Deadlock (12 page)

If there was any difference it was that fewer people seemed to be out at this time of day. She could remember balmy summer evenings when the streets were teeming with families. That was in the early sixties. When cable TV got to the valley, people stayed indoors more. They could watch the tube, and also avoid the bad things they thought might float down from San Francisco or up from Los Angeles.

Millie found a bench facing the town’s only fountain — a double decker erected by the Rotary in ’59 and dedicated to the fallen heroes of World War II. She settled into the bench and opened the book she’d brought with her,
On Death and Dying.
There was barely enough light to read.

“Howdy.”

Millie looked up. Jack Holden stood there, dressed in casual blue jeans and a T-shirt — as if he were a rancher or a farmhand. He still had that odd bead necklace on. She hoped he would not ask to join her.

“May I join you?” he said.

She nodded reluctantly.

Holden sat down. “Saw you over here and thought I’d apologize for earlier. I think I sort of hit the wrong note.”

“Thank you. I apologize, too. I was a little tired from my trip.”
You can go now.

“See, I’ve got this little problem. People sometimes think I’m a little, what’s the word I’m looking for . . .”

Obnoxious?

“Persistent,” Holden said. “I get a little carried away sometimes, especially when I talk about the church. But it saved my life, you see, so I guess that’s why.”

Millie gave him a quick nod but said nothing. She did not want to invite further conversation.

“So,” Holden said. “What are you reading?”

Millie placed her hand over the cover of her paperback. “Oh, just a little book.”

“Like to read myself,” Holden said. “Wish I had more time for it.”

Shifting uncomfortably — her blouse was sticking to her back — Millie cleared her throat in a way she hoped would finally end the conversation.

“May I ask you a question that’s a little personal?” Holden said.

No.
“Personal?”

“I don’t mean to be . . . persistent. You can tell me to go jump in the lake if you want to.”

“What’s the question?”

“We’ve been praying for you, after your accident and all. I was just wondering how you’re feeling. Not just physically, but every way.”

She didn’t know which she liked less. The fact that he was looking at her so seriously, or the fact that she almost wanted to answer him.

“Reverend Holden?”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps that jump in the lake?”

Holden put his head back and laughed. “I will respect your privacy,” he said. “But I wonder if I might try this again. Would you do me the honor of attending my church on Sunday?”

Millie had to at least admire his persistence. “Thank you, that’s very nice, but I’m just not a churchgoer.”

“Well, we don’t discriminate at our church. Non-churchgoers are welcome.”

She shook her head slightly. “Again, thanks for the invitation.”

Holden didn’t leave. “It really would be an honor to have a Supreme Court justice visit us. Though in the interest of full disclosure, I must tell you that I don’t agree with your judicial opinions most of the time.”

She was aghast. Not so much that he would disagree with her, but that he had read enough of her opinions to reach such a judgment. “You’ve actually read my opinions?”

“All of them,” he said.

“But why?”

“Why not? I’m a citizen. And your mother is, after all, a member of my flock.” He stood up and nodded. “Well, hope to see you on Sunday. Thanks for the chat.” And with that he turned and walked away.

Stunned, she watched him go, noticing for the first time that he had a slight limp. Now
she
was curious. He had, in the last few minutes, transformed from a stereotype to a man of much more complexity.

A clergyman who read her opinions? Now she wanted to know just why he disagreed with her. She wanted to ask
him
questions, like she would have done to a lawyer arguing before her. For a moment she considered calling him back.

“Don’t,” she said out loud. Then she forced herself back into her book. But, unable to concentrate, she finally gave up and walked back to her mother’s house.

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1

The trick to fighting depression, Sam Levering thought, was to keep busy. You could busy yourself with staff work, public ceremonies, drink, female companionship — any one of a number of items from a United States senator’s playbook. And he had tried them all.

That was true now, as he pounded his way out of the chamber of the Judiciary Committee. He had been unable to concentrate on the hearing, even though it was an easy one. President Francis had sent Preston Atkins, a judge from the Second Circuit, as his nominee to fill the vacancy created by Ed Pavel’s retirement.

The media were full of speculation about who would assume the CJ’s chair, especially after the accident involving Millicent Mannings Hollander. Most assumed Hollander was going to get the nod.

But Atkins brought his own set of credentials. Described by Francis as “middle of the road,” Atkins was really a staunch social liberal. The conservatives were making a lot of noise, but Atkins was handling the questioning with poise and equanimity. He was going to sail through, despite a few bumpy waves.

Yet Levering couldn’t keep his mind focused. He’d been distracted by a simple phrase one of the opponents had said in the middle of an argument. “We cannot leave our children with that legacy.”

Children.

Thoughts of his son raced into Levering’s mind, stronger than they had in a long time. Levering had fought against all thoughts and feelings about his son. But sometimes nothing seemed to help.

So, though it was only eleven in the morning, Sam Levering was on his way back to his office for a drink. He turned toward the east corridor when he heard his name called. It was Anne Deveraux.

“Don’t you ever rest?” he said.

“What’s rest?”

“I’m about to have lunch.”
Bourbon,
he thought.

“Want to hear the latest on Hollander?”

“Yes.”

Anne looked around. No one was within earshot. “She was talking to, get this, a minister.”

“Minister?”

“Yeah. Heads up a little church. Now isn’t that curious?”

Levering ran his tongue over his dry lips. He hated the word
minister.
It had been a minister who ruined his son’s life. What was Hollander doing consorting with one of that ilk?

“Bottom line, what do you think it means?”

“Maybe nothing,” Anne said. “Maybe something. It appeared to be a somewhat casual conversation, according to my source. But it went on for a bit.”

It better not be more than casual,
Levering thought.
Not for his pick for chief justice.
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid? I mean, isn’t her mother a churchgoer or something like that?”

“Something like that,” Anne said.

“So what’s your gut instinct?”

Anne looked at him over her sunglasses. “I think Madame Justice is not herself these days.”

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2

Charlene Moore felt her legs trembling. But she had to stand for her opening statement.

The courtroom was huge, especially compared to the state court satellites she was used to. Judge Howard Lewis seemed to be a hundred feet in the air atop his bench, looking down like an Olympian god. And the majestic eagle rendered on the shield that adorned the wall seemed ready to drop the olive branches in its talons and swoop down, mercilessly, on Charlene.

And every member of the jury seemed better dressed than Charlene.

But they were people. She reminded herself of the advice she’d given Sarah Mae’s mother. She was going to tell them the story as if she were talking to people in her living room.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Charlene said. Most of the jurors nodded at her.

“As you know, my name is Charlene Moore, and I represent Sarah Mae Sherman.”

Charlene turned to her client. “Sarah Mae, would you please stand?”

The girl, looking terrified, got to her feet. Her plain summer dress — pastel blue — was hanging on her like a tablecloth draped over a chair. She tried to look at the jurors, but her eyes kept glancing down toward the floor.

“Thank you, Sarah Mae,” Charlene said. Sarah Mae returned to her seat.

“Sarah Mae Sherman did not grow up in a nice part of town. Her mother, Aggie, has been raising Sarah Mae alone since her husband left the family ten years ago. Life has not been easy for them. Like many girls her age, Sarah Mae dreamed of one day moving to the big city, making her way in the world.”

Charlene saw in her mind’s eye the flash of a picture — herself, a little girl dreaming of a singing career.

“One day she met a boy and fell in love. He was older than she was, and he paid attention to her. Bought her things. Took her to the movies. Told her she was pretty. But when Sarah Mae told him she was pregnant, he told her she was a loser and she’d better get rid of it — that’s what he called the baby,
it
— and forget about ever seeing him again.”

Charlene paused, taking time to look at each of the jurors’ faces.

“Sarah Mae was scared, like any girl would be. She didn’t know where to go, who to turn to. She feared telling her own mama. But she did see a sign stapled to a telephone pole. ‘In trouble?’ the sign asked. ‘Find help you can trust.’ And it gave the name and phone number of a clinic run by the National Parental Planning Group right there in Dudley.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you will hear exactly how this clinic abused my client’s trust. You will hear how the law was willfully broken by the doctor, Michael Sager, who is sitting at the defense table.”

Charlene paused and turned toward the defense table, where Winsor sat next to Dr. Sager. Sager was in his late forties and dressed in an expensive gray suit. Apparently he didn’t feel he needed to hide the fact that he was a success.

“You will hear how the requirement that the patient be fully informed of the nature and risks of a medical procedure was ignored. You will hear what happened as a result.

“Five months after the abortion she knew little about, Sarah Mae Sherman learned exactly what she had been carrying inside her womb. She learned what her baby looked like, what its heartbeat sounded like, exactly what she had given up at the hands of those understanding people at the NPPG.

“And you will hear about the torment that Sarah Mae suffered as a result. About the nightmares that would not stop, about the night she couldn’t take it anymore, got a razor blade, and slit her wrists.”

Charlene had to pause a moment. She was feeling electric currents snapping through her.

“And then you will hear how the nightmares kept coming until Sarah Mae ran out to a bridge to throw herself off. But she was rescued just in time, by a minister. Why, you might wonder. You might also come to believe it is so she could be here to tell you the whole sordid story.”

Beau Winsor stood up. “Objection. Counsel is pushing the limits of acceptability here.”

“Sustained,” Judge Lewis said.

Charlene waited until Winsor sat down. He took his time doing it.

“When you have heard all of the testimony,” she said to the jury, “I will be asking you to deliver a verdict that will punish this clinic and the doctor involved so that other girls like Sarah Mae will not suffer at their hands, or the hands of those like them.”

She turned and walked back to counsel table. She noticed that Sarah Mae had tiny tears in the rims of her eyes.

Now it was Winsor’s turn. He was dressed to absolute perfection. His deep blue suit had fine, muted pinstripes. The effect was not “rich lawyer” but “dignified professional.”

Charlene felt an ice ball in her stomach. She thought, suddenly, that she was not in this man’s league. He had not lost a jury trial in twenty-five years.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Winsor said. His honeyed drawl was not overbearing. It seemed to reach out and embrace everyone in court.