Sister Agatha’s expression never changed. “In her condition she may die tonight, or she may linger for a few more days, and there is no chance of recovery, correct?”
“Basically, that’s true.”
“Then I tell you it is cruel to make her endure these long hours and days of pain needlessly. If there were any chance that she might recover, I’d agree, but there isn’t, and to make her go through all this is evil.”
Sister Barbara held up her hands. “I don’t wish to argue. I just thought I’d try to suggest a practical way out of your difficulty.”
“It wouldn’t work. Of course, I do thank you for your concern.”
Sister Barbara pushed herself erect. “If you need anything to make you comfortable.…”
“I have all I need. Thank you.”
The nun limped to the door of the isolation room, then turned. “There are others who are watching your case, people who would take human life and profit from it. I trust you know that?”
Sister Agatha nodded. “I am painfully aware of that possibility.”
“If you are found not guilty and rational suicide is declared legal, those people will use your case to justify the taking of lives, and not just the lives of the dying either. Agatha, doesn’t that bother you?”
Sister Agatha shook her head. “I think most of that is just foolishness, it comes from the scare tactics used by the prosecutor to frighten the Court. Nothing will change, except a number of dying people will have their last moments eased.”
“If you win your case, what do you plan to do? You know the order will never allow you to stay, at least not as a nurse.”
“I will leave the order and lecture. I am informed there is a great deal of money in that. I shall raise funds until I have enough to start my own hospice.” She paused. “Eventually the Church will come around to my point of view. My conscience is clear.”
“And if you lose?”
“I suppose I will be sent to prison and given a job in an infirmary. After some of the stations where I have served, an American prison holds very little terror for me.”
“When will you know? About the case?”
Sister Agatha looked up at the ceiling, there was no expression on her placid face. “My lawyer says they will soon argue the matter before the Supreme Court, then a decision will come down later. It will be a number of months. I will welcome the decision, no matter what the outcome, for then I will be able to make some kind of life plan for myself.”
“What does your lawyer think?”
“If I shall win or lose?”
“Yes.”
She continued gazing at the ceiling. “It will be very close. He says it will be decided by one vote. He seems to know about these things.”
Sister Barbara stood at the door. “I honestly cannot pray for you to win, Agatha. I will pray that the outcome shall be the best in the sight of God.”
Sister Agatha looked directly at her. “That will be my prayer also.”
Sister Barbara hurried away from the isolation room. It seemed so incongruous that such a quiet, mild woman could be called Sister Death. Still, she had assisted in dispatching over a hundred ailing men and women, and had admitted all of it.
Sister Barbara limped to her desk and wrote out an order for the other nuns on infirmary service: under no circumstances was Sister Agatha Murphy to be allowed near the dying Sister Marilyn. She thought of Sister Marilyn. She had been their teacher. A good woman, kind and gentle, and now she was suffering greatly. Sister Barbara studied her own order, and was tempted to erase it. She slowly shook her head. The order would stand. Death was strictly in God’s jurisdiction.
* * *
A plan began to formulate in Senator Dancer’s mind as he guided his sports car along the twisting roadway below the vast Arlington Cemetery. He had received his instructions directly from the President himself. And it was fully understood between them that if successful, Senator Dancer could expect significant reward. When he had left the White House gate he had no idea of what he might say, or even how he could approach the subject. But now he smiled to himself as he looked up at the silent slopes of graves. They inspired the beginning of an idea.
He drove leisurely, moving with the midday traffic. He had used the White House telephone to call Martha Howell and alert her that he planned to drop by. He had been there several times since Brian Howell’s stroke, so he knew his visit would seem quite natural, they would suspect nothing beyond the ordinary courtesy call.
Dorothy, the Howells’ married daughter, answered the door. She held her one-year-old son perched on one hip. Dorothy had a towel around her neck and a loose strand of hair drifted across one eye. She looked harried and exhausted.
“Did I come at a bad time?” Dancer asked as she ushered him into the Howell’s living room.
“Oh no, it’s just that young Brian here has just discovered the ability to walk. I spend all day running after him, and I’m just not used to all the exercise.” She turned and called. “Mother, Senator Dancer is here!”
She put the baby down and he toddled along at a determined clip, passing his grandmother as she entered the room. Dorothy gave chase.
“I’ll try to get him to take his nap,” Dorothy called as she disappeared down the hallway. “If you hear screaming, it isn’t child abuse.”
Hugh Dancer grasped Martha Howell’s hands. She had lost weight and looked drawn, almost gaunt.
“Sit down, for heaven’s sake, Hugh. You’re considered family around here.” She managed a smile. “Can I get you coffee, or a drink perhaps?”
“A drink sounds fine, Martha. Scotch with a little soda, if you have it.”
“I’ll join you.” She sounded glad to have an excuse. “I’ll be right back.”
The room was the same, nothing had been changed. However there was one prominent addition. A large framed color photograph of Brian Howell, complete with judicial robes, had been set on the fireplace mantle. It was an oversized portrait more suitable for a courtroom or display in a public place. It seemed inappropriate in the carefully arranged and tastefully furnished room.
Martha Howell returned with the drinks and two coasters. She was the kind of woman who insisted on neatness above all else. He accepted the glass and placed the coaster on a table at the side of his chair.
She sat primly. The large glass seemed out of place in her hand. She looked a bit guilty. She came from a background where afternoon drinking was considered sinful. She took a dainty sip of her drink. “I’m drinking more lately, but I suppose that’s to be expected.”
“Why don’t you have your doctor prescribe a mild tranquilizer. It might help.”
She nodded. “I did. I tried two kinds. The first one knocked me silly, and the second kind didn’t help at all. Don’t misunderstand me, Hugh, I’m in no danger of becoming an alcoholic. I have two or three drinks in the course of an entire day, no more. Even the doctor said that much wouldn’t be bad for me, under the circumstances.”
“It’s a terrible strain. But at least you have Dorothy and the baby here now. That should help keep your mind off things.”
She smiled, this time easily. “I’m too old for little children, Hugh. I love my grandchild, but I think I’ll be able to bear seeing him go.”
He laughed. “I know. I have four. I love them, but I can’t stand them.”
She again sipped her drink. “It’s a bit early for visiting, Hugh. Is there something on your mind?”
“Martha, we’ve known each other a long time. I was the one who recommended Brian for the Supreme Court.” He stopped. He knew instinctively that he was coming on too strong, too quickly. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I hope you know that I am your friend, both Brian and yours.”
“That certainly goes without saying, Hugh.”
He sipped his drink. She had made it strong, but he was grateful for that. He wasn’t worried about the effect of the liquor, he was used to drinking. “I’m afraid there’s a cri
sis brewing.”
“There always is in Washington.”
He leaned back in his chair. “But this time I’m afraid it concerns Brian.”
She showed no surprise, only interest.
“Martha, do you recall all the fuss about Justice Douglas and his health problems? There were a number of people who wanted him removed from the Court.”
“They tried to impeach him twice,” she said quietly, “but not for reasons of health.”
“That’s right. He had many enemies. He was a rather rough and tough S.O.B.” Dancer’s features became serious, almost solemn. “Martha, there are several very important cases coming before the Court and there’s a movement afoot to remove Brian; they want to create a vacancy so that a deciding vote can be added to the Court.”
“They can’t remove him. That’s unconstitutional.”
“There’s talk of using the impeachment process.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s nonsense! Brian’s done nothing wrong, he’s not guilty of any high crimes. He’s only sick.”
Senator Dancer sipped his drink. She was close to tears, and tears would solve nothing. He weighed his next step, considering the consequences. Then he decided to meet the issue head on.
“The doctors say Brian is dead, Martha.”
There were no tears, instead her eyes narrowed in sudden anger. “Yes, that’s what they say, Hugh; they tell me he is completely dependent upon the machines. But doctors are often wrong, you know that as well as I do. Besides that, Hugh, I see him every day. He looks fine.” Her voice broke just a bit. “He looks as if he’s sleeping.”
He nodded. “As I said, a major fight is brewing. The Court is evenly divided on several key legal issues. If there’s no ninth vote, then the lower courts’ decisions will stand as law. There are many powerful people who don’t want that to happen. It may turn into something quite nasty, and, of course, poor Brian’s condition would be the center of it all. Martha, if it should come down to that kind of scrap, it won’t be dignified. Some politicians can be quite heartless. You’ve been around Washington for a while, surely you can appreciate what could happen.”
She bit her lip and looked away. “It seems that everyone wants me to turn off those damned machines: my clergyman, the doctors, and to some extent, even my own children.” When she again returned her gaze to him he could see that her eyes were wet. “But that would be like murder to me, Hugh. And that’s something I really don’t think anyone truly understands.”
He remained silent for a moment. To protest now would only reinforce her determination. “I understand,” he said simply.
She sipped her drink then rolled the rim of her glass slowly along her lower lip. “I pray every day,” she said quietly. “I honestly ask for a miracle, I pray that one day Brian will open his eyes and everything will be just as it was.” She paused for a moment, her shoulders seemed to sag. “I know in my heart that it’s foolish, but I can’t help it. Brian and I have gone through so much together. Some of it pleasant, some of it terrible. We’ve made a life for ourselves. I can’t bring myself to switch off all of that, as if I were turning out some damned light.” Her voice trembled as she spoke.
Dancer got up and walked to the windows. He looked out on a pleasant sweep of lawn. The condominium complex had been artfully landscapes. It looked like a park.
“Martha, I can fully appreciate the agony you must be going through. I come as a friend, and please remember I will stand by you no matter what you decide. However, as a friend, I must tell you the most unpleasant side to all this terrible business.”
He turned and looked at her. “Do you want it sugarcoated, or would you prefer the bitter truth?”
She finished her drink, her eyes fixed on the picture on the mantle. “I prefer truth, Hugh.”
“If you should decide to turn off the machines and Brian doesn’t survive, I have been informed a full state funeral is planned. As you know so well, Brian loved the pomp and ceremony connected with government. He would be given a funeral in keeping with his high office.”
“That’s hardly comforting.”
“I know. But if things continue as they are, a fullblown debate and fight will occur in Congress. You know how these things go, Martha; television, the press, all the media have a field day. It will be all over the cable news shows and the goddamn Internet. All the talking heads squawking. Every damn magazine and newspaper in the country will call it a crisis in government. If it comes down to impeachment, and it might come to that, based on all the medical evidence, Brian may be removed.”
A single tear trickled down one cheek. “That would be disgraceful.” The words were no more than a whisper.
“I agree.” He walked to her and gently patted her shoulder. “But I very much doubt that Brian Howell would like to go down in the history books as the first Supreme Court justice to have been removed from office by Congress. As it is, his term, short as it has been, has certainly been illustrious. He has really shaped the law of this country, Martha, and his decisions will be remembered for many years to come.”
She looked up at him. Both cheeks were now wet although she gave no other indication of emotion, only silent tears.
“Life is full of hard choices,” he said gently.
She stared up at the photograph. He returned to his chair and finished his drink.
“I think it would be in Brian’s best interest if those machines were turned off,” he said quietly. “A man’s name and reputation are often more important to him than his life.”
She said nothing.
“If the doctors are wrong and Brian can handle things on his own, then turning off the machines will make no difference. In fact, it would even provide some hope. I’m afraid there really isn’t much hope in the present situation, Martha.”
She did not reply at once but continued to stare at the photo on the mantle. Then she turned and looked at Dancer. “And if the doctors are right?”
“Then it’s foolish to keep on with the machines, isn’t it?”
“You make it sound … so simple.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
“When you get right down to it, Martha, it is simple.”
She studied her empty glass as if she had just seen it. “Did you come here to get an answer from me?”
“Do you mean, did somebody send me?”
“As you say, I’m beginning to understand how Washington functions.”
He shook his head. “No, no one sent me. I’m a friend. I’m here on my own, Martha.”
She looked up. “I’m sorry, Hugh, that was unkind. It’s just that I’ve been under such a terrible strain.”
“I know.”
She again looked up at the photograph. “I want whatever is best for him,” she said. They sat quietly in silence, an uncomfortable silence, then she continued in a firmer voice. “I’ll have to allow myself some time to get ready.”
“It’s something that should be done quickly, Martha. It will just prolong the agony if you put it off.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes seemed almost dead. “Buddy, my son, will have to be notified,” she spoke just above a whisper. “He’ll have to fly in from New York.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll call him today. If he can come tonight, then we can all go down to the hospital and see Brian tomorrow. Then I’ll give the instructions…” She started to cry.
Senator Dancer went to her and knelt down. He held her in his arms. She trembled but made no sounds, then gently she pushed him away.
“Thank you, Hugh. You are a good friend.”
“Would you like me to be there tomorrow?”
“No. I think just Dorothy, Buddy, and myself.”
He stood up and patted her shoulder. “It’s for the best. And if the doctors should be right, Martha, it will be an honorable end for an honorable man.”
She nodded as she covered her eyes with the wet tissue.
* * *
Senator Dancer waited until he got home before making the tel
ephone call.
“It will probably be tomorrow,” he said simply. “She wants her son there. By the way, I promised a state funeral, the full works. I think that’s what swung the deal. I was sure you wouldn’t mind, at least, not under these circumstances.”
“No, that can be easily arranged.”
“With this advanced warning, your people can start cranking up whatever has to be done,” Dancer said.
“Yes. I certainly appreciate your splendid efforts, Senator. A very painful episode for you, I’m sure.”
“It was.”
“I won’t forget this, Senator.”
Dancer chuckled. “Trust me to make quite sure of that.”
“Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. President.”
CHAPTER SIX
“It was good of you to see me on such short notice.” Jerry Green took the extended hand.
“Please sit down, Mr. Green. It isn’t every day that we are honored by visits from White House officials.”
Green studied the man without appearing to do so, just a quick appraising glance. Martin Naham wasn’t new to the duties of a university president, although he was brand new at Michigan State. President Martin Naham had served in that capacity at three small colleges before taking the Michigan State position.
Young, only forty-two, Naham was small of stature, but he had a trim, athletic build. He looked like the sort of man who was fond of competition; the kind who was without mercy on the racketball court. There was something about his eyes; a certain controlled fierceness.
Naham sat down behind his desk. “I certainly hope you aren’t the bearer of bad news.”
Green smiled. “No, not in the least.”
The university president leaned back in his leather chair. Every hair was in place. His shirt was perfect, his tie perfect, there were no wrinkles in his suit. There was nothing about him to suggest a pipe-smoking intellectual; no baggy sweaters or mismatched socks. The man across the desk was a hard-eyed executive who would be more at home in a conglomerate boardroom than at a faculty tea.
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