“He’s real upset. Between his brother dying from AIDS, his father’s illness, and now this mess with his mother, Bruce feels the government hasn’t lived up to its part of the ‘social contract,’ as he calls it, and he’s really bitter. One part of me cries out for you to help them, William. The other part knows that it’s probably asking too much.”
“Is he close to his mother?”
“Very. Sort of like you and Mom, I think, when you were first running for governor, and she was your kitchen cabinet policy advisor. They talk all the time. He really loves her.”
“That’s tough. What do you think I should do?”
Just then the call-waiting feature on Rebecca’s phone beeped and almost simultaneously the second line in the Harrison’s bedroom rang. “Can you get that, Carrie?” William asked over his shoulder.
“Just a second, William,” Rebecca said, as she clicked over to the other line.
William waited, seated at his desk, while Carrie answered the phone in the adjoining room. “Hi, Mary,” he heard her say. Is it about Katherine or Bible study or sex education? he caught himself thinking when he heard his older sister’s name. “He’s on the other phone. With Rebecca, I think. Oh, no. Oh, dear God.”
William half turned in his chair to ask Carrie what had happened when Rebecca came back on the line and said, “William. Oh, no...” Her voice was quavering, and she was obviously having difficulty breathing. “It was Graham. He said Mom and Dad have been killed in a parking lot. I mean murdered.” Her voice cracked. “Why would?... Why would someone want to murder them?”
9
It is the duty of nations as well as men to own their dependence upon the overruling power of God, to confess their sins and transgressions in humble sorrow yet with assured hope that genuine repentance will lead to mercy and pardon, and to recognize the sublime truth, announced in the Holy Scriptures and proven by all history: that those nations only are blessed whose God is the Lord.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
Thursday, June 28
Three Weeks Later
WASHINGTON—The president of the United States sat alone in the backseat of his limousine for the ten minute ride back to the White House from the Grand Hotel. The trip would be short because there was not much traffic at this time of night, particularly in the summer. But he still found time to pour himself a shot of scotch, which he nursed as the lights of the city passed by his windows.
The Harrisons had been through a difficult three weeks, as the nation had mourned the loss of the “first grandparents” with them. William had canceled all speaking engagements and interviews—until tonight—and the family had assembled in Raleigh immediately after the murder. Their parents’ car was found late the same night, abandoned behind a convenience store. The police had a vague description of three teenage boys who were seen riding off in the car after the gunshot. The double funeral had been held at St. Stephen’s three days later. Mary and Graham, with help from Rebecca’s daughter Courtney, volunteered to work on beginning the estate process and on boxing up the remains of Tom and Elizabeth’s long life together. On the day after the funeral the president and first lady had returned to Washington.
But not to normal, William thought, taking another sip from his glass. Why did I agree to do this tonight? It’s too soon after their deaths. The rest of the world moves on. Three weeks is an eternity for a nation that consumes all its news in sound bites, but not for me. If the police ever find the scumbags who killed them...
But that’s the problem. Like tonight. It’s all messed up. Am I a liberal or a conservative? What was I supposed to say to the nation’s police chiefs? That I’m for tougher gun control, because it will save lives? Or against gun control because that will save lives? I’ve always believed that if we eliminate poverty, then crime will virtually disappear. But there was nothing economic about killing my parents and joy-riding for a few hours! What are the answers? And how am I supposed to always know them?
All I want is for all this violence to stop, but every interest group and reporter scans every word I say for some nuance or shift, supposedly signaling some new policy change on this program or that law. Just show me how to stop the senseless violence, whatever your political label...and, oh, how I wish you could bring back my parents!
Then he felt again the cold pain that had pierced him almost daily since their deaths. They were so good, so committed to making people better. And we were so close to passing the kind of legislation they’ve always wanted in this country, when some joy-riding teenagers kill them! Now they’ll never be able to see it.
He had drunk more in the last three weeks than he had in the last three years. As he and Carrie had been seated alone in the funeral home on the night before the burial, he suddenly realized that his whole life had been dedicated to trying to make the world better, just as his parents, and particularly his mother, had done. It struck him like a hammer blow that he had hoped to accomplish the goals of his presidency for her, and now she had been stolen from him. She would never see or share in his victories. And for the past three weeks he had been like a ship without a rudder. Or sails, for that matter. Going nowhere slowly and not really caring, he had to admit.
I’m one impressive president, he said to himself as they neared the White House gate and he downed the rest of the drink. Can’t get any programs going. Can’t spend money. Can’t save money, Can’t lead. I’ve chosen advisors who see every issue through their own narrow perspectives. Now my parents are gunned down in a parking lot, and I act like I’m five years old, not sure of what to do. I’m really great for our nation. Maybe I should just resign. Resign, he thought again, as the long car swung through the gates and pulled up at the entrance. And before we hear again from whoever has that nuclear bomb. Go home to Raleigh, raise Katherine, and forget about all of this garbage. Well, Richard and Janet Sullivan will be here tomorrow. Maybe I’ll see what they think. Resign...
ATLANTA—The next morning in south Atlanta, Sally Kramer opened the front door to the doctor’s office located in the former single-family home and motioned Eunice to go in. Once inside they signed in and took their seats in what had once been the living room of a fine old Victorian home on a busy street. There were several other women and a few children waiting to see the group of doctors who worked in the neighborhood clinic.
After a few minutes the receptionist called their names, and they were escorted down a long hall into an office. The sign on the door read Dr. Fritz Archer. Eunice was puzzled. They were to meet a Dr. Thompson. A man was seated behind the cluttered desk. On seeing the two women, he rose, smiled, and offered his hand across the desk.
“Eunice,” Sally said, “I’d like you to meet Dr. Harvey Thompson. He’s the one who did my procedure, and we hope you’ll let him do yours, too.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mrs. Porter. Sally’s told me a lot about you, and I’m glad our schedules worked out so we could meet this morning. Please, have a seat.”
Once they were all seated, Dr. Thompson, a rotund man in his mid-forties, continued, “Please don’t be confused by the office. Dr. Archer is a friend and lets us hold consultations here. My office is actually in Peachtree North Hospital, where you’ve been having your check-ups, but we find it’s usually more convenient to meet here. Now, has Sally explained the procedure to you? Do you have any questions?”
Eunice looked down at her hands folded in her lap and then fixed the doctor in the eye. “She said I could get five thousand dollars for letting you abort this baby. Is that right?”
Dr. Thompson smiled reassuringly behind the desk and straightened up in the chair a bit. “Yes, that’s exactly right. And Sally will get five hundred as a finder’s fee. We’ll pay you one thousand now and the rest on the day of the procedure. All in cash. No checks to worry about cashing.”
“I see. A thousand dollars today if I agree?”
“Precisely. In cash. Now, how far along are you, Eunice?”
“The doctor at the
hospital says I’m due in mid-September.”
“Fine. We’ve got plenty of time, of course. We’d like to schedule you for about September first. Will that be convenient?”
Eunice nodded her head in agreement, then frowned. “Let me ask you this. How come if I want an abortion now, it costs me money, but if I do your deal, you pay me much more?”
“That’s an excellent question, Eunice. Here’s the simple answer. Once you’ve carried the fetus almost to term it has some valuable organs and parts that people desperately need and are willing to pay for. You see, there are many children suffering from disease or needing transplants. So in a way it is kind of like you’re providing a baby for adoption—only better. You’re making it possible for many babies to live who otherwise wouldn’t. It’s a very good thing to do for others. And it gives us the chance to pay you for your trouble.”
“I see...Well, why don’t you have plenty of babies—fetuses—from miscarriages and stuff?”
“Another good question. The doctors who transplant these organs—and even eggs from the fetus’s ovaries, if it’s a girl—have to get them on some sort of a predictable schedule, and quickly, to be of any use to the child or the infertile woman who receives them. They need to be able to plan. So we go ahead and set up a date with you now, then alert our doctor friends who know people in need, and they get ready, based on our agreement. Does that make sense?”
Eunice thought for a minute. “Yes. I guess so. It sounds like we’ll be helping others. But is any of this illegal or anything?”
Both Dr. Thompson and Sally Kramer shifted in their chairs. The doctor smiled again and leaned forward, his hands on the desk. “Yes and no, Eunice. Since the president signed the executive order permitting abortions at any time right up to natural delivery, that has removed any legal hindrance or stigma to the procedure itself. There is still an old law from the early eighties that technically makes it illegal to sell donated organs, but it’s not clear whether that law even applies to fetuses, and we expect Congress to change the law shortly, anyway.”
“So it’s because of that technicality that we’re meeting here and not in your office, right?”
Dr. Thompson looked momentarily flustered, but Sally nodded, and he regained his composure. “I guess you could say so, yes. Frankly, we think the old law discriminates against good, hard-working women like yourself whom we want to help. But there could be those who don’t understand, so until the law is changed, we use this method to make these arrangements.”
“Is the procedure done here?”
“Oh, no,” the doctor said, regaining his composure. “Everything is done at Peachtree North with the finest personnel and equipment. And the government even pays for the procedure for someone in your financial situation.”
“How is that possible?”
“You just show up ‘spontaneously’ at the time we’ll prearrange and complain about pains and tell them that you’ve had second thoughts and you want an abortion. I’ll be the doctor on duty at the time, with a partner as back-up in case things get unexpectedly busy. You just fill out the forms, we’ll do the abortion, and you’ll be on your way. The balance of the money will be delivered to you that night. It’s that simple. Although we began years ago, we’ve expanded to do about one abortion a week for the past several months, ever since full-term abortions became legal, and we’ve had no problems at all. Everything works fine.”
Eunice was silent again for a while. Then she asked, “And I get one thousand dollars today if I just say yes? What happens if I have a miscarriage?”
“That’s our risk. But you’re a perfect candidate, having already birthed two healthy children. Children, I imagine, who could use an extra five thousand dollars. Right?”
Eunice nodded and thought some more. “I guess it sounds okay. I mean an abortion now or an abortion later—what’s the difference? And we help other children. All right. Do I get that money now? Do I have to sign anything?”
“Yes, I’ve got the money right here in this envelope,” Dr. Thompson said, opening the top desk drawer. “And no, we don’t sign anything. We’ll look at the schedule for early September and let you know through Sally. It’s her job to be sure you’re there on time. I’m sure there’ll be no problems,” he concluded, smiling and handing the envelope to Eunice.
She opened it and looked inside. “No, I don’t think there will be either.”
Dr. Thompson rose. “If everything goes well, you might want to consider becoming one of our regulars, like Sally.” He smiled at Eunice’s friend as the three of them walked to the door. “We’ll do her procedure a few weeks before yours. I think it’s a great way for you to earn some regular extra money.”
“I’ll certainly think about it. Thanks. It sounds good. I’ll wait to hear from Sally about which day you want to do it. Thank you again,” she said, as she placed the envelope in her purse.
WASHINGTON—“I wish I could postpone this interview again,” William said to Carrie as he changed his shirt in their bedroom after lunch, “but we already delayed it for the funeral, and I promised this Sloane woman a month ago that I’d do it. I just don’t feel very ‘up’ today.”
“You’ll do fine. The old inspiring William Harrison will kick in when the TV lights come on, and you’ll be amazing. I know you too well,” Carrie said, handing him his tie.
“I hope so.” As he turned to the mirror, he reflected that he had received one piece of good news that morning. Bob Horan had squeezed briefly onto the Oval Office schedule to report that his associate and the Patterson staff had found some potentially interesting past indiscretions on the part of three key senators, including their own John Dempsey. Each one involved a woman—or women. More research needed to be done, but this was a start. So maybe we will find the dynamite we need to break up this logjam, William thought, as he finished tying his tie and looked to Carrie for approval.
“Very handsome. You’ll be awesome, as Katherine would say. Oh, listen,” she continued, as he put on his coat and headed for the elevator, “Richard and Janet Sullivan are due here in about thirty minutes. If they want, can I bring them into the back of the office during the interview?”
“Sure. It’ll be great to see them. Maybe they’ll bring us some good luck.”
Twenty minutes later the president was seated in a comfortable chair in front of the Oval Office fireplace with Leslie Sloane in its twin on his right. Jerry Richardson stood and Chris Wright sat in his wheelchair behind the cameras near the president’s desk. Leslie had gone over several general questions she would ask on camera, but she had reserved with a smile the right to ask a couple of others, to get a “spontaneous” reaction, as she called it. He had agreed.
She led with an almost obligatory question about the brutal murder of his parents only three weeks earlier. “Mr. President, have your tragic personal experiences of the past several weeks affected your position on crime in any way?”
He took a deep breath and replied, the hurt clearly visible in his eyes, “Only to the extent that we’re even more dedicated to ending violence and violent crime in America, Leslie. Even before this awful event we were already studying, and planning to introduce this fall, a comprehensive crime bill, which will include handgun registration, more police officers, increased prison construction, prison education funds, and, of course, job creation to reduce the ranks of the unemployed and the unemployable. We’re convinced that it’s only this type of comprehensive, multifaceted program that can have any effect where it matters.”
“Could any of those investments have saved your parents, do you think, Mr. President?” She tried to ask it with the concern she actually felt so that it didn’t come across as a flip question. “Can we really reduce crime in the next few years?” she added.
Although he had not planned it, he found himself slowly saying, “Leslie, the alternative is just too awful to imagine. We have to be successful. If the trends of the last ten years continue, our society just won’t make it.”
Both his presidential advisors behind the cameras frowned and looked at each other. William caught them out of the corner of his eye and noticed the confused look on Leslies face. William hoped he didn’t look as flustered as he suddenly felt.
“You paint a pretty bleak picture, Mr. President. The murder of your parents has really hurt you, hasn’t it?”
William could sense her genuine concern, but his political alarm bells went off as he saw Jerry beginning to pace nervously. Too negative—too weak—too introspective. Maybe it’s genuine, but it’s not supposed to be associated with the president! I’ve got to pull out of this, he realized.
Just then Carrie opened the side door to the Oval Office and quietly led Richard and Janet Sullivan behind the TV crew toward a free spot in the crowded room. The Sullivans each raised a hand and smiled in William’s direction. He gave a small nod while still looking at the camera, with Leslie’s question hanging in the air, waiting for an answer.
“Well, yes, of course personally it has, Leslie. But leaders have to move beyond personal pain and focus clearly on what’s best for the country. I was only talking about criminal trends, and even some of those have actually been improving in the last few years. It just seems that we hear so much more about crime these days. But in other areas—areas that are also very important to improving the American way of life—we’ve made great strides. Look at health care, gay rights, women’s rights, children’s rights, education—in all those areas we’re far ahead of where we were only a few short years ago. And if Congress would simply act on our proposals for jobs and housing, our nation’s economic progress could match our significant social progress.” After hitting his stride in mid-statement, he finished with a notable burst of energy. William noticed that Leslie looked as relieved as he felt. He couldn’t help a small smile of confidence.
The President Page 23
