Deadlock

by James Scott Bell

“Did Dr. Sager go over this form with you?” Charlene asked.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Did he inquire into your health history?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Did he ask you how you were feeling about the procedure?”

  Sarah Mae hesitated a moment. “He said something like that,” she said.

  Like what? Charlene had no idea what Sarah Mae was referring to. They had gone over her story in Charlene’s office, and in the hotel last night. Her answer was out of the blue. And the worst thing that could happen to a lawyer in trial is one of her own witnesses saying something that scuttles the case.

  This was a crucial moment, because the doctor’s conduct was at the very heart of this malpractice suit.

  Worse, Charlene could not just skip to another question. If she did, Winsor would get the information for himself on cross-examination. That would look horrible to the jury, as if Charlene wanted to hide an answer.

  What have you done this time, Charlene? She heard the phrase her mother used to say when Charlene got into serious trouble. What have you done this time?

  “He did not get into any detail with you, did he?” Charlene said.

  Winsor was on his feet. “Objection! That was clearly a leading question, Your Honor. Miss Moore is trying to lead her witness out of a situation she herself has – ”

  “That’s sufficient,” Judge Lewis said, cutting Winsor off from making a speech in front of the jury. “I will sustain the objection.”

  Charlene knew she had blown it. Winsor had managed to convey clearly enough that she had asked an improper question, and the judge had backed him up. Now she was in a corner. There was no way out.

  “What was it that the doctor said to you, Sarah Mae?” Charlene asked.

  Suddenly looking confused, Sarah Mae struggled to say, “Well, I can’t exactly remember, exactly…”

  “As best you can.”

  “Well, he did say something like if there was anything I wanted to say to him before we went in.”

  This was the first Charlene had heard about it. Why hadn’t Sarah Mae said anything about this before?

  “Did he say anything else to you before you went in?” Charlene said.

  “I can’t remember.”

  “The point is, he – ”

  “Objection. Argumentative.”

  “Sustained.”

  Charlene cleared her throat. “When you went into the procedure, Sarah Mae, did you feel satisfied that you had been able to communicate to the doctor your feelings about what was about to happen?”

  Sarah Mae shook her head with a slow, mournful look, as if she were lost in the woods. “I don’t rightly, exactly, remember.” Her eyes told Charlene she had no idea what she had done. And then those eyes gushed with tears.

  Charlene looked at the judge. “Perhaps now would be a proper time for a break, Your Honor.”

  Lewis nodded. “We’ll recess until ten-thirty,” he said. It sounded like he was announcing the time for an execution.

  3

  “Mom!”

  Ethel was sprawled motionless on the kitchen floor.

  “Mom, please, Mom.”

  Millie knelt. Ethel was facedown, her left arm folded awkwardly under her body. Millie put her hands over her mother as if she wanted to do something, but could not figure out what. For an excruciating moment she felt as if she alone could determine whether her mother lived or died, yet at the same time her mind was a blank. Her hands trembled over the unmoving body of her mother.

  Phone. Millie clambered to her feet and grabbed the kitchen phone. She punched 911. It took less than thirty seconds to give the dispatcher the information. But in this small town, how long would the ambulance take? The nearest full hospital was Bakersfield. Would her mother make it?

  Returning to Ethel, Millie knelt and put her hand on her mother’s arm. It was so frail. Her skin felt like silk.

  Millie saw the faint throb of a pulse in Ethel’s almost translucent neck and heard herself cry out, “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

  The words triggered her next desperate act. Grabbing the phone, she dialed information and got the number of the church. Then she called, hoping – praying – that Pastor Holden was in.

  4

  President John Warrington Francis took the cigar out of his mouth, looked at Senator Sam Levering, and said, “What would you do in this situation?”

  Levering smiled, his lips curling around his own cigar. “I’d quit, go home, lick my wounds, admit I’m not the man I used to be.”

  Francis said, “You know what crow tastes like? ’Cause that’s what you’re about to eat.”

  The president leaned over to his golf bag and selected a five wood. His ball, a Slazenger 1, was embedded in the deep rough that lined the right side of the fairway. Levering knew full well that Francis was not going to quit. Francis was a three handicap, one of the benefits of growing up rich in the northeast, with a father who held two country club memberships.

  Levering, on the other hand, was the typical weekend hacker. He hadn’t even taken up the game until he came to Washington. He was lucky to shoot in the nineties.

  Francis inserted the smoldering cigar into his mouth as he approached the ball. No wonder this guy was president, Levering thought. He was handsome, trim, athletic, and smart. And he knew how to get out of a jam.

  After two practice swings that scattered tufts of grass like flushing quail, Francis hit one of the best golf shots Levering had ever seen. The white ball flew up onto the green, rolled, and stopped about five feet short of the pin.

  “And that,” the president said, “is how it is done.”

  “Pretty good,” Levering said.

  “Pretty good? Tiger would kill to hit a shot like that.” Francis led the way to the golf cart. Levering got in, shooting a quick glance at the secret service detail in the golf cart behind them. They did not smile. They did not golf.

  “The secret to golf,” Francis said as he drove toward the green, “is to stay out of trouble. You know? Just stay away from the trouble areas. Which is one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”

  The scent of cigar smoke mixed with freshly mown grass was the scent of power. Levering breathed it in deeply, appreciatively. “You have something in mind?”

  “Hollander,” the president said. “She stable?”

  “As near as we can tell.”

  “That’s not near enough.” Francis brought the cart to a stop on the path next to the green. Then he faced Levering, flicked a bit of ash onto the grass, and said, “I had a meeting with Helen Forbes Kensington yesterday. You know her?”

  Only from what Anne had told him. She was Hollander’s good friend, and a pretty hot-looking divorcee. “Not personally,” Levering said, “though I wouldn’t mind.”

  “You and me both,” Francis laughed. “Anyway, she was doing some lobbying, wanted me to put reproductive rights further up on the list. Plus she was all in a lather about a case down south, a trial in federal court about informed consent.”

  “I think I read about that.”

  “Yeah, well she thinks it’s a hydrogen bomb on the whole women’s rights movement.”

  “How so?”

  “If the plaintiff wins based on the fact that she should have been informed about the mental health risks of abortion, what happens?”

  Levering shrugged.

  “Class action lawsuits,” Francis said. “If they win, the abortion providers go bankrupt, my friend. Then the anti-abortion crowd won’t have to worry about Roe v. Wade. They’ll have effectively shut down abortion through the back door.”

  Levering had fought all of his political life for the rights of women, from the days of ERA to the cause of the right to choose. Was this concern real? If it was, then having Millie Hollander under his wing, as chief justice, was even more important than he had at first supposed.

  “I’m going to need a strong chief,” Francis said. “Someone who can hold the delicate balance up
there. And I want your assurance that Hollander is still your first choice.”

  Of course she was. His little tryst with Hollander had been – through Anne Deveraux’s alchemy and his limo driver’s loyalty – transformed into a weapon of almost unbelievable potency. Levering knew how much Millie Hollander wanted to be chief justice, how much her reputation meant to her. Sam Levering knew how to use the ambition of others to his own ends. That was politics.

  “Yes,” Levering said as he and the president headed for the green. “I know she’s the right choice.”

  “Fine,” Francis said, getting out of the cart and grabbing his putter from the bag. “Then I want to talk with her as soon as possible. A nice chat before I make the announcement. And I want to run it by Graebner.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Levering said.

  “Those are the only kind of ideas I have,” Francis said. “Now take a look at this putt. You think it breaks left?”

  Levering laughed. “Everything you do breaks left, Mr. President.”

  5

  Millie quivered. She was not used to raw emotion unfiltered through careful analysis. But her mind seemed paralyzed; it rang with the words she hadn’t had a chance to say to her mother.

  Jack Holden had arrived just behind the ambulance. The paramedics said they’d be going to Kern Medical Hospital in Bakersfield. Holden offered to drive Millie. She gratefully accepted, and appreciated that he wasn’t feeling chatty. After about twenty minutes on the highway he gently asked, “How you feeling?”

  Millie looked at him, wondering for a moment if she might be able to open up a little. What she said was, “I’m a little upset right now.” It was a cold, antiseptic description.

  “You’re very close to your mother,” Holden said.

  “I haven’t had a chance lately to be close,” Millie said. Something cracked inside her. A small fissure, and out of it came a warm stream of tears. She swiped her index finger under both eyes, embarrassed.

  Holden, if he noticed, did not react. He kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Almost there,” he said.

  The gray concrete hospital was just off Mt. Vernon Avenue. At emergency receiving Millie gave them as much information as she could. Then she was told to wait. A doctor would be out soon.

  Soon stretched into sometime. The TV in the waiting room was tuned to a soap opera vacantly eyed by a scattered few. A boy of about five played with some plastic toys on the floor under the TV.

  Holden said, “Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

  “Water,” Millie said. “Thanks.” She watched as he got up and noticed how solid he looked. He must be a real comfort to people at moments like this. That was the important thing, perhaps. Not all the theology or the preaching or the arguments for God. Maybe all that mattered was what you did when people needed you.

  Holden returned with a Styrofoam cup of cold water. It tasted metallic.

  “I appreciate that you’re here,” Millie said.

  “Glad to be,” Holden said. “I love your mom. She’s a great lady.”

  And then, needing a change of pace of any kind, Millie said, “You write a pretty good brief. Thoughtful.”

  “Thank you.” His gratitude seemed genuine. “Coming from Justice Hollander, that’s high praise indeed.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “I’m always game. But what about you?”

  “Please. Anything’s better than just sitting here, waiting.”

  Holden seemed pleased. “Funny word, better.”

  Millie looked at him questioningly.

  “Do you know the term tertium quid?” he asked.

  “That’s Latin for ‘third thing.’ ”

  “Exactly. Any moral argument needs a tertium quid that stands outside two competing positions. It’s like an umpire in baseball or the rule book. Without that third thing, you and I might never agree on what is good, better, best. Or even a moral standard. We always fall victim to the Grand Sez Who.”

  “Come again?”

  “If I say racism is a good thing, and you tell me it is not, I can answer, Sez Who? You? I can be a racist if I want to. There is no tertium quid.”

  The intellectual give-and-take was indeed a pleasant diversion. She dove in. “But I can gather the community to denounce you as an ignorant outcast.”

  “Doesn’t mean I have to agree. If I have guns or bombs, I can make an even greater statement.”

  “And I can lock you up.”

  “And so we get to the conclusion. Morality on this stage equals power. Might makes right.”

  Feeling a bit testy now, Millie said, “Where is the doctor?” She started to stand up, then sat down again.

  “He’ll be here soon,” Holden said. “More water?”

  “No, no.” Millie pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Let’s keep talking. It helps.” She settled back to talk. “Okay, tell me how the ‘Sez Who’ theory proves the truth of Christianity.”

  “Our moral sense is just one bit of evidence to consider,” Holden said. “That’s the mistake people make. They assume that because one line of argument can’t prove the case alone, it is of no value. Not so. What do we do in court? We let the jury look at all the relevant evidence and then decide which way the scales of justice should fall.”

  “I’ll grant you that, Counsel, but…” She stopped. “I just called you Counsel.”

  “I haven’t been called that in quite some time. Been called a few other things.” His smile was warm.

  “Nevertheless, there is still much of the case that’s missing,” Millie said.

  “That’s because you haven’t reached the killer argument yet.”

  “Okay” – she let her voice become spooky – “what’s the killer argument?”

  “C. S. Lewis wrote about it in a book called Surprised by Joy,” Holden continued. “One day he felt that an open door was presented to him. Nothing like light or fire from the sky. Just a door. Beyond that door was joy, not the transient kind, but the answer to the deepest longings of his heart. That’s the killer argument.”

  “It doesn’t really sound like an argument,” Millie said. “What is the logic?”

  “The longing of the heart for something beyond,” Holden said, “is proof that our world cannot satisfy us. The fact that we experience thirst shows that we are creatures for whom drinking water is natural. In the same way, our longing for something beyond us is proof there is something beyond. ‘Our hearts are restless until they rest in God,’ Augustine said.”

  “But desires come and go,” Millie said.

  “Not this one. This one stays. Lewis recognized that, and one day he found the door was open. He knew then he could walk through or turn away.”

  “And he walked through?”

  “Yes, though he described himself as the most reluctant convert in all of England.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he would have been happy to remain an intellectual atheist. But his heart was set free when he heard the call. He had to respond. I heard the same thing one night in the lobby of the Nazareth Hotel. It was like beautiful music, not something we rationalize, just something we hear.”

  Holden paused a moment, his eyes looking at a secret place. “I’ve heard it described this way. Once your heart hears the music, it is never really happy unless it is dancing.”

  At that declaration Millie felt something open inside her. Since she’d known him, Jack Holden had laid bare his whole life, all of his feelings, openly. She had held back. No more.

  “Jack,” she said. “I will admit there have been some moments recently when I’ve thought about these things. But I’m just not there. I don’t know if I ever can be.”

  “Deadlock,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You’re deadlocked, like a 4-4 split on the Court. What you need, it appears, is a swing vote.”

  “Oh? And where might I find one of those?”

  The minister smiled. “Just listen for the mu
sic. Then you can decide what to do about it.”

  “Yes, well, it’s all very interesting to kick around, but – ”

  She stopped when she noticed Jack looking past her. She turned and saw a young doctor striding toward them. “Ms. Hollander?” he asked.

  Holden stood and helped Millie to her feet.

  “I’m Dr. Weinstein,” he said.

  “My mother?” Millie asked.

  “Come with me, won’t you?” He led them through a door to a quiet hallway. “I wanted to give you an update.”

  Millie found herself taking Holden’s arm. The way the doctor spoke gripped her with dread.

  “Your mother has had a stroke. We’ve stabilized her…”

  Millie squeezed Holden’s arm and felt his hand on hers.

  “… and of course we are going to do everything we can. We still need to run some more tests. She is comatose, Ms. Hollander. I understand you are her closest family member?”

  “That’s right,” Millie said, her voice sounding distant and fragile.

  “We are probably going to need some guidance here soon,” he said. “And you’ll need to begin thinking about that.”

  “Guidance?”

  “Heroic measures,” Dr. Weinstein said.

  6

  Washington, D.C., was Anne’s world. But New York City was her kind of town. She spent almost as much time there as she did in the Beltway. Even more of late, because her lover was there.

  As she sat across from Ambrosi Gallo at Ruby Foo’s, their favorite place in Times Square, she couldn’t help but wonder at the whole thing. Then again, maybe it was inevitable. She needed edge. Life was a big, fat farce without edge.

  She had learned that from her stepfather. He used to whisper in her ear, when he did things to her at night, when Mom was away on her business trips. She learned what life was really like in the places you thought were safe.

  She never thought anything was safe again, and had come not just to accept that rock-hard fact of life, but to embrace it. That was how you lived and stayed alive. The edge worked magic. It was, after all, what led her to Ambrosi Gallo.