Protect and Defend

by Richard North Patterson

  Blair chose not to answer, or to look at her. After some moments, he said quietly, “I can’t advise you on what course is the most expedient—or the wisest. I merely note that until the moment you cast a final vote, your slate in the Senate is clean. This morning’s vote isn’t public.”

  Even in her despair—for herself and perhaps for Brett— Caroline felt a deep fondness for Blair Montgomery. Much of this conversation went against his deepest instincts as a judge and yet, for her sake, he had resolved that they should have it. To thank him would be much more than he wished.

  Instead, she chose the lightest tone she could muster. “Before we get there, Blair, I have to explain this to Clayton Slade. And, by extension, the President. Perhaps you could suggest the nicest way to do that.”

  NINE

  KERRY KILCANNON looked astonished, and then began to laugh, his tenor and expression by turns rueful and—surprising to Clayton—sardonically amused at his own miscalculation.

  “I certainly earned this one,” the President told him. “It’s exactly what I liked her for—this quaint notion that she’s larger than her ambitions. Even, it seems, her fears.”

  “We can always pray,” Clayton offered, “that she’s decided to vote against the girl, and for the act. That would get her confirmed by about one hundred to zero.”

  Kerry’s look of amusement vanished. It was nine at night; in the dim light of the study, he looked as tired as he had at the end of the campaign. “No,” he said at last. “She may not think she knows yet, but I do—at least if there’s a split. She didn’t pass on recusal just so she could pick up more Republicans, or get us off the hook.

  “This is about Caroline’s idea of herself. That’s what prompted her to tell Ellen Penn about her daughter and, however politely, tell me to take a hike after I started angling for a commitment on campaign reform.” Kerry gave a brief, ironic smile. “If she votes to overturn the Protection of Life Act, she’ll offer to withdraw. It would have been so much easier to have taken her up on that the last time.”

  “The days of innocence?” Clayton said. “Before you cut a deal with Palmer—putting you in his debt and him in trouble with Gage—for what may turn out to be nothing? Or merely before the vote you think she’ll cast, inflaming the abortion issue and maybe costing you much more than you can afford to pay.”

  This last reference, though coded, brought home for Clayton how angry he himself was at Masters’s arrogance, and how concerned for Kerry that Lara Costello’s abortion, if discovered, could destroy him. But Kerry’s response was an opaque silence, behind which his deepest thoughts often seemed to vanish.

  “What about Gage?” he said at length.

  “He set Masters up to self-destruct. He had Harshman corner her on recusal and Sarah Dash. Now he’s holding up her confirmation until she votes.”

  The President shrugged. “That’s just hardball. It’s what you’d expect him to do. And what the Christian Commitment is no doubt telling him to do.”

  “Fair enough,” Clayton rejoined. “But consider the rest: first, this Judge Steele assigns the case to himself, and then he turns around to call for a rehearing by the entire court. It’s like Gage is pulling his strings.”

  As Kerry considered this, his expression became chill. “Life is long,” he answered softly. “If we can ever prove that, I’ll make Gage’s feel like eternity.”

  At ten o’clock, amidst a debate on the new telecommunications bill that threatened to go past midnight, Macdonald Gage pulled Chad Palmer off the Senate floor.

  “We need to talk,” Gage said brusquely. “It won’t keep.”

  To Chad, the only business which could be so pressing was Caroline Masters. He awaited an explanation, wondering whether someone with the FBI had improperly leaked the “rumor” regarding the birth of a daughter. But Gage did not speak again until they reached the underground subway between the Senate and the Russell Building.

  “Let’s go to your office,” Gage suggested. “Less likely for the press to see us.” But though the media was covering the debate closely, the tunnel in the bowels of Congress was empty; when Chad and Gage got in the open car, they were alone.

  “What’s the problem?” Chad inquired. “Did Paul Harsh-man find out that Masters is a registered Republican?”

  As usual, Gage frowned at his colleague’s levity. “They’ve granted a rehearing in Tierney. Masters has been named to the panel.”

  Maybe it wasn’t the daughter, Chad thought with relief. “When did that happen, Mac? I hadn’t heard a thing.”

  Gage hesitated. “It’s not public yet,” he answered tersely.

  Then how do you know? Chad wanted to ask. Instead, he maintained his pose of ingenuousness. “How could Masters let that happen?”

  “Maybe because she’s a true believer, like Paul was saying.” Gage’s tone became harsher, cutting through the clatter of the car as it moved through the bleak gray corridor. “The kind of liberal who wants to keep parents out of their children’s lives.”

  Instinctively, Chad bridled at this oversimplification, the sort of political red meat more suitable to a fund-raising letter than to reality. He reminded himself that, with Gage, partisan rhetoric often concealed a deeper purpose. “Unless Masters is voting with us,” Chad replied.

  “That’s the only way,” Gage said pointedly, “she’ll ever be confirmed. The Protection of Life Act is fundamental to our political base.”

  And your financial base, Chad thought. It was cynical of Gage to suggest that they had a common need to propitiate the Christian Commitment, while ignoring the complex realities which divided them. Four years hence, Gage would need the Commitment’s financial support to defeat Chad for the party’s nomination, and then wrest the presidency from Kilcannon: in the service of defeating Masters, he wanted Chad to collaborate in his own destruction. “Sometimes,” Chad observed, “it’s hard to tell a ‘base’ from an anchor.”

  Gage pursed his mouth: the remark not-so-tacitly suggested that the Christian Commitment, and Gage, would cause their party to lose to Kilcannon. “Christian parents,” Gage intoned, “are entitled to keep their children from taking an unborn life.”

  At similar times, Chad had thought with some contempt that Gage had the soul of a Russian apparatchik, who cloaked his endless machinations beneath a string of pious bromides. But this particular bromide, and Gage’s willingness to advance his goals by any means at hand, reminded Chad to be wary. With renewed courtesy, he inquired, “What do you suggest I do?”

  Gage turned to him. “Stop protecting her,” Gage said bluntly. “If she votes wrong, you’ll need to help me pull the plug on her. For your sake as well as our party’s.”

  This was so abrupt that Chad wondered again what Gage might know. “I can’t believe she’ll do that,” he found himself temporizing. “She has her pride, but Caroline Masters is too smart to stick it to us.”

  Gage shrugged, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “We’ll see, Chad. We’ll just see about that.”

  Beneath the Russell Building, the car rumbled to a stop. Gage beamed at him brightly, an expression he managed without opening his lips to smile. “We’ve only just arrived,” he said in his most comradely tone, “and our business is already done. Why don’t you pour me a drink, and tell me all about Allie and Kyle.”

  It was not until morning that Sarah Dash learned that her petition had been granted, midafternoon before she picked up Mary Ann at school.

  They sat in Sarah’s car. As she listened, the girl’s mouth parted, her expression oscillated between hope and worry. “What happens now?” she asked.

  “In three days we’ll have a hearing. After that, they’ll decide as quickly as they can.” Gently Sarah placed her hand on the girl’s wrist. “Dr. Flom thinks you should stay quiet and in bed. He doesn’t want anything to go wrong while we’re waiting for a ruling.”

  Quiet, Sarah watched Mary Ann absorb a distasteful paradox: the risk of premature delivery without permission to
abort; the need to rest so that she could take her child’s life. A legal “victory” had never felt so painful and ambiguous.

  TEN

  ENTERING THE courthouse, Sarah felt the Tierney case becoming part of history.

  The ornate building was besieged by Minicams and demonstrators—some in wheelchairs—carrying signs supporting the Tierneys or their daughter. In the Great Hall leading to Courtroom One, more media thronged, their calls to Sarah echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling as they had two weeks before. But today the landmark case which would decide the fate of Mary Ann Tierney and her unborn child might also determine whether Caroline Masters would become the most important legal figure of her time, or a melancholy footnote—the woman who had lost her chance to be Chief Justice of the United States.

  As for Sarah herself, her cause seemed fated, but not doomed. Among the eleven judges were several, including Caroline, whose leanings were uncertain. To persuade them, Sarah must use the time allotted her with firm resolve and keenness of mind, keeping Mary Ann Tierney ever present in their consciousness. Sarah was as rested and calm as possible: buffeted by notoriety, hostility, and the legal blows dealt by Patrick Leary and Lane Steele, she had found within herself a determination and resilience that distinguished her from the young lawyer who, seven weeks ago, had watched a red-haired girl brave a crowd of pickets.

  “Sarah,” someone called out, “what are you expecting?”

  To do my best, she thought. Silent, she entered the courtroom.

  * * *

  In the robing room, Judge Caroline Masters removed her black robe from the ornate wooden coatrack.

  She was the last judge to do so. Beneath the fluted lamps, her colleagues waited in silence. Today there were few jocular quips, and the quiet chatter which preceded even the most contentious hearings was lacking. This monastic air was due, Caroline knew, less to the unprecedented crush outside the courthouse than to the tension inside this room: her colleagues were well aware of the unique importance of the case and Caroline’s role in it. Sitting at the conference table, Lane Steele propped his chin on folded hands and stared at the polished walnut, as though marshaling his energy and intellect. Only Blair Montgomery—raising his eyebrows and slightly smiling at her as he cracked open the door to listen—seemed more or less in character.

  Caroline glanced at the wall clock. The second hand, circling, marked ten o’clock. Chief Judge Sam Harker, a courtly Arizonan in his late sixties, looked around him at the others. “Ready?” he asked. When no one demurred, he nodded toward Blair Montgomery.

  The door opened slowly, and then the eleven judges filed into court.

  “All rise,” the courtroom deputy called.

  As the fourth most junior, Caroline sat on the left of the lower of two benches. Standing at the table reserved for her, Sarah Dash stared straight ahead.

  From her own experience, Caroline knew what Sarah must see. She could still recall her only en banc hearing as a lawyer, early—as with Sarah—in her career. Now, as then, the lawyers faced two banks of silent judges, a first bench of eight, the higher bench seating only three: the Chief Judge flanked by the two most senior judges—Blair Montgomery, in this case, being one.

  The courtroom itself was overwhelming in its extravagance, a lavish melange of marble mosaics, carved Corinthian columns, plaster cupids and flowers, and stained-glass windows filtering a golden light which augmented the intended sense of awe. Garlands of fruits and vegetables carved in marble around the columns and door frames portrayed the bounty of California, and the marble panel behind the two benches had an intricate design expressive of Native American art. The upper bench was marred by a colorful piece of history—the ricochet from a bullet fired by a defendant who, in 1917, had murdered an adverse witness. But the fresh history being made was evidenced by the novel presence of two cameras, broadcasting the hearing on the motion of Judge Lane Steele—who had cited, with seeming relish, Caroline’s own responses to Chad Palmer on the virtues of televised proceedings.

  Three chairs to her left, Steele peered at his notes, then at Sarah. Her counterparts each presented a different aspect: Thomas Fleming looked as gray and recessive as a diplomat hoping to draw but minimal attention; Barry Saunders personified the glazed reverence of a lawyer straining to show his respect; Martin Tierney appeared weary, spectral, and, somehow, self-martyred. When Caroline glanced at Sarah, their eyes met briefly, and then the younger woman averted her gaze. Caroline resolved not to look at her until she rose to argue.

  Much like Sarah, Caroline supposed, she did not know what would happen. As the parties sat, she realized that her hands were clasped tightly beneath the bench.

  “Ms. Dash,” the Chief Judge said politely, and the hearing began.

  Afterward, still feeling the adrenaline rush which made the hearing seem like disjointed pieces of a dream, Sarah sorted through her most vivid impressions.

  Lane Steele’s face and voice were imprinted on her mind. For the first ten minutes, his piercing voice had interrupted her with question upon question:

  “With the advance of medical science, Ms. Dash, won’t a cesarean section soon become no more problematic than having one’s tonsils out?”

  Then:

  “Are you asking us to sacrifice a life on the altar of a mother’s mental health?”

  Then:

  “Does an anomaly in a fetus automatically equate to emotional distress in the mother?”

  Then:

  “If all we have to go on is some unverifiable claim of angst, aren’t you asking this court to sanction eugenics?”

  “We’re not advocating eugenics,” Sarah recalled objecting. “We’re trying to protect a minor’s reproductive health—”

  “At least one percent of it,” Steele interjected in caustic tones. “What would you say to us if your abortion yields a normal—albeit dead—child …”

  “Forgive my interruption.” Speaking from behind Steele, Judge Blair Montgomery had used a mild voice which seemed to underscore his disdain. “If I might suggest this to my colleague, the remaining ten of us are quite familiar with the substance of his written opinion. That’s why we’re here.

  “I, for one, am interested in a fresh perspective. Perhaps even Ms. Dash’s.”

  The directness of this challenge left Steele groping for a retort less venomous than the look he shot Montgomery. With a smile of encouragement, Montgomery said to Sarah, “I’m sure you can incorporate an answer into the body of your argument. Which we, and the country, remain anxious to hear.”

  This clear reference to the camera had seemed to seal his adversary’s silence. Sarah’s argument commenced at last, gaining strength, punctuated by questions posed in more civil tones. But Caroline Masters asked nothing.

  Martin Tierney’s principal memory, Sarah supposed, would be of Blair Montgomery.

  Unlike Steele, Montgomery bided his time. His first question, asked several minutes into Tierney’s argument, was unexpected:

  “Would you say, Professor Tierney, that a mother’s prospective loss of an arm is a ‘substantial risk’ to physical health?”

  Tierney hesitated, plainly surprised by the question. “Under the Protection of Life Act,” he answered, “there is room for a parent—or a court—to so conclude.”

  “But wouldn’t you agree,” Montgomery asked, “that at least some women would rather lose an arm than lose the capacity to bear children?”

  Once more, Tierney paused. Watching, Sarah had wondered whether he was thinking of his own wife, and whether Blair Montgomery had intended that he do so. “They might,” Tierney conceded. “But fear is one thing, reality another. When a minor becomes pregnant, a parent, or a court, can determine whether any threat to infertility is substantial, or marginal …”

  “Then let me ask a real-world question: Should a battered wife determine whether a minor daughter should bear her own father’s child? Or does the added fact of incest suggest that the girl and her doctor should have a greater role?�
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  Challenged, Tierney retorted, “These horrors surely happen, however isolated. But under this law such girls can go to court.”

  “Go to court?” Montgomery repeated in a tone of incredulity. “The thirteen-year-old daughter of an abusive and incestuous family?

  “Truly, Professor, I wonder if life often conforms to the tidy patterns you’re constructing for us: loving parents, benign judges, and teenage girls too immature to have an abortion, yet resourceful enough to hire a lawyer and proceed to federal court. Which, in the case of girls in this district, may be as much as two hundred miles away.”

  “Your Honor,” Tierney responded, “any rule which prevents tragedies may, in rare cases and by inadvertence, make others possible. I submit to you that the protection of a viable late-term child is far less tragic than the exceptions which might result.”

  Montgomery sat back. “The ‘exceptions,’” he observed, “are girls you will never meet, or even know to pity. But please continue, Professor Tierney.”

  Sarah glanced at Caroline, wondering how she registered Martin Tierney’s deflation. But, though intent, Caroline remained expressionless. In watchful silence, she observed her colleagues questioning Tierney, then—during rebuttal— Sarah.

  And then, quite suddenly, it was over, and Caroline and the others had turned their backs and were filing toward the conference room.

  The spectators stirred to life, trading comments and speculation. Amidst the din, Sarah tried to imagine the deliberations which would now begin, the thrust and cut of argument among the judges. All but Caroline Masters had asked at least one question: though Sarah understood her reasons, she could not help but feel betrayed.

  In the Oval Office, Clayton turned from the screen.

  “Hardly a distinguished performance by our putative Chief Justice. But at least she’s learned the virtue of silence.”

  The President shrugged, speaking in the shorthand he often used when the two of them were alone: “Television.”