Decision

by Allen Drury

  “Enough,” he concluded, voice dropping to a stern, emphatic note, “is enough!”

  And that, he told Earle Holgren savagely, will take care of you. And also, he thought in his far-ranging, clever mind, it should pretty well take care of any lily-livers on the Court when the question of securing real justice in these troubled United States of America came up before them. They wouldn’t be able to duck it; they would have to rule for the utmost penalty. He was determined to make sure of that.

  In the limousine as it raced toward Andrews Air Force Base, Tay had tried to take Mary’s hand. With a savage half-animal sound she had yanked it away. He did not try again.

  Nor did he try to speak to her as she sat sobbing quietly in the corner of the seat, crowded back against the upholstery as far as she could go. That, too, he had attempted when they were walking in a daze out through the Great Hall of the Court, guards hurrying before them, the few remaining law clerks and staffers making inarticulate sounds of sympathy as they passed.

  “Mary—” he had begun tentatively. “Mary, I—”

  “Don’t say anything?’ she had snapped through her sobs. “Don’t say anything!”

  So he had already abandoned that.

  Now he did not know when, if ever, they could communicate again; but he knew that if they did it would be agony for him, because events had proved her all too tragically right; and she was not one to let the advantage go. He would be hearing from it as long as he lived.

  Or as long as they were together.

  He wished with a sudden searing feeling that was part emotional, part physical, all-encompassing, that Cathy were beside him now. He had never known Cathy in a time of testing—he really hardly knew her at all, as yet, though he promised himself once again that this would soon change—but he felt he knew instinctively how she would react. She would be steady, compassionate, forgiving, sustaining: kind. She would not hold against him forever a decision, made from the best of motives, to give his daughter an opportunity to experience, and to grow, in the company of her friend.

  His daughter! God Almighty, Janie!

  He could not believe it.

  He just could not believe it.

  When Moss had called, his mind, overwhelmed with a thousand things, had yet leaped instantly to the implications of his new position. This was not surprising: he was a lawyer, thought as a lawyer, reacted as a lawyer. What if Sarah or Janie dies? What if the case comes up to us as so major a case must almost inevitably do? What if I have to help decide it? What will I do?

  Fantastic though it might seem to outsiders that he would be able to consider this at such a moment, yet it was his training, instinctive and inevitable. He did not dwell on it, there was then no time; but instantly and inescapably it was in his mind. And now, as they rode in silence toward the waiting plane and—what?—it was coming back: perhaps as a defense mechanism against the dreadful possibility his mind was not yet ready to accept or even really contemplate.

  Like Moss—indeed like all his colleagues as they sat and brooded now in their various abodes—he simply did not know at this point what he would do. His first reaction was that he must of course disqualify himself and so must Moss. But then he hesitated. Was that not running away? Was that not abandoning his responsibility to the Court and the law? Was that not taking the easy, duty-evading way out, even though some might hail it as an example of “ethics”?

  And if he did not disqualify himself, would he not then be voluntarily submitting himself to the most agonizing battle between what his heart and emotions wanted and what his training in objective law might tell him he must do?

  He felt at that moment more alone than he had ever been in his life. He knew the feeling would not diminish. If things progressed as seemed possible in the case of the Pomeroy Station bomber, his private purgatory would become lonelier still.

  He was a long, long way from the Salinas Valley now.

  He uttered some involuntary sound of protest and anguish, so deep and wrenched-up that it startled him. It also startled Mary, who stopped sobbing for a moment and gave him a bitter, skeptical glance.

  “Don’t tell me,” she said, “that you’re actually feeling this.”

  “My God, Mary!” he said in an unbelieving tone. “My God! How can you say such a thing?”

  “Oh, it comes easy,” she said in the same bitter way, “when you’ve lost a daughter.”

  “We don’t know yet—” he began in a voice that trembled; and went on carefully, “we don’t know yet that this is the case. All we have to go on is what Moss told me. And that wasn’t conclusive.”

  “No,” she said, “but you know. You feel it in your bones, just as I do. We’ve lost her.”

  “No!” he cried sharply, thankful for the heavy glass that shut off their conversation from the driver as the car surged through Washington’s near-deserted nighttime streets. “No, I will not believe that! I will not believe that! You have to have some hope. You can’t just abandon everything!”

  “You abandoned Janie,” she said in a cold, tired voice, sobs forgotten now in this harsh contest. “You let her go down there when I didn’t want her to. You encouraged her. The two of you beat me down and overrode my objections—”

  “That is completely and utterly unfair,” he replied in a tone suddenly as flat and cold as her own. “You changed your own mind, we didn’t change it for you. We both accepted your decision, although neither of us liked it. You know that very well.”

  “You never liked anything I did for Janie,” she said, starting to cry again. “You were always jealous, you never liked what I did for her.”

  “Stop putting it in the past tense!” he demanded loudly, with a sudden almost superstitious vehemence. “She isn’t”—his voice faltered—“yet.”

  “We don’t know. We don’t know.”

  “Then don’t tell me we do know!”

  “I know we’ve lost her,” she repeated bleakly between her sobs. “I just know we’ve lost her.”

  But how they might have lost her, neither was prepared for; and when they arrived at the airport, to be met by a gravely solicitous Regard Stinnet, they did not at first find out. Regard introduced himself, produced four state troopers, rushed them quickly through the waiting crowd of reporters who got nothing and photographers who managed to snap a satisfactorily ghastly picture of parental anguish, and whisked them away in an official limousine to the hospital. They ran the media gauntlet silently again and were ushered at once into the office of the director.

  There they found two grave doctors, one older, gray-haired, fatherly, the other young, high-strung, obviously capable. Regard and the director withdrew, the door closed. A lingering sob or two from Mary—a constant silent repetition on his part of the phrase I will not break, I will not break, I will not break—and the older doctor began to speak.

  “Mrs. Barbour,” he said in a kindly voice, “Mr. Justice: I am afraid we may have sad news for you, but not”—he held up a hand sharply as Mary cried out—“not fatal news. Your daughter is alive and holding her own. She is a strong, healthy child and we think she will survive. Unlike”—he shook his head sadly—“poor little Sarah Pomeroy, who encouraged us for a few minutes and then—just—failed.”

  “How are the Pomeroys?” Tay asked, hardly recognizing his own voice. “Are they all right?”

  “Justice and Mrs. Pomeroy are brave young people,” the doctor said. “They will manage. My question is”—he paused and gave them a keen look—“will you?”

  “Why?” Mary cried in a terrible voice. “What is the matter with her?”

  “I am deeply sorry to have to tell you that there is a possibility of damage to the brain—”

  “She’s a vegetable!” Mary cried in a tone of such absolute horror that the younger doctor instinctively started up and came toward her. Tay took her hand and this time she permitted it, but it was cold—cold—and totally unresponsive. Perhaps, he thought, she did not even know about it. She gestured the y
ounger doctor aside and he returned to his chair, watching her intently.

  “There is a possibility,” the older doctor said quietly. “I must emphasize that: at this moment, only a possibility. But it is one I want you to be prepared for. There is a good chance that she will recover completely and perhaps much faster than we can imagine now—but I must tell you frankly that the possibility of brain damage is there. You must be very brave, because she needs you now perhaps more than she has ever done. She is your baby again, and you must take care of her.”

  “We will,” he said, barely able to articulate. “Is she—is there any chance—that she can—know us?”

  “She drifts in and out,” the doctor said. “She may not recognize you for days, or it may happen very soon. There is a chance. But you must not build your hopes too high. That can only hurt you further.”

  “Nothing can hurt me further,” Mary said in a faraway tone. “Ever again.”

  “Mary,” he said harshly, “life has to go on. Stop dramatizing. You are hurt. I am hurt. Above all, Janie is hurt. It isn’t going to help her at all to have you—”

  “Nothing is going to help her at all,” Mary said with a terrible conviction, and something remote and unreachable seemed to freeze in her expression forever. “Nothing… May we,” she said in a tone that was suddenly almost impersonal, “see her now, doctor?”

  “You may,” the doctor said. “But don’t expect too much. She is heavily sedated and, as I say, there may be no sign of recognition at this point.”

  “Or any point,” Mary said in the same remote, impersonal voice. “Nonetheless, I suppose we must satisfy ourselves that she is still in existence.”

  “Mary!” he cried again, “Mary, for God’s sake—!”

  But she said nothing further, nor did she so much as glance at him; simply rose gracefully, as she had been taught to do, turned, head high, and walked out into the corridor ahead of them, glancing neither right nor left.

  He was thankful to see that all media had been banned from the floor now; down the corridor only two figures, clinging together, awaited them. They broke apart, hurried forward. Sue-Ann, face ravaged with tears, started instinctively to extend her arms to Mary. Mary drew back. Sue-Ann recoiled as though struck.

  “I hope you are all very happy,” Mary said in a clear, distinct voice, “now that you have destroyed my child.”

  There was a moment’s stunned silence; then he and Moss spoke together, but Moss was rightfully the most outraged and it was his voice that overrode, and shouted down the hall.

  “Our child is dead!” he cried, face contorted with sorrow and rage. “How dare you say such a thing to us!”

  “I am sorry for that,” Mary said, face white but unyielding as Sue-Ann stared at her with disbelieving eyes. “But I am even sorrier for my child, who very likely will have to live on in darkness. Perhaps the Lord was the more merciful in your case, if that was the way it had to be. Except,” she added bleakly, “that I do not think it had to be that way. I do not agree they had to be here at all. I thought it was unwise from the first. I know that I was alone in this. Now”—and for the first time her voice threatened to break—“I am really alone.” A ghastly sardonic humor crossed her face for a second. “But, then, so is Janie.”

  And she gave them a tiny little bow and brushed past, leaving him to face them while the two doctors, faces revealing great concern for Mary’s condition, hurried forward to accompany her.

  “I’m—sorry,” he said brokenly. “Oh, I am sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” Sue-Ann said, putting her arms around him and beginning to cry again. “That’s all—right, Tay. Don’t you worry about it—for—for a minute.”

  “No,” Moss said, taking his hand between both of his. “Don’t you worry, Tay. I’m sorry, too. I never should have said that, even if she—even if she is—”

  “I know,” he said, his own eyes filling at last. “I know. I don’t know what’s the matter with her. I think maybe this has made her a little—a little crazy—right now.”

  “It’s a crazy night,” Sue-Ann said with the ghost of a tremulous little laugh. “Hadn’t you noticed? Really crazy.”

  And turned to Moss and dissolved again into tears.

  Over her head Moss gave him a long look.

  “You’d better go on with Mary, buddy,” he said quietly. “You’ll want to see your daughter. We’ve reserved a room for you at the Carolina Inn. We’re going back now ourselves, since there’s nothing”—his voice sagged, then steadied—“more that we can do here tonight. We’ll see you there and we’ll talk. Maybe everything will be calmer then.”

  “Yes,” he said thankfully. He started forward, stopped. “Oh. One thing. Have they got him?”

  Moss nodded.

  “Alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he’ll stand trial.”

  “Yes,” Moss said. Their eyes locked and Moss nodded slowly. “It may very likely come up to us.”

  He nodded too, face blank.

  “Yes … and what will we do then?”

  Moss sighed and shook his head as though trying to clear it of almost intolerable weight.

  “I can’t think about it now … I just can’t think about it now.”

  “No,” Tay agreed. “But we will … we will.”

  He turned and walked slowly down the hall toward the doorway, his whole being crying out against his entering. But inside were only Mary, the doctors and his little girl. Her head was bandaged, her face bruised, but otherwise she looked quite normal—just his little girl, sleeping. His mind would not accept then that she might never wake up. She looked so natural. He could not believe it.

  He just could not believe it.

  ***

  Chapter 2

  Elsewhere in Columbia, fully awake after several hours of heavy sleep, hurting all over but cold mind racing, the bomber of Pomeroy Station appraised his situation. It was, all things considered, good.

  So far, he was confident, there was no absolute evidence to connect him to the crime. And while he fully intended murder when he set off the charge, being on the other side of the plant where he could not see the result he was not at all sure that he had achieved it. There had been no opportunity to hear news so he did not know whether he had killed Justice Pomeroy or how much damage he had done to the plant. But one thing he did know with certainty, and that was that the evidence, if any, on which he found himself obviously inside a jail cell was circumstantial at best. All he needed was a clever lawyer—dozens of the right persuasion, he was confident, would flock to his side, eager and earnest to “challenge the system” and “preserve human rights”—and he would be home scot-free. His trial was not a worrisome prospect. It promised, in fact, to be rather fun.

  He was absolutely sure that no one had observed him prior to the bombing; they were all too preoccupied with the ceremonies below. He knew that there were no fingerprints left on the detonator: he had wiped it clean a dozen times. He knew that the mere fact that he might have been observed doing so after the fact proved nothing in the hands of a clever lawyer: he could hear him now.

  Had he been seen actually using it? Could anyone prove it was actually his? Were his fingerprints on it? No to all three? Well, then, so what? Maybe he did have it in his hands after the event—what proof was there that he had it before the event? What proof was there that he had used it? Could opposing counsel offer such proof? If so, please share with the jury any special knowledge he might possess on this point. We do not want to keep the jury and this honorable court in the dark on matters so vital, do we, counsel?

  Circumstantial, that’s all they had—circumstantial! And Earle Holgren had learned long ago, through careful study of many pertinent cases during the Sixties and early Seventies, as well as advice from his lawyer in New York, that shrewd lawyers, juries whose nervous consciences could be played upon, and determinedly “enlightened” judges could wreak havoc with circumstantial evidence. He wasn’t worrie
d about that.

  He felt very good about what he had done this day. It wasn’t everybody who could make his statement in as bold and dramatic a fashion, not everybody who could focus the attention of the whole nation, as he knew it must be focused right now, upon himself and his cause. He had done it just right, and what he had done would be remembered for a long, long time.

  And he had ’em. He had ’em! The damned hillbillies had been so anxious to get him, so desperate, so out of control, that they had never even told him about his rights. They had denied him his rights. They hadn’t warned him, they hadn’t asked him if he wanted a lawyer, they’d just been so damned hot to climb all over him and club him to death that they hadn’t even stopped to think about it.

  Well, more fools they.

  He was confident there wasn’t a court in the land would convict him, after that. He was home free and there wasn’t a damned thing anybody could do about it.

  It was at this point, when he still hurt like hell but when his mind was happily and jubilantly at peace, that he became aware of a blur of shadow outside his door and a softly menacing, utterly contemptuous voice that said:

  “What you smilin’ for, you worthless piece of murderin’, two-bit human slime? What’s so God damned funny in this world of yours, funny boy? Let me know. Me and the folks of the sovereign state of South Carolina, we want to know, so’s we can join right in and have the big hee-haw with you. Tell me about it, shit-face, okay?”

  He could hear the door being unlocked and through eyelids that could barely open, eyes that still could barely see, he became aware that the shadow, tall and lanky and looming low over the bed where he lay helpless—physically, but not mentally, oh, never mentally, not Earle Holgren—had pulled up a chair and was seated by his side not a foot away.