Protect and Defend (40 page)

At this, Margaret Tierney briefly closed her eyes; Sarah scrawled her first note—“fear of infertility.” Face radiating sympathy, Saunders moved closer, “When you speak of Mary Ann …”

“She was depressed, more profoundly than I’d ever seen. She couldn’t stop crying. Finally, she told us that she didn’t want a baby with no brain.”

All at once, Sarah understood where this was going. “Could you talk to her?” Saunders asked.

“No. The shock was just too great, I think.” Tierney’s voice became even quieter, more pensive; to Sarah, his recitation, however heartfelt, seemed rehearsed. “This was the only time I’d seen Mary Ann’s concern for innocent life fail her. Which is so unlike her that now she seems a different girl. I fear the day she has an abortion and then awakens to what she’s done.”

Saunders, too, looked troubled. “Between the sonogram and the day Ms. Dash filed this lawsuit, how much time had passed?”

“Three weeks.”

“And in those three weeks, did Mary Ann
ever
express a fear of infertility?”

“No.” Tierney’s voice was melancholy. “Never.”

With this, the thrust of Tierney’s testimony struck home: Mary Ann was committing euthanasia—not from fear of infertility—but out of horror at a defective child. “And what,” Saunders asked her father, “does that compel you to conclude?”

“That our daughter’s groping for a plausible reason. That far too much has happened to her, far too quickly, for her to absorb.” Now Tierney turned to Sarah in accusation. “And that she’s being used by others, whose beliefs at heart she does not share, who can never comprehend the harm that they will do her.”

In the silence, this time extended by Saunders, Sarah’s fingertips gripped the table. “Is that why you intervened?” Saunders asked.

“We had no choice. What kind of world would we live in if parents ignore a moral wrong which only they can stop?” Once more, Tierney’s voice became lower. “But principles in such a case are cold comfort without love. We deeply love our daughter, and we know her. And so we
know
that, in the depths of her soul, her son will always be a life. And that to take his life will traumatize her forever.

“But it’s not just
his
life. It’s the countless lives which will be lost if she succeeds in bringing down this law.”

At last, Martin Tierney faced his daughter. “Because of this trial, Mary Ann will never live in privacy. And—if Ms. Dash should prevail—Mary Ann will bear the weight of
every
child who dies. Death upon death, abortion on abortion, they will drive her to despair.”

In shock and anger, Sarah felt each word come down on Mary Ann: a father’s judgment, more punishing than blows. Turning, she saw the girl’s lower lip tremble as she tried to fight back tears.

Her father gazed at her, and then turned to Patrick Leary. “Unless
you
stop this,” Tierney finished. “That’s what I’m asking, Your Honor, as a father who loves his daughter more than life. Because winning this case will destroy her as surely as it destroys her son.”

W
ALKING TOWARD
Martin Tierney, Sarah saw no one else, felt nothing but the need to take him down. On the stand, Tierney watched her with cold dislike.

“That was quite a speech,” she said. “Very Old Testament. So let’s start out with a catalog of sin.”

Silent, Tierney waited. “Do you believe in birth control?” Sarah asked.

“No.”

“Because it’s a sin?”

For an instant, Tierney looked annoyed, then composed himself. “Because life is a gift from God.”

“And so,” Sarah persisted, “birth control is a sin.”

Tierney pulled on the lapels of his suit coat, straightening its line. “I believe it’s wrong.”

“So it also would have been wrong to tell your daughter about birth control.”

“Yes.”

“Does
she
believe that’s wrong?”

Tierney hesitated. “So I’ve always thought.”

“Did she form that belief when she was ten?”

“I don’t know …”

“Or fifteen?”

Tierney sat straighter. “I can’t assign a time, Ms. Dash. Obviously, the older one gets, the deeper the context of one’s beliefs …”

“Or the greater one’s opportunity to change them?”

Tierney gave her the guarded smile of an adversary. “Hopefully, one’s sense of right and wrong is less elastic.”

“Such as beliefs regarding abortion.”

“Yes.”

Sarah cocked her head. “Do you believe that abortion is justified in cases of rape or incest?”

“No. Regardless of its genesis, a fetus is a life.”

“Does Mary Ann believe that?”

Tierney glanced toward his wife. “I always thought so.”

Sarah raised her eyebrows. “Really? When did she form
that
belief?”

Tierney folded his hands. “I can’t give you an hour, Ms. Dash. Or a day.”

“Or a year?”

“No.”

“So you don’t know whether, at age seven, your daughter believed that incest did not justify abortion?”

“Objection,” Saunders called out. “This is nothing more than badgering the witness.”

Holding up her hand, Sarah kept her eyes on Martin Tierney. “Does Mary Ann also oppose the death penalty?” she asked.

Once more, Tierney paused to straighten his suit coat. “Vehemently.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’m her father,” Tierney answered with weary patience. “I’ve talked with her about it, read her school papers on the subject …”

“Read them, or wrote them?”

“Objection,” Saunders called out.

“Sustained,” Leary said promptly. “Please accord Professor Tierney more respect.”

Like he accorded Mary Ann
, Sarah wished to add. “Mary Ann attended prayer vigils,” she said to Tierney, “outside San Quentin. When did
that
start?”

“At age eleven, I believe.”

“Did Mary Ann
ask to
go?”

This time, Tierney glanced at his daughter. “Margaret and I took her. We believed that it was part of her moral education.”

“So her appearance at San Quentin was compulsory.”

Tierney frowned. “For a child to learn,” he answered, “parents have to teach. And Mary Ann was willing.”

Sarah appraised him. “In your view, does a proper ‘moral education’ also include a commitment to nonviolence?”

Tierney paused; Sarah guessed that he was wondering whether she had read his writings. “Yes. With rare exceptions.”

“Then let me ask you a philosophical question. If this were 1940, and you could assassinate Hitler—knowing of his plan to annihilate Jews—would you do it?”

Tierney gazed back at her, his pale eyes unblinking. “No,” he answered. “Any more than I would murder an abortion provider, despite my belief that—like Hitler—he’s performing legalized murder. Because I
also
believe in passive resistance, as practiced by Gandhi and Martin Luther King.”

“I won’t quibble with you, Professor, about whether sit-ins could have stopped the Holocaust. But I would observe that your beliefs regarding life are unusually rigorous and demanding.” Pausing, Sarah cocked her head. “When did you form them?”

From his expression, combining discomfort and defensiveness, Tierney understood where this might lead. “It began in college,” he finally answered. “And continued in graduate school, deepened by reading both philosophers and theologians.”

“And was further deepened by your service in Vietnam, I believe you’ve written. Because of the brutality you witnessed.”

“Yes.”

“So you didn’t form this belief when you were ten.”

“No.”

“Or fifteen?”

Tierney’s gaze became a stare. “No.”

“So is it fair to conclude, Professor, that your beliefs respecting life were formed as a result of maturation, education, and difficult personal experience?”

Tierney crossed his arms. “In my case,” he answered. “But that’s not the only path—”

“Isn’t it possible,” Sarah interrupted, “that Mary Ann has come to
her
belief regarding this tragic situation as a result of maturation, education, and difficult personal experience?”

“A
transient
belief …”

“Specifically,” Sarah continued, “by being fifteen and not eleven; by exposure to beliefs different
than your
beliefs; and by facing the difficult personal experience of a hydrocephalic fetus.”

Tierney stiffened. “As I was trying to say, Ms. Dash, people come to their beliefs in different ways. As an adolescent, I was on my own. But we helped Mary Ann form
her
beliefs from an early age. Her confusion
now
is transient …”

“Is it? Why on earth, Professor Tierney, is the threat of infertility at age fifteen more ‘transient’ than you dragging her to a prayer vigil at age eleven?”

A flush stained Tierney’s pallid checks. “
This
experience is too colored by emotion …”

“Unlike
your
experience in Vietnam? Isn’t what’s happening that Mary Ann’s begun to form her own beliefs, and
you
can’t stand that?”

“No,” Tierney snapped, then contained himself. “Her mother and I are acting to protect her …”

“By putting a virtual curse on her head on national television—that your fifteen-year-old daughter will ‘bear the weight of
every
child who dies’? Isn’t the trauma you’re
really
concerned about
not
to Mary Ann, but to
you?
”

“That is
not
true.”

“Isn’t it?” Sarah said with real anger. “Isn’t this entire trial a massive case of parental projection?”

Tierney paused, forcing himself to take a swallow of water. “It is not,” he answered with a show of calm. “That you imply I so lack self-awareness—that I’ve pursued this trial to meet my own emotional needs—is an insult. It’s an
insult
, Ms. Dash, that zealots like you can use to disparage any parent who, loving his child, charts a different course than whatever pleases
you
.”

Sarah stared at him, then chose her next weapon. “Did you and Mrs. Tierney want more children?”

To Sarah, Tierney’s eyes resembled chips of ice. “Objection,” Saunders called out. “What possible relevance does
this
have?”

“Oh,” Sarah said to Leary, “Professor Tierney knows. If you’ll let him answer the question,
he’ll
establish relevance.”

Leary seemed to study Tierney’s expression. “You may answer, Professor Tierney.”

“Yes.” Tierney seemed to bite off the word.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because Margaret couldn’t.”

“Because she’d had a classical cesarean section, you mean?”

Silent, Tierney glanced at his wife. “Specifically,” Sarah pressed, “wasn’t your wife told that—as a result of the C-section required to give birth to Mary Ann—further childbirth was a serious risk to health?”

Slowly, Tierney nodded. “Yes,” he answered in a weary tone. “But the medical facts were different.”

“Really?” Sarah placed her hands on her hips. “Was Mary Ann aware of her mother’s cesarean section?”

“Of course she was.”

“Did she also know that her mother had been advised to have no more children?”

“Yes.”

“That must have been painful for your wife.”

“Yes. It was.”

Sarah paused a moment. “And how was it for you, Professor?”

For a moment, Tierney looked resentful, as though—ironic to Sarah—his daughter had betrayed their privacy. Then he answered calmly, “It was painful for us both.”

“Yet you made quite a point of saying that Mary Ann was appalled by a defective fetus, and never mentioned infertility as grounds for an abortion.” Pausing, Sarah shook her head in wonder. “But it was entirely unnecessary, wasn’t it, for Mary Ann to discuss with you her
own
fear of infertility.”

“There was nothing to stop her …”

“In fact,” Sarah went on, “from the moment they both saw the sonogram she knew her
mother
also was afraid for her.”

Briefly, Tierney hesitated. “I assume so.”

“And she also knew how distressed you were that you couldn’t have more children.”

Tierney glanced toward Mary Ann. “We both tried very hard,” he answered, “not to burden her with that.”

“And yet both of you also told her that she
must
give birth to a hydrocephalic child. Despite the risk of infertility.”

Tierney crossed his arms. “There are times,” he said succinctly, “when what is morally right is trying, even harsh. But this child is a life, and therefore inviolate.”

Sarah stared at him in incredulity. “Didn’t Mary Ann have a very compelling personal reason—her fear of repeating her mother’s sad experience—to reach a different conclusion?”

“She never once invoked that …”

“Why should she have to? She’d seen the sonogram dredge up for her own mother the disappointment that followed
her own
birth. And
Mary Ann
, unlike her mother, was unlikely to get a normal baby in return.” Sarah paused, finishing in a lower voice. “She
knew
all that, and yet both of
you
insisted that she take this pregnancy to term. So talking to you about infertility was pointless, wasn’t it.”

Tierney folded his hands in front of him. “If you think we haven’t agonized as parents—both of us—you’re completely wrong.

“As parents, we’re striving to act for her well-being, and to balance the long-term emotional damage against her more immediate distress. That includes the very hard task—made infinitely more terrible by
your
lawsuit—of hewing to a belief in the value of life which Mary Ann has always shared. And, we are confident, still does.”

“‘Confident,’” Sarah repeated. “But Mary Ann’s not even
living
with you, is she? Because she finds it impossible to live with you while you’re opposing her in court.”

“Only for the duration of the trial …”

“And also because, in her eyes, you’re putting your own beliefs above her fear of infertility.”

“If that’s
her
belief, it’s far too harsh.”

“Yet your expert, Dr. Gersten, testified that a central purpose of this law is to promote closeness within the family.”