He took a notepad from his briefcase and jotted down the number and address. He would make the call, but not now. He presumed it would be unpleasant for them both. It could wait. He did not wish to mark the beginning of his task with something distasteful.
Jerry Green loosened his tie and lay back on the bed. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke waft up toward the stucco ceiling. As always, he wondered what dramas had been played out in this particular motel room. Squalid love affairs, surely. That was an accepted fact. But what of the other human occurrences, the breakup of families, the failed student spending his last night before going home and facing disgrace. He always wondered the same thing in every motel or hotel room he occupied. Despite the discipline of his legal training, he liked to allow his imagination full rein now and then, to abandon the realities of the world and let his thoughts run free, the symptom, he realized, of a hopeless romantic.
The telephone book lay open on the bed. He rolled over and idly flicked through its pages.
There were a number of Kelsos listed. He presumed that Regina was married and wouldn’t be listed. Richard Kelso, her father, was no longer listed. There was no Kelso listed as living at the big colonial on Faircrest Drive. Michael J. Kelso was listed. Green didn’t recognize the street. It was in the nearby city of Okemos. But it had to be her brother.
He picked through the phone book. Some remembered names were there, although he knew they might not be the same people. Others had disappeared from the pages. He searched through the phone book as if it somehow held the key to the door into the past. Names, long forgotten, floated up through the mists of his memory. He continued the search through the pages, almost frantically.
Suddenly he tired of the phone book. He closed it and lay back. It had been a long trip. The flight and the long drive from Detroit to Lansing had succeeded in bringing on a feeling of exhaustion. He reached over and ground out his cigarette in an ashtray.
The drapes were already drawn, and the light from outside was fading around the edges. Night was coming on. He closed his eyes. He pictured the face of Regina Kelso. He decided she was indeed beautiful. He remembered her eyes. Soft, sympathetic eyes. He drifted off to sleep.
* * *
She knew something was different. She had been escorted down the long hospital hallway to a small private lounge. Dr. Kaufman, the leader of the medical team in charge of her husband’s case, had walked along with her, guiding her from her husband’s room with its bottles, tubes, and machines to this small, comfortable room which was tastefully decorated and, if a bit larger, could easily have served as a nice living room. Apparently it was a staff physicians’ hideaway.
“You remember Dr. Gibson, of course,” Kaufman said.
Gibson slowly rose from his seat. He did not smile. His only greeting was a quick nod. He peered down at her from over the rim of his glasses.
“Yes, I remember Dr. Gibson,” she replied, adding, “the noted neurosurgeon.”
She was alone with the two physicians. She saw Kaufman every day and felt comfortable in his presence. A short, stocky man with a perpetual smile, Dr. Kaufman seemed to exude enthusiasm and cheer. But Dr. Gibson was different. There seemed to be an aura of funeral and graveside about him. Martha Howell felt a chill of foreboding as she looked up at the tall somber doctor.
“Please sit down, Mrs. Howell,” Dr. Kaufman said, his voice seemed to have lost much of its usual enthusiasm. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea perhaps?”
She sat down and shook her head. Dr. Gibson continued to regard her in silence. There was no expression in his long face. Only his eyes seemed to have any vitality, and they merely seemed to be coldly curious.
Both physicians took seats opposite her. Dr. Gibson hooked one long leg over the other and leaned forward, his elbow resting easily on the top of his knee. Kaufman sat back, his fingertips unconsciously drumming a silent staccato upon the arm rests of his chair.
Kaufman’s smile seemed to be flickering out. His eyes looked sad. “Mrs. Howell, I think I know you well enough to know you are a lady who possesses a real strength of character, real courage.” He coughed nervously. “And I know you can accept what we must tell you.”
“What are you trying to say?” She was suddenly alarmed. She felt confused. She had just left her husband’s bedside. He had looked the same as always, as if he were just peacefully sleeping.
“There’s been a change in your husband’s condition, I’m afraid, Mrs. Howell,” Kaufman said. “Dr. Gibson confirms the staff’s assessment.”
She looked from Kaufman to the tall stranger. He hadn’t changed position, his eyes were still fixed on her.
“What kind of change?” She asked. “He looks the same. I saw nothing different.”
“There’s been a second stroke,” Dr. Gibson said, his voice surprisingly deep. “Another blood vessel has burst in your husband’s brain. I’ll spare you the medical jargon, Mrs. Howell. Basically, this time there has been much greater damage than that resulting from the first cerebrovascular accident.”
“But he looks the same.”
The tall physician nodded. “Yes, he does. But that’s because of the machines. They are maintaining him now.”
“But that’s always been true.”
The tall doctor shook his head. “Not really. All those gadgets you see attached to him just augmented his normal abilities. For instance, he was breathing on his own, the respirator was just helping him along.” He paused. “That’s not true anymore.”
“And now?”
“The machine does the breathing for him.”
She looked over at Dr. Kaufman. His round face was solemn.
It seemed to her it was the first time she had ever seen him without a smile. He didn’t look natural. Her face was now the same emotionless mask as that of Dr. Gibson’s.
“The damage was extensive,” Kaufman said very quietly. “What Dr. Gibson says is correct.”
“But how do you know?” she protested. She looked again into the cold eyes of Dr. Gibson. He seemed so quietly sure of himself. She felt anger rise within her. “There’s been no change. None at all!”
“The monitoring apparatus told us what was happening,” Dr. Kaufman said. “We took all available measures to attempt to stem the extent of the injury, as you can imagine. Unfortunately, they didn’t work.”
“You didn’t get me down here just to present an overview of my husband’s case. This man,” she nodded at Dr. Gibson, “certainly isn’t here just for the ride. For God’s sake, what are you trying to tell me?”
Gibson leaned back, looking almost relaxed, his hands folded in his lap. “There has been brain death, Mrs. Howell. There’s no other way to put it. I’m sorry.”
She was surprised at her own reaction. She felt no tears welling, no sorrow, just anger. “That’s very nice for you to say, very pat, but I just left my husband, and I could detect no change whatsoever. I don’t see how you can possibly say a thing like that!”
Gibson slowly shook his head, his features still expressionless. “I can understand your feelings,” he said evenly. “I have no wish to provoke you, Mrs. Howell. These things are devastating to the family of the patient. We know that, of course.”
Kaufman again coughed nervously. She looked over at him.
“As we all realize, Mrs. Howell,” Kaufman said, “your husband is a very special patient. He is a sitting member of the United States Supreme Court. We are very careful with all our patients, of course, but especially so with your husband. You can be assured that we used every method of treatment known to help your husband. As I say, they weren’t successful.”
“But how can you be so damned sure!”
Gibson’s eyes seemed almost to glitter. “The damage occurred during the late evening,” he said. “I was asked to fly to Washington at once. I arrived this morning. I conferred with Dr. Kaufman and the other members of his medical team, then we ran extensive tests. As you know, this facility has the newest and best of a
ll diagnostic equipment. Nothing was spared. Everything that medical science has to offer was used, Mrs. Howell.” Gibson’s voice dropped slightly as he continued. “Had he not been in a hospital and hooked up the way he is, he would have died a natural death. As it is, our machines took up the slack. They are doing his breathing. They make his heart beat. They provide for continued circulation of blood throughout his body. But there are no electrical impulses coming from the brain. I know it is difficult to face, but your husband is dead.”
“He is like hell!” She jumped up, feeling rage at this cold impersonal man. “I just saw him! His color is good. His chest moves up and down. He’s alive!”
“Please, Mrs. Howell.” Dr. Kaufman stood up and put his arm around her. “Please sit down. I know this is a shock. It always is.”
“This happens often?” she asked as Kaufman guided her back to her chair.
“Often enough, I’m afraid. Oh, it can occur because of a number of causes, not just stroke. Our science seems to have outdistanced our medical art. We lack the ability to save such patients. What Dr. Gibson says is true, legal death occurs when the brain dies.”
“Who says that? Who the hell says that a machine can pronounce death?” Her anger was subsiding, and the effect of their dreadful news was beginning to weigh upon her.
“Your husband’s court, as a matter of fact,” Dr. Gibson answered quietly.
“Well, he’s not dead. I don’t care what your machines say.”
Kaufman remained standing. He absently continued to pat her arm.
Gibson spoke. This time there was a hard edge to the tone of his voice. “He is dead, Mrs. Howell. He died last night. What you see as breathing is due only to the devices connected to the body. When the devices stop, everything stops.”
“Those machines had better not stop.” She had intended the words to be calm and forceful, but her voice rasped into a savage snarl.
Gibson showed no reaction. “In cases such as this, yours is the normal reaction,” he said casually. “But usually, after the family discusses it, most people choose the course of shutting down the machines.”
“That’s murder!”
Gibson shook his head. “No. It is all quite legal, and properly so. Most organized religions recognize the right, as they say, to pull the plug. At least they do, in these circumstances.”
Martha Howell knew that her mind was recording this scene, that it would be etched forever in her memory, but it seemed so unreal, like an episode in a horror movie. She wished it was the cold-eyed Dr. Gibson who was lying in a room down the hall, so quietly asleep.
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Howell, those are the facts,” Gibson continued. “A decision has to be made. It doesn’t have to be made immediately. Sometimes nature itself makes the decision, the kidneys fail, or the heart. Dr. Kaufman says you have grown children. If I were you, I would consult with them, and with your clergyman. They can help you in making your decision.”
She hated those hard blue eyes. “I’ve made my decision. No one touches those machines!”
Dr. Gibson stood up, towering over her. For the first time a hint of emotion seemed to play briefly on his long features. “As I say, your reaction is quite normal. My deepest sympathy, Mrs. Howell.” He did not extend his hand, but turned and walked from the room.
“He’s a monster,” she snapped.
Dr. Kaufman sat down. He looked tired and ill at ease. “No. He sees only the most difficult cases. He has, I think, built up some strong defense mechanisms, not only against feelings he might have for the patients he encounters, but also against the natural reaction of their loved ones.”
She shook her head. She felt hot tears as they began to roll down one cheek.
Dr. Kaufman bit his upper lip nervously, then spoke. “Mrs. Howell, I think most people in your circumstances usually consider what decision the patient might have made, if he or she had the power to do so. You know your husband. If he could speak to you, what do you think he would advise?”
She stared at him.
“Com’on,” he said, getting up and helping her from her chair. “You come along to my office. You can make calls there, or just lie down for a while.”
She shook her head. “No.” The tears were unstoppable now. “I just want to go back to Brian. I want to be with my husband.”
* * *
Amos Deering sat at his cluttered desk, scrolling through the dozens of e-mail notes that had collected in his “in” box.
Ed Huntington, the President’s chief of staff, poked his head in the doorway.
“Got a minute, Amos?”
Deering looked up. Usually he was summoned to Huntington’s office.
“Sure.”
“Let’s take a walk. I’d like to get a bit of fresh air,” Huntington said.
“It’s raining.”
“You have a raincoat, use it.”
Deering slipped into his loose poplin coat and followed Huntington out into the White House grounds.
The rain had diminished to just a drizzle, but it was cold and Deering could feel his beard and hair getting wet.
Huntington didn’t seem to notice.
“I’m glad I got a chance to talk to you,” Deering said. “The President has scheduled a press conference for tomorrow to discuss that damn Middle East thing. That will be the second press conference this week. Look, Ed, I can understand his wanting exposure, but it’s dangerous, one of these hurry-up press conferences is liable to backfire. He can’t go in there half-briefed, not when he’s dealing with these Washington news sharks. They allow him to get away with some fuzzy answers now, but as soon as the honeymoon is over, these people will scramble his ass.”
“Even Reagan did all right at those things. And he was no rocket scientist.”
Deering grunted. “He didn’t hold them at this rate. Besides, he might have looked casual but he was a programmed talking machine. Ed, without adequate preparation, a press conference can be a disaster.”
Huntington nodded to a security officer as they walked past him. “I’ll tell the man your concerns, but frankly I don’t think he’ll change.”
“Another thing, Ed. If you hold too many of these things and the press corps gets used to it, then when a time comes when the President doesn’t want to go public on something for a while, just the absence of press conference becomes a hell of a story.”
“I said I’ll tell him,” Huntington snapped. “How’s your man coming with the dean?”
“You mean Jerry Green?”
“Yes.”
“That’s right. I forgot you didn’t know him,” Deering said. “You weren’t with us in the old days.”
“Amos, I asked you how Green was coming along with the Pentecost matter?”
“Christ, he just got to Michigan. I told him time was important. He’ll do a job, but he isn’t a miracle worker.” Deering cupped his hands around a cigarette and managed to light it despite the drizzle. “A thing like this takes time, a couple of weeks. That’s if you want a good job done. You certainly don’t want anybody like her ladyship on the Court.”
Huntington nodded. “No. We want to know exactly what we’re getting. The President doesn’t want any surprises.”
“Anyway, what’s the hurry? Howell is still unconscious, isn’t he?”
Huntington stopped and casually glanced around. They were alone. “According to my reports he’s had a second stroke. He’s suffered brain death. The machines keep him breathing. If they pull the plug, he dies.”
“Where are you getting your information?”
Huntington smiled. “One of his treating physicians. It’s not public yet.”
Deering shook his head. “Wait until the press finds out you’ve infiltrated Howell’s medical team and are sitting on information for political purposes.”
“There’s nothing illegal about getting that information. A question of medical ethics exists, perhaps, but nothing criminal. Anyway, the Howell family is trying to decide whether or not
to turn off the machines.”
“That’s a tough decision.”
Huntington shrugged. “We have some people, close to them, who I hope can influence them to get this damn thing over with.”
Deering inhaled deeply on his cigarette, his eyes on Huntington. “Jesus, now that would be a great headline ‘White House Urges Plug Pulled.’”
Huntington frowned.
“I’ll worry about that. You get on your man Green and let him know that he really has to move. I expect this to be over in a couple of days. The President hopes to nominate the new man a few days after the funeral.”
“They may not pull the plug.”
Huntington shook his head. “I doubt it, but that’s my job, not yours. You just see that Green does his job.”
“There’s always judge O’Malley, just in case. At least you know he isn’t a double-crosser.”
“True. But O’Malley would have a tough time getting through the Senate committee. Besides, ever since Howell had his stroke, O’Malley has been pressuring people to put the heat on the President on his behalf. The man thinks that’s poor form. And I don’t think he likes O’Malley in the first place.”
“Politicians always go for the jugular when there’s a job available, or even the possibility. It’s a fact of life. O’Malley’s no different.”
“Maybe, but usually it’s done with a bit of tact. O’Malley is carrying on a wide-open campaign for the job, and the man isn’t even dead yet. It’s the wide-open part that the President finds offensive.”
“What about Dean Pentecost? Isn’t he trying for the job?”
“We received a couple of calls, but he wasn’t responsible for them. I checked. Seems to be strictly upright. The man likes that.”
“Then why fart around sending someone to check up on him? Why not just make the decision to put him up if and when there’s a vacancy?”
Huntington smiled again. “The man doesn’t like him that much. He’s still something of an unknown quantity. We need a reliable profile of the real person. You know as well as I do, Amos, that in politics often what you see isn’t what you get. Everybody puts on a front. Everybody hides behind a mask. We know what the dean’s mask looks like, we just want a peek at the real face.”
The Court Page 9
