“Why ever not?”
“I told Sister John of the Cross that the reason the Sisters were infected by cholera was that the sewers leaked into the basement of the novitiate building and into the water pipes. The building should be repaired. I found out later that Holy Innocents wouldn’t let John of the Cross repair the building because she didn’t trust me. I was an ambitious and immoral young woman who was singularizing herself. So I reported the building to the Board of Health and they gave the Sisters the option of repairing the building or the board would order it destroyed. They chose the latter.”
“Those poor young women were sent back to that contaminated building!”
“I’m afraid so.”
“The Archbishop and I have had a lot of trouble with Holy Innocents recently. She comes from a very wealthy family and thinks she is superior to everyone else. This time she has gone too far. I will speak to the Archbishop directly.”
“Thank you, Bishop.”
She whispered this good news into Shay’s ear. His red face grew brighter, as it always did when he was happy.
“We will save them until the end, well, almost the end. Timothy will be here by then.”
“I don’t want him to testify.”
“You are even worse than your foster sister. She will listen to reason sometimes. You never do. I’ll resign as your counsel if you don’t let me call him. Whatever problems you and Tim have—and I don’t pretend to understand them—are irrelevant to this issue.”
“Yes, Shay,” she said meekly, and then added, “of course.”
The hearing began the next morning in the vast operating theater of Rush Medical. The Judge, Arnold Thurman, was the chief justice of the Federal District Appellate Panel. “No fairer man has ever sat on the federal bench in this state,” her father had said.
The Judge, a portly man with long white hair and a long red face, introduced himself and the “spokesman for the CMS and the spokesman for the defendant, Angela Tierney.” He also introduced the panel of doctors, who would act as jury.
“A point of order, Your Honor.”
“Yes, ah, Dr. McGourty.”
“I ask that the defendant appear in the record as Angela Agnes Tierney, MD. She is a licensed physician and a graduate of this school. She has every bit as much right to these letters as anyone in the room. As I will demonstrate, the basic issue in this complaint against Dr.Tierney is whether a woman has the right to be a doctor, and even a doctor with an emerging world reputation.”
There was applause from the young medical students who had crowded into the theater. They adored Angie, as they all called her.
The judge then introduced again the three panelists who would act as jury, remarked that the defense had picked one of them, the CMS the second, and the two of them had picked the third. Unanimous consent was required for expulsion. The agreement of two of the panel sufficed to sustain a ruling of the presiding judge.
Angela was astonished that her own choice was her classmate Edgar Portman-Johnson, a slick, handsome young man from Peoria who had sung at the Gaughan singing parties and added a powerful baritone voice to the group. Len Fredericks, her closest friend among the senior doctors at Rush, was the “neutral” juror.
How had Shay done that?
It was Chicago, was it not, and his father an alderman.
Lorenz Schultz, a man with courtly manners, a strong German accent, and a tedious voice began making the case against her. He wore a greatcoat and a vast beige vest which covered, however inadequately, a large stomach. From her earliest days in the school, this girl had engaged in self-promotion, she was rude, ja, ja, and lacked the docility, ja, ja, that a good medical student ought to display. He then wandered into a long autobiographical account of the docility which was required in Frankfurt am Main, where he had learned not only the required skills of a doctor, but the character necessary in a doctor. This young woman had demonstrated very few skills and no character at all.
Clayton Lyndon, a dark Irishman like Timmy, whispered something in Shay’s ear.
“Your Honor, I am sure we all appreciated Dr. Schultz’s fascinating memoirs of Frankfurt am Main, which incidentally is not to be confused with Frankfurt an Oder. I would remark only that it has not brought us any closer to the establishment of the charges against Dr. Tierney. Is she charged with fraud in the treatment of the eight nuns who are still alive today, even if prevented by ecclesiastical authority from appearing in this courtroom? Surely it is incumbent on the prosecution to establish this fraud. Or is she charged with reporting a medical finding of considerable importance to a professional journal? Or is the charge that subsequent research has refuted these findings, though the available literature suggests just the opposite? Or is she charged with not keeping proper records? These are different charges and there seems to be proof adduced for each one if they are all part of her indictment. I may be hasty, Your Honor, but it does seem that a clique in the Chicago Medical Society decided to get rid of Dr. Tierney and has yet to have time to prepare detailed charges . . . I would add that the comments of some members in the press that her crime is not to have sent it to the publication of the CMS first. I have searched in vain in the rules and bylaws for evidence that there is such a regulation and evidence that many members have violated it. Moreover it is most unlikely that her notes would have ever seen the light of day if it had been submitted to JCMA. One wonders how many cholera victims would have died if her findings had been suppressed.”
The judge signaled for Arthur Hastings-Hudson, MD, the longtime president of the CMS, to join him at the podium which had become the bench for the trial. Hastings-Hudson moved his large bulk ponderously to the bench. They chatted for some time, the Judge’s long red face becoming even longer.
After several minutes of discussion, the Judge waved Arthur back to his Presidential chair.
“I have informed the CMS that the only charge which I feel capable of adjudicating is the final one. There would be, I should think, an obligation to send one’s supportive notes to a journal before publication. Otherwise I will adjourn this hearing sine die. Is that acceptable, Dr. Hastings-Hudson?”
“Ja, ja, I object! There are more important philosophical charges against Tierney, which I discussed in my opening remarks. She is simply not the kind of person that a doctor should be.”
“The failure to attach appropriate notes to an article would seem to be some evidence of that. However, it is this failure I am prepared to adjudicate. I repeat, Dr. Hastings-Hudson, is that acceptable?”
The president of the CMS, his dignity affronted by the clarity of Anglo-Saxon juridical procedure, nodded heavily.
“Good . . . Dr. McGourty?”
“Your Honor, defense is prepared to stipulate that there was a solemn obligation that Dr. Tierney submit her notes from the experimental site to the journal, along with the description of her treatment. I would also suggest that the JAMA had the obligation to demand those notes before publication and that the very publication itself of the article suggests that the JAMA did in fact have the notes even if it no longer does. I argue that the defendant has no obligation to prove that the JAMA may have lost the notes after they were submitted.”
The Judge smiled.
“Your forensic style may well be wasted in the medical profession. Therefore we will continue with the agreement that there is but one matter at issue before this hearing: whether Dr. Tierney did in fact submit notes along with the article.”
This agreement, however, was not satisfactory to many of the senior doctors in the audience who wanted to expel Angela. One by one, filled with their self-importance as practitioners of “medical science,” they rose to denounce her personally as a hysterical woman and as a heretic who did not respect established science.
“Everyone in our profession knows that disease is not spread by microbes and not cured by magical waters, but rather lurks in miasmic airs that we need to extirpate from the regions where they have settled. Swamps near lakes
and rivers are especially dangerous to our patients.”
“And not sewage in our basements!” Shay scoffed.
“Every good doctor knows a balanced and properly conservative drawing of blood from the bodies of victims would have been much more beneficial for the patients than this magical water from the holy forests of Wisconsin.”
“Let the record show,” Shay demanded, “that the article in the JAMA did not claim curative powers for the waters. Rather they were used as an antidote to dehydration.”
Angie’s young allies hooted and hollered. The judge demanded order.
Angela could not help but feel sorry for the old men, some of them feeble, who had risen to defend the medical wisdom which had shaped their lives. Their worlds were crumbling around them. The stentorian tones which had impressed patients and one another for all their lives now earned them ridicule from the students.
Shay was on his feet again.
“If the CMS will stipulate that bloodletting and miasmic airs are the orthodoxy of their profession, we will stipulate that Dr. Angela Tierney is indeed a heretic—just like Joan of Arc. However, I did not think this was a heresy trial.”
The doctors, some of whom were still in their thirties, continued their rants, most of which had been written out and were recited in frail voices.
“Your Honor,” said one tiny graybeard with a high, nasal voice, “I wonder if a habeas corpus writ might be appropriate.”
“What body do you want, Doctor?”
“The bodies of the nuns who were cured by the magical miracle waters that Dr. Tierney imported to keep them alive. Would it not be useful to see that they were still alive and well?”
“Dr. McGourty?”
“It would be, Your Honor, but unfortunately their religious superiors have forbidden those young women from appearing at this hearing.”
“Do you know why, Doctor?”
“I am trying to ascertain the reason, Your Honor, but have been unable.”
The day droned on. The cold December air was miasmic enough, Angela thought, to qualify for extirpation from the swamps. She wrapped her Irish tweed blanket around her shoulders. She did not want to have another attack of pneumonia and the resulting emotional trauma. Not again.
Finally the Judge called for a recess.
“We will gather here tomorrow at nine thirty to hear Dr. Tierney’s defense team present their case. I note that all they have to do to carry the day is to prove that Dr. Tierney did send her notes to the journal which published her brief article. The defendant does not have to adduce the notes themselves or a copy thereof.”
More cheers from her supporters and murmurs of displeasure from the core members of the Chicago Medical Society.
“I don’t know why anyone would want to associate with those phantoms,” Shay said as he and Rosina took her home to Garfield Park.
“I feel sorry for them.”
“Someone has organized this attack on you, Angela,” Shay said. “They have not organized it very well, save for removing your notes from the AMA files. Did you see those reporters in back? The CMS will be the laughingstock of the city by tomorrow evening . . . You’re totally safe, Angela. Two of the three members of the panel are on your side.”
“The fix is in.”
“Fight a fix with a fix, Angela. That’s the Chicago way. Our friend Hastings-Hudson didn’t want to do this, so he arranged for the Judge and the panel so that it wouldn’t be complete comedy. He appointed Len Fredericks to it because Len has the reputation of being a fair and intelligent man. Then I appointed our classmate and they decided on Edgar Portman-Johnson, who is as much a heretic as you are. The other side didn’t have a single vote even before the trial began.”
“I hope so. I would so much like to resign after it’s over.”
“Not till Tim is announced as Dean of Rush.”
“All right.”
She shivered as she walked up the two flights of stairs to her room. Garfield Park, grim and ugly in its late autumn clothes, made her shiver even more. She poured herself a stiff dose of brandy to fight off the cold, wrapped herself in her Irish tweed blanket, and fell promptly to sleep.
Only occasionally and for purely medicinal purposes, she told God as she fell asleep, her rosary still curved around her fingers.
Will Tim come tomorrow? I hope not. I’ll have to face him sometime, but not tomorrow.
If he were in bed with me, I wouldn’t need the brandy!
The fog and the rain clouds had lifted in the morning and the sun had appeared in the sky. Samhain at home, Halloween in this Protestant country.
The operating theater was filled when she entered and began to walk down the steps to the stage. Cutting Angela’s soul open was a strong attraction. She hoped that she did not have to testify. The demon who controlled her tongue would surely take charge.
As it was the reporters tormented her with questions.
“Why do you put up with these senile fogies?”
“I am proud of my membership in CMS and I will not willingly give it up.”
“Do you think there is a plot against you?”
“It would certainly seem so. I have no idea why anyone would want to go to all that trouble.”
“Is it true that Mother Mary forbade the young nuns from testifying?”
“So I am told.”
And struggling with the reporters to talk to her, even to touch her arm, were swarms of young doctors and medical students.
“We’ll riot if they expel you! We really will!”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
Joan of Arc, she thought, didn’t have supporters like this . . . A riot? . . . That might be fun . . . You should be ashamed of yourself.
The Judge called the hearing to order and was ignored. He banged his gavel furiously in vain. Dr. Len Fredericks rose from the jury table and signaled for quiet. The crowd reluctantly settled down.
“Dr. McGourty, whom do you call as your first witness?”
“I call multiple witnesses: Sister Mary Grace, RSM, RN, a member of the Holy Innocents, and her band of seven survivors!”
Cheers from the audience.
The eight nuns, shadowed by Bishop Peter Muldoon, PP, entered the theater stage from the room in which the patients usually waited.
Angela stood up to recognize their courage.
Sister Mary Grace walked to the stand but stopped at the defendant’s chair to embrace Angela. The others followed, one by one.
Attendants scurried to find seven other chairs. The Judge, not used to the silliness of young nuns on the loose, seemed stunned.
“Can we get on with the testimony, Dr. McGourty?”
“Certainly, Your Honor. Sister, am I correct that you and your band were patients in Dr. Tierney’s ward during the cholera epidemic?”
“Yes, Doctor,” Mary Grace said demurely, though she was the least demure of the crowd.
“What was she like?”
“Oh, she was like a novice mistress, stricter even. Whenever we had a bowel movement—and that was almost all the time—she made us drink that horrible spring water. We all hated her, though she was kind and sweet and pretty. We were going to die, couldn’t she just leave us alone?”
“Indeed!”
“And she made us pray and sing and she brought her guitar to lead us in the singing. So we said we hated her, but that wasn’t true, because we loved her. She was the angel that was going to lead us to heaven, even if we were bloated all the time with her spring water.”
“And what did you sing?”
“Mostly religious songs, but some popular. I guess we sang the Lourdes Hymn, because it was about miracles.”
The nuns began the hymn. The judge didn’t stop them.
“Great theater,” Shay muttered.
“Hush,” Angela whispered.
“Then what happened?” Shay asked.
“Well, we got better, all of a sudden. One night we went to sleep early, worn out, feelin
g utterly empty. We slept peacefully for the first time. We woke up feeling better, much better. Angela was at the top of the ward, smiling down on us.
“ ‘Young ladies, you are rehydrating. Keep drinking your magic water!’ ”
“ ‘I’m hungry,’ one of us said. “
“ ‘I thought you might be. I have some good Irish oatmeal for you.’ ”
“And you all recovered and are alive and well.”
“Yes, Doctor. We’re once again what Dr. Tierney, God love her, liked to call silly young Irish nuns.”
Lorenz Schultz wanted to cross-examine.
“Ja, ja, Schwester, did you notice whether Dr. Tierney was taking notes during your stay in her ward?”
“Oh, yes, Doctor, all the time. Temperature, number of bowel movements, quality of bowel movements, pints of water consumed. You could never get away from the water, which, tell the truth, was quite sweet and had a lovely aroma.”
“Ah.”
“As she wept over our survival, like she is weeping now, we realized she was one of us, a young woman from the West of Ireland, and we all wanted her to be our superior, but she didn’t seem to have a vocation.”
“Ja.”
“She told us that she had to take the notes to persuade other doctors around the world that dehydration was what killed people infected with cholera.”
“One more question, Sister. Why did Mother Mary of the Holy Innocents forbid you to testify in this hearing?”
“Oh, she doesn’t like Dr. Tierney at all, at all.”
“And why not?”
“Well, there was a big argument about our novitiate house. Dr. Tierney said that sewer water leaked into the basement during a storm and into our water pipes. We were drinking sewage every day during the flood. Mother said that was nonsense and ordered us back into the building. The flood, she said, was over—which it was.”
“Then what happened?”
“One of us told Dr. Tierney, and she told the Board of Health, and they tore the house down when Mother refused to install new pipes.”
“Which one of you reported Mother to Dr. Tierney?”
“Ain’t saying,” she said with a wicked West of Ireland grin.
Irish Tweed Page 19
