Decision

by Allen Drury

  “Not even for your own daughter,” she repeated bleakly. “Not even for her.”

  “No,” he replied, as one damned—and thought then that it was true. “Not even for her.”

  “Well,” she said, “at least you don’t prevaricate or attempt to dodge the issue or try to hide behind words, I’ll say that for you. At least you’re honest in your inhumanity.”

  “Mary—Mary—leave me alone, okay? Just leave me alone. We should never have a discussion like this under conditions such as these. We should never have it any time. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I swear in the presence of our poor little”—his voice broke for a second, but he forced it on—“of our daughter, that I have tried to be a good husband to you and a good father to her. I have tried to be a good human being, a good lawyer, a good public servant. I shall keep on trying to be so. I hope the facts may permit me to do what you want, but if they don’t, then I must be true to what I believe. I cannot do otherwise, for that is the way I am. Now, please, let’s leave it at that. I beg of you. Since you force me to beg.”

  She gave him a long, contemplative look, a strange mixture of contempt and cold amusement in her eyes.

  “Even now,” she said softly. “Even now, the perfect image, the proper sentiments and the proper words. Even now, Taylor Barbour. You need a humbling, Tay.”

  “And you need something,” he said, bitterly at last, “though God alone knows what it is.”

  “Look!” she cried suddenly in a voice that made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. “Her eyes are open!”

  And so they were; but there was nothing in them, and after what seemed an eternity, though it could only have been a moment or two, they closed.

  He stood up abruptly.

  “I am going to see Moss and Sue-Ann,” he said harshly. “I shall be back very shortly. You may come with me, which would be the decent thing, or you may use the excuse you have and stay away.”

  “My child is not an excuse,” she said bleakly. “She is a necessity to me if not to you. Go along to them.”

  “I shall convey our sympathies,” he said with a savage politeness.

  “As you like,” she said, and turned back to stare again, stricken and intent, at their daughter’s face.

  Outside in the hall he found the nurse, seated on a bench reading a magazine, an expression of stern disapproval still on her face: within call, as he knew she felt she must be.

  “I must apologize for Mrs. Barbour,” he said. The nurse glanced up, then back to her magazine, expression unchanged.

  “Don’t,” she said. “She doesn’t deserve it. Why should you lower yourself to defend her?”

  “I’m her husband,” he said simply. The nurse sniffed.

  “Too bad you don’t have someone else,” she said, snapping over a page with a slap that dismissed him. “That one doesn’t deserve you.”

  He started to retort, to put her in her place, to relieve tensions by berating her for insolence, disrespect, unkindness—then he stopped. She had given voice to the impulse that had been in his heart ever since their arrival. He did have someone else. Why not let her comfort him?

  “Thank you,” he said abruptly and turned away, leaving her looking after him, speculative.

  There was a phone booth at the end of the corridor. He closed the door, dialed, gave his credit card number, waited. The phone rang three times in the charming little house off Stanton Square; her recorded voice requested name, number, message; a beep-tone sounded.

  “This is Taylor Barbour—” he began, and at once she broke in.

  “Yes, Tay,” she said quietly. “I’m here. I’ve been wanting to call you but I thought I’d better wait. How are you getting along?”

  “Managing,” he said, amazed at the flood of relief and calmness that swept over him at the sound of her voice.

  “And your daughter?”

  “Still unconscious.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Fifty-fifty,” he said, voice suddenly shaky. He forced it steadier and went on. “They think she’s going to live, but there’s some possibility of—of brain damage.”

  “Oh, I hope not,” she said in a hushed voice.

  “I’m trying not to believe it,” he said, and realized suddenly that he was not only trying not to, he was succeeding. He was absolutely certain that Janie would come out of this safely and be Janie again. Only that certainty, he knew now, permitted him to keep going: only that certainty enabled Taylor Barbour to defend what he believed, and continue to be what Taylor Barbour thought Taylor Barbour ought to be. Help me, Janie, he prayed silently in his mind. Don’t let me down now. I couldn’t stand it.

  More firmly he said:

  “I am convinced she will be all right. You know doctors. Sometimes they try to prepare you for the worst a little more than necessary. They’re basically confident, I think.”

  “How is Mary taking it?” she asked.

  He hesitated a second, then told the truth.

  “Poorly.”

  “She’s blaming you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, darling,” she said, sounding for a second close to tears. “I am so sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” he said hastily, anxious that she not falter also but remain his strength. “It’s just the way she is. She probably can’t help herself.”

  “Oh, I think she can,” she said, voice stronger with skepticism. “I think she knows what she’s doing, all the time.”

  “No,” he said, and in all fairness meant it. “I don’t think so. She really is devastated by this. It makes her more—more extreme than she normally is.”

  “She shouldn’t be extreme at all,” she said with a complete, flat honesty that forced him to agree.

  “No … but she is.”

  “I wish you were here,” she said suddenly. “Or I there. It’s too hard to be apart at a time like this.”

  “Yes,” he said, and abruptly it was true and he no longer worried about consequences. “It won’t happen again.”

  “How can it not happen again?” she inquired bleakly. “She isn’t going to let you go, is she? Furthermore, we’ve known each other a couple of weeks. How can we be sure of anything, yet?”

  “I’m sure,” he said; and was.

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Why not?” he demanded sharply. It was desperately important to know.

  “Just because I’m not. It doesn’t happen this fast—and last. Or so I’ve found.” She laughed, somewhat shakily. “On my few excursions out.”

  “I hope this is more than an excursion,” he said gravely.

  “I think so,” she said, tone instantly grave in response to his. “But I want to wait a little longer before I become a back-street romance.”

  “You won’t ever be that!” he declared, hurt and angry. “I don’t—I’m not like that.”

  “What are you like? You see, that’s what I don’t know.”

  “Am I—inadequate in some way?” he demanded. “Is that it?”

  “Heavens, no!” she said, and this time laughed more naturally. “Far from it. You’re quite man enough for me to handle, thank you very much.”

  “Well, then—” he began indignantly, but again she stopped him with laughter.

  “You’re so male,” she said. “‘Am I adequate? Very well, then, isn’t that sufficient? What are you complaining about? What else is there?’ Well, my dear: quite a bit. Anyway, we’re getting rather far away from your tragedy, aren’t we? How are the Pomeroys taking it?”

  “Cathy—” he began, but she only repeated levelly, “How are the Pomeroys taking it?”

  “All right,” he conceded, “I’ll stop. But we’ll talk about this.”

  “Please,” she agreed. “When you’re back.”

  “Yes… The Pomeroys are taking it very hard, but bearing up. I’m just on my way to see them now.”

  “If they knew me I’d say give them my love. But of course they don’t and pro
bably never will, so—”

  “Oh yes they will,” he said flatly. “I’ll tell them I talked to a friend in D.C. who sends her love, and that they will meet her one of these days and appreciate the thought even more when they have.”

  “That will allay their curiosity, all right… Will this case come up to the Court?”

  “I expect it may. But don’t ask me now what I’ll do, because I don’t know.” In spite of himself his tone became bitter. “I’ve just been accused of being smug, superior, obsessed with the law to the exclusion of my own daughter, and having no heart and nothing inside. So I really couldn’t tell you. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it further now.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “She picks a good time to be unfair. It must be very helpful to you both.”

  “It seems to help her,” he said; then some lingering trace of loyalty brought a halt. “But I don’t want to discuss all that right now, any more than you do the other. Maybe when we see each other again—”

  “Which I hope will be soon,” she said. “Very soon. Though I know it will probably be many days.”

  “Yes. There’s no indication yet of when we can move Janie, and of course that imposes a further worry, too, because I’ve just come on the Court, I know how busy they are, and suddenly Moss and I aren’t there to keep up our share of the work. Ah, the whole thing is so damnable, such a waste for everybody. Except, I suppose, the psychopath who did it. People like that never care how many they hurt or they wouldn’t do it in the first place.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m against the death penalty, but I begin to wonder, now… I begin to wonder.”

  “I don’t want to think about that, either,” he said; and added with a bitter irony, “There’ll be plenty of time. I must go to see Moss and Sue-Ann now. I’m glad you’re home. I didn’t know whether you would be, but I just wanted to touch base—I wanted to be in touch with reality again.”

  “I hope I represent that to you,” she said quietly.

  “More so every day.”

  “I’m glad. Call whenever you can.”

  “I will. I wish—”

  “I know,” she said. “I, too. Good-bye and God bless.”

  “God bless,” he said and hung up, aware as he left the booth that the nurse was studying him with a curious look. He returned a cold one that made her drop her eyes hastily again to her magazine. He glanced quickly into the room, saw the tableau unchanged, Janie sleeping and Mary leaning forward above her, chin in hand, face white and strained, endlessly studying; and turned and strode on out. Under a tree nearby a driver sprang up, jumped in a car, brought it quickly to him.

  “Compliments of Mr. Stinnet, sir,” he said, hopping out to open the door. “Where’d y’all like to go?”

  “The Carolina Inn,” he said and sank back into the seat, closing his eyes and rubbing them deeply. The car swung out and away.

  “Mighty sorry to hear about y’all’s trouble, Mr. Justice,” the driver said with a hearty and excruciating friendship as they entered traffic. “And Governor Pomeroy’s too, of course. Terrible, terrible, terrible, terrible! I think they ought to hang that no-good bastard in front of the state capitol and declare a national holiday while they’re doing it. I think they ought to do that with all these murderous bastards who are turnin’ America into a jungle, then maybe we’d get somewhere with restorin’ law and order the way they ought to be in America! Yes, sir!”

  “Maybe we would,” he said, hoping agreement would stem the flood. Of course it only encouraged it.

  “But I guess Mr. Stinnet has the answer all right, don’t you think?” the driver asked, swinging half around to glance over his shoulder.

  “Does he? What’s Mr. Stinnet’s answer?”

  “You mean you haven’t heard?” the driver demanded, disbelieving, turning back just in time to narrowly avoid an oncoming car. “You mean you didn’t hear him and the attorney general of California on television this morning? But no, of course you wouldn’t, you’ve been with your little girl. I’m sorry, Mr. Justice, naturally you wouldn’t.”

  “Tell me about it,” he suggested, warning instincts alerted. The driver obliged. Tay offered no comments, though a heavy concern began to grow in his heart.

  “I guess that’ll show ’em,” the driver concluded with satisfaction. “News says they’re getting so many phone calls and telegrams for Mr. Stinnet it’s practically shut down the statehouse switchboard. That’ll show ’em! Don’t you agree, Mr. Justice?”

  “It certainly indicates there’s a great deal of public interest,” he answered cautiously. The driver snorted.

  “It indicates a damned sight more’n that. It indicates that this country is determined to have Justice NOW! And by God we’re goin’ to get it! They’re goin’ to start distributing buttons and bumper stickers at the statehouse this afternoon, and I’ll bet you by today week this whole damned country’ll be plastered with ’em from one end to the other. People are just fed up, Mr. Justice, they’re just God damned fed up!”

  “Maybe so,” he replied and for a second the driver looked blank.

  “Aren’t you?” he asked in an odd tone. “God knows if anybody ought to be, you ought to be.”

  “I am,” he said with a sudden savage emphasis. “You have no idea how many things I’m fed up with at this particular moment.”

  “Well,” the driver responded uncertainly. “Well, all right. I was just tryin’ to be friendly, Mr. Justice. I didn’t mean to get you riled up. I thought all decent folks would agree with Justice NOW! and what Mr. Stinnet is tryin’ to do. I was just tryin’ to be friendly.”

  “I know you were,” he said with a sigh, “and I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m just under—a lot of strain, I guess.”

  “And naturally enough,” the driver said, mollified. “Naturally enough. Maybe I’d better shut up and concentrate on my drivin’ for a while. We’re almost there, anyway.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and repeated: “I’m sorry.”

  “Quite all right,” the driver said, recovering. “You give Mr. Stinnet my very best. You tell him I think he’s doin’ a great job and we all think he’s goin’ to be a real national figure in no time, the way he’s goin’.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Tay said, “but I’m sure he knows already.”

  And indeed there was a certain indefinable glow about the attorney general of South Carolina when the car finally reached the Carolina Inn and his tall, lanky figure hurried forward, hand outstretched. Here, Tay recognized, was A Man With A Purpose. It was quite obvious the purpose was being achieved very rapidly and in all ways pleasing to its proprietor.

  “Mr. Justice!” Regard said with a suitable mixture of cordiality and respect for tragedy. “Mr. Justice, I can’t say it’s nice to have you here for the reason for which you are here, but in any event I hope you feel that you’re among true and sympathetic friends who want to help you in every way we can.”

  “I do feel that, Mr. Stinnet,” he said, shaking hands gravely, taking the occasion to give his host a quick but encompassing glance. A smooth talker and a gentleman in one aspect, he thought, a demagogue and fanatic in the other. Shrewd, quick, adaptive, ambitious, determined and not to be deflected: a formidable character, seized now of a formidable crusade to which even Supreme Court Justices, he thought wryly, might find it hard not to bow.

  But not yet awhile, he promised himself. If ever.

  “Mr. Stinnet,” he said, “how are Moss and Sue-Ann, and can I see them?”

  “Of course you can, Mr. Justice,” Regard said, hurrying him past the reporters and photographers who had gathered from around the lobby. “They’re bearin’ up. Pomeroys and Laceys are good blood, Mr. Justice, good blood. It’s a terrible shock and tragedy for them, but they’re takin’ it like a true son and daughter of the Old South. Like South Carolina would want them to; like South Carolina expects them to. And they are. Quite remarkable, Mr. Justice. Yes, sir. Quite remarkable. Not that y’
all aren’t, too,” he added hastily. “I must say from what I hear, and what I can see right now, both of you are takin’ this tragedy with the greatest possible courage and fortitude. Especially when things are so—so uncertain, you might say.”

  “Uncertain, yes,” he agreed grimly, “but I am convinced my daughter will recover completely from this senseless and wanton act.”

  “So am I!” Regard assured him as the police pushed back the media and they began to ascend. “So are we all! There’s no doubt of it! And you surely are right, Mr. Justice, to describe this as a senseless and wanton act. Isn’t that what most of them are, these days? And isn’t this exactly an example of why all decent, law-abiding Americans must unite in a great crusade against the tide of lawlessness that is sweeping the land? Doesn’t it prove we need an organization such as I’ve just founded to coordinate and direct the campaign?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard about your organization. How is it going?”

  “Wildfire,” Regard said with satisfaction. “Plain wildfire. I’m glad you approve of it, Mr. Justice. It’s good to have your endorsement.”

  “I haven’t endorsed it,” he said sharply, “and you know very well that in my position I neither can nor will. So be very careful how you quote me to the media, Mr. Attorney General. Bear in mind that you may ultimately come before me on the Court, and don’t antagonize me with unfounded reports.”

  “No, sir,” Regard Stinnet said, looking crestfallen for a moment. “That’s the last thing I would wish to do, believe me. All I want to do is convict this worthless piece of human excrement and at the same time encourage and unite all decent law-abiding Americans who want to see their country restored to safety and security for themselves and their children.”

  “You’re taking quite a responsibility on yourself,” he observed as the elevator stopped and the door opened upon another small group of police standing guard at a room halfway down the hall.

  “Somebody has to,” Regard responded smoothly, “particularly if the sworn custodians of the law shirk their trust.”