Lubbock County Courthouse, Lubbock, Texas
The cameras were rolling when the police cruiser pulled up to the Lubbock County Courthouse. Rebecca knew she looked awful—the scrape on her forehead had scabbed over, and her hair was slicked back and dark with grease—but she was wearing the outfit that Cait had dropped off at the Yoakum jail that morning, and wearing it made her feel slightly more in control.
They’d placed her in a cell by herself, but she could still hear her fellow prisoners muttering and shuffling and moaning and snoring, punctuated by the clank and scrape of metal doors opening and slamming shut. She had spent the night staring up at the stained ceiling above her bed, wondering how it was possible that twenty-four hours before, she’d been climbing into Cait’s car, scared as hell but convinced that the worst of it was likely over, that the plan she had so carefully put in place was finally coming off. How stupid she’d been, how naive. She should have known as soon as Rich had turned up on her doorstep that he would find a way to stop her. Even when she’d received the summons, part of her hadn’t believed Patrick would go through with it. Surely it was political suicide to sue your own wife? But she no longer recognized the waters they were swimming in. The tides turned so quickly these days, sweeping everything familiar out to sea. Now she was out there, alone and drowning.
That wasn’t true. She had Cait. She hadn’t been able to speak with Cait this morning—the clothes had been left at the front desk—but she’d seen the Jeep parked in the lot as they bundled her into the cruiser, and she’d watched it following all the way to Lubbock. So, no, she wasn’t alone. She had a woman she’d met only the day before, but who she knew now would stay by her side.
Rebecca straightened her back as she watched the police officer circle the cruiser and open her door. Time to go.
Flashbulbs popped as the officer pulled her from the backseat and escorted her through the crowd. The courthouse looked like most courthouses in America, built to intimidate and impose. A woman in a dark suit was waiting at the entrance and smiled when she shook Rebecca’s hand.
“I’m Cathy, and I’ll be representing you in court today,” she said in a calm and reassuring tone. “Cait alerted us to your situation. I’ve had a look at the case file and I’m confident we can get the ruling overturned. Judge Duley is going to be presiding today, and he’s good: tough but fair, and a real stickler for the letter of the law. There’s no legal basis in Texas for your husband’s case, and frankly, I’m shocked that the injunction was allowed in the first place.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “That said, I’ve known Judge Proctor a long time, and I have no doubt he thinks this is his ticket to the circuit court.” She straightened up and put a reassuring hand on Rebecca’s arm. “Do you have any questions?”
Rebecca swallowed a wave of nausea and shook her head. “Thank you,” she said weakly. “For doing this.”
The lawyer smiled at her. “It’s my pleasure. I live to give people like this hell.” She squeezed her arm. “I think it’s very brave, what you’re doing.”
Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t feel particularly brave.”
“Well, you are. You have to be. We all do.” Cathy gestured toward the entrance. “Are you ready?”
Rebecca looked through the doorway into the marble foyer, where a bronze relief of Lady Justice was mounted on the wall. She took a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be.”
Lubbock County Courthouse, Lubbock, Texas
The bailiff cleared his throat and a hush fell over the courtroom. “All rise for the Honorable Jonathan Duley.”
Cait watched Rebecca’s back straighten as the judge walked into the courtroom. Cait was in the back row—the front was reserved for family and the press—already sweating into the polyester button-down she’d bought at Family Dollar. She’d remembered Rebecca had been wearing Cait’s old leggings when she was arrested, so she’d bought her an outfit, a black cardigan and pants that she noticed, with some satisfaction, fit her perfectly. The clothes made Rebecca look polished and confident, though Cait could see even from twenty feet away that her shoulders were shaking.
Her husband was standing across the aisle from her, looking like a jilted groom with his dark suit and stricken expression. Good. Cait hoped he felt like the shit that he’d proved himself to be.
Next to him was a smarmy man in a too-tight suit, trying not to look pleased with himself and failing. That must be the campaign manager Rebecca mentioned, Cait thought. Asshole.
Judge Duley asked them to sit down, and the proceedings got under way. Cait tried to follow the back-and-forth between the lawyers, but most of it went over her head. It was clear to her, though, that the lawyer provided by the Sisters of Service was a very good one. There were moments when it felt to Cait like she was using a scythe to slice down the opposing counsel’s arguments, one at a time. After a particularly savage disemboweling of Patrick’s lawyer, Cait had to sit on her hands to stop herself from clapping.
“Your Honor,” Cathy said, knifing the air with her hands for emphasis, “there is no constitutional basis for granting this injunction, and doing so is in direct violation of Roe v. Wade. Judge Proctor’s ruling is, frankly, the work of a rogue judiciary member who wishes to promote his own political agenda and career ambitions over his duty to adhere to the letter of the law. My client”—she gestured toward Rebecca, who was sitting very straight and still in her seat—“has been the victim of a campaign of harassment at the hands of her husband. The fetus she is carrying has been diagnosed with a rare genetic condition that makes it incompatible with life. My client has been forced to come to terms with the reality that her much-wanted baby will not survive longer than a few hours outside the womb, should it survive a childbirth that has the potential to put her own life in grave danger. She has made the extremely difficult decision to terminate this pregnancy—a decision that it is her constitutional right to make—and yet she’s being treated like a criminal. I ask you now to right this wrong and throw out Judge Proctor’s unprecedented and reckless injunction.”
Judge Duley gazed out across the courtroom. “Before I give my ruling on this case, I’d like to urge both parties to come together outside the courtroom and engage in an open and honest dialogue. It always saddens me when a matter as personal and emotionally fraught as this ends up in front of someone like me to decide. The two of you are married, which means you must love each other. I hope you will remember that love going forward.” He paused to take a sip of water.
“As much as I am sympathetic to Mr. McRae’s concerns as a father, the injunction granted by Judge Proctor has no constitutional precedent in the state of Texas and therefore cannot be upheld in this court. I wish the best for both Mr. and Mrs. McRae, and I will hold them in my thoughts during this difficult time.” Judge Duley reached for his gavel. “Case dismissed.”
Cait leaped to her feet. She wanted to burst into applause, to shout for joy, but she saw Rebecca walk across the aisle, her face streaked with tears, and pull Patrick close and whisper something into his ear. His face crumpled, and the man began to sob, and Rebecca turned around, her beautiful face savaged by grief but her head held high, and walked out of the courtroom.
Lubbock County Courthouse, Lubbock, Texas
As soon as she was out of the courtroom, Rebecca broke into a run. She felt the familiar panic starting to build in her chest, and she knew she had to get away from everyone—the lawyers, the gawkers, the reporters, even Cait—before it broke.
She pushed through a metal door marked “Emergency Exit” and hurtled up a flight of stairs. Another door opened onto an empty corridor, and at the end of it, she saw a sign for a bathroom. She hurried in and locked the door behind her.
The air smelled like recirculated air freshener and bleach. She turned on the tap and let the cool water run across her wrists, then splashed her face and neck with it. The panic started slowly to subside, replaced with something that felt heavier and more permanent. Dread. Relief. Regret. She couldn’t
tell what it was yet. She just knew that it would live inside her from now on.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Under the fluorescent lights, her skin looked yellowish and waxy, and her eyes seemed to have sunk deep into her skull. She stared at this woman in the mirror and tried to make sense of her. What did she know about her?
She had almost died at the hands of a lunatic.
She had spent a night in jail.
She had ruined her husband’s life.
She had destroyed her marriage.
Her baby was still alive.
Her baby was still doomed.
The question she would be forced to ask, over and over, when the dust had settled and she could see clearly again, if that was even possible, would be: had everything been worth it?
She touched a hand to her abdomen and felt the flutter of butterfly wings. The adrenaline that had pulled her through the past twenty-four hours had abandoned her, and she was left with nothing but a sick, hollow feeling. The grief was still there, and the hurt, and the rage at the unfairness of it all. Her daughter had already been through so much, and she would still never feel the comfort of her mother’s touch or be cradled in her father’s arms. Some facts remain unchanged even if the world has been tipped on its axis.
Would she do it again? For her baby, yes. She would go through anything to save her from a life that not even the cruelest person would wish on another. So of course she would do it again. In a single fluttering heartbeat.
Rebecca braced her hands against the edge of the sink and leaned in toward the mirror. She locked eyes on herself, and for a while all she saw was pain and exhaustion, but then it came to her. It was just a glimmer, but she knew it was there, and she felt it flood back into her veins and knew that she had the strength to do what still needed to be done. Her daughter had given that to her, and she couldn’t betray her now.
There was still a fight to be won. She wasn’t done yet.
Steps of Lubbock County Courthouse, Lubbock, Texas
A swarm of reporters engulfed Rebecca as soon as she stepped outside into the fresh early-winter air. For a second, she stumbled back, but then she felt strong hands grip both of her arms and she regained her sure footing. She turned and saw her lawyer standing to her left, steely and confident in the face of the press, and Cait to her right, fearsome and protective.
“Are you okay?” Cait shouted over the din, and Rebecca nodded. It was true, she realized. She was okay. She had proved to herself that she was strong and that she could survive.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” her lawyer was saying now, “my client is not going to make a statement at this time, but we are happy that—”
Rebecca put a hand on Cathy’s arm and stepped forward. “Actually,” she said, her voice surprising her with its steadiness, “I’d like to say something.”
Her lawyer leaned in. “Are you sure? You don’t have to.”
She shook her head. “I know. I want to.”
Cathy moved aside, and Rebecca stepped forward into the throng. Reporters surged around her, thrusting cell phones and cameras in her face. She tilted her face up to the sun and looked out across the clear morning sky.
“The past few weeks have been the most difficult of my life. My husband and I both desperately wanted a child, and finding out that our baby was sick and would not survive was the cruelest blow I could have imagined. I don’t blame my husband for the actions he’s taken—his grief is as real and as pure as mine, and I know that he was acting out of love—but I am grateful that the laws of this country protect my rights as a woman and as a mother to decide what is best for my body and for my child. No woman should have to go through what I’ve gone through. No woman should have her judgment called into question over this most intimate and emotional decision. I stand before you today as one of millions of women who have been faced with this decision. The reasons that have brought us to this decision are as myriad as we are, and we don’t make the decision lightly, or without conscience, or without pain. But the one thing that unites us in our decision is that we make it because we believe it is what is best for our bodies and our lives and our futures, and that is something that only we can know.”
The reporters began shouting questions. “Mrs. McRae, can you tell us what you told your husband following the ruling?”
“I told him the truth, which is that I love him and that I love our child.”
Another microphone was thrust in her face. “Do you plan on filing for divorce?”
She was careful to keep her face neutral. They didn’t deserve to know everything that was in her heart. Especially when she herself was unsure what it held. “I’d like to ask for privacy for me and my husband at this time.”
A reporter at the back of the crowd pressed a phone to his ear and held up his hand. “Something’s happening in Dallas,” he shouted. A murmur went through the crowd as reporters began frantically making phone calls and refreshing Twitter. Just like that, her moment was over.
Her lawyer reappeared at her elbow. “I think this means the press conference is over. That was a beautiful speech you made. You should think about going into politics—you’ve got a knack for public speaking.”
Rebecca shook off the suggestion. “I don’t think so.”
Cathy shrugged. “Hey, never say never. I’ve got to take off. I’ve got a hearing in Amarillo this afternoon.” She thrust out her hand. “It was a pleasure working with you.”
Rebecca shook it. “I can’t thank you enough. Honestly, you saved my life in that courtroom.”
“That’s what we women are here for, right? To save each other’s lives.” She reached over and squeezed Rebecca’s shoulder. “Don’t forget what I said about going into politics. If you’re interested, Sisters of Service can help get you connected.” She waved as she set off down the court steps.
Rebecca felt Cait’s arm around her waist. She turned to see Cait beaming up at her. “You were amazing!”
“Thanks. And thank you for setting me up with the lawyer, and . . . well, for everything. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Cait rolled her eyes. “That’s a total lie. You’re stronger than you think, you know. You’re a fucking badass. Now, are you ready to get out of here? The Jeep’s waiting around back, ready to take you wherever you want to go.”
Rebecca let go of the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Let’s go.”
They started making their way down the steps when one of the reporters blocked their path. “Excuse me, Mrs. McRae? We’ve just learned that an abortion clinic in Dallas has been bombed. Could I have your reaction?”
Columbus, Texas—One Day Earlier
Mike loaded the last of the boxes in the back of his truck and clipped the tarp shut tight over the load. He checked his watch. Ten past noon. He was ahead of schedule by a country mile, but he’d been eager to get started.
When Ken first floated the idea, he’d been skeptical. He understood that something drastic needed to be done—he’d read the literature, after all, and watched that documentary Ken had loaned him—but what was being proposed felt extreme even to him. Ken had talked him around to it over time. All the pamphlets and protests in the world weren’t enough to stop the evil happening right under their noses. The courts were changing things, sure enough, but progress was slow and uncertain, and in the meantime, thousands of lives were being lost. Didn’t Mike want to do something to stop it? Didn’t a moment like this require a man to act?
That had really gotten him thinking. How many times had he wished he’d killed the man who had killed his Bonnie? He could still remember the man sitting in that courtroom, sniveling in his cheap suit, pretending to be filled with remorse so the judge would go easy on him. The judge had been fooled, but Mike hadn’t been. The only thing that man had been sorry about was the fact that he’d been caught and was going to prison. He should have gotten a death sentence, in Mike’s opinion, and Mike should have been allowed to do it with his b
are hands. Instead, he’d gotten three years in a federal prison out of state, where he was given a bed and fed three square meals a day. How was that justice in anyone’s eyes?
In the end, he agreed to Ken’s plan. It didn’t take much to convince him. He didn’t have much to live for, and if he could use what little time he had left to make a difference . . . well, how could he not agree?
He didn’t ask about the logistics. Ken told him to leave all that to him—said he had a network, whatever that meant. True to his word, he’d turned up at Mike’s place in Columbus a couple of weeks ago with a crate of explosives and a detonator and a full plan of execution. Mike had asked him once over one too many beers if Ken didn’t want to come along, see the action for himself, but Ken shook his head and said, “I’m a family man.” Mike understood that, no questions. There was no better reason for not taking risks with your own life than a family at home relying on you.
In the end, Mike was glad he was going solo. It gave him the chance to get creative with the plan Ken had put in place for him. He was supposed to just park the truck by the entrance and run, but Mike had no intention of doing that. He’d be sitting in the front seat when that bomb went off, and the last moment of his life before he was reunited with Bonnie would be knowing that he had helped to extinguish just a little piece of evil on this earth before he left it.
By tomorrow, it would all be finished. The thought gave him a sense of comfort. By this time tomorrow, he’d be free.
Austin, Texas—Five Days Later
The papers were still filled with news of the bombing. Two nurses had been killed, along with a janitor. No patients, thankfully—the bomb had gone off before the doors had opened—but the man driving the truck filled with explosives had been killed. Cait had stared at his photo for a long time, sure that she had seen him before, but the name, Michael Chambers, failed to ring any bells. Politicians—including Patrick McRae—had been quick to denounce his actions, but he was already being hailed as a hero and a martyr on the darker corners of the Internet. Cait switched off the talk radio station and snapped her phone into the speaker jack. She scrolled through her music until she found something she wanted to hear—an old Ani DiFranco song she used to listen to on repeat in college—and she listened to it as the engine idled. She glanced at the clock: plenty of time to get to the clinic. Rebecca was inside getting herself together. Cait didn’t want to rush her.
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