by RJ Crayton
A single tear begins rolling down her cheek. If I had a tissue or a handkerchief — but I don’t in this stupid goddamn room — I would give it to her. Instead, she reaches a hand up and wipes the tear away. “I just always wanted to know if you made a mistake when you jumped in, or if you made a choice.”
A mistake or a choice. I made a choice. Saving someone’s life should always be a choice. And I would always choose to save Susan. “I made a choice. The right one, Susan,” I tell her. Exasperated with why this should matter, I ask, “How long have you wondered this?”
“Since my leg cramped and I realized I couldn’t swim anymore”
Shock runs through me as it sinks in that she’d known even that day. “While you were in the water?” I ask, still a little stunned.
She nods. “I thought my drowning was a foregone conclusions. I was sure you wouldn’t come in, that you knew your survival likelihood was only 56 percent. That you would hit the alarm, and I would drown as you watched and waited for help that would arrive too late.”
She looks up and smiles at me. “I’ve never been so happy as when I saw you jump into that water. I thought there was a possibility that I might survive. That’s why I kept trying to stay afloat. Before then, I was debating just letting it happen, just sinking. I didn’t think I had that much more to give. I’d been at my limit when the cramp hit. It was supposed to be my final lap, and then I was going to collapse on the pier with you.”
I take Susan’s hand. It is warm. “I’m glad you kept your head above water,” I say, meeting her familiar green eyes.
“Me too.”
I am glad Susan has come, but wish she hadn’t brought up Camp Picklewick. It is a reminder that even then, even as a child, I had shirked my duties to the Life First mantra. Even then, I hadn’t done what society deemed right. “You’re alive and I’m alive, so, let’s not think about it anymore, Susan. It’s in the past.”
She shakes her head. “Why did you do it?”
Now I am confused. The answer to that is quite obvious. “Because you were going to die if I didn’t”
“But, you could have died, too,” she retorts. “Your chances of surviving the kidney transplant were better than your odds of surviving when you saved me. Why did you do it, despite the odds?”
“Because you were going to die,” I repeat. “Because you were my best friend, and I didn’t want to lose you. The odds were good enough. Maybe not for the survival statistics teacher, or for that poor old balding camp director or my dad, but they were good enough for me. And it worked out. So, we don’t worry about it.”
Susan composes herself, wiping away another tear. “Well, I just wanted to say thank you. I always thought you knew the odds, that you’d risked it all, even though you shouldn’t have.” She pauses, sincerity brimming in her countenance, says, “I never really thanked you for going above and beyond.”
I feel awkward getting Susan’s thanks for something that happened a decade ago. Something she already thanked me for. “You’re welcome. I’d do it again, and I think you’d do the same for me.”
She nods, and we sit there staring at each other for a moment. Then, she looks at the door. “Listen, I should go,” she says, wheeling her chair backwards, then angling it to turn around.
“You just got here,” I protest.
“I know, but I have a few other things to do. I’m going to come back, OK?”
“OK,” I say. She wheels herself to the door and knocks. A guard appears and then she is gone.
Chapter 33: Betrayed
I am once again alone with my thoughts, which constantly veer toward what will happen if I am stuck here. If Luke can’t break me out. With great effort, I push those thoughts out of my mind, and decide to focus on something else: my father.
And I see a silver lining. My conviction might actually help my father. Not emotionally, but politically. Perhaps he will get a boost in the polls if he denounces me for the traitor I am and tells the world I am getting what I deserve.
My attempted escape has caused so much trouble for him politically, maybe a conviction will assist him in getting some of his career back. It had been such an uphill battle for him to get where he was before I messed everything up. My father had so many strikes against him, yet he’d overcome them all. No one seems to care that he is a widower who hasn’t remarried, that he only deigned to bear one child for society, not three to five, as is common. It all seemed to fit him, that it was OK for him to be different. But, in a good way. Since my attempted escape, everyone is re-examining everything about him, and his poll numbers are plummeting.
My father would never tell me such things, but when I asked Albert, he told me. I have always appreciated Uncle Albert’s candor, and never more than in here.
I stand and stretch. I want to clear my mind, so I pace the cell, back and forth. I make 243 trips across the room and back again. Focusing on other things, the simple task of counting my trips, allows me to stop thinking of the things that worry me.
I am six steps into trip 244 when the door to my cell glides open. Uncle Albert enters. He is pale and looks as if he needs a few good nights of sleep.
“Jury’s back,” he says deliberately. He holds my gaze only for a second. In that time, I read his despair.
This is not good. I debate asking, and finally decide I must. I need to steel myself for the verdict. “You think it’s bad?”
He doesn’t say anything, or move at all. He stands there, some internal debate filling his head. Finally, he looks me in the eye and admits, “Quick verdict is usually bad.”
I am standing near Albert at the door, but the sudden weightiness of the situation forces me to stagger backwards and find my seat on the block. I knew this was likely, but had hoped, really hoped, for the best.
I take a few deep breaths, and try to center myself. Being a wreck when they deliver the verdict will serve no purpose.
The guard stationed at the door clears his throat to urge us on. Albert stretches out his hand to me, though he is still a few feet away. “We have to go, Kelsey.”
I take a deep breath, stand and reach for his hand. I feel better when my hand is in his, like he can somehow shield me, protect me. But, I know that isn’t true. The only people who have the ability to protect me are in the courtroom waiting for me to return. And I have the distinct impression they are going to throw me to the wolves.
The walk to the hearing room is fairly quick. A few corridors, outside on a walkway, another building, then we are there. Uncle Albert is still holding my hand, and it is wet with sweat now. I let go, more so he won’t feel uncomfortable than for any desire I have to be free of his reassuring touch. I’m sure I am pale as a sheet. My stomach feels hollow as we enter the room. It is as if I already know that I am walking toward the gallows. I wonder if this is how all long-term inmates feel? Is it like this for them every day? The knowing what will happen, but wondering if this will be the day? No, for them, it has to be worse. Right now, I just suspect. I don’t really know anything. I have a bad feeling, a feeling that probably isn’t wrong. But, there is still hope, still a chance. Once you’ve been sentenced to vital organ donation, there is no reprieve.
I sit, and Uncle Albert whispers something in my ear. I am not sure exactly what. The gravity of the situation, combined with my own internal panic, have left me unable to think clearly or comprehend what he is saying. I think he is asking me to remain calm, no matter what. He said that on the walk over. Several times in fact. I wonder if I don’t look calm. I wonder if I look as panic-stricken as I feel.
My father comes in and sits in the chair behind me. His hand touches my shoulder and I can tell that he’s standing and leaning in towards me. In my ear, he whispers, “No matter what, I love you, and I will get you out of the holding facility.”
I smile. He sounds like Luke. How odd is that? How can that be? I pegged them as very different because they didn’t get along. But, now as they surround me in my hour of need, I realize they a
re alike in the ways that count. They both stand by you. They are both loyal. And they both love me immeasurably.
My father’s hand slides from my shoulder, and I can only assume he’s returned to his seat. The jury members enter the room and take their places. Many don’t look at me. The ones who do have contempt in their eyes. This is bad. I look down at the table. I can’t face them. The judge enters the room, and Albert whispers, “Stand up, Kelsey.” I do. Looking up at the judge clad in a black robe and somber expression makes it all sink in again. I close my eyes. The judge bangs his gavel and we all sit again.
“Do you have a verdict?” the judge asks.
The jury foreman stands. “Yes, your honor.”
Judge Dahlberg nods in return, then says, “Please read the verdict.”
“We, the jury, find Ms. Kelsey Anne Reed guilty of willfully violating the law of mandatory donation. We find that she was not insane under the law at the time of the violation, and is in fact a sociopath. We recommend the punishment of death through organ donation.”
My father is silent, as is Uncle Albert. I, on the other hand, begin sobbing incoherently. The tears stream down my face, hot and salty. I try to stop, to be calm, like Uncle Albert said. But, it isn’t happening. I’m going to die, and I don’t want to. And no one can protect me from that. My body trembles as the tears continue to flow, and strange, guttural wails emerge from somewhere deep within. I feel someone, perhaps Uncle Albert, put an arm around me and pull me close. It is Albert; he is patting my shoulder and saying things in my ear. Things I can’t make out because he is speaking softly and my sobbing is too loud. The judge bangs his gavel, thanks the jury and orders a short recess so I can compose myself.
* * *
Uncle Albert, my father and I adjourn to a private room near the hearing room. Once inside, I calm down after a few minutes, so Albert can explain what will happen next. While I was neither emotionally nor mentally prepared for the verdict, Uncle Albert and my father are legally prepared.
They’d expected a guilty verdict and plan to appeal. The process will take no more than four weeks, and if I am granted a new trial, it will have to occur at the end of an empanelled jury’s time, Albert says. They feel it is fairest to squeeze in appeal trials at the end of a session.
Albert isn’t sure that a new trial, if we luck out and get one, will be that successful. But, he does think the appeal has a better chance in the higher court. If nothing else, the appeal will buy us more time. “Time for your friend to solidify his plan.” Albert says of Luke. Nothing explicit. Vague and simple, but enough to pull me from my stupor.
I feel more alert now. I tune in, perking up to hear better. “The good news is Dr. Grant’s new assistant signed off on a treatment procedure for you,” Albert tells me.
“And this is good news, how?” I ask. I feel like going glassy-eyed again. A plan to have my uterus removed is not a good thing.
Albert pulls out a document and hands it to me. I look at the words on the paper, but don’t read them. “It explains that due to your genetic predisposition to a high-risk pregnancy, the safest course of action for the baby is to move you to Dr. Grant’s facility to perform the procedure. As you know, his facility is not secure, so a guard would be sent with you. It also recommends moving you in the next few days so he can monitor the pregnancy, but waiting until you’re 16 weeks to do the procedure. The 16-week mark is healthiest for the baby.”
I say nothing. It is with mixed emotions that I let this information settle on my brain. Moving to Dr. Grant’s facility takes me away from the holding facility. But it also means I will be closer to a misunderstanding, confusion or some situation in which Dr. Grant will actually perform the procedure on me. A situation in which my womb will be forcibly removed. Albert calls Dr. Grant’s recommendation “a saving grace,” as such reports often greatly influence the judge, and can’t really be objected to by the other side.
I feel helpless as I sit here caught between emotions: despair that I have been sentenced to die to insane hope that Luke or Uncle Albert or my father or an appeals court can save me. I am about to put my head down and cry again, when I notice my father staring guiltily at me, and realize I can’t do that.
Instead, I try to look optimistic for his sake. I feel increasingly worse for him, as he is standing by me, when so many others abandon their accused family member. Most run for the hills, and hope they will not be tarnished by the stink of the traitor. Yet, here is my father, sitting in this room with me, his career falling apart because of what I did and not holding it all against me. Not a single drop of ill will.
My father has lost my mother already, and now he is going to lose me, too.
* * *
We are adjourned for an hour. We can delay sentencing until tomorrow, but Albert wants to move forward with it, since we have Dr. Grant’s treatment plan on our side. With any luck, I can be transferred to his facility in the morning.
Things start off fine. Bickers goes through his litany of reasons why I am a menace to society and should go long-term immediately with the baby taken. Uncle Albert just listens. When it is his turn, he has two things to discuss with the judge: my appeal and Dr. Grant’s report.
When Albert asks to submit the report to the court, Bickers stands and objects. All eyes turn to him. Albert is about to speak when the judge clears his throat and turns to the prosecutor.
“This isn’t really something you can object to, Mr. Bickers,” the judge says, scowling.
Bickers bobs his head in agreement; still, he opens his mouth to speak, with that “but” expression on his face. “Under normal circumstances, that’s correct, your Honor. However, I have learned that this report was falsified.”
More silence. Not that there was a lot of talk before, but there was shifting in seats and rustling of clothing. Now, there are no sounds. It is as if everyone has stopped, collectively holding their breaths, waiting for more.
Finally, the judge says venomously, “Are you suggesting Albert Harrell falsified this report?”
Bickers eyes widen as he realizes his mistake. He takes a step back, as if wanting to both literally and figuratively backtrack. “Your Honor, forgive me,” he says, sounding like the weasel he is. “Falsified is the wrong word. The report is no longer accurate. Dr. Grant has changed his mind.”
“What?” I blurt out, though I hadn’t meant for the word to leave my mouth.
Albert puts his hand on my shoulder, a subtle reminder for me to remain quiet. Bickers draws up the corners of his mouth into a dastardly smile, flashes it at me briefly, then turns back to the judge with a more deferential, though no less triumphant, expression. “Dr. Grant called me an hour ago saying new research indicated his recommendations are no longer accurate.”
Albert gently squeezes my shoulder in a move to calm me. In the corner of my eye, I see my father stand and walk toward the exit. He will find out what is going on.
“Your Honor,” Albert says respectfully, but with conviction. “This is the first I’ve heard of this.” He turns to Bickers. “If Dr. Grant made this call to you, did he also send you an affidavit?”
Bickers shakes his head. “I’m afraid there wasn’t time,” Bickers is saying, when a commotion outside the room causes him to stop abruptly.
From the hallway, I hear my father’s voice shout: “You sick, charlatan bastard. How could you? How could you kill her mother and now doom her to this?”
All eyes turn to the courtroom doors. A moment later, those doors swing open, and in walks Dr. Grant, looking grim. He looks directly at Bickers and the judge, but avoids eye contact with Albert or me.
My stomach wobbles and lurches. I think I might vomit.
“Dr. Grant came to testify, rather than providing an affidavit,” Bickers says as Dr. Grant stands alone in the now-open hearing room doorway. I watch in silence as Dr. Grant takes the stand and swears again to tell the truth and nothing but.
Bickers doesn’t bother reminding the judge who Dr. Grant i
s or of his qualifications. He simply launches into questions.
“Dr. Grant, do you recognize this report?” he asks, holding out a few sheets of stapled paper.
Dr. Grant looks at it, then assents. “Yes. It’s the treatment recommendation my assistant sent to you and Judge Harrell.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s based on my previous research and recommends we wait until week 16 of Ms. Reed’s pregnancy to remove her baby.”
Bickers gives a quizzical look. “But you say this is now incorrect?”
Dr. Grant nods, looking briefly at Bickers, then his hands, but never gazing in my direction.
“Could you speak your answer for the court record,” Bickers asks.
“Yes, it’s now incorrect.” Dr. Grant says loudly.
“How?”
“Well, we’ve been running human trials in Peoria for the last year,” the doctor says, looking to the judge, and for the first time smiling. “We’ve had success removing a baby as young as six weeks. The woman learned she had pancreatic cancer that needed to be treated aggressively and quickly, to give her any chance of long-term survival. So, we removed the baby. This was eight months ago. The woman died four months ago, but the baby survived. We delivered him two weeks ago without incident. It was our first human success taking a baby so early. We also have had good success with the four babies we removed following week 16.”
“This procedure would be safe for Ms. Reed and her baby?”
Dr. Grant doesn’t hesitate. “I believe it would be safe. And more importantly, FoSS believes it would be safe. As you know, I have not been licensed to do this procedure in FoSS, except provisionally on inmates like Ms. Reed. However, I received approval this morning from the Medical Board to use the procedure in high-risk FoSS citizens at least 16 weeks along, as well as approval to teach the procedure to other obstetricians and certify them to perform it. Also, I was given provisional approval to use the procedure on non-FoSS citizens and FoSS holding facility inmates with fetuses as young as six weeks gestational age.”
