“It’s tempting.” Abruptly, the President stood, hands in his pockets, as though he had forgotten all concerns but his own. “For the country to change, the Court has to change. I mean to root out this system of legalized bribery where all of us sell pieces of the government like shares of stock. But I can’t do it by myself.” Suddenly he stopped, giving Caroline a look of wry self-deprecation. “I sometimes give soliloquies. Like Hamlet.”
As she was meant to, Caroline smiled at this. But there was no escaping the scope of his ambitions, or that, like Theodore or Franklin Roosevelt, he tended to see the institutions of government—even the Supreme Court—as extensions of himself. It was fascinating, and a little unsettling.
“I enjoy soliloquies,” she responded gently. “But the justices don’t work for you, and the role of a Chief Justice is not to dictate change.
“If you simply find a Chief who’ll help keep the other justices open to change, you’ll have done well. Even if the result isn’t always what you want.”
For a moment, Kilcannon looked surprised. Then he grinned in rueful self-knowledge. “Oh, I know, I know. Sometimes.”
This did not require an answer. All at once, their meeting was at an end.
Caroline stood, extending her hand. “Thank you, Mr. President. You were generous to see me.”
“Thank you, Judge Masters.” Kilcannon hesitated, then added softly, “I regret our current political climate more than you know, and all the more for meeting you. But what you’ve said is very helpful.”
Outside, an aide was waiting. Caroline left, confident she would never see him again.
EIGHT
THE SECOND TIME Sarah Dash met Mary Ann Tierney was in a cramped, windowless office at San Francisco General Hospital.
It was a Saturday, but the urban tragedies who washed up at a public hospital—the AIDS-afflicted, the drug-ridden, the homeless, the maimed—did not receive days off. Mary Ann’s frightened eyes registered what she had seen: to Sarah, she looked like a sheltered girl who had taken a detour through purgatory, and now wondered where she was.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I know this isn’t easy. But we’ll need witnesses if we’re going to court. And I wanted you to see a counselor from the clinic.”
Mary Ann appeared barely to comprehend this. Sarah did not add the rest—that, no matter what the psychologist and obstetrician said, her firm might not take the case.
The girl studied the paper Sarah had placed in front of her. “Do I have to sign this?” she asked.
She sounded less resistant than dazed. “Our firm needs it,” Sarah answered. “And so do I.”
Mary Ann looked up at her. “Why?”
“Bringing a lawsuit is a huge step, Mary Ann. If I don’t make sure this is what you want, then I shouldn’t be your lawyer.”
“But I want you to be.”
Even her plaintive tone of voice filled Sarah with doubt. “Please,” Sarah told her, “read it carefully.”
The girl did this so intently that she reminded Sarah of the times when her own parents had chided her not to read too quickly. At last Mary Ann looked up and said, “It’s all true. Can I sign it now?”
Once more, Sarah was struck by Mary Ann’s oscillation between vulnerability and challenge. Quietly, she answered, “Before you do, I’d just like to know how you are doing. That matters, too.”
Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. “I’m just so scared, Sarah. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.”
This, Sarah suspected, was by far the truest expression of how Mary Ann felt. “What about your parents?”
Mary Ann shook her head. “It’s so hard to live with them now. Like we’re enemies, and they don’t know it. I feel like this spy.”
So had she, Sarah reflected, when she had been fifteen. But her truancies were small—a brief experiment with dope, furtive petting with a boyfriend. Nothing like this.
“Where do your parents think you are?” Sarah asked.
“At a mall, with Bridget. Looking for birthday presents for my mom.”
Sarah suppressed a wince—within the strictures of belief, the Tierneys seemed to rule with a light hand, and now Sarah was party to deceiving them. But the alternative was to make this girl their property, and the doctor and psychologist were waiting.
“Yes,” Sarah said, “you can sign the form.”
Several hours later, when Mary Ann was gone, Sarah sat at the same conference table facing Dr. Jessica Blake, the psychologist, and Dr. Mark Flom, a specialist in obstetrics who performed late-term abortions. Both Flom and Blake had faced these issues before; both had received death threats; both had gone to court to seek protection. She did not need to mention the risk involved in speaking out for Mary Ann Tierney.
“Well?” Sarah asked.
Blake, a trim, scholarly woman with wire-rim glasses and an incisive manner, inclined her head toward Flom. “You first.”
To Sarah, Flom’s white hair, fine features, and abstracted look were more suggestive of a poet than a doctor, but his tone was crisp. “I understand the power of belief systems,” he answered, “all too well. But I can’t believe Jim McNally— or any doctor—would be so sanguine once they saw the sonogram.”
“Bad?”
“This is not just hydrocephalus—it’s severe hydrocephalus.
“There’s water in the ventricle system inside the fetal cortex. It operates to compress and destroy brain tissue and, in the process, prevents us from determining by ultrasound whether there’s a chance of tissue developing normally.” He frowned, creating grooves in his slender face. “But when you can’t see any cortical tissue—as here—the prognosis for the fetus is dismal.”
Sarah nodded. “Her doctor said as much.”
“Any doctor would. But here’s what offends me—the notion of delivering a fetus with a head like a bowling ball by means of C-section.
“Unlike the usual procedure, which is more limited, a classical C-section requires a large vertical incision which opens up the entire uterus. Aside from the emotional trauma to a fifteen-year-old girl, that carries a risk of blood loss, infection, pulmonary embolism, and, in rare cases where something goes wrong, a hysterectomy—risks twenty times that of a normal delivery.”
Blake turned to him. “But is that the only risk to reproductive capacity—a medical error?”
“I wish it were.” Flom grimaced with distaste. “This is a small-boned adolescent. Another risk is a measurable chance, albeit relatively small, of uterine rupture in future pregnancies, leading to the death of the fetus and the removal of the entire uterus.”
“Mary Ann’s doctor,” Sarah ventured, “puts the risk at five percent.”
“So that’s to be ignored?” Flom’s voice filled with disdain. “But I suppose five percent is good enough for government work. Which illustrates the problem with letting those idiots in Congress practice medicine—either they don’t know what they’re doing, or they don’t give a damn about this girl. Or both.”
“Is there any chance that, under the Protection of Life Act, a judge would let her terminate?”
“It’s hard to see it, Sarah. Under the law, the condition of the fetus doesn’t matter, only that it’s ‘viable.’ I question whether you can call this baby viable, given how slim its chances are. But what doctor will want to risk prosecution based on that assumption? And forcing her to have a C-section won’t establish that a ‘substantial medical risk’ of physical harm is likely. Just much more likely than before.” Flom folded his hands in front of him. “No doctor I know wants to be stripped of his license, sent to prison, and sued by the parents for whatever money he’s got left. If you want me—or anyone—to terminate this pregnancy, you’ll have to get the Protection of Life Act thrown out.”
This was what Sarah had feared. “In any event,” she observed, “Mary Ann didn’t mislead me about her medical problems.”
Flom shook his head. “No. If anything, I’d guess she underrates the problems of de
livering this child. She’s been living in a pro-life world, cared for by a pro-life doctor.”
Sarah glanced at Jessica Blake. “She understands enough,” Blake observed. “She’s not the most mature fifteen-year-old I’ve ever met—she’s been carefully protected, and most of what she believes has been handed her by her parents.
“I think she was prepared to have a normal baby on autopilot, buoyed by religious doctrine and a substantial dose of fantasy about the child and its father. The sonogram was an antidote.”
“Can she make a rational decision?”
“Really, Sarah, the medical problems Mark outlined aren’t difficult to grasp. The harder part for her is to weigh that in the face of her upbringing and parental opposition.” Blake paused, speaking slowly. “That she marched through a picket line, and then came here, suggests she can.
“Her biggest problem isn’t deciding; it’s this law. Its hidden agenda is to force pregnant girls—who are likely to be too frightened and ashamed to go to court—to have babies. For their sake, as well as her own, some girl has to take this on. The right one seems to have come to your doorstep.”
“Are you willing to say that in court?”
“Yes.”
Sarah turned to Flom. “Are you?”
“I am.”
“Are you also willing to join as co-plaintiff—have me file the suit on behalf of Mary Ann and the doctors subject to the Protection of Life Act?”
Flom nodded. “People need to understand what laws like this do to women and doctors. Right now, they don’t.”
Among the three of them, Sarah reflected, there was little doubt. She wished she were as certain in the presence of Mary Ann Tierney.
“You’ll be hearing from me,” she said, and left.
NINE
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS later, awaiting Senator Chad Palmer, Kerry Kilcannon reflected on the plan which was forming in his mind.
Like so many things, it came down to character—in this case, Kerry’s estimate of what motivated Chad Palmer. They had been friends ever since Kerry’s arrival in the Senate, drawn to each other by a shared sense of humor, a certain iconoclasm, and a preference for candor. In the battle to limit the impact of money in politics, Chad had allied himself with Kerry, winning the scarcely veiled enmity of Macdonald Gage and many in his own party. But, inevitably, Kerry and Chad were rivals: both believed in themselves, and their lives had led them to reach very different conclusions about what the country needed. Not surprisingly, Kerry thought wryly, each man believed what the country needed most was a president like himself.
For several years now, many had predicted a Kilcannon–Palmer race—“the best of America,” a pundit had called it. Kerry himself had expected Chad to run the year before: that Chad had not done so made Kerry wonder if he understood his friend and rival as well as he needed to, at least for his plan to work.
Certainly, Chad had taken Kerry’s measure with the presidency in mind. Even Chad’s oft-quoted compliment—“Kerry is poetry, I’m prose“—suggested a comparison flattering to Palmer. The public Chad was a plainspoken man of straightforward views: pro-defense; pro-life; an enemy of the nanny-state, a friend to personal responsibility. It was this persona, Kerry suspected, which Chad believed might take him to the White House.
But the Chad Palmer whom Kerry perceived was far more complex. Beneath Palmer’s cheery admission that “I’m as big a media whore as anyone” lay a deeply serious man. Two years of imprisonment and forced introspection had made him someone who lived by his own standards: a sense of honor was imperative to Chad, and explained his dislike for Macdonald Gage far better than a conflict of ambition.
It was this which Kerry counted on. There was no point in trying to deceive Chad Palmer—Chad would understand what aspects of his character Kerry intended to exploit. But, were Kerry right, this might not matter.
Chad Palmer put down his wineglass.
“She wants to keep this secret?” he asked.
They sat in the President’s private dining room, replete from a flavorful entrée of Peking duck which, Chad had suggested, must have been the payoff for America’s nuclear secrets. “She doesn’t even know I’m still considering her,” Kerry answered. “But you and I know there are things in your committee files which never see the light of day. And shouldn’t.”
Chad gazed at the President in open surprise. “Not many.”
Kerry leaned forward. “Tell me this, Chad—do you seriously think Caroline Masters’s past disqualifies her from becoming Chief Justice? Or that she was required to confess everything in order to become an appellate judge?”
You’re really thinking about this, Chad said to himself. It was better to let the conversation play out, to see what Kerry wanted.
“Me, personally? No. Your judge behaved honorably— then, and now.” Chad smiled. “I’m pro-life, and I’m not in much position to frown on premarital sex. Thank God I was a little luckier in the area of birth control.”
Kerry did not return his smile. “Be that as it may, she’s superbly qualified. I’m sick of this ‘shoot to kill’ environment where both parties exhume someone’s tired sins to drive them from public life. I know you don’t like it, either.”
For a long while, Chad was silent. In the dim light, he contemplated their elegant surroundings—the oil paintings, crystal chandeliers, and, across the table, his friend, whose job he wished to take. A man who understood, quite well, the risks he wanted Chad to run, and perhaps hoped to prevail by daring Chad to be as brave—and unconventional— as he.
“Have you talked to Gage?” Chad inquired.
“Of course not. About this, I’ve got no intention of ever talking to Gage.”
“‘Of course not.’ Instead you want me to conspire to conceal a fact which my distinguished leader in the Senate would very much like to know—”
“Which makes it a conspiracy of decency,” Kerry interrupted.
“Which makes you Machiavelli,” Chad retorted. “By telling me, you immunize yourself against charges of covering up her past, while exposing me to risk within my party. What on earth, Mr. President, makes you think that I’d relish becoming your shit-shield?”
“Oh,” Kerry answered with a smile, “I’ll concede this plan has advantages for me. I hardly expected you to miss that—or the possible advantages to you.
“Why am I sitting here, Chad? Women. Even if this comes out, you and I will have risen above politics to give a qualified woman her due.”
Chad shot him a skeptical glance. “There are those who think I’ve risen above politics a little too often.”
Kerry tilted his head. “That’s because your instincts are better. How will Gage look trashing a gifted woman for preserving an unborn life? How will you look if you help him?”
Chad considered this. “Where does she stand on abortion, by the way?”
Kerry smiled again. “Do you think I’m dense enough to ask? And why would you want to make the nomination of the first woman Chief a fight about abortion?”
Chad sat back. “I wouldn’t, Mr. President. Gage might.”
“He can’t. Judge Masters has no record on abortion— none.”
“Then she’s a Trojan horse,” Chad rejoined. “Okay, you won the election. Within reason, I think you’re entitled to whoever you want. But you’ve got no intention of sending over a Chief Justice who sees abortion the way our side does.”
For a moment, Kerry toyed with his silver napkin ring. “Define ‘our side,’ Chad. Are you and Gage on the same side when it comes to money in politics?”
“Hardly.”
“Hardly. He lords it over the Senate while his old friend and former colleague Mace Taylor collects money from the gun lobby, the Christian Commitment, big tobacco, and all his other clients, then uses it on Gage’s behalf—and his own.
“Those two know the drill better than anyone: money buys influence—and laws. Gage lets Taylor write special-interest legislation for Gage to pass, and tell him whic
h bills to block or kill. Taylor gets rich, Gage gets big donations from Taylor’s clients, and the country—and you—get screwed.” Kerry stared at him, though his voice was soft. “You want to run against me, Chad. But Mace Taylor and his friends don’t want you to, because they’ve already bought their candidate—Mac Gage. They’ll raise millions to defeat you, and the ads they’ll run won’t be pretty. So you’ll lose.”
“Maybe not …”
“You’ll lose,” Kerry repeated. “Which will be fine with me, pal. Gage would be much easier to beat.”
Palmer felt a surge of pride and defiance. “You’ve skipped a step, Mr. President. The one where—with your support—I get our campaign reform bill through the Senate over Gage’s and Taylor’s dead bodies. Choking off their money machine.”
Kerry smiled. “You’ve skipped a step—where my new Chief Justice helps decide whether your bill is constitutional. And therefore whether you’ve got a prayer of taking my place.”
At this, Chad began to laugh. “She’s pro-reform, isn’t she.”
“I think so, yes. I expect she’s also a lot of other things that I like, and you don’t. But, as you concede, that’s my prerogative.” Kerry’s tone was cool and emphatic. “Mac Gage is corrupt. Not in the sense that he takes suitcases full of unmarked bills. He’s far worse: he’s selling the Senate to the highest bidder to perpetuate his own ambitions. And if that means we keep allowing children to be slaughtered with the automatic weapons his NRA friends love so much, that’s okay with him.
“I intend to cut off his cash flow and infuse a little integrity back in government, any way I can. After that, you and I can fight it out on principle.”
Thoughtful, Chad considered what Kerry was proposing and the man who was proposing it—a complex mix of toughness and idealism, passion and cool calculation. “I’m out front here,” Chad said at last. “If this nomination blows up, and I’m on the wrong side within the party, I lose more than you do.”
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