Gage grimaced in commiseration, then raised his drink. “To Roger,” he said. “He surely served our country well.”
Idly, Chad reflected that Mac Gage had carefully polished his public persona to be unctuous and predictable—a series of homilies as unrevealing as his conventional gray suit and striped tie were uninteresting. In some part of Gage’s mind, Chad once had conjectured, the world must be a vast, interminable Rotary meeting. But experience had taught him that Gage’s manner was intended to lull others into forgetting his unremitting desire to stay one jump ahead.
To Gage, Chad knew, he, too, was somewhat of an enigma, a man to be watched and studied. In looks and manner they were opposites: Gage had the smooth, prosperous look of a provincial worthy in middle age; at forty-nine, Chad was lean, fit, and given to the spontaneous and irreverent. It amused him to know that Gage had nicknamed him in private “Robert Redford,” as much for the adoration of the media as for Chad’s blond-haired good looks, and that Kerry Kilcannon, with more affection, had labeled him “Harry Hotspur,” after the headstrong warrior of Shakespeare’s Henry IV. Both perceptions, the two men might be surprised to know, suited Chad’s purposes just fine.
“To Roger,” Chad responded. “And to the new president.”
As he expected, the remark induced, from Gage, a frown which he banished at once.
“Our new president,” Gage answered, “has a problem. As do we.”
So much for Roger Bannon. But then Gage hadn’t asked Chad here so urgently, on such a day, to polish the late Chief Justice’s eulogy. “I know our problem,” Chad responded. “We just lost an election. What’s Kerry’s?”
“That he won by only a few thousand votes, and that we control the Senate.” Gage sipped his drink. “Our constituent groups, including Christian conservatives, are expecting us to keep Kilcannon in check. The nomination of a new Chief Justice is our chance to lay down a marker.”
Chad tasted the rich peaty burn of good scotch. “That depends,” he answered, “on who Kerry picks.”
“He’s got his own constituencies to please. He won’t be sending us anyone we like.” Gage fixed his eyes on Chad’s. “First Kilcannon has to go through you. You’re the Chairman of Judiciary. You investigate his nominees. You hold the hearings. You decide whether to make things easy for him.”
Chad shrugged. “I don’t intend to give Kerry a pass. But I’m not going to run a witch hunt either, badgering the nominee to confess that he believes in the theory of evolution—no matter what some of these people want. It’s time we noticed that they’re one reason we keep losing.”
“If that were true,” Gage retorted, “we could never have passed the Protection of Life Act. Even a Democratic president was forced to sign it.” He jabbed a finger for emphasis. “Without Roger Bannon, the whole Court’s in the balance. Our obligation is simple—no judicial activists; no liberals on crime; no red hots for abortion.” He spread his arms. “You’re the first line of defense, Chad. For all we know, Kilcannon pops out a nominee tomorrow. Our people will be looking for us to read from the same page.”
“Or sing from the same hymnal,” Chad responded with a smile.
Gage’s own smile was perfunctory, an effort to appease someone who, his manner made clear, was insufficiently serious. “Will you accept a word of advice?” Gage asked.
“From you, Mac? Always.”
“There’s been grumbling on our side that you’re the new Chairman.” Gage’s voice became confiding. “Everyone respects you and wants you to do well, so I’ve been able to keep it down. But some feel you’re too close to Kilcannon, especially after the two of you sponsored that campaign reform bill that most folks on our side—myself included—thought would damn near put the party out of business. You’ve got amends to make, and this may be your chance.”
The message, Chad knew, was clear enough. Once Kerry named his choice, the spotlight was on Chad—fail the test, and his chances of being the party’s nominee next time would be severely damaged. It struck Chad that Gage might equally value two distinct outcomes: defeating Kilcannon’s prospective Chief Justice, thereby raising Gage’s stock as presidential candidate, or arranging matters so that Chad diminished his own. As usual in such circumstances, Chad viewed the challenge with serenity.
“Neither of us gets to be a hero,” he retorted, “unless the President gives us an opening, and he’s no fool. If he were, he’d still be over here with the rest of the buffoons.”
Gage raised his eyebrows. The expression suggested that Chad’s contempt for certain of his colleagues, like so many things Chad did, was ill-advised. “Kilcannon’s not a fool,” Gage countered. “But he’s reckless.”
“That’s what they say about me,” Chad replied affably. “And I’ve survived.” He did not say the rest—that the flip side of “recklessness” was cowardice, and that its costs were stiffer.
“Look, Mac, I don’t want a liberal any more than you do. Or some stealth candidate who turns out to believe only child molesters have rights. If Kerry gets confused enough to ask my advice, I’d make that clear.”
Gage produced a fresh smile, to suggest—despite Chad’s best instincts—that he was mollified. “Oh, he’ll ask, Chad. He’ll ask. You’ve never been as important to him as you’re about to become.”
Or to you, Chad thought.
In the quiet, Gage fixed him with a bright, untrusting look. At other times Chad would have been pleased to wait him out. Silence no longer bothered him: for over two years of what seemed another life, he had been forced to live, often for days—as best as Chad had been able to measure days— without the sound of a human voice. But tonight he was anxious to get home.
“Can I give you some advice, Mac? About the President.”
Gage smiled again. “That’s only fair, and I’m eager to hear it. You know him so much better.”
Chad ignored the implicit jibe. “Kerry may not do what you think prudent. But he’s the best intuitive politician I’ve ever seen, and he plays for keeps.” Draining his glass, Chad finished amiably, “You’ve been here longer than I have. But I think this town may end up littered with the bodies of people who’ve underrated Kerry Kilcannon.”
Gage’s smile compressed. Maybe yours, Chad could see him thinking, but not mine.
Chad stood at once. “Anyhow, I’ve got to get home. Zip up Allie’s dress.”
Gage rose from his chair. “How is she? And Kyle.”
Asking after spouses, and recalling the names of children, was another staple of the Gage persona. Probably, Chad thought, this remark was nothing more.
“Allie’s fine. And Kyle’s in college now, studying fashion design. If I’m any judge of dresses, she’s doing well.”
“Good,” Gage said firmly. “That’s real good.”
Driving home, Chad pondered why this last exchange—superficially so meaningless—unsettled him when what went before did not.
SIX
“WHO ARE your parents?” Sarah asked.
The girl folded her arms, standing stiff and silent and then, as though deflated, sat down again. “My father’s Martin Tierney.”
She did not say more, nor did she need to. Martin Tierney was a professor of law at the University of San Francisco, a teacher of trial practice and a specialist in ethics, and, by reputation, a formidable advocate for the pro-life movement. Sarah concealed her dismay. “I know who he is,” she answered. “And where he stands on choice.”
“It’s more than that.” Mary Ann’s voice was soft. “When I was twelve, he and my mother took me to a prayer vigil at San Quentin, the night they executed a man who’d raped and murdered two little girls. They believe that killing is wrong and that life is sacred, no matter who takes it or what the reason is.”
“Is that what you believe?”
Mary Ann bit her lip. “The Church, my mom and dad, they’ve taught me that. Before, I just accepted it.” She looked up again, voice quavering. “But what if I have this baby, and then after that
I can never have another one. Even when I’m married.”
Her eyes seemed to plead for support, a need so naked it was painful. At this girl’s age, Sarah reflected, Alan and Rachel Dash had prized her intellect and encouraged her independence: just as Sarah would not be who she was without her parents, the same, for opposite reasons, was true of Mary Ann Tierney.
“What exactly do your parents say?” Sarah asked.
“He said an abortion isn’t possible.” The girl paused, shaking her head. “My mother just cried.”
Silent, Sarah tried to sort out her emotions. “Please,” the girl implored her, “I need your help.”
How many times, Sarah thought, had someone in crisis sought out her supposed calm and common sense. But there was no path open to Mary Ann Tierney which did not promise further trauma, and only one thing that seemed clear—the law. There was no kindness in evading it.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah told her, “but you may be too late. At least for the kind of help you’re asking for.”
Mary Ann’s eyes misted. “What do you mean?”
“Congress just passed a law—something called the Protection of Life Act. It reads like it was written for you …”
“Why?”
“Because you’re under eighteen, and by now your doctor would likely say that, in his medical judgment, the fetus is— or if it’s normal, could be—viable outside the womb. Under the act, you need the consent of a parent before aborting a viable fetus. And even their consent must be based on a doctor’s ‘informed medical judgment’ that an abortion is necessary as defined by this law.” Watching Mary Ann’s face contort, Sarah hesitated before continuing. “Without consent, you have to prove in court that the pregnancy poses a ‘substantial medical risk’ to your life or physical health. I don’t think a five percent risk to future pregnancies will be enough.”
Mary Ann’s eyes shut. “Even if the baby has no brain?”
“The statute doesn’t provide for that.” Sarah struggled to stifle the irony and anger she heard in her own voice. “It’s one of the things your parents get to decide about.”
“But I didn’t know until the sonogram …”
Her protest, plaintive and pitiful, stoked Sarah’s sense of frustration. “I saw you here two weeks ago. Why didn’t you come in then?”
Mary Ann’s shoulders twitched. “I wanted to, but all those demonstrators scared me. One of them was our parish priest.”
Mary Ann Tierney, Sarah realized, had become the plaything of Fate. Four months ago, there had been no Protection of Life Act; two weeks ago—given the stage of this pregnancy—another doctor might have questioned viability even for a normal fetus. Now Mary Ann was captive to crosscurrents she neither controlled nor understood, and Sarah shrank from adding to them. But Mary Ann had come here, however late, and was entitled to know what chance for her remained.
“There’s one thing left,” Sarah told her. “It’s not clear that this law is valid.”
The remark seemed slow to register. Sarah waited until Mary Ann gazed up again, looking so young that Sarah, though pained for her, felt it as a burden. “Under Roe v. Wade,” she began, “women have the constitutional right to an abortion. But after the fetus is ‘viable’—which your own doctor says it is—Congress can ban abortion unless it’s necessary to protect the mother’s life or health.
“No one knows exactly what that means, and no court has decided yet whether the Protection of Life Act violates a minor’s right to decide, with a doctor’s advice, what a ‘substantial medical risk’ means to her.” Sarah paused, reluctant, then told her the rest. “If the courts find it unconstitutional, there’s no law in California to stop you from deciding for yourself.”
Fingers tented, Mary Ann stared at the floor, as though trying to absorb this. “It’s only fair to tell you,” Sarah ventured, “just how hard that would be.”
Mary Ann swallowed. “You mean my parents?”
“You may have to face them—in and out of court. At this point, there’s no way to conceal an abortion.” Sarah’s voice was firm. “If you fit within the statute, you’d theoretically be entitled to get an abortion without involving your parents in court, though there’s no way afterward they wouldn’t know you’d had one. But if you try to get the statute thrown out, that protection may not apply.
“And that’s just the beginning. Your lawyer would file the case under a pseudonym, to try and protect your privacy. But if word gets out, the media will be all over it. The same people you saw outside would be picketing the courthouse. The pro-choice activists might try to use you as their poster girl. Because you’d be attacking an act of Congress, the Justice Department will be obligated to oppose you. And because most people believe without much thought that parental consent is good and late-term abortion is inhumane, the political pressures surrounding a challenge to the law could be enormous.”
Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes again. Sarah forced herself to continue. “Most of all, I worry about you. The weeks you’d spend fighting this law would feel too long, and too short. Too short because there’s not that much time until you have the baby. Too long because every day could tear your family apart.”
Arms folded, Mary Ann began rocking back and forth, as though her pain were physical. Without much hope, Sarah ventured, “You only need one parent. Is there any way to change your mother’s mind?”
Mary Ann shook her head. “You don’t understand. It would tear them apart, too.”
Her voice trailed off. “Would your doctor help?” Sarah asked.
“No.” The words were muffled. “He’s my parents’ friend— they all believe abortion is a sin. You’re the only one who can help me.”
The simple anguish in those words broke through the last of Sarah’s defenses. My mother would have held you, she thought. Then she’d have found a way.
“It isn’t fair,” Sarah said. “I know that.”
Turning away, the girl shuddered, inconsolable. “I guess court’s the only hope …”
Sarah drew a breath. “It would be a big case, Mary Ann. I’m just an associate. I can’t take any case—let alone for free—without asking the partners’ permission.”
The girl looked up at her. “Then ask them. Please.”
Abruptly, Sarah realized how many of her cautions for Mary Ann also applied to herself. And, as quickly, felt a defiant surge of the ego and independence which, in a conservative and hierarchical law firm, she often struggled to suppress.
“At least,” Sarah temporized, “I can make some calls. Maybe find someone else.”
The girl’s face closed, as if at a betrayal. “Whatever.”
She was on the edge, Sarah told herself. And she was fifteen: by definition—even before this trauma—unstable, uncertain, untrustworthy, and self-involved. As Sarah remembered all too well.
“Mary Ann,” she said succinctly, “we’re talking about a lawsuit which could end up in the United States Supreme Court. ‘Whatever’ doesn’t get it.”
Chastened, the girl touched her eyes. “I’m sorry …”
Now Sarah, too, felt helpless. At length, she said, “Tell me how I can reach you.”
Despairingly, the girl shook her head. “You can’t. After I got pregnant, my mother took the phone out of my room.”
God, Sarah thought. Slowly, she absorbed the full weight of this girl’s youth and isolation, and the responsibility this could impose on Sarah. “I’m not saying I’ll be your lawyer. But you can call me tomorrow, all right? From school.”
Mary Ann faced her, tears welling again—as much, Sarah guessed, from exhaustion as from hope. Sarah wondered what would happen if she turned this girl away.
SEVEN
THERE WERE STILL times, Chad Palmer reflected, when he loved his wife so much it hurt.
She examined herself critically in the mirror of the bedroom, blond head slightly tilted. For Chad, the familiar gesture resonated with the moments of their life together, a hall of mirrors in which Allie’
s face appeared reflected: the wonder of new intimacy; the image he held fast to in captivity; the surprise of being restored to her again; the nearly eighteen years of evenings since when, with wry resignation, Allie Palmer had appraised the lines which, almost imperceptibly, marked the passage of time. When Chad first met her she had been pretty—pert, blue-eyed, her face lit by good humor, her body slender—but now, twenty-eight years later, he thought her beautiful. The trim figure remained; what time had brought to her face was wisdom, resolve, and, painful to Chad, a certain sadness. But when she saw his reflection watching her, a faint smile appeared.
“Why do you do that, Chad? Watch me?”
Moving closer, he kissed her on the nape of her neck. “Because you’re lovely. And because you’ve forgotten I’m here.”
“M-m-m,” she said, a sound somewhere between pleased and self-critical. “If I could only forget I’m forty-six.”
“Why forget?” Chad said, and moved his hands to her hips.
“Too late. The ball’s in an hour, and I’m all made up. For once my hair’s doing what it’s supposed to.”
The familiarity of this complaint made Chad smile again. “The hell with your coiffure,” he said. “You’re living with a man certified by George magazine as the decade’s sexiest senator.”
“That was the last decade. But at least you’re not resting on your laurels.” Turning, Allie kissed him on the cheek. “Need help with your tie?”
“As usual. I’ve given up on the damned thing.”
Crossing the room, Allie fished a clip-on tuxedo tie from the bureau and slipped it around the collar of Chad’s shirt. With great concentration, she arranged it into perfect position. This moment, too, echoed in Chad’s mind: when he had returned to her, altered in body and spirit, she had accepted this with a simple kindness that belied how much, in ways they dimly understood, the two years of his captivity had changed her as well.
The woman Chad had met was eighteen, a freshman at Colorado College with no ambition other than to become a wife and mother; the man Allie had met was a senior at the Air Force Academy, the cocky product of an all-male society, whose goal was to fly the newest fighter planes as far and fast as they could go. They had fallen in love—or what Chad believed was love—and married with more optimism than insight. And for the next seven years Chad had continued to be who he was: high-spirited; prone to whiskey and when at liberty, the seemingly endless number of women who desired him; serious only about excelling as a pilot. Then, Chad’s regret had not been what the nomadic career of an air force officer had done to their marriage, but that he had missed Vietnam. Allie’s weary resignation, her quiet dislike of their existence—the constant moves; Chad’s nights spent drinking at the officers clubs; his casual philandering from California to Thailand—were, to him, unimportant when compared to the convenience of dropping in and out of her life.
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