She said nothing. Her only response was a slight narrowing of her eyes.
“Sister, there are desperate people all over America. They are dying. Slowly. Painfully. There is no hope of recovery. The pain medications no longer work. Surgical nerve blocks no longer work. You know what is happening to them much better than I. They pray for release. If they are comatose and living on life-support systems, even your own religion allows the plug to be pulled. But if they are alive and screaming in pain, they are forced to endure to the very last.”
“Young man, I am not a jury and you don’t have to paint any word pictures for me. I have spent most of my life serving such people. If you have a point, make it.” Her tone was soft but her words crackled with command.
“Look, if you win, the whole law shifts. This issue, which has bounced around the courts and various state legislatures, which has been on ballot initiatives, will finally be settled. People in pain, if they desire it, can ask for release. Doctors and nurses can legally do it in every state. Now some doctors and nurses who help these people out of their misery stand in jeopardy of ruin and prison.”
“Many do it, despite that.”
“Of course, but many do not. That’s why your case is important, extremely so. It isn’t just a matter of whether you get locked away in a jail or a convent. As in so many of these cases, Sister, your personal fate is comparatively unimportant. But the outcome of your case will affect millions. It will change the law and society will be forced to solve a problem it has long feared to face.”
She studied him silently for a moment. “Do you honestly think I was right in what I did with my patients?”
He nodded.
For just a moment her features seemed to soften. She looked out the window again. “All right. I can understand the importance of the decision. I suppose I can endure.” She slowly turned her head and looked at him. “Perhaps it will ease your burden if you know that I do not care whether I win or lose as an individual. We will continue the appeal, Mr. Wright.” She stood up. “Thank you for coming.”
He got to his feet. “You are a most admirable person, Sister. I can certainly understand your discomfort here, but it won’t be long now. The Supreme Court has accepted the case. My brief is almost finished. The briefs will be submitted and the Court will assign us a date to argue. The professor in Oregon believes that the court will act quickly on this matter because of the importance of the rational suicide issue and the publicity the case has received.” He smiled. “Perhaps the words are a bit inappropriate for you, Sister, but as I tell many of my other clients, just try and hang in there.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I do not need your sympathy or your encouragement. I appreciate your intention, however. Good day, Mr. Wright. I’ll have one of the sisters escort you out.”
“I know the way.”
“As you wish.”
She was gone as quickly as she had come. Once again he was alone in the eerie silence. Quickly he strode down the hallway, opened the door, and escaped into the world outside. He needed a drink and he knew he had to make a telephone call.
Wright stopped at a bar and had the drink first. Then he moved to the bar’s phone booth.
Sister Murphy was incorrect. Michael Wright’s time was not donated. He was on retainer and well paid. The check came from the Egress Society of America, Incorporated, but it was signed by Herbert Mennen.
It took several long distance calls to trace Mennen but he finally located him at a health club.
“You got me out of the fucking steam room,” Mennen said. “I’m freezing my butt off, so make it fast.”
Wright quickly recounted his conversation with Sister Murphy.
“Hey, if that menopausal old broad is going stir crazy, get her reassigned. Shit, sue the lady general or whatever they call her. Raise a little hell. Make the Pope look like a shit. I got too much invested. I don’t want this thing dropped.”
“Sister Murphy won’t sue the Mother General. There’s nothing I can do legally. So far, everything is all right, but I wanted you to know she’s getting shaky.”
“Shaky? Hey, that old bitch killed over a hundred and thirty-five people. Shaky! Shit, if that didn’t bother her, nothin’ ever will. Maybe she wants something, you think? Maybe money?”
“No. She’s straight enough. I don’t even think she suspects what’s on the line here.”
“Wha’d’ya mean, suspects? You talk like I was planning something illegal. That’s the whole point of this fucking lawsuit. I want everything legal. That’s the only way it’ll work.”
“I know.”
“And I want to get in on the ground floor. Hell, there’s big money to be made, but you have to do it fast before the market gets flooded. I got everything ready. I got options on the places. I even got the people lined up to work ’em. Shit, I’ll have a nationwide network operating before the ink is even dry on the decision. That is, if you win.”
“And if we lose?”
“Look, I’m not in the business of losing. But if we did I suppose my accountants could find a way to write off most of it, but I wouldn’t be making anything on the deal. That I don’t like. You sure about this guy, what’s his name, Howell?”
“Nothing is sure. That’s just the prediction. I think it’s probably correct.”
“I damn well hope so. There’s millions to be made in this thing. Christ, I think I may be able to get the health insurance companies to pay. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“They’ll never pay for people to commit suicide.”
“Hey, why not? If a doctor provides the prescription and it’s all done in the hospital setting—one of my hospice places—and it’s legal, why the hell shouldn’t they pay? Hey, Wright, I’d like to go on talking, but my fucking skin is turning blue. See if you can’t do something to keep that old broad happy. We can’t be stopped now, now that we’re so close to pay dirt. Remember, this is going to be a nationwide deal.”
Wright hung up and returned to the bar.
The money was good, very good, but contact with Herbert Mennen depressed him. The question of whether it was a criminal act to assist a suicide was a legitimate issue. There was nothing to be ashamed of in representing a side in a legitimate legal controversy. If Herbert Mennen wanted to pick up the tab—how had Sister Murphy put it about such persons—that was his choice. Still, the association with Mennen caused Wright to feel demeaned and tarnished.
He knew Mennen’s background. Mennen’s method may have been as crude as the man himself, but like him, they were always legal. Starting from nothing, he had made a fortune, all in the very best American tradition.
He had started his climb from ownership of a single poultry store where he killed and dressed the chickens himself. He had branched out, ending up with a national net of slaughterhouses. Then came his abortion clinics. Despite the battle over Medicaid funding, Mennen made millions before selling his interests in that business.
There was a definite pattern—Herbert Mennen liked to kill things.
Wright took the Scotch from the bartender and sipped. He thought about the upcoming case in the Supreme Court. The oral arguments would be made with calm dignity in that palacelike setting of the high court. The lawyers and the justices would speak evenly of case precedents, logic, and soaring principles of law. Meanwhile, Mennen would have things set up and ready to go.
If they won, Mennen’s “hospices” would spring up like May flowers, and a parade of sick, depressed, and defeated people would line up and pay huge sums of money to sip a pleasantly flavored poison that would ease them quickly and painlessly from beneath the crushing weight of their own particular cross. Mennen’s public relations people planned to call it “self-deliverance.”
He wondered if the Supreme Court justices ever considered the flesh and blood consequences of their actions, or whether they saw everything merely in abstract legal terms. He wondered if Justice Howell knew he literally held the lives of thousands of people in his hands.
Michael Wright sipped his drink. He formed a mental picture of an ancient Roman emperor. The high court’s swing man and the emperor weren’t so different. The fallen gladiator lived or died as signaled by the emperor’s thumb. Thousands of modern lives would be decided on the stroke of one justice’s pen. That would be the signal, just a scrawled signature.
But the swing man wouldn’t hear the roar of the crowd, nor would he see the death agony. At least the old Romans had to look at the results of their decisions.
Wright left some money on the bar and walked out. He had a lot to do.
* * *
Justice Brian Howell eased his car around a slow-moving minivan packed with clothes and children. The children were gawking at the lighted Washington Monument. As he passed he noticed the woman, presumably the mother, her face illuminated by the street lights. She was young, but she looked as worn as the battered minivan. He thought they were tourists until he saw the woman. He decided they were more likely a family migrating to a southern state and to a new life. He put them out of his mind as he increased his speed and left them behind.
It was late and traffic was light.
He enjoyed driving in nighttime Washington. It always had a special fascination, a special aura created by its many illuminated monuments and the massive government buildings; structures that surpassed the awesome fortresses of Europe. And like their European counterparts these giant citadels seemed to proclaim impregnability and mighty power. He wondered if the architecture of ancient Rome had spoken so eloquently of its place in the world and history as did these huge limestone houses of American government.
Road repairs forced him to use the Arlington Memorial Bridge. He guided his car past the monuments at the foot of the bridge. The dark Potomac River reflected lights from the opposite shore. He sped toward the Virginia side and the looming National Cemetery. He hated the cemetery. His wife had dragged him to see it and the memory always depressed him. Crossing the Potomac was like crossing the River Styx, and going into that cemetery was like walking into the land of the dead. Acres of countless graves seemed to stretch on forever. They were all there, the presidents, the generals, the heroes of American history. Judging from the daily crowds that thronged aboard the parade of cemetery tour buses, others did not share his feelings of dread. The buses rolled through the sloping land of graves, each bus with a tour guide who pointed out the historic graves and shrines. He recalled being appalled at the time. He felt a sense of special horror because he realized that by being both a veteran and a member of the Supreme Court it was most likely that this would one day be his own gravesite. He had commanded his wife to cut that tour short, and he had never again returned to the place. He didn’t even want to look at it.
Exiting from the bridge he turned right and sped past the lighted statue of the Marines raising the flag at Iwo Jima. He followed a course leading to Wilson Boulevard.
Wilson Boulevard passed through the land of office buildings, retail shops, and Vietnamese restaurants.
He stopped for a traffic light. Howell glanced down at the copy of the news magazine on the seat next to him. He was on the cover, a good, brooding photograph with half his face in shadow. The large print on the bottom read “America’s Most Powerful Man.”
He smiled to himself. The beauty of that statement was that it was true. Officially he was just one of nine, an associate justice of the United States Supreme Court, and the most junior at that. But he was the swing man.
The other eight justices split on most issues. His vote decided which side won. He held the balance of power in the Court. His vote had come to be the deciding factor in the nation’s law. The law was what Brian Howell said it was. Considering the vast importance of many of the issues soon to come before the Court he was considered by many as being even more important than the President himself.
The light changed and he continued, still thinking about the magazine article.
He knew that his name, Brian Howell, had become a household word. There had been the tremendous fight over his Senate confirmation. The Senate had destroyed the first two men put up for the vacancy. He was the third man nominated and he had made it. The publicity at the time had been enormous. Then he quickly became known as the swing man. Now, as he well knew, law professors all over America were telling their students about Justice Howell and how important he had become. Some, he had been told, compared him to Cardozo, Holmes, and Marshall.
He turned toward home but he knew there would be no one there. Martha was visiting the kids in Chicago. He had encouraged her. He had to study every evening, the work was backing up, and he was glad to be free of the distractions of her attentions and attempts at conversation. Most of the other justices relied upon their clerks to do the reading and research. But they could afford to, they didn’t hold the balance of power. He read every case, every brief. His clerks worked long and hard but he declined to rely on their efforts. He was in the spotlight. There could be no mistakes. He checked everything.
He was hungry and developing an annoying headache. There were frozen dinners at home but he was growing tired of the same fare. On impulse he swung the car into the parking lot of a small restaurant.
The restaurant was almost empty. Several young men in civilian dress but with military haircuts quietly ate dinner at a corner table.
A young waitress guided him to a small table at the rear of the restaurant. He liked it. It was neat, clean, and inviting. The girl brought him a menu and water as he again read the magazine article about himself.
“Pardon me,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Is that you? I mean, the man on the cover of that magazine?”
He smiled. He enjoyed recognition.
“I’m afraid so.”
She smiled warmly. “You’re Justice Howell?”
He nodded.
His confirmation took her smile away. Her eyes grew wider and her friendliness was replaced by awe.
“My boyfriend,” she said haltingly, “is a law student. He’s in his first year at Georgetown. He’s talked about you.”
“Anything printable?” He grinned up at her.
She grew even more serious. “He says you are the law in America.”
Howell chuckled. “Well, you wait until he gets to his senior year. Maybe his opinion will be different by that time.”
“Before you go, would it be improper if I got your autograph? It would please my boyfriend.”
“No problem.”
There was an awkward silence as she just stood there. Finally she forced a hesitant smile and spoke. “We don’t get many famous people in here. Please excuse me.” She blushed. “I’m forgetting my job. Can I get you a drink?”
He wanted a drink, but he wanted to preserve her lofty image of himself. “Just coffee,” he said.
The dinner was excellent. Word of the important guest had apparently been passed along to the kitchen. The steak was large and cooked just as he had ordered. He was brought too much butter and too much bread, and his salad would have fed a platoon for a week. The food wasn’t fancy but it was tasty. He ate more than usual to please his unseen benefactors in the kitchen.
As promised, he autographed a menu for the waitress.
The headache grew more severe on the drive home. It seemed to be affecting his vision. He had difficulty getting his key into the lock of their condominium. He called for his wife, then recalled she wasn’t home. He felt a wave of nausea as he switched on the lights. He regretted having eaten so much. Something was wrong. He wondered if he was suffering from food poisoning.
A young doctor lived a few doors down. A Chinese man. Martha had introduced them at a neighborhood party. He recalled the name. It was Chen. He knew that Martha would have the doctor’s home phone number. She was very businesslike about that kind of detail. He tried to extract her telephone memo book from its drawer and found he couldn’t seem to make his right hand obey him. He felt confused, uncertain as to what he should do. Th
e pain had become an agony.
He had trouble walking. His right leg seemed to drag, but he managed to get out the front door. He knew where Dr. Chen lived. He stumbled up to his door and pushed the button with his left hand. The pain was blinding. He had to lean against the doorway to keep from falling. His right leg refused to hold him.
The door opened and he looked down at the small Chinese woman. She was very pretty and he couldn’t understand why she screamed. Then he recognized Dr. Chen, as the equally small doctor helped him into their home.
Howell tried to speak, but the wrong words came out. He was embarrassed and frustrated. He needed to tell the doctor about the pain, it was unbearable.
He collapsed and fell to the floor.
“My God, Charles, what’s wrong with him?” Mrs. Chen stared down at Howell’s distorted face.
“It’s a stroke. Get my bag! Quickly!”
She ran and returned with his medical bag. Her husband was kneeling over Brian Howell. The man was unconscious and seemed to be fighting for breath.
“Is he dying?” She asked quietly.
“Maybe.” He rifled through his bag. “Jesus, you never seem to have what you need.” He looked up at her. “Call and get an emergency team here. This may be touch and go. We have to get him to a hospital fast.”
She obeyed instantly, then returned. Howell had not changed. “He looks as if he is strangling,” she said.
“Very common in stroke victims. It looks bad, but it isn’t dangerous. It’s not his breathing that’s the problem. He may have blown a blood vessel in the brain.”
“Will he live?”
Dr. Chen monitored Howell’s pulse. “You never know with these things. It depends on the damage. Sometimes they can recover in hours. If there’s severe brain damage sometimes the people end up dead or just vegetables. We have to do tests to see what’s happened.” He looked up at wife. “You better go get his wife.”
“She’s away.”
“After we get him into the hospital we’ll have to try and contact her. It would be terrible if she saw this on the television.”
The Court Page 2
