“Your request is denied,” Lewis said. “I am able to weigh the merits of this argument in an objective fashion, and your attempt to influence the court is duly noted for the record.”
“I have the right to – ”
“Sit down, Miss Moore. You may address the court when Mr. Graebner is finished speaking.”
What have you done this time, Charlene? Alienated the judge before he has ruled on the motion. Great move.
Graebner made a grand motion of gratitude to the judge. “I thank the court. I’m sure Miss Moore meant no offense.”
By which, of course, he meant she did.
“As I was saying, our democratic form of government must never be undermined by the usurpation of power by any branch against another. What I fear happening here, Your Honor, is that very thing.
“If we take all of the evidence in the light most favorable to the plaintiff, what have we got? A young girl enters a family planning facility seeking an abortion. The clinic, which has been in operation many years, follows to the letter the informed consent law that has been promulgated by the legislature.”
“Isn’t that the issue here?” Lewis said. “Whether the clinic indeed followed the letter and the spirit of the law?”
“No indeed, Your Honor. The spirit of the law is not for you or a jury to decide. The legislature alone must define the law, within the text. It has done so, in quite specific terms. It provided a document to the plaintiff, which the plaintiff signed.”
“What about duress, or incompetence?” Lewis said.
“There is nothing in the statute about any such matters,” Graebner said. “Indeed, if one looks at the legislative history, the chief concern of the legislators was to keep those sorts of matters from ever becoming an issue. It made the text of the statute clear. Nor does the history say anything about mental health concerns. In short, Your Honor, this case never should have reached this stage. For a cause of action such as this, the legislature may amend the statute. But a trial court may not.”
Graebner waited for the court to ask him a question. Lewis seemed deep in thought. Then he said, “Thank you, Mr. Graebner. Miss Moore?”
“I hardly know where to begin,” Charlene said. “I believe we have presented enough evidence for the jury to consider this case. Professor Graebner talks about the right to a trial by jury, but in the next breath seeks to take that away from my client.”
“But your client,” said the judge, “must have a basis upon which to make this claim.”
Then why had the judge allowed her to get to this point? This matter should have been considered before trial. Or had Winsor and Graebner been waiting to sandbag her?
“The basis is the common sense application of the will of the legislature,” Charlene said. “It is clear they want all women who are about to make one of the most important decisions of their lives to have all the information they need. That would include, naturally, an inquiry into mental health history.”
Lewis shook his head. “But as Professor Graebner says, that is not in the statute. Does this court have the power to give the jury something that the legislature has decided, to this point at least, it should not consider?”
This was like tag-team wrestling, only it was Graebner and Lewis against Charlene. “I appeal to Your Honor, in view of all that we have been through, the time and expense to my client, to the court, to the jurors, that you not dismiss this case. Rule, Your Honor, on the basis of fundamental fairness. Justice is also in the hands of a trial court in its discretion. Mr. Winsor and Professor Graebner can take the matter up on appeal if they lose.”
“You have the same prerogative,” Lewis said.
Yes, but not the same pockets. Not the same unlimited funds.
“I urge Your Honor to allow the case to continue to verdict,” Charlene said, unable to hide the desperation in her voice.
Judge Lewis looked at the clock. “I will take the matter under advisement. The court will recess until one-thirty.”
Sarah Mae was shaking as she took Charlene’s arm. “What’s that mean?”
“We’ll know at one-thirty, Sarah Mae.” But Charlene had a sick feeling that she already knew.
3
Millie stood in an empty space in the hospital parking lot. She herself was empty. Only a dull reverberation inside her reminded her she was alive, but it was a distant sound – a fading echo, like the rolling of thunder after it has crossed the valley. She held her tears back; it was not easy. Her mother was gone. And Millie had not been there when she died.
Jack Holden, who had been silent beside her, finally said, “I am so sorry.”
Millie nodded, wishing he would go away and knowing he wouldn’t, wondering if she was grateful or not, finally deciding she didn’t care one way or the other.
“There’s an old saying,” Holden added, “they don’t say it much anymore, but it seems so appropriate for your mother. She’s gone to her reward.”
Millie shook her head.
“That’s what she believed with all her heart,” Holden said.
“I don’t care to hear it.”
“I think she would want you to know.”
She turned to him. He seemed, somehow, not real. A mannequin. “It’s so easy to say.” She hadn’t meant to be nasty, but it helped in one small way. It dulled the grief, if only for a second or two.
“Not always,” he said.
“I don’t want to be comforted right now, okay?” she said. “I know it’s your job, and you’re good at it, but just, for now…”
“You’ll need help – ”
“I know what I need! Yes, you can do the funeral. Of course. Take care of it. Make it happen. This week. I’ll hire a lawyer to take care of the estate. I’m not going to stay here. After the funeral, I’m going home. Thank you very much for everything.”
Jack Holden did not leave her alone. “It helps to talk.”
“I already did. Please.”
He turned toward the hospital. She felt a little guilt, but only a little. She did not want to feel anything. She wanted to shout at Jack Holden, ask him why God did not answer prayer, and was this the killer argument he had to offer? Where was his music now?
She hated herself, but did not care. Hate dulled grief, too. But only for a moment. The waves were too big. Grief was not a stream. It was an ocean.
4
The usual afternoon crowd was in License, the hot upscale bar in D.C. that had become a regular hangout for Anne. She knew most of the faces at the zinc-topped bar, and they certainly knew hers. She could smell the envy in the air. It was as thick as L.A. smog, and twice as toxic. She had come here to meet Cosmo.
Jill “Cosmo” Hannigan was so named by Anne because she looked like the quintessential Cosmopolitan cover model. Impossibly skinny, but dressed to show off her assets without apology. She was an associate at a D.C. firm specializing in international contracts.
Usually she was perfect company for Anne, a picker-upper for tired spirits. Cosmo had a biting sense of humor, almost a match for Anne’s. Getting tipsy with her was one of the pleasures of Anne’s life.
Now, sitting over her Tanqueray martini – up, with a twist – Cosmo was uncharacteristically down.
“What’s going on?” Anne asked. “You seem a little out of it.”
Cosmo looked up from her drink. “I was in the kitchenette at the office on Friday. One of the partners came in, Mr. Baer. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“It should. He’s about sixty, and he’s been a player in the firm for thirty years.”
“Wait, wasn’t he one of the Clinton lawyers in the Paula Jones thing?”
“He’s the guy. Well, anyway, we’re alone in the kitchenette. He comes in, and his tie is loose. But Baer’s tie is never loose. He’s always perfectly dressed. He had this faraway look on his face, too. I say hello to him, and he doesn’t look me in the eye. He doesn’t say hello. What he says is, ‘What am I doing?’ ”