Protect and Defend (26 page)

Watching, Sarah blessed the witness; with surprising tact, she had given Leary an exit, defusing their debate. “Could you elaborate,” Sarah asked Blake, “regarding the impact of this law on the Tierneys?”

“No one seems to ask how this girl got pregnant in the first place, besides the obvious—a crush on an older boy. So
I
asked.” Blake looked at Mary Ann Tierney with concern. “According to Mary Ann, she couldn’t talk to her mother about sex, and she knew that—for religious and moral reasons—her parents don’t believe in birth control. The one thing she recalls her mother saying about contraception for teenagers is that it promoted sex.”

Focusing on Blake, Sarah tried to block out the anguish this testimony must produce, both in Mary Ann and Margaret Tierney. “How does that affect Mary Ann?” she asked.

“Mary Ann,” Blake continued, “believes that her parents’ ‘rules,’ combined with their silence, left her unprepared to deal with her feelings for Tony—either emotionally or on the practical level of preventing pregnancy. Add their insistence that she bear the child that’s resulted, at whatever risk, and she feels great resentment toward
both
parents.”

At the edge of her vision, Sarah saw Martin Tierney gaze at his daughter with infinite sadness.

“Is there any way,” Sarah asked, “that the Tierneys can repair the damage?”

Blake frowned. “The two things which could help Mary Ann the most,” she answered, “are out of their control. First, that the baby dies at once. Second, that Mary Ann is able to bear more children—which, in the best of circumstances, she won’t know for years.”

“Will these things help repair the relationship?”

“It’s hard to know.” Blake’s brow knit, and she seemed to study her folded hands. “One thing she said to me is critical:
‘I got the wrong parents, Dr. Blake. How many families would take their own daughter to court?’
”

In the quiet courtroom, none of the Tierneys—parents and child—could face each other.

Sarah allowed the judge, pensive now, to regard the stricken people before him. “No further questions,” she said, and then Leary called a recess.

W
HEN
M
ARTIN
T
IERNEY
rose to cross-examine, Sarah felt a hush descend. Beside her, Mary Ann gazed listlessly at the table.

Tierney himself appeared hollowed out—his eyes were bleak, his bearing less erect. Blake regarded him from the witness stand with an unflinching attention which, Sarah guessed, she maintained only with great effort.

“What,” Tierney asked her, “are your religious beliefs, if any?”

Startled, Sarah stood. “I object, Your Honor. The question invades the witness’s privacy, and has nothing to do with her testimony.”

“This case invades our privacy,” Tierney countered with
sudden anger. “The media invades our privacy. Ms. Dash and the witness invade our privacy. As for whether religious beliefs are irrelevant, Dr. Blake has treated ours as a symptom of familial dysfunction. It’s only fair to ask Dr. Blake what, if anything, she believes in. Besides herself.”

“Go ahead,” Leary said to Blake. “Answer the question.”

Blake hesitated, then faced Tierney. “I was raised as an Episcopalian,” she answered tersely.

“And now?”

“I have no formal beliefs.”

“Do you believe in God?”

Blake glanced at Sarah. But they had not expected, or prepared for, this line of attack. “Not as a patriarchal figure,” she responded. “Beyond that, I believe that there’s a balance in nature—that the good we do creates more good, and the evil we do to others harms ourselves. But whether that reflects a divine presence, or what its nature might be, is impossible for me to know. Or, with respect, for you to know.”

For a moment, Tierney regarded her in silence. “Do you believe that life is sacred from the moment of conception?”

Blake’s brow furrowed in thought. “What I believe,” she answered, “is that a fetus is a potential life, worthy of respect. But not inviolate in every circumstance.”

“Is it inviolate in
any
circumstance?”

Blake hesitated. “Without an example, I don’t know how to answer that.”

“All right. Do you believe that a woman—even a minor— has the right to abort a fetus if she wants to?”

“After careful thought, and prior to viability, yes.”

“What about without careful thought, Dr. Blake? Does she have the absolute right, for any reason, to snuff out this ‘potential life’?”

Blake folded her arms. “I might not approve of her reason. But I believe she has that right.”

“Suppose that a woman in the eighth month of pregnancy, with a fully viable and healthy fetus, decided that having a child was too stressful. Does she have the moral right to abort that fetus?”

“Objection,” Sarah said at once. “That’s not the law, nor is it this case.”

“It
could
be,” Tierney answered. “Much like her uncertainty regarding the existence of God, Dr. Blake can’t know that our grandson won’t be ‘normal.’ And she bases much of her opinion on the emotional damage to Mary Ann—”

“I’ll allow it,” Leary interrupted. Powerless, Sarah sat.

“The circumstances
are
different,” Blake answered. “I’d have to know more …”

“But morally you don’t rule it out.”

There was a long silence, and then Blake shrugged. “Regardless of the woman, or her circumstances? No.”

“It seems, Dr. Blake, that you have difficulty imagining
any
circumstances in which abortion isn’t a woman’s right.”

Blake straightened. “No one likes abortion,” she replied. “I surely don’t. The question is what harm you do by ordering pregnant women to have children. As you’re about to find out.”

Watching, Sarah felt a wave of relief—Blake was holding her own. Softly, Tierney asked her, “Do you doubt that Margaret and I love Mary Ann? Or that it’s possible for us, believing as we do, to love our daughter
and
our unborn grandson?”

“No. I don’t doubt either.”

“Yet you ascribe to Mary Ann the feeling that we’ve chosen him over her. Is that a mature reaction?”

Blake adjusted her glasses, and then met Tierney’s eyes again. “I wouldn’t call it mature or immature. Under the circumstances, I’d call it understandable.”

Tierney put his hands on his hips. “And based on seven hours with our daughter, you believe you know—better than Margaret and I—how violating her own religious beliefs would affect her.”

“Yes,” Blake answered. “Based on that, and fifteen years of experience in treating and studying adolescent girls.”

“But Mary Ann is a particular adolescent girl, with whom
we
have fifteen years of experience. For the record, did you try to interview
us?
”

“No.”

“Or her teachers?”

“No.”

“Or her relatives?”

“No.”

“Or her priest?”

“No.” Blake’s voice rose slightly. “Mary Ann familiarized me with her family life, as well as with the viewpoint of her relatives and priest. If you’re suggesting that their opposition will make abortion more traumatic, I’d answer that it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. For which you bear the most responsibility.”

Stymied, Tierney seemed to gather himself for a fresh assault; to Sarah, it seemed that all of his anguish and humiliation was focused on Jessica Blake. “Isn’t it true,” he demanded, “that the emotional impact of late-term abortion is far more severe than in the first or second trimester?”

“It can be, yes. Because it almost always involves severe fetal anomalies in a wanted child.”

“Didn’t Mary Ann want this child?”

“Before the sonogram? She believed she did.”

“‘Believed,’” Tierney repeated mockingly. “So wanting a child is a transient feeling? Might wanting to abort it be a transient feeling?”

Blake hesitated, breaking the rhythm of their conflict. “Professor Tierney,” she said, “why don’t you turn, and look at your fifteen-year-old daughter. She’s gone to court, in the face of your opposition, to safeguard her capacity to bear children. Tell me that’s a ‘transient feeling.’”

Frozen, Tierney stared at her. It was Leary, in an involuntary reflex, who turned to see Mary Ann gaze steadily at the back of her father’s head.

“Do you believe,” Tierney demanded, “that adoption is traumatic for the mother?”

“In many instances, yes.”

“And in those instances the mother should take the fetus’s life, to spare herself more pain?”

“Should? No.”

“But she has that right.”

Blake hesitated. “Yes.”

“So the mother is all, the unborn child nothing?”

“That’s not my position,” Blake said with asperity. “And no one will be lining up to adopt this child.”

“Two people are,” Tierney retorted. “Margaret and me. We care about him, and our daughter, more than you can ever know. That’s why we’re here.

“I don’t need you to make me look at her. We don’t need you to explain her to us. We’ve loved her since the day she was born, and we’ll love her long after you’ve forgotten what little you know of her. So never, ever condescend to us the way you have. Let alone flatter yourself that
you
know best.”

Blake stared back at him. Angry, Sarah stood. “That’s not a question,” she said. “It’s a speech, and an offensive one.”

Ignoring Sarah, Tierney stared at Jessica Blake, as though to underscore her arrogance. “No further questions,” he said.

Rising for redirect, Sarah asked, “Do you contend that religious beliefs have no place in the area of abortion?”

“I think they’re quite important. The question is
whose
beliefs—mine? Congress’s? The Tierneys’? Or are Mary Ann’s beliefs the ones that matter most?” Glancing at Martin Tierney, Blake said firmly, “I’ve concluded that only Mary Ann is capable of deciding what her beliefs are, and what role they play in her decision.”

With that, Sarah prepared to sit down.

Blake leaned forward. “I’d like to add one thing more.”

“Please do.”

“Religion can yield some curious inconsistencies as to how we value life. Recently, my colleagues and I surveyed states with the most restrictive laws to curb abortion—many of which laws were enacted at the urging of groups with strong religious ties.” Blake turned to Leary. “What we expected to find was that those states compensated with more liberal programs to support the neediest children, encourage foster homes, provide early childhood education, and facilitate adoption of older children and those with physical or mental disabilities.

“The reality was just the opposite—the states which placed the most restrictions on abortion provided
the fewest
protections for the children that resulted.
This
law provides none at all.”

Pausing, Blake considered Martin Tierney, then chose her words with care. “Professor Tierney is fully willing to help sustain his own grandchild. But I’ve become leery of religious advocacy for laws which only value a ‘life’ until it’s born.”

This was the perfect place to end. “No further questions,” Sarah said.

F
ROM THE
moment she met Senator Chad Palmer, Caroline felt an awkward subtext—her debt to him. When he graciously asked Ellen Penn, her escort, if he could visit with Caroline alone, her unease grew: she had not resolved what, if anything, she should say regarding Brett.

He led her through his suite in the Russell Building to a commodious office in which—unlike those of most public men—the only photographs were of his wife and daughter. Sitting across from him, Caroline reflected that he was one of the few senators whose interest for her transcended how he affected her ambitions.

Palmer was a striking man, with the youthful blond good looks and careless manner of someone who had always excelled without much effort. Yet Caroline knew how dearly Palmer had paid, in mind and body, for his awareness, always lightly stated, that “there are worse things in the world than losing an election.” What she found most arresting were his level blue eyes, suggesting a self-knowledge which made possible the surface ease. Edgy, she waited for him to indicate why he wished to meet in private.

“Baseball,” Palmer said. “How much do you know about it?” Caroline smiled in surprise. “A fair amount.” “Then you’ll probably be confirmed.” Palmer sat back in the chair, stretching his arms as, almost imperceptibly, he studied her. “When Bob Bork came to visit, he had no facility for small talk—I wondered if he’d ever been to a movie. But Justice Kennedy could talk baseball. You’ll notice who made it to the Court.”

“I know much more than Tony Kennedy,” Caroline informed him. “For example, in 1941 Ted Williams hit .406. No one’s hit .400 since.”

“That’s good,” Palmer rejoined. “But do you know the best thing about Williams?”

“That he was a fighter pilot?”

“Even I can do that—or could.” Palmer assumed the mock-heroic tones of a narrator on an old newsreel. “On the last day of the 1941 season, with Williams hitting .401, his manager offered to keep him out of a doubleheader to preserve his average. But Ted Williams refused, and got five hits. The act of a true American.”

Though delivered with humor, Caroline sensed that the story had significance to Palmer; Ted Williams had nerve, and his record wasn’t cheap. Abruptly, Palmer angled his head toward a television in the corner of his office. “Have you been watching this?”

Turning, Caroline saw Sarah Dash, questioning a scholarly looking woman on a soundless screen. “Of course not,” she answered. “If I watched, I might form an opinion. I’m told having opinions is lethal.”

Palmer smiled at this. “So the President’s people have put you through the blender. Still, do you think this trial should be televised?”

“No. I don’t.”

He cocked his head. “Why not? You let them televise your Carelli trial.”

So this was more than surface patter. “In the Carelli trial,” Caroline answered, “the defense requested it …”

“And the prosecutor objected, right?”