by RJ Crayton
I let out a small gasp, and he looks at me for just a moment, probably less than a tenth of a second. But in that time, when our eyes lock, I see a familiar look. It was there the day he told me the details of my mother’s death: guilt.
Then, as if it hadn’t happened, Dr. Grant focuses on Bickers again.
Bickers, oblivious to our exchange, asks, “So this new approval invalidates your previous report?”
“Yes. We could take the infant as early as tomorrow under the provisional approval I’ve been granted.”
Tomorrow. That is insane. He can’t take my baby tomorrow. I am not far enough along. I grab the sleeve of Albert’s suit jacket and tug. He has to do something. He has to stop this.
Albert doesn’t say anything, but he does find my hand and squeeze it gently. Bickers is still up there with Dr. Grant, asking him questions about the procedure, and where it will be done.
Finally, Bickers ends with a request for the judge. “Your Honor, I request that the court order the procedure performed on Ms. Reed tomorrow.”
“I object,” Albert finally says. If he hadn’t, I would have leapt from my seat and done it.
The judge looks at Albert, motioning him to continue. Albert clears his throat. “Judge Dahlberg, first of all, Ms. Reed is not far enough along for this procedure. At present, she’s only four weeks. So, tomorrow is too soon. It’s not within the confines of Dr. Grant’s provisional approval, even.”
Dr. Grant looks at Albert, and while I sit next to Albert, he manages to not look at me. He seems to be avoiding any connection to me. I am so disgusted and angry, I can’t think straight.
The judge looks at Bickers, then Dr. Grant.
“Well, your Honor,” Dr. Grant says. “The baby’s actual age is probably 4 weeks. We however, base the procedure on gestational age, which is calculated based on the date of the last menstrual cycle. That typically adds two weeks. And if I’ve checked the records correctly, Ms. Reed’s last menstrual cycle was six weeks ago, making the baby’s gestational age six weeks.”
I close my eyes. This isn’t happening, I tell myself. Bad dream. This has to be a bad, bad dream. I open my eyes. Everything is as it was when I closed them. This is not a bad dream. It is not something I will awaken from scared, but glad it was just a dream.
“Your Honor,” Albert says gently. “Even if Dr. Grant is correct, my client is still due an appeal, so mounting a procedure for tomorrow would violate her appeal rights. If the verdict were overturned, the court would have wrongly done this procedure. The court can’t undo the removal of her uterus.”
The judge looks to be weighing this in his mind. I hope he will put off the procedure. Put it off long enough for Luke to think of a new plan, some way to escape without the aid of Dr. Grant, who has clearly betrayed me. Then Bickers, in his snake-oil salesman voice, chimes in again.
“Your Honor, I’m not sure the appeal matters for the purposes of this procedure. If Ms. Reed is found to be suffering from pregnancy psychosis, sterilization is still recommended. It’s a psychiatric disorder that threatens the life of another that could be transmitted to the offspring. And if she is found, as this panel found her, to be a depraved sociopath, sterilization would be mandated.”
Albert glares at Bickers, then turns to the judge, looking humble. “Your Honor, Mr. Bickers is generalizing. While he’s correct that sterilization is often recommended for psychiatric disorders that threaten others and can be passed on genetically, it is not a requirement. There are exceptions made. Therefore, nothing should happen until the appeal is finished. At most that would take two months, and in that time, the baby would grow more and be stronger and healthier for the procedure. I don’t believe there is any harm in that.”
Bickers appears prepared for this. He doesn’t miss a beat when he turns to the judge and responds. “Except, your honor, that Ms. Reed is possibly suffering from pregnancy psychosis. If that is in fact the case, then she might try to hurt the baby during the delay.”
“That’s inane,” interrupts Albert. “You just convinced a jury she doesn’t have pregnancy psychosis. You can’t argue she does now in your attempt to carve her up.”
Bickers narrows his pointy eyes and retorts. “Your Honor, the only issue up for appeal would be whether Ms. Reed has pregnancy psychosis. Presuming the appeal finds she does, then she would be at risk of harming her baby. While the holding facility is a generally safe place, we can’t stop Ms. Reed from failing to eat or finding some other way to harm her baby. And since her LMS is gone and cannot be safely replaced at this time, I think it would be in the baby’s best interest to be removed.”
The judge looks at Bickers, then Albert, weighing what they’ve said.
“Your Honor,” Albert says, giving one last attempt. He sounds humble, pleading. “It is well within your power to sentence Ms. Reed to this procedure. I just ask that you let the natural appeals process work out and not rush it. This procedure isn’t even approved for FoSS citizens! Please consider that in your decision.”
The judge orders a 15-minute recess. During the break, Dr. Grant leaves the room, and my father returns and sits at the table with Albert and me. “What happened out there?” I whisper. He looks at me, then around the hearing room, with Bickers staring at us from his table. My father looks for a moment like he will answer, but then waves me off. “We can’t talk here.”
Albert chimes in that it is just as well, as there is nothing we can do right now but wait for the judge. I’ve always thought the FoSS system of swift justice was great. That is, until sitting here facing it. This is too swift. I knew this could be coming, but there was always that hope of escape. To use the worst possibility — Dr. Grant’s lab — as our platform to escape. But, with Dr. Grant betraying us, his lab is looking like the worst place for me to go.
I’m sorry, Peanut, I think, touching my belly.
The remainder of the break is spent in the courtroom. Albert offers to get the guard to take me to the public restroom, so I can walk around a bit. While the idea of walking around is slightly appealing, I am not in the mood for media. I want to keep a low profile, for the sake of my father. Reporters roam the hallways, and I have been fortunate to use the restrooms for inmates in a nonpublic side corridor, so as to avoid them.
“Kelsey,” my dad whispers in my ear. I notice now that the judge is returning to his seat on the elevated podium. “No matter what happens, remember I love you and we’ll figure something out.”
I nod, though I don’t look at my father. I can’t quite muster up enough strength to put on a brave face and pretend his words were helpful.
The judge bangs his gavel, then turns his attention to me. “Kelsey Anne Reed, please stand.”
Chapter 34: Sentence
Judge Dahlberg fixes his eyes on me and I know he is going to let them do it. There is nothing but contempt in his eyes. “Ms. Reed, before I announce my decision, do you have anything to say?”
Albert looks at me with a reminder warning. A reminder that I am only to say that I love my baby. And that is it. It will remind the judge I am a mother and will not address the issue of whether or not I was in my right mind when I tried to flee.
I rub my hands along my skirt. I hope it looks like I am smoothing it, but it is really a gesture borne of anxiety. “Your Honor,” I say, trying to speak loud enough that he will hear me across the room, but without the shakiness I feel inside bleeding into my voice when I speak. “I want you to know that I love my baby, and want him or her to have a good life. I would ask that you don’t risk him or her by sentencing me to this procedure prematurely.”
The judge motions that he’s heard me. “Ms. Reed, your actions have shown an utter lack of consideration for your fellow man. The panel has found you guilty of violating your duty to donate because you are a sociopath. As such, I am sentencing you to a life sentence in the long-term holding facility and sterilization. This sterilization may be carried out as early as tomorrow at 2 p.m.”
He turns,
almost apologetically, to Albert. “You may seek an emergency appeal of this decision, if you would like. I’m sure the appeals court would hear you before 2 p.m.”
He is about to bang his gavel, when I yell, “Wait!”
He looks at me disapprovingly. “Your time for speaking is over, Ms. Reed.”
He bangs the gavel, yet I continue. “When my baby is born,” I say. The judge stops banging and stares at me, shocked by my defiance. Or perhaps he is shocked that I have my child’s welfare on my mind. Either way, curiosity overrules his better judgment and he motions for me to continue.
“When my baby is born,” I repeat. “I want him or her to be loved and cared for in a safe, happy environment. Somewhere away from here, away from a place where they force you to donate organs and murder you if you don’t. Somewhere where doctors don’t steal children from their mothers’ wombs. Someplace where life involves choice, not mandates. Send him or her somewhere where his or her life will be put first.”
I’m not sure if I would have said more or not, but the judge begins banging his gavel again, then Alfred grips my arm tightly, and mutters, “Kelsey, stop now.”
The judge orders me returned to my cell. Albert reluctantly interrupts, asking that we be allowed a minute in an adjoining attorney room to discuss my emergency appeal. The judge grants the request, clearly out of courtesy to Albert. If it had been my request, I’m not sure I would have gotten beyond, “Your Honor.”
We enter the private room for attorneys and their clients. It is a small room with a gray square table in the center, and three chairs tucked underneath it. In the far corner is a lone chair, and I decide to go there and sit. Albert sets his briefcase on the table. He seems to briefly consider pulling out the chair tucked underneath and sitting. Instead, Albert grips the back of the seat tightly, his knuckles going white, then lets loose on me. “What were you thinking?” he yells. I am stunned. Albert never yells.
I don’t know what I’d been thinking. Part of me snapped. “That it doesn’t matter,” I say, trying not to feel consumed with anger. “Those people are going to send me up the river no matter what. So, it doesn’t matter what I say. And if it doesn’t matter, I might as well say what I’m thinking.”
Albert sighs, lifts his hand to his forehead wearily, and rubs for a moment. Putting his hand down, he inhales, exhales slowly, then speaks. “Kelsey, you’re right that those people are going to do whatever they want to do, but you’re wrong about what you say not mattering. It matters in our appeal, and it matters to your father.”
As if on cue, the door opens, my father scuttles in, and shuts it behind him. “I’m sorry. I just needed a minute to make a call,” he says, striding toward me. When he gets to the seat against the wall I am perched in, he reaches for my hand. “Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have said that.”
He looks like my saying it has somehow wounded him. I turn to Albert. “Could we get a minute alone?”
Albert doesn’t seem to mind my abruptness. Without a word, and looking relieved, he exits the room.
My father stares a moment at the closed door, then at me, worry lines crowding his eyes. “What is the matter, Kelsey?”
I shake my head. “Nothing’s wrong,” I start, then stop myself as I realize how foolish that actually sounds given the circumstances. “Nothing beyond what’s going on today, I mean.”
A sigh escapes his lips, then he puts on his “keep your chin up” face. I’ve seen that one on the campaign trail. It is quite convincing, usually. “We’ve got the emergency appeal. Just keep that in mind.”
I don’t give a damn about the emergency appeal. It isn’t going to work. Nothing will work. He has to stop helping me and help himself, now. “Tomorrow, I want you to publicly denounce me.”
He stops breathing. His face is still, and he seems frozen in time. “What?” he breathes out.
“Denounce me. With that little speech today, I’ve made myself the perfect villain. Distance yourself from me and see if you can salvage something of your career.”
He doesn’t speak. It is an odd way to see my father; he always seems so utterly composed, as if nothing fazes him. Yet, now, he appears truly frazzled. I’m sure his advisers suggested cutting me loose immediately. Only Dad was clearly too stubborn to do so. Well, now I’ve given him ample reason. The silliness of the pregnancy psychosis can be done away with. I am a bad person for sure, or at least I will be when they report about me on the news. So, he can do what so many others whose family members end up in holding facilities do: say good bye and shun me.
He sits on the edge of the table, then put his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry, Kelsey,” he says, his voice breaking.
“Sorry?” He isn’t the one in a holding facility because he refused to give up his kidney. He hasn’t ruined his loved one’s career. “Dad, you have nothing to be sorry for.”
He shakes his head in refute. “I do, Kelsey.” He sighs. “I saw the video on the chip. I saw what she said to you. I saw the condition she was in.”
I gasp. “You said it was corrupt.”
“I just said that because I wasn’t ready to talk about it. I didn’t want to acknowledge the role I’d played in it.” He shakes his head in anguish. “Your mother shouldn’t have died. I should have demanded they do something. Not just wait and see. I didn’t stand by her against a system that didn’t have her best interest at heart. I didn’t listen to her, really listen, when she called and asked for my help. And she died because of it. I didn’t listen to you either. I could tell you didn’t want to do this. Instead of listening, I ignored all the signs and just kept trying to reassure you it would be alright. That was the wrong choice to make. When you ran, when you were caught, I vowed that I would stand by you, and support you in the way I had failed to do for her.”
“Oh, Daddy,” I breathe out, as I go to him and pat him gently on the back. He lifts his head from his hands and looks at me. “Daddy, you have been here for me. More here for me than anyone could ever have expected. I’ve never felt alone. I will be eternally grateful for you hiring that guard.”
He takes my hands in his. “You’re a brave girl, Kelsey. Don’t despair in here. Albert and I won’t give up. I’m going to do better for you than I did for your mother.”
With that, he stands, briefly hugs me, and walks toward the door. As he grabs the door handle, he turns back. “I’ll come by first thing in the morning.”
Chapter 35: Murphy’s Law
Having been returned to my cell, I am now crawling the walls. All I can do is walk back and forth across the room and think about why things have gone to hell: Dr. Stephen Grant.
He isn’t on my side anymore. For some reason, he has forsaken me. Part of me wonders if he’s ever really been on my side. How could someone who had really been on my side take my baby and my womb?
I stop pacing for a moment and take a deep breath. Clean, cool air in; bad, negative thoughts out, I tell myself. Negative thinking never helps. It is just hard not to have these thoughts, after today’s hearing.
I want Luke to come. I need him to come. He can help me get rid of some of my anxiety, maybe. He can help calm me. Or, if not, at least help me understand what is going on. Help me understand why Dr. Grant betrayed me.
I glance up at the clock and realize the day guard’s shift is almost over. I am so glad my father was able to get rid of the pig-faced guard who’d so enjoyed taunting me. Today’s day guard stood outside, and said to knock if I need him. What I need is for him to go, to get outta here when his shift is over, so I can talk to Luke.
I need to find out if Luke has another plan. Something that could be executed before I am transferred to Dr. Grant’s lab. Maybe he even knows more about the appeal. Maybe it is a sure thing. Bribery and political corruption are generally considered a thing of the past, but if Michael Nimmick can make such efforts to destroy me, perhaps my father has a few tricks up his sleeve to get the appeals board to delay things.
In the courtroom, I felt bra
vado, a nothing-to-lose haze, but as I stand here in my cell, it is very clear how much there is to lose. I don’t want Peanut taken away from me. And if he or she is taken away, I need to know that Luke will find a way to claim him or her.
I look at the clock on the wall again. Two minutes until 8 o’clock. Luke will be here in just two minutes, maybe he is even telling the other guy to take a hike right now.
I decide to lie down facing the wall, my head tucked down so the guard in the monitor room won’t see me speak to Luke when he comes in.
Closing my eyes, I try to think good thoughts, happy thoughts, insane thoughts about the appeal working out, and Luke figuring out a way to get us safely to Peoria. Finally, I hear the door open, the dull thud of the shoes on the rubber, then the door shut. I start to turn and tell Luke how glad I am he is back, how I’ve been impatient waiting for 8 o’clock to roll around.
But the chuckle stops me. It is more of a cackle, really, the kind you associate with black-and-white movies where dastardly villains twirl their moustaches in advance of evil deeds. I’ve heard that laugh before and hope my memory of when is deceiving me. Then he speaks. “Guess who’s back, darlin’?”
I finish turning and see Pig Face standing in the spot where Luke is supposed to be. My face must be ghostly pale, because his smile grows wider as my panic sets in. He likes the look in my eyes. I can tell my fear is giving him pleasure, but I can’t shake the fear, nor can I hide it. Where is Luke? He is the reason I haven’t lost my mind in this god-awful place. I need him, not this monster.
“Wondering where the usual guy is?” he asks me.
I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of answering, of knowing that he has read the look on my face completely, but I also want the answer. I nod.
“Called in sick. So, it’s just you and me tonight. And when lights go out, I got a little something special planned,” he says, a glint in his eye. Then he lets out another wicked cackle.
