The crystals shattered with a multicolored electrical spiral of light. She awoke with a start, then closed her eyes groggily, trying to grasp the remains of the dream that had been wrenched from her by the opening of the door.
"Valerie?"
She opened her eyes again to see Dr. Fletcher standing over her. Behind her stood Dr. DuQuette.
"How's Renata?" Valerie asked. The effort caused her chest to ache with familiar pain. She withstood it, even welcomed it. If it helped Renata...
"She's stable," Dr. DuQuette said. "We won't know for a while." Fletcher nodded, gazing into Valerie's eyes with warm af-fection.
"I've got to know she'll be all right," Valerie said. "I had such a strange dream." Evelyn stroked her forehead with a gentle hand. "You've done everything a mother could do for her daughter. Just rest."
"Where's Ron?"
Fletcher's smile faded. She simply shrugged.
DuQuette's pager cricketed in the depths of his coat pocket. He shut it off and excused himself. Alone, the two women gazed at each other. Outside, the sound of birds and street noise drifted through closed win-dows.
"Is it Saturday?" Valerie asked.
Fletcher nodded.
"I can go to court on Monday?"
"Yes. If that's what you want to do."
"I want to help you. I want to help Renata. I want to help the women who can't keep their babies but don't want to kill them."
"It might not help. One lower-court decision won't shift cen-turies of outdated opinion." Valerie smiled in spite of the ache in her chest. "It's a first step." " The hospital became, over the weekend, a refuge for Valerie and for the Chandlers. Stern, granite-faced nurses, muscular Johnny Mason, and other grim orderlies (borrowed from the neuropsychiatric wing) guarded Renata and the trio from re-porters and miscellaneous gawkers with an intransigent glee that bordered on feral savagery. When Karen Chandler's mother and father arrived for a visit, the receptionist sent her a Xerox of their drivers' licenses for confirmation of their sta-tus. They passed. Few others did.
Dr. Lawrence showed up once to "check on the baby's progress." He gazed for a moment through the ICU window, nodded, then glared at Evelyn. She smiled wearily.
He walked away in silence.
XXI
The steps to the courthouse swarmed with reporters, pro-testers, police, the curious, and the unfortunate. People with business that had nothing to do with Dalton Vs. Chandler et al. had to wade through the swamp of humanity, cursing their luck. Some granted interviews solely on the basis of being in the right place just as an opinion-hungry newshound decided to grab a few sound bites for local color.
"And what's your outlook on the Baby Renata case?"
"I dunno, lady. I'm here about my landlord."
The word was out that something big would happen today. The betting was that the defendants would either continue presenting their side of the case or the judge would dismiss the suit. Or something. Rumors flew like pigeons around the courthouse steps.
A Bayside General employee van pulled up to the sidewalk. Audio and video electronics vied with eyes and ears for posi-tion around the blue-and-grey vehicle. The side door slid nois-ily aft and out stepped Johnson, dressed in a grey suit, crisp white shirt, and navy tie. He grinned in triumph, shouted,
"No questions, please!" and urged the crowd to make room. The Chandlers followed him, smiling and waving at the cameras.
This was new. The photographers fired vollies of shots. The videocams captured every motion. Karen looked as if she had just stepped out of the beauty parlor. Every strand of her dark hair was in place, her makeup subtle and perfect. She wore a deep emerald dress with a matching knit sweater, the cowl draped over her shoulders. Her matching handbag and pumps were just a shade darker. If green meant go, the reporters had their signal.
David dressed in beige slacks and yellow polo shirt under a tan cardigan sweater. He looked like a young version of the classic American father figure. It might not have suited him very well, but the way he beamed with joy told everyone that he sensed victory.
Dr. Fletcher was the next to step out. Her outfit was a simple, austere grey suit with a black cowl-neck blouse.
"How's the baby?" someone shouted.
"Renata is stable at the moment." Evelyn gazed around at the farrago of lenses and microphones.
"We still don't know whether her stem cell activity will return, but for now her tem-perature is normal, and she's resting quietly."
She turned to extend a hand into the van. Valerie Dalton nervously made her way to the sidewalk, then looked up into the wall of noise and light. Her light blue skirt and vest over a taupe blouse gave her an authoritative aire that contrasted sharply with her apprehension.
The questions erupted immediately.
"Is it true Ron Czernek walked off the case?"
"Are you in pain from the second transplant?"
"Will you drop the suit?"
"Will you continue the suit without him?"
"Why are you here with the defendants?"
The noise level threatened to overwhelm her. She gripped Evelyn's hand tightly. Evelyn squeezed back with even stron-ger pressure.
For a long moment, Valerie said nothing. Then she seemed to straighten under the onslaught. She shook her head, toss-ing her long hair back over her shoulders. Holding up a hand for silence, she waited.
The reporters quieted down. Most of them. When it was quiet enough, she spoke.
"I intend to see this case through to victory. And by that I mean I intend to lose. Thank you." As if on cue, Johnson pressed forward through the crowd. The protesters had been split far asunder by the wedge of re-porters. Patches of blue that were the police orbited around the periphery, powerless and unnecessary. The circle of dem-onstrators surrounding the center of activity carried signs in support of transoption.
James Rosen stood with them, arguing to an unlikely pair.
"Don't you see?" he said to the cadaverously thin woman carrying a small sign that read Abortion Is Murder-Transoption Is Theft. "It's not theft. It's more like salvage. Res-cue. During the Depression, people found babies on doorsteps and took them in. This just substitutes wombs for rooms." The man wearing a button reading Not With My Liberty, You Don't tried to get a word in edgewise. With the fervor of all new converts, though, Rosen turned to him and continued without interruption.
"Don't you see that the fetus creates a property sphere by enclosing itself in a sac made from its own genetic material? That it is saying, `This is where your body stops and mine be-gins'? Its actions speak where it has no words...."
None of them noticed the passage of the litigants.
"
Judge Lyang entered the courtroom, viewing everything within her domain. The defendants were all present, she noted. And, as the clerk had informed her, Ron Czernek was absent. In fact, Dalton sat at the defendant's table, calmly finishing a bit of conversation with Dr. Fletcher. In the spectator area, amidst reporters and the curious, sat the expert witness Dr. Brunner. Lyang noted that the other two, Decker and Burke, had not shown up today. It seems that word of Valerie's defec-tion spread quickly over the weekend, she mused. Well, let's get this over with. She eyed Johnson. You're not going to like this. She took a deep breath.
"Court will come to order." The judge turned toward the jurors. "In my chambers a few moments ago, the litigants pre-sented this court with a rare opportunity." Her voice was me-tered and assured. She leaned forward, folding her hands on the bench.