citizen of our country, or whether they must be curtailed in some fashion for the common good."
That part sounds better. He's recognizing inherent rights. Ones that can't be taken away?
"In review of this matter, this court found no direct precedent and deliberated to resolve three questions.
"First, is it within the bounds of a doctor or public health authority to classify a living creature as human or not human and grant or restrict the freedoms and essential rights thereof? Second, are the criteria they use to make this classification reasonable, just, and fair, or should they be altered to bring them in accordance with the law? Last, do VIHPS-positive individuals present such a clear and imminent danger that this decision must be made for all infected or only those who have demonstrated a predilection toward violence and other unsociable behavior?