The Court

by William J. Coughlin

  “The University of Michigan.”

  The professor nodded. “Not Harvard, of course, but respectable. I understand you’re with Harley Dingell, on loan to the White House?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, to business. The president of this godforsaken university asked me to meet with you. He said you would be interested in my observations of Dean Roy Pentecost. He asked me to be candid, which is redundant in my case, since I am always candid.”

  “You don’t like Michigan State?”

  The white eyebrows raised in mock astonishment. “Have you ever put any time in here? And I mean it just that way, putting in time.”

  “My father was on this faculty. I was raised here.” Green snapped out the words.

  There was no change in the old man’s stern face. “Obviously, since you are now in Washington, you left this agricultural center as soon as you reached the age of reason and could escape. Please don’t protest, your actions speak louder than any words.” The icy eyes seemed to sparkle. “Mr. Green, they say the football field here is covered with that false grass carpeting—astro something or other—so that the homecoming queen won’t graze during half time.”

  “That’s an old joke, invented by the people at the University of Michigan.”

  “Perhaps. In any event, in answer to your question, Mr. Green, this is the mid of the midwest. As a cultural center, it leaves something to be desired. In other words, sir, this is not Boston.”

  Green felt a growing irritation. “If you miss Boston, why not go back?”

  This time the smile was a bit wider. “Do you know why I left in the first place?”

  “You got a girl in trouble?”

  The icy blue eyes grew even colder, and the long face became stern. “You know, Mr. Green, I came here prepared to dislike you. But perhaps we shall get on after all.” A short staccato burst of laughter erupted from the thin lips. “I wish to God it had been that. At my age sex has become just a memory, a fond memory, mind you, but no more than that. No, Harvard was about to make me professor emeritus. In other words, I was being given the sack. Oh, the money would be there, and maybe once a year they would trot me out for a lecture, provided I hadn’t become too senile. But as far as Mother Harvard was concerned my active teaching life was over.”

  Their waiter brought Green’s drink and then poured the professor’s coffee.

  “It was just then that your Mr. Pentecost came a-calling.” Orwell took a tentative sip at the coffee. “I have a theory, possibly erroneous, but I believe in it. If a man quits, gives up so to speak, then he starts going downhill. I did not wish to become a doddering old man confined to a nursing home to be fed baby food by some illiterate moron. So between my imagined nursing home and Michigan State University I chose the later. I am active. I keep a full schedule, as a matter of fact, much fuller than my old duties at Harvard. I am, therefore, a vital productive human creature, and I plan to keep it that way for as long as possible. However, as I say, this is not Boston. Culturally, it is as distant from Boston as is Hindustan, as far as I am concerned.”

  “Better than baby food, though.”

  “Much. But enough about me, although it is my favorite subject. You have some questions, I believe, about the man who rescued me from diapers and bed sores.”

  “Based on that statement, I take it that you’re one of Dean Pentecost’s fans.”

  The old man’s thin lips again curved into just a hint of a smile. “The young men and women of this area, and on this campus, are unable to verbally express themselves without employing that ancient Anglo-Saxon word ‘shit.’ It can be used as a verb, noun, and anything else including a heartfelt exclamation of admiration. Since you come from this area, you are, I presume, familiar with the word?”

  Green laughed. “And several others.”

  “Oh yes. Well, to speak as a native of this region might, and in answer to your question, it is my considered opinion that Dean Roy Pentecost is a shit. Not only a shit, sir, but a perfect shit. It is very difficult these days to find perfection, but the dean has attained it.” He sipped his coffee again.

  “As America’s leading expert on torts, I presume you know that you have just commited slander.” Green grinned.

  The old man cocked his head. “It depends on where the alleged wrong takes place, Mr. Green. Here in Michigan truth is a defense. Therefore, I feel that no dent will be put in my purse because of my words.”

  “How is it that you feel this way? As you say, the man did rescue you from retirement.”

  The waiter returned and they ordered.

  Professor Orwell returned his menu to the waiter and continued. “In all fairness, I did him more good than he did me. As you say, my name has become rather associated to the word ‘tort.’ Just like old Wigmore. It was always Wigmore on Torts until my book came along. Anyway, my being here attracted other professors and a number of serious students. A sort of a snowball effect occurred. A few well-known professors gave this place credentials. Then more joined because of that prestige. Pentecost, by the way, is a genius at manipulating publicity. As you know, in the nation’s press this became the miracle school, a beacon of learning shining out in the dark night of ignorance. Students who ordinarily would have found their way into the Ivy League, or even your old school, soon started beating at the door of this cow palace.” He stopped and finished his coffee. “You are, I believe, looking Pentecost over for a possible place on the Supreme Court. Is that correct?”

  “Well, that’s been suggested.”

  The blue eyes flashed. “This lunch was your idea. You’re the one who wants information. A simple answer with no evasion is a small price to pay, Mr. Green.”

  Green could well understand the terror felt by generations of law students. The old man hadn’t raised his voice, or even changed inflection, but his words seem to cut like a lash.

  “Yes, it is the Supreme Court.”

  “Howell’s spot, I presume?”

  Green nodded.

  The old man remained ramrod straight as he talked. “If you were considering Pentecost for a cabinet position, or some post in the executive branch, I would give him a glowing recommendation. The man is a gifted administrator, organizer, and, as I say, public relations expert. He could run any federal department very well indeed. Unfortunately, he is a foggy-headed lawyer who has no real feeling for the basic processes of justice. He just doesn’t understand it. And you can’t teach him. It’s an impossibility, like trying to teach a blind man about color. Well then, that is my beloved dean. He is many things, but he is no lawyer.”

  “What about his book on constitutional law?”

  The waiter returned with their food. Green asked for another drink. The professor picked at his plate for a moment, then returned to the subject. “Ah yes, the book. Well, as I say, the man is a gifted organizer. If you read the dedication in that book of his you will find at least forty names listed. They were students of his at the time. And they are the people who actually wrote the book, sir. Pentecost merely served as a sort of senior editor, if that. As I say, he can organize very well.”

  “What would happen, do you think, if he were appointed to the Supreme Court?”

  The faint smile reappeared. “Probably be running the place within a few months, no matter who the chief justice was. He’s that kind. But he would make all his decisions based upon considerations other than legal.”

  “A lot of that happens now.”

  “Always has. These are men, not angels. The history of the Supreme Court, the real history, is full of self-serving men. But if appointed, Roy Pentecost would end up as number one in that particular hall of fame. He would always do whatever was expedient at the time. He would view each decision in light of what it could do for him personally. Justice, abstract or real, would be the last thing he would consider, if at all. He lacks integrity. Do you understand the full implication of that word, sir?”

  “I think so.”

  “I doubt it.
Not many do. The dictionary defines integrity as the adherence to moral and ethical principles. In other words, sir, it means a man must sometimes do the unpopular thing because of morality. Brother Pentecost is quite incapable of that.”

  “That’s rather harsh.”

  “Is it? He has the classrooms monitored. Did you know that?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Oh, not mine. Or Johnson’s. Or any of the other recruited professors who drew the faculty and students here. Even he would not dare to do that. But the junior faculty, the younger instructors, all are recorded by video cameras. The whole place is wired.”

  “Why doesn’t someone complain?”

  “They have. They took it to the university trustees. Pentecost pointed out that such devices are common in many high schools and other teaching institutions to monitor the instructors. That was the reason he gave, it was done to insure excellence in teaching.”

  “He may be right. What other motive might he have?”

  The old man did smile. The teeth again seemed very out of place. “To discover faculty disloyalty, sir. Just one joke about the dean and that man or woman is out. Big Brother is watching.”

  “I doubt if he has the time.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t. He uses third-year law students, and only a handful whom he feels he can truly trust. They watch and monitor all that goes on.”

  “But he doesn’t bother you?”

  Orwell shook his head. “No, he knows better.” His cold eyes seemed to lock on Green’s. “Perhaps the taping is forgivable, or at least understandable. But I have had a number of discussions with Pentecost and he is just not a lawyer. Oh, don’t misunderstand, he has a degree with honors, but despite that, he just doesn’t think like a lawyer. He’s clever. So if you seek a self-serving, clever man on the Court, pick him. However, if you desire a lawyer with basic integrity, look elsewhere.”

  “You honestly feel that strongly?”

  “I am of the opinion that the American people, once in a while, would enjoy a little justice with their law. They won’t get it from Pentecost. I wouldn’t trust him to decide a traffic ticket. On the other hand, if you’re looking for, say, a secretary of defense, he may be just the man for you.” Orwell’s false teeth, exposed by the wide grin, looked almost mechanical.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dr. Kaufman was waiting for them on the floor. His round face was somber.

  “You know my son and daughter,” Mrs. Howell said to the doctor. “This is Mr. Whitefield. He is our pastor. He was kind enough to come along.”

  Kaufman shook the clergyman’s hand. Both men merely nodded to each other.

  The hospital page system called for a Dr. Pringle, repeating the call again and again in a well-modulated but metallic sound. Nurses and doctors bustled about with their usual energy and purpose. The hospital seemed alive with noise, movement, and life. To Martha Howell it all, seemed dreadfully inappropriate.

  “I’m not sure what we are to do,” she began.

  Dr. Kaufman looked increasingly uncomfortable. “It’s customary for the family to wait in the critical care lounge. They have coffee there. We try to make people as comfortable as we can,” he coughed nervously, “under the circumstances.”

  “I want to be with Brian when the machines are stopped,” Mrs. Howell said quietly. “I want to be with my husband at that time.”

  “Mother!” Her daughter’s exclamation showed her disapproval.

  “I really don’t think that’s wise, Ma,” her son added, his own voice taut with emotion.

  “Wise or not, I will be there,” she said evenly, “or the machines don’t get turned off.”

  Dr. Kaufman coughed to clear his throat. “I think your children are right, Mrs. Howell, Sometimes it can be quite unsettling.”

  “Mother, please.” Her daughter grabbed Mrs. Howell’s arm. The older woman pulled away, her mouth tight, her eyes determined.

  “I insist,” she said firmly.

  “Then we’ll all go,” her son volunteered.

  She looked up at him, almost angrily. “No. He is my husband. We have faced everything else together. We will face this together.”

  The son looked over at Dr. Kaufman and slowly shook his head.

  “All right.” Dr. Kaufman looked at Mrs. Howell and spoke quietly, almost inaudibly. “Come with me.”

  He lead them to the critical care lounge. It was a bright cheery room with modern, comfortable furniture and racks of magazines. A bored middle-aged woman dressed in a blue and red volunteer uniform sat behind a desk idly reading a paperback. She looked up at them. “You can visit for five minutes on the hour, and then only if the staff permits. You must sign the register.”

  She seemed oblivious of Dr. Kaufman.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said.

  “They have to register, doctor. That’s hospital rules.” Her tone showed she would stand her ground.

  Kaufman’s somber expression quickly turned to anger. “Get the hell out of here,” he snapped.

  “What?”

  “Get out of here”—he looked at her name tag—“Mrs. Webster. Report to Mrs. Grant, the volunteer program chairman. I will be down shortly to talk to her.”

  The woman stood up. “Now look here, doctor.…”

  “Get the hell out of here or I’ll throw you out. Is that clear?!” Kaufman snarled the words. His anxiety was being translated into exploding anger.

  The woman’s defiance was quickly replaced by fear. She grabbed her purse and book and rushed for the exit.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry about that,” Dr. Kaufman said, his voice still trembling. “These volunteers can be wonderful, but sometimes we do get some oddballs.” He composed himself and sighed. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider, Mrs. Howell?”

  “I want to be there.” It was a simple statement, but there was determination behind the softly spoken words.

  “Would you like me to come along?” the clergyman asked.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Whitefield.”

  Mr. Whitefield looked relieved.

  “All right then,” Dr. Kaufman said. “Please make yourselves comfortable. Come with me, Mrs. Howell.”

  She nodded meekly. She-accompanied the doctor who seemed to be walking much more slowly than his accustomed brisk pace.

  They stepped out into the bustle of the hospital corridor with the sound of its tinny page calling yet another doctor.

  “As I told you,” Kaufman’s voice became slightly stern, “your husband has been clinically dead for quite some time. In other words, he is not dying today, that happened quite some time ago. You understand that?”

  “I understand what you told me,” she answered.

  “When the machines are turned off sometimes the body reacts. There can be movement, sometimes even thrashing about. The tissues, the muscles are demanding oxygen. Sometimes, Mrs. Howell, it can be quite gruesome. I wish you wouldn’t expose yourself to this.”

  “I want to be there,” she repeated, her words spoken as if she were mindlessly reciting a memorized litany.

  They walked into Justice Brian Howell’s room. Two other doctors and a tall, young nurse waited next to the bed.

  “This is the hospital’s cardiac care team, Mrs. Howell. They are here to assist me.”

  “Assist you?”

  Kaufman nervously bit his lip. “Actually they are witnesses, Mrs. Howell. Your husband is no ordinary patient. It was felt by the hospital administration that there should be witnesses.”

  She looked at the quiet figure in the bed. The respirator made a slight whooshing sound. “Like at an execution?” Her eyes were on the face of the man in the bed as she spoke.

  Dr. Kaufman sighed. “No, Mrs. Howell. Not at all. These are qualified medical people and they are here to observe.”

  She said nothing but walked to the side of the bed. Tubes ran into the naked arm of her husband. She carefully reached past the intravenous lines and took her husband’s hand, locking her fingers
into his. She felt the warmth of his flesh, she watched the sheet as the chest showed shallow but regular breathing. She studied the sleeping face for quite some time. There was no conversation. The doctors looked away. The tall nurse’s jaw muscles worked silently beneath her smooth skin.

  “I love you, Brian,” she said gently.

  The only reply was the sound of the respirator.

  “All right,” she said, never taking her eyes from the sleeping face, “I’m ready.”

  Kaufman stepped past the other doctors. He quickly snapped off several switches. The blue accordionlike respirator came to a stop within its plastic container. The sound of the respirator and the pinging noise of the electrical support systems ceased. The sudden silence in the room seemed accentuated.

  Mrs. Howell cried out as her husband’s hand tightened on hers. The doctors rushed forward as a great shudder rippled through the body. His eyes opened as the head jerked loose from the respirator intake.

  “He’s alive! Turn the machines back on,” she shrieked. “He’s alive!”

  The contortion ebbed, then ended.

  Mrs. Howell, her hand gripping her husband’s, turned to the doctors, her eyes like a maddened animal’s. “Turn those machines on! Oh, you bastards, turn them on now!”

  She dropped the hand and rushed for the switches. The tall nurse stepped forward and put her arms around her. Mrs. Howell struck at the girl but did no damage.

  “He’s dead,” the nurse said in a kindly whisper. “Please, he’s gone. You can see for yourself.”

  She gently turned Mrs. Howell around. There was no mistaking what had happened. Brian Howell lay with dead eyes, his limbs lifeless.

  “He’s gone,” the nurse said. “I’m sorry.”

  One of the doctors moved to the body and closed the staring eyes. He only partially succeeded, one eye was still half open.

  Mrs. Howell returned to the bed. She picked up the dead hand and softly kissed it.

  Dr. Kaufman waited a moment then he took her by the arm. “We must inform your family,” he said.

  She did not resist as he guided her from the room. She did not cry, there was no expression on her face, just a blank lost look.