Protect and Defend

by Richard North Patterson

  “From the moment of conception,” he began, “you believe that a fetus is a life.”

  Ryan nodded. “Yes. I do.”

  “And so, whatever her justification, my daughter proposes to take the life of her son.”

  Ryan looked down for an instant, then met Tierney’s eyes again. “Yes.”

  “Do you believe that your situation was the same as Mary Ann’s?”

  Ryan looked at him with caution. “In its details, or in general? We both faced a classical C-section.”

  Tierney moved closer. “But you also had excessive amniotic fluid. Didn’t that endanger your health still further?”

  Ryan nodded. “At the end. I couldn’t move or walk, and the fluid compressed my lungs. Because it was hard to breathe, I was afraid to sleep.”

  “In other words, your condition was potentially life threatening?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not suggesting, are you, that—had you been a minor—the Protection of Life Act would have made your choice illegal.”

  It was a delicate point. “I have no idea,” Ryan answered. “All I know is that my parents would have forced me to find out.”

  Folding his arms, Tierney paused, gazing at the floor. It was a small, human moment; rather than a relentless cross-examiner, Tierney appeared to be a deeply concerned father, trying to resolve a difference with a woman of goodwill. “Let me ask you to imagine,” he continued, “that your oldest daughter is now fifteen, and pregnant. You would want to know, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes. To help Theresa through it.”

  A small change of demeanor, the use of her daughter’s name, hinted at a parental empathy between Ryan and Tierney to which Sarah felt an outsider. “Suppose Theresa wanted to abort her child,” Tierney asked. “Were it in your power, would you stop her?”

  “I would try to.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Because I believe abortion on demand to be a sin. I also believe that a sin wounds any person who commits it.”

  “And were we, as parents, to act under those circumstances, you’d believe that we were right to do so?”

  “Believing as you do,” Ryan said carefully, “and knowing your own daughter—yes.”

  “And so your testimony in Mary Ann’s favor is based solely on your perception that her pregnancy poses medical risks?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the moral and emotional risks? Are they different for your daughter than for mine?”

  Looking down, Ryan twisted her wedding ring. “Every child is different,” she said at length. “But, no, I believe the principles are the same. As well as the potential for psychological damage.”

  The witness and Tierney had fallen into a rhythm. Grimly, Sarah imagined the impact of this on the millions watching and, more crucial, on Leary. The judge was silent, watching the exchange between his fellow Catholics with respectful interest.

  “You’ve mentioned meeting a number of women,” Tierney noted, “who faced late-term abortions. Were there any with whose decisions you disagreed?”

  Ryan folded her arms. “One,” she finally answered. “Although I like her very much. Her fetus had serious heart problems which made him unlikely to live. She decided that she couldn’t bear to watch her newborn baby die.”

  For Sarah, it was the worst possible answer; she could see too clearly where it led. “And so she took his life in the womb,” Tierney said, “to spare herself emotional hardship.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t think that’s justified.”

  “Not according to my moral beliefs. I think that to pursue perfection, and eliminate the challenges God gives us, is never more wrong than when applied to unborn children. Nor, to me, is the pain easier to bear—quite the contrary. One is God’s doing; the other, your own.”

  “And you would want to spare your daughter, a minor, that same pain.”

  “If possible. Yes.”

  Tierney paused. “Suppose, then, that she faced a cesarean section that one doctor, a pro-abortionist, estimated could create a five percent risk of infertility, but conceded might be less. Knowing the trauma of abortion, and believing it the taking of a life, would your decision as a parent be difficult?”

  “Extremely.” Ryan paused, then added quietly, “I sympathize with all of you.”

  “Then how can you be certain that, with our daughter, you wouldn’t decide as we have?”

  Sarah started to object, then realized that it would be fruitless. Arms resting on the bench, Leary looked absorbed, his self-regard forgotten. “I couldn’t,” Ryan said. “But I believe, where a baby has so little chance and future children may be at risk, that a mother’s wishes are entitled to great weight. And that for you to override them, and face your daughter in court, has risks all its own.”

  Ryan paused to fortify herself, then concluded, “I love my mother and father, Professor Tierney, very much. But we fell out in private, and still our relationship has never been the same. I worry much more for yours.”

  The sad, measured admonition caught Martin Tierney short, accenting the deep silence in the courtroom. From the defense table, Fleming and Saunders stared at him. Tierney had gone from an anguished father to a lawyer with a classic dilemma—overconfident in his rapport with the witness, he had asked one question too many.

  Tierney did what Sarah would have done; he sat down.

  Allie Palmer leaned back, resting her head on Chad’s shoulder. But as Sarah Dash’s image crossed their screen, Chad felt in Allie’s stillness the slightest withdrawal from him, though she had not moved at all.

  “Why did you vote for it?” Allie asked.

  The question carried the hint of long-ago discord—no longer confronted, and never quite buried.

  “Because I believe abortion’s murder,” he said evenly. “That you and I disagree is the oldest news in our marriage, and the tiredest. I’ve tried to let it go.

  “As I’m sure you understand, I feel some sympathy for this girl’s father. I also want to be President, and I’ve already antagonized half my party over campaign finance reform. Even if I agreed with you—which I don’t—voting against this bill would have been as reckless as Mac Gage thinks I am.”

  Allie laughed mirthlessly. “Big boys, playing big games. What does a teenage girl matter?”

  Gently disengaging, Chad stood and left the room.

  SEVEN

  SARAH SAT at the desk in her bedroom, reviewing her notes for tomorrow’s first witness, Dr. Jessica Blake.

  It was ten at night and beneath the window of her second-floor apartment, the streets, slick with a chill winter rain, were subdued—scattered voices; the sound of tires spattering water; gusts of wind rattling the glass through which, every so often, appeared the mechanical arms of an electric streetcar run by overhead cables. This respite from the hermetic tension of the courtroom was a relief, as was, strangely, the presence of Mary Ann Tierney, reading textbooks in the guest room after a dinner with her parents which she had described as “silent stress.” If she worked hard enough, Sarah told herself, and kept anticipating Tierney and Barry Saunders, her inexperience would not be fatal; so far, her witnesses had been well prepared, and she had made no real mistakes. But fear of tomorrow’s errors would keep her working well past midnight.

  From beside the desk came the low drone of her television, a cable news reprise of the trial. On occasion, with fascination and disbelief, Sarah would turn to watch herself or Martin Tierney—his face obscured by a screen of electronic blocks, his name deleted by a low buzz. She hit the remote, banishing her image from the screen: the idea that she was becoming famous, or notorious, was both a distraction and too much to absorb.

  The telephone on her desk rang. Hastily, she picked it up.

  “Sarah Dash?” a man asked.

  Sarah hesitated. “Who is this?”

  “Bill Rodriguez, of the San Francisco Chronicle.” The voice was quick, edgy. “We’d like your comment on a
report on the Internet Frontier identifying the Tierney family by name, and describing their involvement in the pro-life movement.”

  Startled, Sarah took a moment to answer. “I don’t have any comment. This is like rape and molestation cases, where your newspaper has been careful to protect minors. Any report on this case violates my client’s privacy—”

  “That’s already happened,” Rodriguez interrupted, “and the Frontier claims that the Tierneys’ identity and background is too important not to print. Millions of people are already watching on television—if we can’t report this, we’re at a disadvantage.”

  Surprise yielded to anger; were Mary Ann’s name and face exposed, the burden could be crushing. “So the Frontier’s your evil twin?” Sarah answered. “If they do the slimy things you’d like to do, you get to do them, too?”

  “If your client’s old enough for this abortion,” the reporter said curtly, “isn’t she old enough to speak for herself? Put her on the phone, Ms. Dash. We know she’s there.”

  Sarah fought to control her voice. “So you want a comment?”

  “It’s a start.”

  “All right—go fuck yourself.” Heart racing, Sarah hung up.

  Sitting, she tried to compose herself.

  She’d lost it—outrage was no excuse for acting unprofessional, and readiness in court no substitute for diplomacy outside it. The strain was worse than she’d admitted to herself; now the only question was whom she owed the first warning— Mary Ann, Martin Tierney, or the chairman of her firm.

  After a moment, she picked up the phone again.

  Martin Tierney sounded weary. “Professor Tierney,” she said, “this is Sarah Dash. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Wake me?” His laugh was brief and bitter. “After hearing from the Chronicle? But you’re very kind to worry.”

  So he already knew. “Other than Barry Saunders,” Sarah asked, “who knew that she was here?”

  There was silence. “The Commitment’s selling you out,” Sarah told him. “You called off the demonstrators, and it worried them. They want you committed, and as much publicity as they can get. What happens to Mary Ann doesn’t matter—”

  “Stop casting blame,” Tierney interrupted wearily, “and face up to your own responsibilities. Beginning with what we do tomorrow, when Efrem Rabinsky returns to court.”

  As Tierney had predicted, the lawyer for Allied Media awaited them, his air of calm self-satisfaction suggesting that he was armored in the people’s right to know. When Leary seated them around his conference table, it was Rabinsky who spoke first.

  “We all know the situation,” he began. “The Tierneys’ identity is now widely disseminated on the Internet—regrettable, but a fact. So let me quote the editorial which accompanied the Internet Frontier’s story.”

  Fishing out his reading glasses, Rabinsky read from a computer printout. “‘The heart of the controversy,’” he quoted, “‘is more than the rights of the unborn, or even who speaks for them. Nor does it lie in case law or expert testimony.

  “‘The single most compelling question is whether a leading intellectual proponent of the pro-life view, who shares with his wife a long history of principled opposition to everything from the war in Vietnam to the death penalty, is entitled to invoke these principles in the case of his fifteen-year-old daughter. For if these parents are not so entitled, parental consent—so popular with Americans at large—will cease to be an element in how we regulate abortion.’”

  Clearing his throat, Rabinsky looked up at Leary. “Whatever their motives, it’s a very interesting argument. And if the traditional media can’t report this aspect of the story, then our readers, listeners, and viewers will flock to the Internet for news. In other words, to the least responsible sources.”

  Leary compressed his lips in frustration. You fool, Sarah wanted to tell him, what did you expect? “These people flouted my order,” Leary snapped. “You’re asking me to reward them.”

  “Not so,” Rabinsky said. “I’m asking you not to punish those who honored your order, and now find ourselves disadvantaged. In my experience, Judge, the Internet is so hydra-headed as to be ungovernable. Other Internet outlets are following the Frontier’s lead. By the time they finish appealing your current order, this will all be academic—”

  “Issue a contempt order.” Martin Tierney’s interruption was uncharacteristic, as was his open anger. “Today, against anyone who’s printed our name …”

  “Anyone?” Rabinsky asked him. “Everyone? There’s no putting the genie back in the bottle, nor should there be. When you chose to intervene on behalf of the fetus, then to conduct the case yourself, you made your own identity central to the story.

  “Judge Leary has no jurisdiction to find the entire Internet in contempt, let alone private citizens who pass the story on to others. So consider not only whether you’ve asked for this attention but whether you shouldn’t, at least in some ways, seek it. Instead of making the media your adversary, make it a vehicle for your views—”

  “Mary Ann Tierney,” Sarah cut in, “is not a ‘vehicle.’ She’s a fifteen-year-old girl who wants a personal tragedy to remain personal.” Pointing toward Martin Tierney, she said to Leary, “If she had murdered her father for his beliefs, instead of simply opposing him in court, the confidentiality laws regarding juveniles accused of crimes would protect her from exposure. The least this court owes her is to enforce its own orders.”

  Leary raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Fleming,” he asked, “does the Justice Department have any view?”

  “This is a constitutional challenge,” Fleming answered soberly, “not a teaching opportunity. In our view, which advocates of children’s rights would echo, Mary Ann could be severely harmed by being forced to become a public figure. We’re happy to resolve this matter without exposing the Tierneys on television.”

  “Mr. Saunders?” the judge asked.

  Saunders folded his hands. “We’re here at Mr. Tierney’s invitation, Your Honor. We defer to him.”

  It was hardly a firm statement of support; to Sarah’s mind, Saunders was like a political candidate who leaves the dirty work to his minions. But it was sufficient for Tierney’s purposes. “All the parties to this case,” he told Leary, “are in agreement. The only one who wants my family exposed still further is Mr. Rabinsky, who’s here at his own invitation.”

  “You’ve exposed yourselves,” Rabinsky countered. Facing Leary, he said, “While Mr. Tierney’s feelings are entitled to some weight—”

  “Mary Ann has feelings of her own,” Sarah interjected. “What price does she have to pay for an act of Congress?”

  “That’s the point,” Rabinsky said imperturbably. “Both the Tierneys and their daughter voluntarily invoked the legal process to raise matters of overriding public interest covered by the First Amendment. It’s clear that this case is inextricably intertwined with the character of the Tierney family itself. Where that information is already on the Internet, to continue obliterating faces and beeping names, or censoring the mainstream press, is futile and unfair.”

  Raising his hand for silence, Leary squinted at the table, as if a few seconds of concentrated thought were sufficient to slice through the thicket of contention. “All right,” he said. “I’m lifting my previous strictures on the media.”

  Turning to Tierney, he explained, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Rabinsky’s position has the unhappy virtue of acknowledging reality. I’ll keep the ban for twenty-four hours, so that you or Ms. Dash can appeal to the emergency motions panel for the Ninth Circuit. I believe Lane Steele is the presiding judge this month.”

  This last information jarred Sarah from her shock at Leary’s decision. The month had barely begun; whoever lost at trial must appeal to—or be reassigned by—a panel including the judge on Caroline’s court most noted for his pro-life views. But Martin Tierney stared past Leary, bereft.

  For once, he did not speak the perfunctory, foolish word of thanks custom requires fr
om lawyers after a ruling, however adverse and peremptory. Tonelessly, Sarah uttered it for them both.

  In the corridor between the chambers and the courtroom, Sarah stopped Martin Tierney. In an undertone, she said, “Leary’s an idiot. God help us both.”

  Tierney still looked stunned. “Will you join me in an appeal?” he asked.

  “Yes. But I doubt that Judge Steele, or anyone, will see any point in disturbing a trial judge’s reversal of his own order.” Gently, Sarah rested her hand on his arm. “Let her go, Professor Tierney. Sign the consent.”

  Tierney paused, pale eyes filled with anguish, then shook his head. “You still don’t understand,” he answered. “I can’t.”

  He turned from her, leaving Sarah to explain the ruling to his daughter.

  EIGHT

  QUESTIONING DR. JESSICA BLAKE, Sarah felt on edge; though the psychologist was poised and well prepared, her testimony would be crucial. With her delicate features, wire-rim glasses, and hair skimmed back from her face, Blake exuded calm. But Blake’s premise—that parental consent laws damaged teenage girls—was incendiary.

  “In your experience,” Sarah asked “are teenage girls sufficiently mature to decide between motherhood and abortion?”

  “Most are,” Blake answered. “As to the rest, one must ask why a girl who’s unequipped to choose between motherhood and abortion is equipped to be a mother.”

  “How does that affect your view of parental consent laws?”

  “It’s one of several reasons that they do more harm than good,” Blake explained, facing Leary. “Up to now our experience is with state parental consent laws for previability abortions, which grant minors far broader exceptions than this law allows. Under those laws, a judge can either conclude that a girl is mature enough to make the decision for herself, or—if not—that her interests are better served by abortion than by motherhood.

  “These exceptions permit a minor to abort in ninety-nine percent of all cases which go to court. But the problem with any parental consent law is that many girls are afraid to go to court. The result is that they become unwed mothers by default, with all the difficulties that implies for both the minor and her child.”