Protect and Defend

by Richard North Patterson

  This, despite the painfulness of the moment, evoked from Brett a faint ironic smile. “That must be why you’re so low on self-pity, Caroline. You reserve it for lesser mortals.”

  The truth of this, and the solitude it suggested, left Caroline without words. “I wanted to tell you,” she said at last. “So much. But long ago I realized people are what they live. Betty was your mother, and you’re her daughter. Now I can only hope you’ll forgive me for how this is playing out. In public, and in the worst conceivable way.”

  Even as she said this, Caroline remembered that their time alone was running out fast—in little more than an hour, she had a date with the United States Senate. Brett looked into Caroline’s eyes without censure or sentimentality. “But you still want this, don’t you—to be Chief Justice.”

  If Brett could face the truth without flinching, Caroline resolved, so must she. “Yes,” she answered. “As I said, people are what they live. Twenty-seven years ago, I stopped being your mother. Instead, I became a lawyer, then a judge. This is about who I turned out to be.”

  Caroline paused, meeting her daughter’s gaze. “But it’s not all I want. Now that you know, it’s nowhere close. That’s why I worried so much about your coming.” Caroline paused, then finished quietly, “More than anything, Brett, I hope you’ll come to love me.”

  This statement, so uncharacteristic in its admission of need, caused her daughter’s eyes to shut. With equal quiet, she answered, “I came here, didn’t I?”

  An hour later, Brett and Caroline walked the few short steps from the hotel—shepherded by agents and surrounded by media—to a bullet-proof limousine.

  Once inside, the young woman seemed to ignore the reporters’ questions, shouted through the glass. To Caroline, she seemed to enter a private zone of self-possession which reminded Caroline of her own mother until, with some surprise, Caroline recognized it in herself.

  The limousine cruised toward Capitol Hill, the crush of media receding from view. Along Pennsylvania Avenue more Minicams recorded their progress; gazing at the Capitol, framed in the front window, Brett seemed to withdraw more completely, as though preparing for their arrival.

  They cruised to a stop in front of the Russell Senate Office Building, which housed the Old Senate Caucus Room. In the bright morning sun, more cameras waited, along with the phalanx of agents assigned to protect them. The car door opened. When they stepped from the car, Brett first, the cacophony began.

  For Caroline, time seemed to stop. Then the two of them, surrounded by agents, entered the building.

  SIXTEEN

  ONCE MORE, Caroline Masters faced the Senate Committee on the Judiciary.

  Much was the same—the bank of eighteen senators with aides hovering behind them; the television cameras; the standing-room-only mass of reporters. The difference lay in the level of intensity, and the reasons for Caroline’s recall. The one restraint on Caroline’s adversaries—at which they were demonstrably uneasy—was Brett Allen’s watchful presence in the first row.

  It was a little past eleven. For the first hour, Chad Palmer had questioned her about the Tierney decision, leaving the matter of Brett and Sarah Dash to others. Palmer had been persistent but fair; coolly, Caroline had summarized her position.

  “Roe and Casey,” she had told Palmer, “permit a ban on postviability abortion absent extraordinary circumstances. Some might call rape and incest extraordinary. Some might call severe fetal anomalies extraordinary. Under our decision, neither is—in itself—sufficient grounds. But these tragedies are often accompanied by a third extraordinary factor: a threat to the mother’s life or health.

  “Whether by accident or design, the Protection of Life Act deprives young women and their doctors of the right to deal with significant risks to health, including infertility, typically arising from one or both of the other factors I’ve mentioned. In the case of Mary Ann Tierney, the threat to her fertility arose directly from a fetal anomaly, hydrocephalus, which rendered it highly unlikely that the fetus would survive.”

  Pausing, Caroline had surveyed the committee. “Pregnancy is that rare condition where two lives—mother and child—are inextricably intertwined. My colleagues and I concluded that a statute which barred Mary Ann Tierney from protecting her physical health, under these circumstances, unduly burdened a minor’s right to an abortion under Roe v. Wade.

  “There are those who disagree. I respect that; I found the case a difficult one. But whatever the outcome of these hearings, I’m comfortable that we fulfilled our obligations, and applied the law.”

  Shortly before eleven-thirty, Senator Vic Coletti, the ranking Democrat on the committee, yielded to Senator Harshman.

  Though she did not turn, Caroline was acutely aware of Brett, the heightened tension in the room. Feeling her shoulders stiffen, Caroline took a deep breath. There was dampness on her forehead.

  Leaning on his elbows, Harshman peered at her over the raised bench, his glasses glinting with light.

  “You have a child,” he said bluntly.

  Caroline folded her hands, expelling a silent breath. “A biological daughter,” she answered, “who is my niece by adoption and by law.”

  Briefly, and it seemed involuntarily, Harshman’s gaze flickered to Brett Allen. “You’ve never married, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “And so you had the child out of wedlock.”

  Once more, Caroline felt a piercing regret—not for herself, but for Brett. “That,” she answered tersely, “would seem to follow.”

  Harshman’s neck twisted forward, a symptom of anger. “Do you know who the father was?”

  Turning, Senator Coletti stared at his colleague, his rough-hewn face a mask of disgust. Between them, Senator Palmer gazed at the papers in front of him. Caroline drew herself up.

  “Yes,” she answered. “I do.”

  “Can you tell us?”

  Caroline paused. “No.”

  Abruptly, Palmer’s head snapped up. “Why not?” Harshman demanded.

  Caroline met his eyes. “I’m here to answer your questions, Senator. In that spirit, I’m willing to discuss matters I regard as personal. But I don’t believe that this particular invasion of my privacy—and that of the young woman you see behind me—is in any way pertinent to your inquiry. That’s a subject for the two of us, and no one else.”

  With this, Palmer turned to Harshman, lightly touching his arm. A whispered colloquy, which clearly irritated Harsh-man, ended in a scowl. It was not hard for Caroline to guess what had happened—Palmer had told Harshman that he would not direct her to answer.

  After a moment, Harshman resumed with greater calm. “It is true,” he said, “that you never acknowledged this young woman as your daughter.”

  “It is.”

  “And, in connection with your appointment to the Court of Appeals, you designated her as your ‘niece’ in forms provided by the FBI.”

  “Yes.”

  Harshman’s voice rose. “Again, in connection with your nomination for Chief Justice—the presiding judge of our nation’s highest court—you wrote that Brett Allen was your ‘niece.’”

  Caroline stared at him. The others seemed to recede; the exchange felt visceral now, and very personal. “Which she was—and is. Shortly after her birth, Brett was adopted by my sister and her husband. We all thought that was best—”

  “Especially,” Harshman interjected, “for you.”

  Caroline concealed her anger with a shrug, the smallest movement of her shoulder. “In some ways, yes. In others, no.” Her voice grew stronger. “I decided that adoption was best for Brett. Both you and I, Senator, advocate adoption as social policy. No doubt some of the many birth mothers you’ve met have mentioned how hard it is to give up a child.”

  Harshman tented his fingers, eyes narrow. “Some also acknowledged publicly that they were birth mothers. You chose not to.”

  “True. As, for a variety of reasons, do many others.”

  “Pu
t bluntly, Judge Masters, they didn’t lie to the United States Senate.”

  Caroline drew a breath. “I assume not, Senator. I know I didn’t.”

  Harshman flushed, the reddening of his high forehead an alarming contrast to his thinning white hair. “Don’t bandy words with me, Judge Masters. You perjured yourself in forms submitted to this Committee.”

  Caroline gathered herself. “No,” she reiterated. “I did not.

  “I told the truth. As a matter of law, and for her entire life, my niece was parented by Larry and Betty Allen …”

  “That’s sophistry,” Harshman interjected. “If that’s the standard of truth you’d impose on our courts …”

  Caroline held up her hand. “Let me finish, Senator, please.

  “It’s true that I didn’t write down that my niece is also my birth child. With good reason: she never knew until five days ago, and in those five days she has been through more than should be required of anyone.

  “You can quarrel with my decision, Senator Harshman. And you’re certainly within your rights to ask these questions. But I ask you one simple question: What would you have done?

  “Would you expose your daughter—or your niece—to the kind of publicity your questions create?”

  “Judge Masters,” Harshman interrupted angrily.

  Caroline’s voice rose, the release of her own outrage. “Would you,” she demanded, “expose someone you love to a humiliation akin to what this young woman has been forced to endure?

  “Would you make her a plaything for the media, and for political partisans?” Pausing, Caroline subdued her tone. “I’ve no formal right to an answer. But I’m sincerely interested in knowing, Senator, what you would have done.”

  Harshman’s jaw worked, but his voice was level and authoritative. “Then I’ll tell you, Judge. If I were you, I would not have allowed the President to nominate me, and if I were he, I’d not have done so.

  “You have a biological daughter. If you couldn’t tell the truth about that—the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—then you are unworthy of presiding over a system of justice which rests on that commitment.”

  It was a good response; at once, Caroline regretted having pushed him. “I told the truth,” she insisted, “and all I believe anyone was entitled to—”

  “As a member of the Senate,” Harshman cut in, “I don’t agree. In fact, I believe you owe me an apology.”

  This interruption was a mercy, Caroline thought; just when he had squelched her, Harshman had gone too far.

  “I regret your feelings,” she answered. “For my own part, I believe that—under these circumstances—matters private to our family should have remained private.

  “If you intend to vote against me for that reason, that’s your right.” Lowering her voice, Caroline looked at him directly. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to do so without an apology from me.”

  On television, the image was striking: the composed and dignified judge; the beautiful young woman directly behind her, staring at her mother’s antagonist.

  “That last bit was a slip,” Clayton told the President. “But she’s held up well. And the two of them together are worth a thousand thirty-second spots.”

  They were alone in the interior conference room. Turning, Kerry said sharply, “That’s no cause for rejoicing. They’re there because of us, and don’t know it. I hope that bothers you at least a little, because it bothers the hell out of me.”

  Clayton met the President’s eyes. Since their breach, they had barely spoken; they were alone now only because several others—Ellen Penn, Adam Shaw, and Kit Pace—had been called away by emergencies. To Kerry, acting as if nothing were wrong was a level of pretense too painful to endure, the final death of friendship.

  “Personally,” Clayton answered, “I’m very sorry—about her, and about you. Politically, I think Masters is about to hand Paul Harshman his head. She couldn’t do that if she knew …”

  “Twenty-seven years ago,” Caroline continued, “I made the decision I believed was right. At least I got to make my decision in privacy, and to protect our family’s privacy—until, mercifully, the young woman we all love in common is the adult you see today.

  “Which brings me back to her, and to Mary Ann Tierney. Both of whom have been stripped of all privacy and used as pawns.” Folding her hands, Caroline addressed Harshman calmly. “Our court’s decision in Tierney, like Roe, is premised in the constitutional right to privacy. That right is well established. But whether you agree with it or not, the entire conduct of that case on television is a tragedy for this young girl.

  “Not only did she face a compulsory childbirth—and still may—but she was compelled to seek redress in public. Because, it appears, the very forces who claim to be acting to protect her have decided that they prefer her to be a public object lesson.

  “They’ve decided the same, it appears, regarding my niece.” Caroline’s voice was firm. “I don’t know about you, Senator, but that offends my notion of public decency …”

  “Bingo,” Clayton murmured.

  “Demagoguery,” Gage said in disgust. “Lying as the highest morality. If that’s the standard of truth she’ll bring to our justice system, God help us all.”

  Mace Taylor kept watching the screen. “I think Paul’s going to drop the hammer on her.”

  Frustrated Gage turned to him, feeling a growing disquiet about where events were taking them. “What hammer?” he inquired with an edge of sarcasm. “Your people couldn’t find anything new about her. Or even who leaked this business about the daughter.”

  Caroline faced Harshman. The room felt hot and close.

  “Speaking of decency,” Harshman said with ominous softness. “Do you know a lawyer named Sarah Dash?”

  Caroline steeled herself. “I do, Senator. She was counsel for Mary Ann Tierney.”

  “Indeed she was,” Harshman said primly. “And she was also your law clerk, you’ve acknowledged.”

  “Yes. Three years ago.”

  “And you formed a friendship.”

  “Yes. As I testified before.”

  Harshman’s eyebrows shot up. “A close friendship?”

  Caroline met his gaze. “I don’t know if one would call it that. We’re well apart in age. But Sarah remained a friend.”

  “A good enough friend, Judge Masters, to visit your home.”

  For a split second, Caroline imagined detectives combing through her life. But discipline turned her outrage to coolness. “From time to time.”

  Harshman folded his hands. “Alone?” he asked. “Just the two of you?”

  At that moment, Caroline became aware of Chad Palmer, leaning back from Harshman in silent disassociation, his face betraying a fleeting expression of distaste, followed by blank-ness. “Sometimes,” Caroline answered dryly. “I enjoy cooking, Senator. If I’m fortunate enough to live in Washington, I promise to fix you some veal piccata.”

  Sitting beside Palmer, Vic Coletti turned to Harshman with amusement and curiosity, as if wondering how his colleague would react. Nettled, Harshman said, “What was the nature of these visits, Judge Masters. Were you merely exchanging recipes?”

  Caroline felt herself stare at him, her voice turn wintry with repressed anger. “Ms. Dash isn’t much of a cook, I don’t believe. So we weren’t ‘exchanging’ anything.”

  Harshman hesitated. Across the twenty feet which separated them, their eyes met. I dare you, Caroline silently told him. But, as she suspected, Harshman chose to leave his implication dangling.

  “Did you ever exchange thoughts,” Harshman asked, “about the Tierney case?”

  Caroline composed herself, briefly rehearsing the response she had prepared. “Since the filing of the Tierney case, I’ve neither seen nor spoken to Ms. Dash. So the answer is no.” Pausing, Caroline spoke with renewed strength. “But for the sake of completeness, I should tell you that—the last time I prepared dinner—Ms. Dash mentioned meeting Mary Ann Tierney. I t
old her that, inasmuch as any case which resulted might come before my court, I didn’t want to hear about it, and wouldn’t discuss it.”

  Harshman stared at her in skepticism and surprise. “And you’re saying that was the entire conversation.”

  “Not quite.” Caroline’s voice was cold. “I told her that the partisans on both sides of the abortion question had long memories, and that it would be better for her to avoid this altogether. Although I never anticipated the inference you’ve raised this morning.”

  The room was hushed. Angry, Harshman leaned forward, jerking the microphone close to his mouth. “I’m entitled to an inference of bias, Judge, when you have private tête-à-têtes with counsel for Mary Ann Tierney. You did not choose to disqualify yourself, did you?”

  “Obviously not. If I had, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  Once more, Palmer turned to Harshman. “In fact,” Harsh-man continued, “you voted to grant Ms. Dash’s petition en banc.”

  “Ms. Tierney’s petition,” Caroline corrected. “That vote is private by rule of our court, so I’d be curious to know where you acquired your information. But the fact is that I voted for rehearing.”

  “And then wrote the opinion, invalidating the statute.”

  “Yes. I thought that’s why we were here—”

  “And you did all that,” Harshman said in a prosecutorial tone, “at the behest of a friend who often visits your home—alone.”

  Kit Pace, Adam Shaw, and Ellen Penn had gathered now. Adam and Kit flanked the President; Ellen—too intent to sit—stood next to Clayton with her hands flat on the conference table.

  On the screen Caroline had regained her calm. “As I remarked the last time, every judge has friends. I’ve lived and practiced in San Francisco for over twenty years and so, like many judges, most of my friends are lawyers.

  “As for former clerks, our rule—as I also said—is to recuse ourselves from their cases for one year after their clerkship. There are many former law clerks who practice before us; were the period any longer, our court would be paralyzed.