Protect and Defend

by Richard North Patterson

  “Did Steele dissent?” Shaw inquired.

  “Yes. Specifically, he accused Blair of ‘creating a new hobby for inmates who, deprived of their normal pursuits, can now do violence to the truth.’ Lane considers himself a phrasemaker.”

  Shaw frowned. “It sounds like Montgomery did you a favor. But we should be prepared. We’ll need copies of his opinion and Steele’s dissent.”

  Caroline nodded. “Is there anything else I should do?”

  “It’s more what you shouldn’t do.” Clayton sat back, folding his arms. “Right now we’re set to win this. So between now and the day the full Senate votes on your nomination, pretend that you’re the bridegroom at a wedding. The rules are the same: keep quiet and stay out of the way—no speeches, no letters, no appearances.

  “We need fifty-one votes. We want one hundred. Because if you get in trouble, and Mac Gage smells it, he could let the right-wingers filibuster you to death, and keep you from ever coming to a vote.”

  This startled Caroline. “On a Supreme Court nomination?” she asked. “Has the Senate ever done that?”

  “Not in living memory, and it would take real balls for Gage to do it now. But never underestimate how much Gage dislikes the President, and how much he wants to undermine him.

  “Under the rules of the Senate, all Gage needs is forty-one votes against shutting down a filibuster. That means you could have fifty-nine senators willing to support you, and still never make it to the Court.”

  Ellen turned to him in surprise. “That’s a long shot,” she interjected. “No matter how much Gage wants to break the President, that could tear the Senate apart. Gage isn’t crazy.”

  “He’s not,” Clayton agreed. “But I don’t think he’s a free agent, either. There are people who Gage answers to.”

  Though she was the focus of the discussion, Caroline felt herself an outsider, about to enter a world she did not fathom. For a moment, Ellen’s eyes narrowed in thought, and then she turned to Caroline. “Just follow the rules, Caroline, and learn your lines. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  Five

  WATCHING SIOBHAN RYAN take the stand, Sarah felt the weight of her own responsibility. As a lawyer, Sarah’s sole concern must be for Mary Ann; as a woman, she wished that Ryan was not here. So, plainly, did Barry Saunders.

  “Your Honor,” he said, “we’re very familiar with Mrs. Ryan. She’s a professional witness for the pro-abortion cause. Her personal experience was as an adult, not a minor, and her political opposition to this law is notorious. Any testimony she might give is biased, and irrelevant to Mary Ann Tierney.”

  “It’s highly relevant,” Sarah retorted, “and Mr. Saunders knows it. The court has already stated its disposition to hear all testimony, and weigh relevance for itself. If it does so here, the true reason for Mr. Saunders’s objection will become quite clear.”

  From the witness stand, Ryan watched this exchange with an air of weary resignation, as if she had become accustomed, if not inured, to castigation. She was in her late thirties, with pale skin, delicate features, round dark eyes, and black hair cut close to her head; Sarah hoped Leary would see her for what she was, a reticent woman who had forced herself to come here.

  “If her testimony is irrelevant,” Leary told Saunders, “I can cut her off myself.”

  As Sarah moved toward the witness, she was aware of the camera following her, an unwelcome presence that would change Siobhan Ryan’s life still further. “I’m sorry,” she had told Ryan in private. “If you don’t want to do this …”

  Sarah’s voice had trailed off, and Siobhan Ryan had finished the sentence for her in a soft, clear voice. “… it’ll go worse for this girl.”

  Now, perched on the edge of her chair, she reminded Sarah of a sparrow who wished to take flight. “Could you state your name for the record,” Sarah directed.

  “Yes.” Her voice remained wispy. “Siobhan Elizabeth Ryan.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Yes.”

  Ryan’s quiet voice seemed to draw the courtroom toward her. Leary leaned forward, as though to hear each word; only Barry Saunders, grimacing, seemed at odds with the prevailing mood.

  “Were you brought up in any religious tradition?” Sarah asked.

  “Yes. My parents are Irish Catholic. I was raised and confirmed in the Church.”

  “Are you still an observant Catholic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you also pro-life?”

  “Your Honor,” Saunders called out. “I object. As her testimony will establish, for Mrs. Ryan to call herself ‘pro-life’ is an insult to our movement, and a fraud on the court.”

  Sarah did not condescend to look at him. “We’re in a court of law,” she said to Leary, “not the Church of Barry Saunders. Mr. Saunders has no power to excommunicate Mary Ann Tierney’s witnesses, or to censor testimony he wishes you not to hear.”

  The remark brought a smile to the judge’s lips. This time television helped, Sarah was quite sure; there was no way that Leary would stifle this fragile-seeming woman at the behest of an overbearing man. “Let Mrs. Ryan talk,” he told Saunders. “I’ll be hearing from you soon enough.”

  With unsettling amiability, Saunders smiled and sat down; it would be too bad, Sarah thought, if he were shrewd enough to modulate his tone. Once more, she faced the witness. “Yes,” Ryan told Sarah firmly. “I’m morally opposed to abortion as a form of birth control.”

  “Has that always been your view?”

  “Always. My parents were, and are, adamant in that belief. When I was a teenager, and our parish priest organized demonstrations at a Planned Parenthood clinic, I was part of that.” Tilting her head, her gaze seemed inward, reflective. “I wasn’t very tolerant, then. At nineteen, when my best friend had an abortion, I stopped speaking to her. That’s something I’m ashamed of now.”

  “Do you still think your friend was wrong?”

  “Yes.” Ryan’s voice was softer yet. “But deserving of a better friend.”

  At the plaintiff’s table, Mary Ann Tierney looked down; Sarah guessed that she was imagining how her own friends might react. “Are there any adult experiences,” Sarah asked Ryan, “which have confirmed your pro-life views?”

  Ryan glanced at Martin Tierney. “I’m a pediatric nurse. Almost every day I see the miracle of life, and the advances medical science has made—from fetal surgery to care for premature babies—to preserve it. To me, science has shown us that a fetus is not a clump of tissue, and that our duty is to save it.”

  That the answer was plainly sincere, Sarah thought, made Ryan’s presence here more powerful, and more painful. “Shortly after your marriage,” she asked, “did you become pregnant?”

  Even now the memory made Ryan pause. “Yes.”

  “In the early stages of that pregnancy, did you undergo prenatal testing?”

  “No. I was aware of all the tests which could be done, of course. But I was only twenty-five, well below the age of risk, and my husband and I don’t believe in abortion as a response to disability.” Once more, Ryan looked toward Martin Tierney; more than Sarah, she seemed to see Tierney as a moral reference point. “We specifically discussed whether we could love and nurture a Down’s syndrome baby, and were certain that we could.”

  Sarah moved closer. “Did you eventually have a sonogram?”

  “Four months into my pregnancy.” Ryan paused. “It was fine. But they couldn’t tell the sex, and my husband couldn’t be there to see it. My doctor was a member of our parish, and a friend of my family, so he suggested I schedule another six weeks later.”

  “In that six weeks, did you perceive any change in your condition?”

  “Only that I felt heavier than I expected from seeing other pregnant women, and that my stomach seemed more swollen.” Ryan spoke in a monotone, as if to drain her oft-told story of its hurt. “If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought I was having twins. But I told myself it was nothing.”

  A
t the corner of her vision, Sarah saw Saunders fidgeting restlessly, a portrait of frustration. But Martin Tierney’s translucent gaze at Ryan held no malice. “Could you tell us,” Sarah asked, “what happened after the second sonogram?”

  For an instant, the witness closed her eyes, inhaling visibly. “When we entered his office, Dr. Joyce was staring at the sonogram. I’d never seen a doctor cry before.”

  At this Saunders rose, more slowly than before, his voice recalibrated to a tone of mournful deference. “Your Honor,” he said, “whatever her motives, this testimony is obviously painful. If Ms. Dash has any compassion for her own witness, I’d suggest we stipulate that her testimony be taken by deposition, which need not be televised to be part of the record. There’s no need for counsel to put Mrs. Ryan through an ordeal.”

  The hypocrisy of this suggestion, Sarah thought, was breathtaking: Ryan’s impact on their audience could be highly damaging to the Christian Commitment, emotionally and politically, and Saunders was desperate to pull back from the abyss. Swiftly, Sarah stifled an angry retort and placed her trust on Ryan’s own feelings about Barry Saunders. In a mild voice, Sarah said to Leary, “I appreciate Mr. Saunders’s suggestion. Perhaps we should ask the witness how she prefers to proceed.”

  The judge turned to Ryan. “Mrs. Ryan?”

  There was a film of tears in Ryan’s eyes; perhaps only Sarah saw the faint outline of a bitter smile, directed at Saunders, quickly erased by deeper emotions. Softly, she said, “It’s a little late now. Years late, in fact. I’m prepared to continue.”

  The somewhat delphic remark seemed all too clear to Saunders. Sitting, he looked like a man in an invisible cage, perfectly aware of what was happening around him, but powerless to stop it. Only anger, and decorum, kept Sarah from laughing aloud.

  “Thank you,” she said to Ryan. “What did the doctor tell you?”

  “That it was a boy.” Ryan bent her head, touching her eyes. “He had severe fetal anomalies, including almost no lung development. After that moment, I never felt our baby move again. It was like he’d heard, and given up.”

  “Did you give up?”

  “No. In the next three weeks, Mike and I went to three specialists in fetal surgery. Two said it was hopeless. One said that, with luck, he might enable our son to live a year. But that it would be very expensive.”

  “Were you willing to do that?”

  “Yes.” Ryan seemed to swallow. “Mike and I hoped against hope that, if we gave him a year, something more would happen. Some new advance.”

  “Did you have that surgery?”

  “No.” Ryan gazed up at the ceiling, as though to disengage herself. “The reason I felt bloated was excessive amniotic fluid. By the time I was scheduled for surgery, my uterus was the size of a woman ten weeks later in pregnancy, and our son’s head had begun to swell.”

  “Did that impact his prognosis?”

  “His, and mine.” Pausing, Ryan looked at Sarah again. “He had a form of hydrocephalus, potentially impeding cerebral development. To deliver him, Dr. Joyce would have to perform a classical C-section.”

  “And how did that affect your decision?”

  Ryan clasped her hands together. “Perhaps we could give our baby lungs,” she said quietly. “But we couldn’t give him a brain. Of course, we couldn’t be sure he didn’t have one, either.”

  “How did you resolve that?”

  Looking away, Ryan gave a small shrug of helplessness. “As a nurse, I knew the risks of a classical C-section. And Mike and I wanted to have more children.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Prayed.” Her voice trembled, and her eyes shone with tears again. “We decided to abort our son.”

  Sarah gave her a moment to recover. “Did your doctor agree to perform the operation?” she asked.

  The quick shake of Ryan’s head was almost a twitch. “He refused, and our priest counseled against it. We finally found another who said it wasn’t a sin, that God gave us the gift of reason for a purpose.”

  Martin Tierney, too, slowly shook his head; to Sarah the gesture seemed reflexive, involuntary.

  “What did you do then?” Sarah asked Ryan.

  “We found a specialist in San Francisco. Dr. Mark Flom. After he performed the procedure …”

  At this, Ryan stopped abruptly, gazing out at some middle distance where no one could look back at her. But when she resumed speaking her voice was clear and steady. “Our son lacked a cerebral cortex. They put a cap on his head, and gave him to us. We were able to hold him, and mourn him, and bury him.”

  Sarah paused again, less from drama than decency. “Did your parents support your decision?”

  “No. For three years they refused to see me, or speak to me.”

  “What changed their mind?”

  For a moment, Ryan seemed caught in the past. Softly, she answered, “The birth of our oldest daughter.”

  * * *

  From over his shoulder, Lara handed Kerry a short drink of Bushmills on ice, and kissed the back of his neck.

  “What are you watching?” Lara asked.

  “The trial. Unless I’m wrong, the girl’s lawyer’s about to stick it to the Christian Commitment.”

  Lara sat on the couch beside him. It was night in Washington; other than the television, the only light in Kerry’s study was the dim glow of a lamp. On the screen, Sarah Dash faced the witness.

  “Other than estrangement from your parents,” she asked, “what were the consequences, if any, of your decision to have a late-term abortion?”

  The camera panned to Ryan. In close-up, her eyes were luminous, her expression composed. “Nothing, at first. I was ashamed. Then I met other women who had had the same procedure for medical reasons, all after wanted pregnancies. One of them told me the Protection of Life Act was pending in Congress, and asked if I’d share my experiences with the Senate. That’s when it all began.”

  Watching, Kerry felt uneasy. Though the need to campaign in California had been pressing, it had also been convenient for Kerry to miss the vote: regardless of how he might have voted, the Protection of Life Act could have cost him the election. “I’d pity Barry Saunders,” he told Lara, “if only he deserved it.”

  “What was your purpose,” Sarah asked, “in testifying before the Senate?”

  Ryan faced Martin Tierney again. “If I’d been sixteen,” she answered, “instead of twenty-six, my parents would have refused permission, and the son and daughters I have now might not exist.

  “I thought that the senators didn’t understand that, and that they risked taking away from teenage girls the hope of having more children. That’s what I told the committee.” Pausing, Ryan added quietly, “They passed the law anyway. So here we are.”

  Sarah glanced at Barry Saunders; both hands on the table, he was poised to rise and object. “Did testifying against the Protection of Life Act,” she asked Ryan, “have any consequences to you and your family?”

  “Objection,” Saunders said promptly. “Whatever the witness may claim was done to her, it has nothing to do with the obvious constitutionality of the law, or with its plain intent.”

  “It has everything to do with this law,” Sarah told Leary. “The Christian Commitment is part of a campaign to intimidate women who speak out against it, and the law itself stems from their effort to misrepresent a medical necessity in order to attack abortion rights in general …”

  “Your Honor,” Saunders’s voice rose in protest. “I object to this calumny in our motives …”

  “You were quick enough to denigrate Mrs. Ryan’s motives,” the judge retorted. “Sit down, and take whatever’s coming.”

  To Sarah, Leary’s lightning changes of mood were impossible to predict. Swiftly, she moved to exploit this one. “Were there consequences to your family?”

  “Several,” Ryan answered with quiet composure. “The Christian Commitment picketed my daughter’s first Communion. Then they published a photograph of our son’s gra
ve site on their Web page, with an attack on my truthfulness before the Senate …”

  “What did they say?”

  “That I’d exaggerated our son’s medical problems, and my own, to promote abortion rights. And that my son’s murder represented the reason they needed more donations to protect the lives of other children.” Ryan’s tone was cold, and she looked directly at Saunders. “I don’t know how much money they raised by exploiting our son. What I do know is that Mike and I received hate mail, and threatening phone calls, and that a couple of my daughter’s second-grade classmates told her we were murderers …”

  “Your Honor …”

  Facing Tierney, the witness ignored Saunders. “I share almost all of your convictions, Mr. Tierney, and I don’t doubt your sincerity. But these people don’t care about your family, or mine. We’re just another opportunity for propaganda, and to raise money—”

  Leary’s gavel cracked abruptly. Facing Sarah, his air of sternness was leavened by a hint of humor around the eyes, suggesting an Irishman’s amusement at a mordant joke. “I think you’ve made your point, Ms. Dash. We’ll take a fifteen-minute break, and then the defense can have their turn.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  As Leary left the bench, Mary Ann Tierney gazed at her mother, and then Martin Tierney took Saunders aside. He spoke in a low voice, his eyes cold; Saunders listened.

  A few minutes later, when Sarah stepped outside for fresh air, the pickets were gone.

  SIX

  WHEN MARTIN TIERNEY, not Barry Saunders, cross-examined on behalf of the fetus, Sarah was not surprised: one of the emerging, critical aspects of the trial was who would speak for the pro-life cause. Martin Tierney, Sarah had concluded, was the more principled of the two, and also the more subtle and dangerous. Beside her, Mary Ann watched her father with mixed love and resentment, while Siobhan Ryan gazed at him from the witness stand with a sympathy she did not feel for Saunders. Tierney kept a distance from the witness; combined with his mildness of voice and manner, he conveyed that this circumstance was painful for them both.