"Objection!" Czernek shouted, Johnson mouthing the word in perfect synchrony.
"Sustained." Judge Lyang leaned slightly forward to address Johnson. "Your analogy is totally prejudicial. The difference between a fetus and a human is far greater than that of mere skin color. And may I remind you that the Supreme Court has long ago recognized the humanity of all races."
"At one time it had not," Johnson replied. "Just as at one time it had not considered children to have human rights." He stared at Lyang. "Or women." Before the judge could react, he immediately said, "I'll retract the question, of course, and ask Ms. Dalton if she did not in fact sign a waiver of claim to the non-living bit of tissue she wanted removed. Did you?"
"I signed something."
Johnson reached into his briefcase. With a flourish, he placed a transparency on the overhead projector and threw the switch. On the screen opposite the jury box glowed several pages of typescript.
"Would this be the contract?"
She looked at it. "Yes," she said, "it is."
"Am I correct that it says nowhere on that contract that you were to receive an abortion?" She looked at Ron, then at the jury. "Yes. I thought the word-ing was a bit strange, but the way people use euphemisms for everything these days-"
"What term do you see that you thought meant àbortion?'"
"The term was `pregnancy termination.'"
"And you thought that the only way to terminate a pregnancy was through an abortion?"
"Of course."
Johnson pointed at the screen. "It says right here that the undersigned-that's you, Ms. Dalton-`relinquishes any and all claim to tissues removed during said pregnancy termina-tion.' Did you agree to that?"
"I don't remember," she said. She took a deep breath to calm herself.
"Are you in the habit of forgetting what you sign?"
"No, I remember it."
"Did Ron Czernek read it?"
"Yes."
"I see." Johnson began walking about again. He handed a copy of the contract to Czernek, then to the clerk, saying, "Please make this contract Exhibit A." He put his hands in his pockets. "So you knew that the abortion you wanted would result in the-Well, I want to say `death,' but how about the `cessation of viability' of the fetus?"
"Yes," Valerie said.
"Since you didn't consider it a living human being, though, you contracted with Dr. Fletcher to have it vacuumed out of you and disposed of. Is that a clear statement of the facts?" Valerie paused, looking to Ron for guidance. The lawyer's jaw tightened. He could object to the argumentative nature of the question, but the issue would remain. His head nodded ever so slightly.
"Yes," Valerie said without emotion.
"And you meant to sign away any claim to this non-living bit of tissue?"
"Yes."
Johnson walked over to the witness stand, placed both hands on the rail, and looked her fiercely in the eye. "Why, then, are you now laying claim to this bit of garbage you threw out?" Czernek shouted a loud objection. Johnson shouted even louder over the other lawyer's protest.
"Why do you suddenly care about this child that a few short months ago you paid to have killed?"
"Objection! I want that stricken from the record! Harassing the wit-"
"I am capable," the judge said loudly, "of discerning harass-ment, Mr. Czernek." Ron sat down, fuming. Lyang laid down her gavel and folded her hands. "Approach the bench." The lawyers stepped toward the judge.
"Mr. Johnson," she whispered, "the entire subject of abor-tion and the rights of the unborn is frightfully emotion laden, as the two groups of protesters outside this courtroom dem-onstrate. You do your clients' case no good by harassing the plaintiff." She glanced down at the court reporter, a young man fingering the keys of a battered old Stenotype. "The last two questions shall be stricken from the record, and"-she turned to the jury box-"the jury is to disregard the nature of the ques-tion and any inferences they may draw having heard it. You may continue, Mr. Johnson."
"No further questions, Your Honor." I've never heard of a jury yet that could erase its own memory.
"Then I suggest we recess for lunch," Lyang said, knocking once with her gavel.
XV
"If his tactic is to act self-righteous and abusive," Ron said, "it can only help our case." He faced Valerie across a small blue table in the courthouse cafeteria. A few yards away sat Johnson, the Chandlers, and Dr. Fletcher. Johnson spoke quietly, but with intense empha-sis about something. Czernek glanced over at them, then turned his attention back to Valerie.
"I'm not going to redirect you, so I don't think you'll have to worry about any more testimony." He bit down into the club sandwich, chewed on it while thinking. "I'm going to call Mrs. Chandler next. If I can establish that she was a knowing acces-sory to the transoption, that'll draw a pretty bad picture of her for the jury. Then I'll follow up with the expert witnesses-"
"Is it okay if I talk to Dr. Fletcher now? There aren't any reporters around."
"Legally you can, but I don't think you should," he said.
She stood. "I just want to find out about Renata."
Ron grunted and took another bite of the sandwich. Men-tally, he rehearsed his line of questioning, knowing that if he kept it narrow enough, Johnson would have practically noth-ing to seize on in the cross-examination. Calling a hostile wit-ness was risky, but he calculated that he could turn that hostility to his advantage.
"How's Renata?" Valerie asked, sitting in an available chair next to Dr. Fletcher. Fletcher gave her a comforting smile. "She's still in guarded condition. We just won't know for a while. She's hanging in there, so we've got to, too."
"Valerie?" Terry looked at her.
"What?" Her voice was as cool as the air in a glacial cavern.
"I'm sorry I put you through that. You know why I had to, don't you?"
"Lawyers will be lawyers," she said, rising.
"Mr. Czernek will be just as rough on Karen," he said. His tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes revealed an apprehen-sion about something, the nature of which Valerie was un-aware. She chalked it up to the trial jitters she assumed everyone else also felt and returned to Ron. He hovered over his coffee, searching his notes to prepare for the afternoon.
"How is she?" he asked without looking up.
"They don't know yet."
It was strange reporting to him in such a way. His attitude seemed almost that of a man in some gothic romance. Dark and brooding, he pondered his own thoughts while express-ing only a cursory interest in their child. He flipped over a sheet of the yellow legal pad, continuing to read his hasty shorthand. Suddenly, a repetitive beep erupted from his jacket. For a moment, he was unsure what it meant. Then he remembered that in his haste to bring the case to trial, he had rented a pager to keep in contact with his office. He pulled it from his pocket, noted the phone number on the LCD display, and switched it off.
"That's my callback from the doctor I asked to be an expert witness." He headed for the phone booths. "I hope he agrees to testify-it's cutting things close to do this so far into the trial." Valerie watched him go, then turned to observe the defen-dants. It was her first opportunity to view them together in a relaxed climate.
David Chandler doted on his wife so sweetly, she thought. Always an arm around her or a hand touching hers. She knew it couldn't be an affectation. Ron sometimes did that: a pat on the hand or an obligatory hug. The impression she received, though, was one of distraction, as if her lover had more on his mind than pleasing or soothing her.
Karen had that troubled look of a mother concerned about her child. Valerie could tell that the woman was unable to con-centrate on the courtroom proceedings; her mind was miles away in a hospital room at Bayside. Renata created a bond between the two of them that was even stronger than the one between Ron and her. It was a bond, though, with built-in stress, one that could never be acknowledged as long as they vied for possession of Renata.