The door blows open and Brian enters, looking from Sara to me.
"Where's Anna?"
Sara takes a step forward. "Didn't she come here with you?"
"She was already gone when I got back from a call at five A.M. She left a note and said she'd meet me here." He glances at the door, at the jackals on the other side. "I bet she took off."
Again, there is the sound of a seal being breached, and then Julia surfs into the courthouse on a crest of shouts and questions. She smoothes back her hair, gets her bearings, then looks at me and loses them again.
"I'll find her," I say. Sara bristles. "No, I will." Julia looks at each of us. "Find who?"
"Anna is temporarily absent," I explain. "Absent?" Julia says. "As in disappeared?"
"Not at all." This isn't a lie, either. For Anna to have disappeared, she would have had to appear in the first place.
I realize that I even know where I am headed—at the same moment that Sara understands it, too. In that moment she lets me take the lead. Julia grabs my arm as I am walking toward the door. She shoves my car keys into my hand. "Now you do understand why this isn't going to work?"
I turn to her. "Julia, listen. I want to talk about what's going on between us, too. But this isn't the right time."
"I was talking about Anna. Campbell, she's waffling. She couldn't even show up for her own court date. What does that say to you?"
"That everyone gets scared," I answer finally, fair warning for all of us.
The shades to the hospital room are drawn, but that doesn't keep me from seeing the angel pallor of Kate Fitzgerald's face, the web of blue veins mapping out the last-chance path of medication running under her skin. Curled up on the foot of the bed is Anna.
At my command, Judge waits by the door. I crouch down. "Anna, it's time to go."
When the door to the hospital room opens, I'm expecting either Sara Fitzgerald or a doctor with a crash cart. Instead, to my shock, Jesse stands on the threshold. "Hey," he says, as if we are old friends.
How did you get here? I almost ask, but realize I don't want to hear the answer. "We're on our way to the courthouse. Need a lift?" I ask dryly.
"No thanks. I thought since everyone was going to be there, I'd stay here." His eyes do not waver from Kate. "She looks like shit."
"What do you expect," Anna answers, awake now. "She's dying."
Again, I find myself staring at my client. I should know better than most that motivations are never what they seem to be, but I still cannot figure her out. "We need to go."
In the car, Anna rides shotgun while Judge takes a seat in the back. She starts telling me about some crazy precedent she found on the internet, where a guy in Montana in 1876 was legally prohibited from using the water from a river that originated on his brother's land, even though it meant all his crops would dry up. "What are you doing?" she asks, when I deliberately miss the turn to the courthouse.
Instead I pull over next to a park. A girl with a great ass jogs by, holding on to the leash of one of those froufrou dogs that looks more like a cat. "We're gonna be late," Anna says after a moment. "We already are. Look, Anna. What's going on here?" She gives me one of those patented teenage looks, as if to say that there's no way she and I descended from the same evolutionary chain. "We're going to court."
"That's not what I'm asking. I want to know why we're going to court."
"Well, Campbell, I guess you cut the first day of law school, but that's pretty much what happens when someone files a lawsuit."
I level my gaze on her, refusing to be bested. "Anna, why are we going to court?"
She doesn't blink. "Why do you have a service dog?" I rap my fingers on the steering wheel and look out over the park. A mother pushes a stroller now, across the same spot where the jogger was, oblivious to the kid who's trying his best to crawl out. A titter of birds explodes from a tree. "I don't talk about this with anyone," I say.
"I'm not just anyone."
I take a deep breath. "A long time ago I got sick and wound up with an ear infection. But for whatever reason, the medicine didn't work and I got nerve damage. I'm totally deaf in my left ear. Which isn't such a big deal, in the long run, but there are certain lifestyle issues I couldn't handle. Like hearing a car approach, you know, but not being able to tell what direction it's coming from. Or having someone behind me at the grocery store who wants to pass by me in the aisle, but I don't hear her ask. I got trained with Judge so that in those circumstances, he could be my ears." I hesitate. "I don't like people feeling sorry for me. Hence, the big secret."
Anna stares at me carefully. "I came to your office because just for once, I wanted it to be about me instead of Kate."
But this selfish confession saws out of her sideways; it just doesn't fit. This lawsuit has never been about Anna wanting her sister to die, but simply that she wants a chance to live. "You're lying." Anna crosses her arms. "Well, you lied first. You hear perfectly fine."
"And you're a brat." I start to laugh. "You remind me of me."
"Is that supposed to be a good thing?" Anna says, but she's smiling. The park is starting to get more crowded. An entire school group walks the path, toddlers tethered together like sled-dog huskies, pulling two teachers in their wake. Someone zooms past on a racing bike, wearing the colors of the U.S. Postal Service. "C'mon. I'll treat you to breakfast."
"But we're late."
I shrug. "Who's counting?"
Judge DeSalvo is not a happy man; Anna's little field trip this morning has cost us an hour and a half. He glares at me when Judge and I hurry into his chambers for the pretrial conference. "Your Honor, I apologize. We had a veterinary emergency."
I feel, rather than see, Sara's mouth drop open. "That's not what opposing counsel indicated," the judge says.
I look DeSalvo right in the eye. "Well, it's what happened. Anna was kind enough to help me by keeping the dog calm while the sliver of glass was removed from his paw."
The judge is dubious. But there are laws against handicapped discrimination, and I'm playing them to the hilt; the last thing I want is for him to blame Anna for this delay. "Is there any way of resolving this petition without a hearing?" he asks.
"I'm afraid not." Anna may not be willing to share her secrets, which I can only respect, but she knows that she wants to go through with this.
The judge accepts my answer. "Mrs. Fitzgerald, I take it you're still representing yourself?"
"Yes, Your Honor," she says.
"All right then." Judge DeSalvo glances at each of us. "This is family court, Counselors. In family court, and especially in hearings like these, I tend to personally relax the rules of evidence because I don't want a contentious hearing. I'm able to filter out what is admissible and what is not, and if there's something truly objectionable, I'll listen to the objection, but I would prefer that we get through this hearing quickly, without worrying about form." He looks directly at me. "I want this to be as painless as possible for everyone involved."
We move into the courtroom—one that's smaller than the criminal courts, but intimidating all the same. I swing into the lobby to pick Anna up along the way. As we cross through the doorway, she stops dead. She glances at the vast paneled walls, the rows of chairs, the imposing bench. "Campbell," she whispers, "I won't have to stand up there and talk, right?"
The fact is, the judge will most likely want to hear what she has to say. Even if Julia comes out in support of her petition, even if Brian says he will help Anna, Judge DeSalvo may want her to take the stand. But telling her this right now is only going to get her all worked up—and that's not any way to start a hearing.
I think about the conversation in the car, when Anna called me a liar. There are two reasons to not tell the truth—because lying will get you what you want, and because lying will keep someone from getting hurt. It's for both of these reasons that I give Anna this answer. "Well," I say, "I doubt it."
"Judge," I begin, "I know it's not traditional practice, but ther
e's something I'd like to say before we start calling witnesses."
Judge DeSalvo sighs. "Isn't this sort of standing on ceremony exactly what I asked you not to do?"
"Your Honor, I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important."
"Make it quick," the judge says.
I stand up and approach the bench. "Your Honor, all of Anna Fitzgerald's life she has been medically treated for her sister's good, not her own. No one doubts Sara Fitzgerald's love for all her children, or the decisions she's made that have prolonged Kate's life. But today we have to doubt the decisions she's made for this child."
I turn, and see Julia watching me carefully. And suddenly I remember that old ethics assignment, and know what I have to say. "You might remember the recent case of the firefighters in Worcester, Massachusetts, who were killed in a blaze started by a homeless woman. She knew the fire had started and she left the building, but she never called 911 because she thought she might get into trouble. Six men died that night, and yet the State couldn't hold this woman responsible, because in America—even if the consequences are tragic—you are not responsible for someone else's safety. You aren't obligated to help anyone in distress. Not if you're the one who started the fire, not if you're a passerby to a car wreck, not if you're a perfectly matched donor."
I look at Julia again. "We're here today because there's a. difference in our system of justice between what's legal and what's moral. Sometimes it's easy to tell them apart. But every now and then, especially when they rub up against each other, right sometimes looks wrong, and wrong sometimes looks right." I walk back to my seat, and stand in front of it. "We're here today," I finish, "so that this Court can help us all see a little more clearly."
My first witness is opposing counsel. I watch Sara walk to the stand unsteadily, a sailor getting her sea legs again. She manages to get herself into the seat and be sworn in without ever breaking her gaze away from Anna.
"Judge, I'd like permission to treat Mrs. Fitzgerald as a hostile witness."
The judge frowns. "Mr. Alexander, I truly would hope that both you and Mrs. Fitzgerald can stand to be civilized, here."
"Understood, Your Honor." I walk toward Sara. "Can you state your name?"
She lifts her chin a fraction. "Sara Crofton Fitzgerald."
"You are the mother of the minor child Anna Fitzgerald?"
"Yes. And also of Kate and Jesse."
"Isn't it true that your daughter Kate was diagnosed with acute promyelocytic leukemia at age two?"
"That's right."
"At that time did you and your husband decide to conceive a child who would be genetically programmed to be an organ donor for Kate, so that she could be cured?"
Sara's face hardens. "Not the words I would choose, but that was the story behind Anna's conception, yes. We were planning to use Anna's umbilical cord blood for a transplant."
"Why didn't you try to find an unrelated donor?"
"It's much more dangerous. The risk of mortality would have been far higher with someone who wasn't related to Kate."
"So how old was Anna when she first donated an organ or tissue to her sister?"
"Kate had the transplant a month after Anna was born."
I shake my head. "I didn't ask when Kate received it; I asked when Anna donated it. The cord blood was taken from Anna moments after birth, isn't that right?"
"Yes," Sara says, "but Anna wasn't even aware of it."
"How old was Anna the next time she donated some body part to Kate?"
Sara winces, just as I have expected. "She was five when she gave donor lymphocytes."
"What does that involve?"
"Drawing blood from the crooks of her arms."
"Did Anna agree to let you put a needle in her arm?"
"She was five years old," Sara answers.
"Did you ask her if you could put a needle in her arm?"
"I asked her to help her sister."
"Isn't it true that someone had to physically hold Anna down to get the needle in her arm?"
Sara looks at Anna, closes her eyes. "Yes."
"Do you call that voluntary participation, Mrs. Fitzgerald?" From the corner of my eye I can see Judge DeSalvo's brows draw together. "The first time you took lymphocytes from Anna, were there any side effects?"
"She had some bruising. Some tenderness."
"How long was it before you took blood again?"
"A month."
"Did she have to be held down that time, too?"
"Yes, but—"
"What were her side effects then?"
"The same." Sara shakes her head. "You don't understand. It wasn't like I didn't see what was happening to Anna, every time she underwent a procedure. It doesn't matter which of your children you see in that situation—every single time, it breaks you apart."
"And yet, Mrs. Fitzgerald, you managed to get past that sentiment," I say, "because you took blood from Anna a third time."
"It took that long to get all the lymphocytes," Sara says. "It's not an exact procedure."
"How old was Anna the next time she had to undergo medical treatment for her sister's well-being?"
"When Kate was nine she got a raging infection and—"
"Again, that's not what I asked. I want to know what happened to Anna when she was six."
"She donated granulocytes to fight Kate's infection. It's a process a lot like a lymphocyte donation."
"Another needle stick?"
"That's right."
"Did you ask her if she was willing to donate the granulocytes?"
Sara doesn't answer. "Mrs. Fitzgerald," the judge prompts.
She turns toward her daughter, pleading. "Anna, you know we never did any of these things to hurt you. It hurt all of us. If you got the bruises on the outside, then we got them on the inside."
"Mrs. Fitzgerald," I step between her and Anna. "Did you ask her?"
"Please don't do this," Sara says. "We all know the history. I'll stipulate to whatever it is you're trying to do in the process of crucifying me. I'd rather just get this part over with."
"Because it's hard to hear it hashed out again, isn't it?" I know I'm walking a fine line, but behind me there is Anna, and I want her to know that someone here is willing to go the distance for her. "Added up like this, it doesn't seem quite so innocuous, does it?"
"Mr. Alexander, what is the point of this?" Judge DeSalvo says. "I am well aware of the number of procedures Anna's undergone."
"Because we have Kate's medical history, Your Honor, not Anna's."
Judge DeSalvo looks between us. "Be brief, Counselor."
I turn to Sara. "Bone marrow," she says woodenly, before I can ask the question. "She was put under general anesthesia because she was so young, and needles were put into the crests of her hips to draw out the marrow."
"Was it one needle stick, like the other procedures?"
"No," Sara says quietly. "It was about fifteen."
"Into the bone?"
"Yes."
"What were the side effects for Anna this time around?"
"She had some pain, and was given some analgesics."
"So this time, Anna had to be hospitalized overnight… and she needed medication herself?"
Sara takes a minute to compose herself. "I was told that donating marrow isn't considered a particularly invasive procedure for a donor. Maybe I was just waiting to hear those words; maybe I needed to hear them at that time. And maybe I was not thinking as much of Anna as I should have been, because I was so focused on Kate. But I know beyond a doubt that—like everyone else in our family—Anna wanted nothing more than for her sister to be cured."
"Well, sure," I reply, "so that you'd stop sticking needles in her."
"Enough, Mr. Alexander," Judge DeSalvo interjects.
"Wait," Sara interrupts. "I have something to say." She turns tom e. "You think you can lay it all out in words, black-and-white, as if it's that easy. But you only represent one of my daughters, Mr.
A
lexander, and only in this courtroom. I represent both of them equally, everywhere, every place. I love both of them equally, everywhere, every place."
"But you admitted that you've always considered Kate's health, not Anna's, in making these choices," I point out. "So how can you claim to love both of them equally? How can you say that you haven't been favoring one child in your decisions?"
"Aren't you asking me to do that very thing?" Sara asks. "Only this time, to favor the other child?"
ANNA
WHEN YOU ARE. A KID you have your own language, and unlike French or Spanish or whatever you start learning in fourth grade, this one you're born with, and eventually lose. Everyone under the age of seven is fluent in Ifspeak; go hang around with someone under three feet tall and you'll see. What if a giant funnelweb spider crawled out of that hole over your head and bit you on the neck? What if the only antidote for venom was locked up in a vault on the top of a mountain? What if you lived through the bite, but could only move your eyelids and blink out an alphabet? It doesn't really matter how far you go; the point is that it's a world of possibility. Kids think with their brains cracked wide open; becoming an adult, I've decided, is only a slow sewing shut.
During the first recess, Campbell takes me to a conference room for privacy and buys me a Coke that isn't cold. "So," he says. "What do you think so far?"
Being in the courtroom is weird. It's like I've turned into a ghost—I can watch what's going on, but even if I felt like speaking no one would be able to hear me. Add to that the very bizarre way I have to listen to everyone talk about my life as if they can't see me sitting right there, and you've landed in my surreal little corner of earth.
Campbell pops open his 7 UP and sits down across from me. He pours a little into a paper cup for Judge, and then takes a good long drink. "Comments?" he says. "Questions? Unadulterated praise for my skillful litigation?"
My Sister's Keeper Page 26
