Life First: (Dystopian series, book 1)
Page 14
There is no one. I feel like a fool for being unable to come up with a name for Albert. He is doing all the heavy lifting with preparation and strategy. All I am asked to do is come up with a name. “Maybe Mary Grimm,” I say, though I doubt she’ll agree to it. “She teaches the kindergarten class across the hall from mine. We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well this year. She might do it.”
Uncle Albert reaches into his satchel propped open on the floor, pulls a notepad from it and jots down the name. Then he comes over to his chair and sits.
“I just want to go over a few things with you about court, the proceedings, make sure you understand everything.”
Well, it is nice he wants to explain, but I already understand. The justice system in FoSS is simple and swift. It carries over some of the tenets of the former U.S. system, but streamlines them a lot. This modification was done because crime was almost nonexistent at FoSS’s formation. Crime rates have risen, but I don’t believe there’s been much change in the court system.
The most basic right is to a fair and speedy trial. One can go with a jury or simply a judge. Once convicted, you get two appeals. Those appeals must be completed within six months, and then the sentence is carried out.
That simple. But, I don’t want Albert to leave, so instead of suggesting I know enough, I decide to keep him as long as I can. Only white rubber walls await me once he leaves. “What should I know?”
“Well, let’s start with the charges, Kelsey,” he says. “The punishment for not showing up for a surgery after you’ve been marked is pretty clear. A trial isn’t even needed. You simply get a hearing before a judge to ascertain whether you were in fact marked, and in fact didn’t show up for your surgery. Once those things are shown, you’re sent in for surgery.”
I give a stiff nod.
“After the surgery, you’re typically evaluated to determine if you’re sociopathic or simply having mild psychiatric trouble. The evaluators recommend charges for your hearing. If you’re having mild psychiatric trouble, they suggest a six-month stint in a short-term facility with an extra blood donation and counseling. If you’re sociopathic, they ask you be remanded to a long-term facility and used for life-saving procedures for others.”
I lower my eyes. That is not the possibility I want. Albert has paused, seeing I have stopped looking at him. I lift my eyes to see him again, so he continues.
“Because of your pregnancy, they can’t do the transplant. So, now they’ve moved to the next step. The prosecution is asserting you’re a sociopath, Kelsey, and they want you sterilized and sent away.”
I know this. It doesn’t sound any better coming from Albert’s mouth.
“This is a fairly rare predicament, to be honest with you. Very few people flee after being marked, and even fewer are deemed sociopaths. That label is usually saved for murderers and child molesters.”
This bothers me. “Why? Why are they pushing so hard on me?”
“To set an example,” he says. “Your father was two weeks away from being governor before this story broke. He was going to be the highest official in this state, if the polls were accurate. They can’t let that go.”
I suppose he is right. But, it doesn’t feel fair that I am being punished because of who my father is. “So what do you think my chances are?”
He waves me off. “It’s not good to try to calculate the odds in this situation, Kelsey,” he says. Though, this is practically a blasphemous thought; in FoSS, statistics are everywhere. Albert seems to realize where my thoughts are headed, and speaks again. “There are too many variables. You’ve taken enough statistical analysis classes to know that too many variables produce unreliable answers. All we can do right now is put our best foot forward and look at the things we have on our side.”
Ha! Things on our side. “And what would those be?”
“One, you’re a mother, or going to be. And this society, above all, loves its mothers, its givers of life. And two, you’ve got a disease. One that will go away as soon as you give birth. Maybe the jury will just decide to let you go.”
“You think?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. But, it’s your only shot.”
Chapter 23: Getting Ready
It is the morning of the hearing, and I am filled with anxiety. It is not allayed by the news Uncle Albert brings.
I’ve lost my job. Kindergarten teachers — well, teachers in general — are expected to exhibit high moral turpitude. While I knew I’d be fired, it is not the best way to start the day. Albert does not tell me this to be cruel, but as part of letting me know that Mary Grimm will not help. She is afraid she will lose her job if she testifies. I do not believe it is an unreasonable fear. It’s not just the holding facility that gets you depressed. It’s the public shunning, as well.
“Is there anyone else we can use,” he asks me.
At this point, I mention the only other people I think might be grateful enough to me to risk the negative fallout: Anakin and Patsy Spencer.
“I saved their son’s life,” I tell Albert, and his eyes widen with a why-didn’t-you-tell-me-sooner look. I sigh, as I’m about to get to why. “Ethan was in Mary’s class last year, and we were on a field trip at Montgomery Gardens when he was stung by a bee. He’d never been stung before, so no one knew he was allergic, but he began swelling immediately. It was quite obvious he wouldn’t last long. His face was puffing up, his fingers bloating, and he was gasping for air like a fish out of water. He needed an epinephrine pen.”
Albert listens intently, clearly waiting for the “but” that makes this story no good. I look at him briefly, then find my hands. “We were at least a couple hundred yards from the building. I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to get there. Even if I sprinted, they might not have one available. So, I looked around and saw that Julie Merman, a girl in my class, had her pocket pouch around her waist. She’s allergic to practically everything and keeps two emergency epinephrine pens in the pouch. I took one of hers and used it on Ethan.”
I look up. Uncle Albert grimaces. “It saved Ethan’s life, the doctors said. The reaction was so severe, he would have suffocated. The Spencers were really grateful. Especially the father. He works for a hospital and seemed to understand I’d been instrumental in saving his son’s life.”
Uncle Albert is quiet for a moment. Finally, he says, “I’ll consider asking, but I’m not sure.”
I understand his hesitation. “Yeah, the Mermans weren’t happy.”
“You endangered their child when you took her epinephrine.”
Yes, I’d been told this: by the principal, by the Mermans and by an administrator from the central office. “I guess one could argue that, but she kept two in the bag. Really, what were the odds she’d need two pens before we could get her a replacement?”
He gave me a hard stare. “You already had one bee sting, so clearly bees were around and she might need it.”
“Fine,” I said. “It’s not the best example of my good character. But, it’s all I got. Without the Spencers, I don’t have anyone else.”
He nods, and tells me the other unfortunate news of the day. The prosecution has hired Dr. Grant to testify against me.
“He can’t,” I protest.
“He can and he will,” Albert shoots back.
He lets the shock settle in, then launches into an explanation of why this is fine. “First, we don’t think they’ve made the connection between Dr. Grant and Luke. We don’t want the doctor to try to get out of testifying and have authorities research more about Dr. Grant and find his former assistant was Luke. Your father had Dr. Grant wipe out any records that Luke worked for him, so he could get him the job here at the holding facility. But, it would only take someone asking around to connect Luke to Dr. Grant. And if they make that connection, they’ll eventually find the connection between you and Luke.”
While I can’t argue with the logic, I still don’t like it. I scowl, as he opens his mouth to continue.
I’m still not quite on board.
Uncle Albert speaks again. “Third, he’s not an expert in pregnancy psychosis,” he says, flashing me a wicked grin, “so I can tear him apart on the stand.”
Part of me likes that, yet part of me doesn’t want to see Dr. Grant on the stand, let alone torn apart by Albert.
“If he’s not an expert,” I ask, “why’d they pick him?”
“Because he’s a Nimmick ally,” Albert states flatly. I give a resigned look. I knew my father hated Dr. Grant. So, I hadn’t been surprised that Dr. Grant had allied himself with Nimmick. Dr. Grant and I never discussed this. Governor Nimmick cut the ribbon for the opening of Dr. Grant’s lab on campus. Nimmick doesn’t have the personal animosity toward Dr. Grant my father feels, and he doesn’t mind that Dr. Grant’s reputation lurks between pregnancy miracle worker and obstetrics charlatan. Grant’s work with the “pagan” Peorians and some of his writings, which hint at “pro-choice” leanings, don’t sit well with some in society. But, Nimmick never seemed to mind. Now I suppose he wants Dr. Grant to repay the support by burying me.
I want to ask Uncle Albert more about Dr. Grant testifying, want more time to let the news sink in, but he looks at his watch and declares we must leave for the hearing, or we’ll be late. He hands me the clothes he’s brought and tells me he’ll step out so I can change. Since the clothes are covered by a garment bag, I assumed he’d come with a standard suit. When I open it, I find a black skirt suit with pink silk shirt. Upon closer examination, I realize the top flares out at the waist and is designed for a pregnant woman. A woman more pregnant than me. The skirt has an elastic-band waist also meant to stretch for a pregnant belly.
I catch Uncle Albert’s eye as he is heading out the door, and give him a “Really?” look.
Unfazed, he says, “You’re a mother. Don’t forget that.”
* * *
To be truthful, I’ve never been in a courtroom before. My father abandoned law and moved onto politics by the time I was three. I’ve never been arrested before or even fought a traffic citation, so I’ve never had occasion to be in one. Entering one for my own hearing today is a little jarring. On some level it is what I expected, similar to what I’ve seen in movies, but on a smaller scale. The room is tiny and divided into sections by small, but noticeable barriers. There is an area in the rear, for spectators. There are none in the room yet. I’m sure people are interested in my hearing, but the courtroom will not open for the public until right before the proceedings begin. Media will mainly attend.
In front of the spectator area is a waist-high wooden wall. Just beyond the wall are two tables. One on the right, one on the left. There are two chairs at each table. I can only presume one table is for Albert and me and the other for the prosecutor. In front of that, behind a wide-berthed wooden podium, a tall winged-back chair is positioned behind it where I presume the judge sits. Adjoining it is a boxed-in area that contains a chair for witnesses. It is a chair I will never sit in, I realize, given the decision I’ve made. I turn my head to the right. Perpendicular to the judge and witness area is a set of chairs for the jury. Ten seats for the ten people who will decide my fate.
Albert, standing beside me, places a hand on the center of my back and gently urges me forward. We move deeper into the courtroom, and take our spots. Albert repeats all the things he told me earlier. Look maternal; don’t let anything said phase me; and remain calm, no matter what happens. Soon, the prosecutor enters, then the jury and finally the judge. My father shuffles in and grabs a seat behind us in the audience area, as do several onlookers who I assume are with the media. A few minutes later, the judge calls the courtroom to order.
Chapter 24: Try Me
The prosecutor wants me dead. He’d like to see my carcass sliced open and emptied of all useful parts — given to some kind soul who wouldn’t dare flee. This is clear from the moment Evan Bickers opens his mouth.
He plays a single line from my recorded interview with Dr. Klein — the one where I’d answered what would happen if no one else could give the Virginia man a kidney. “Then he would die,” my video self says more firmly than I remember. But, the video doesn’t lie.
With that, Bickers proclaims I am a sociopathic murderer who must be convicted.
It is a rough start. I feel like we have lost, but I try to look neutral, yet maternal. I place my hand on my belly, settling it on top of the loose fabric which might make it seem as if I am sporting a tiny baby bump. Uncle Albert stands, walks over to the jury and begins speaking in earnest, his drawl and friendly smile making him seem more neighborly than lawyerly.
“This is Kelsey Reed,” he says, pointing at me with outstretched arm. “She’s pregnant. Going to be a mother. A giver of life, something that should be revered. Yet, for her, this pregnancy has brought something more than just a wonderful new life.”
Albert pauses, frowns: “It’s brought a disease. An almost unheard of disease.”
Albert looks back toward me sympathetically, then to the jury. “Our psychiatrist will show that Kelsey suffers from pregnancy psychosis, a rare disorder where the mother-to-be acts irrationally, though she feels perfectly sane. Ms. Reed believed she should not give her kidney, that it would end her life, and she fled. This was not the anti-Life First sentiment of a rabble-rouser,” Albert continues, shaking his head in the negative.
“With the right treatment, Ms. Reed can be helped. It would be wrong to keep her in a holding facility, take her baby and sterilize her, when she suffers from a disease, a very curable disease. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’m going to ask you to listen to the evidence carefully, weigh it in your hearts, in your minds and with the law. And then, I’m going to ask you to find Kelsey Reed not a sociopath.”
* * *
The next hours bring Bickers showing the most damaging sections of my video interview with Drs. Klein and Slate, along with Dr. Klein’s testimony that I am a sociopath, and not suffering from psychosis. Dr. Slate does not testify, as Albert would pick at his obvious bias. Clearly, he avoided questioning me, letting a junior doctor take the lead, so he would not taint the case. Uncle Albert has almost no questions for Klein, except a couple that expose she’s only been practicing a year, enough to hint she isn’t qualified to render an opinion on my mental condition.
When she exits the courtroom, Bickers stands and announces, “I’m calling Dr. Stephen Grant to testify.”
My stomach clenches as he says the words, and, despite what Albert has said to me, an anxiety-borne grimace emerges. A moment later, a guard opens the door to the courtroom, and Dr. Grant walks in. He marches up the center aisle, through an opening in the barrier, and right up to the witness chair, where he swears to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but. The idea that he is testifying for the prosecution still rubs me the wrong way. Dr. Grant has been my friend, and seeing him up there to say bad things about me feels like a betrayal.
Despite what Albert said about tearing him apart on the stand, I still have a bad feeling in my gut. And it isn’t the nausea of pregnancy, either.
Bickers goes through a series of basic qualification questions with Dr. Grant: his education, where he’s practiced, his experience with high-risk pregnancies. It is dull, but necessary if Bickers is going to use Dr. Grant’s words to lock me up, take away my baby and throw away the key.
“So, Dr. Grant,” Bickers says cordially, “You’ve been in obstetrics for nearly 15 years, and you’ve seen a half dozen cases of pregnancy psychosis?”
“Yes,” Dr. Grant says dispassionately.
“And did you review the interview recording between Dr. Klein and Ms. Reed?”
“I did.”
“And in your med
ical opinion, is Ms. Reed suffering from pregnancy psychosis?”
The moment of truth. Dr. Grant pauses, sensing the tension in the room, as we await his answer. “No,” he says, definitively, looking directly at me.
Damn! He could have at least hedged.
Bickers smiles ever so slightly, then asks. “Have you ever seen a woman suffering from pregnancy psychosis exhibit any symptoms similar to Ms. Reed’s?”
Another definitive, “No” from Dr. Grant. And it goes on like this, with Bickers asking Dr. Grant in every imaginable way if it is possible that I am suffering from pregnancy psychosis. Finally, Uncle Albert objects. “Your honor, this question seems to have been answered already,” he says, almost apologetically. “If we could move on.”
While Albert told me earlier that the hearing room is about showing respect for the judge while being thorough for your client, I’d like to see a little more fight from him.
The judge tells Bickers to move on. Instead, Bickers sits, indicating he is finished with the witness.
Uncle Albert strides over to Dr. Grant, flashes a humble smile. “I won’t take up too much more of your time here, Dr. Grant. I just have a couple of questions for you.”
Dr. Grant acknowledges this with a curt nod.
Albert walks toward the room’s side wall, and leans on it, forcing everyone in the room, Bickers, the judge, the jurors, myself, my father and Dr. Grant, to turn and watch only him.
“Did you ever treat Maya Reed?”
Dr. Grant looks hesitant for a moment, and then says, “Yes.”