Fletcher smiled at the memories of her own run-ins with professors and facilitators at every stage of the hierarchy in her teaching hospital. She rolled over on her side, switching the phone to her other ear.
"So you've never really practiced law, have you?"
"I've practiced a lot. Now I want to do it."
"And your plans for this trial?"
"Character witnesses. Expert witnesses. Convince the jury that transoption is literally a giant step forward in human rights and that all who understand it agree."
Fletcher said nothing for a moment, then, "You know where to reach me." After she switched off the phone, she stared at the darkness, where the ceiling hung, until sleep enveloped her.
"
Valerie faced the morning with a dread that approached ter-ror. She lay on the bed, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of vehicles stopping in front of her house. She would have to penetrate that wall. And another at the hos-pital.
Ron stepped out of the bathroom, vigorously drying his hair and beard. "You understand why I can't go with you," he said.
"No," she said without emotion.
"I've got to get the ball rolling on this lawsuit. The other side's probably going to try to stall for as long as possible, tak-ing the full thirty days to demur, so I've got to be ready to get it to trial ASAP. And I've got to assemble witnesses, prepare a strategy for jury selection, rearrange my schedule-"
"I understand. You'll be busy."
"Val," he said, sitting on the bed to lay an arm on her shoul-der. His dark eyes gazed at her with firm intensity. "It's good that you're going. If the baby has to have a bone-marrow trans-plant, I'm behind you all the way. It can only help the case if we cooperate in every way with her medical needs. But we can't let that sap our momentum."
"It's supposed to hurt. A lot."
He hugged her. "Honey, I'll be there. You'll be spending the night at the hospital, right?"
"Right."
"So I'll be there after five." He kissed her cheek tenderly. "Just relax and concentrate on saving our little girl."
He escorted her to the Porsche. The reporters flashed pic-tures, shouted questions, and pointed their videocams. Wisely, they stayed on the other side of the property line.
"How do I get past them?" she whispered.
"Just tell them that you can't comment on the case but that all you're interested in is seeing your baby get the medical care she needs." He shut the door with a firm push. "Drive carefully and remember-The press can be our best friends in this."
She pulled slowly out of the driveway. A crush of newshounds encircled the vehicle, thrusting microphones into the half-low-ered window.
"What did you feel when you found out your baby hadn't been aborted?"
"Can you explain what's wrong with the baby?"
"Why do you want her back?"
"What name do you have picked out for her?"
"What do you feel toward the surrogate mother?"
Valerie just said, "I want my baby to be healthy," and rolled up the window.
"How sick is she?"
"Did you foresee your decision to abort having such reper-cussions?"
"How do you feel helping the doctor who did this to you?"
She rammed her foot on the accelerator and peeled away.
The newspaper and radio teams hastened to form a convoy behind her, leaving the TV crews to tape wrapup segments using the house as a backdrop.
The trip down the hill toward Harbor City unnerved Valerie. Trying to concentrate on the simple act of driving, she none-theless kept gazing into the rearview mirror in an effort to observe the cars and vans behind her. She counted six, sev-eral sporting the logo of a radio station or newspaper. Curious glances from drivers and passengers in other lanes made her blush with embarrassment and fury. She pulled into the medical center's north parking lot after a quick survey of the entrance. The line of protesters was longer than ever. Several policemen stood at the periphery, quietly watching the proceedings, making their presence tangibly felt with that projected mixture of self-assurance and mortal threat that members of their profession so effectively exude.
As soon as she parked her car, reporters surrounded it, quickly joined by the others from the convoy.
"Ms. Dalton-Why are you here?"
"Is it true the baby needs an organ transplant?"
"Do you think you'll be a fit mother?"
"Did you want an abortion because you weren't married?"
"Why aren't you pressing criminal charges?"
"Can you get us inside to see Renata?"
She found it impossible to move away from her car. They had her surrounded by an impassable wall of polyester and power cables. Her breath stopped. Ahead of her she saw a tiny pinpoint of scintillating darkness appear. It grew, expanding across her field of vision as something drummed in her ears with growing power. She remembered having fainted in the cafeteria and welcomed the feeling as an escape that would temporarily solve her problems.
A huge hand reached out of the shimmering blackness to seize her arm. Another equally massive hand shoved some-thing under her nose. The sharp odor of ammonia brought her to with a startling memory of her mother cleaning the kitchen floor. Just a flash of that lovely, sweet face laboring with a sponge mop and a pail and then the crowds returned.
This time, though, she was in motion.
The beefy pair of arms, clad in white, served double duty. The left arm held her by her right upper arm as the right plowed a path through the reporters, huge elbow out like a powerful wedge driving through the field of inquiring minds.
The arms were attached to a singularly huge brute, nearly as wide as he was tall. Topped with close-cropped platinum hair that curled like the wool of a highland sheep, the face was contorted by the sneering smile of a man who enjoyed this sort of confrontation and probably did not get to see it often enough.
"Move it or lose it," bellowed a deep voice with an unplaceable accent. The speed of their progress stunned Valerie. They glided through the crowd, which-though small-replenished itself from rear to front as they moved.
"You'll be all right, ma'am," the deep voice reassured. "They sent me out to get you. Doc Fletcher figured you'd be bothered by these guys."
The elbow threatened, swung, cut swaths through the re-porters, never hitting, barely touching. They all quite profes-sionally avoided getting bruised.
"The name's Mason, ma'am. Johnny Mason." He charged with her toward the line of protesters. "I'll be around to take you back through tomorrow." He turned his head to smile at her. Under a gnarled brow framed by thick silver eyebrows, emerald eyes smiled as his fighter's lips twisted into a grin. "I used to be a movie-star bodyguard before I became an orderly."
He elbowed the chest of a particularly obstinate paparazzo. "It was tough leaving show business, but I knew medicine was my calling."
Mason and Valerie moved almost as one into the thick of the pickets. They all stopped what they were doing to stare at the woman and her burly escort. Most gazed at her, not knowing how to react. Were they to hate her because she had wanted an abortion or support her because she came to save her baby? Or vice versa?
Rather than make a hasty decision, they simply stared.