The Court (12 page)

“But how can you be so damned sure!”

Gibson's eyes seemed almost to glitter. “The damage occurred during the late evening,” he said. “I was asked to fly to Washington at once. I arrived this morning. I conferred with Dr. Kaufman and the other members of his medical team, then we ran extensive tests. As you know, this facility has the newest and best of all diagnostic equipment. Nothing was spared. Everything that medical science has to offer was used, Mrs. Howell.” Gibson's voice dropped slightly as he continued. “Had he not been in a hospital and hooked up the way he is, he would have died a natural death. As it is, our machines took up the slack. They are doing his breathing. They make his heart beat. They provide for continued circulation of blood throughout his body. But there are no electrical impulses coming from the brain. I know it is difficult to face, but your husband is dead.”

“He is like hell!” She jumped up, feeling rage at this cold impersonal man. “I just saw him! His color is good. His chest moves up and down. He's alive!”

“Please, Mrs. Howell.” Dr. Kaufman stood up and put his arm around her. “Please sit down. I know this is a shock. It always is.”

“This happens often?” she asked as Kaufman guided her back to her chair.

“Often enough, I'm afraid. Oh, it can occur because of a number of causes, not just stroke. Our science seems to have outdistanced our medical art. We lack the ability to save such patients. What Dr. Gibson says is true, legal death occurs when the brain dies.”

“Who says that? Who the hell says that a machine can pronounce death?” Her anger was subsiding, and the effect of their dreadful news was beginning to weigh upon her.

“Your husband's court, as a matter of fact,” Dr. Gibson answered quietly.

“Well, he's not dead. I don't care what your machines say.”

Kaufman remained standing. He absently continued to pat her arm.

Gibson spoke. This time there was a hard edge to the tone of his voice. “He is dead, Mrs. Howell. He died last night. What you see as breathing is due only to the devices connected to the body. When the devices stop, everything stops.”

“Those machines had better not stop.” She had intended the words to be calm and forceful, but her voice rasped into a savage snarl.

Gibson showed no reaction. “In cases such as this, yours is the normal reaction,” he said casually. “But usually, after the family discusses it, most people choose the course of shutting down the machines.”

“That's murder!”

Gibson shook his head. “No. It is all quite legal, and properly so. Most organized religions recognize the right, as they say, to pull the plug. At least they do, in these circumstances.”

Martha Howell knew that her mind was recording this scene, that it would be etched forever in her memory, but it seemed so unreal, like an episode in a horror movie. She wished it was the cold-eyed Dr. Gibson who was lying in a room down the hall, so quietly asleep.

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Howell, those are the facts,” Gibson continued. “A decision has to be made. It doesn't have to be made immediately. Sometimes nature itself makes the decision, the kidneys fail, or the heart. Dr. Kaufman says you have grown children. If I were you, I would consult with them, and with your clergyman. They can help you in making your decision.”

She hated those hard blue eyes. “I've made my decision. No one touches those machines!”

Dr. Gibson stood up, towering over her. For the first time a hint of emotion seemed to play briefly on his long features. “As I say, your reaction is quite normal. My deepest sympathy, Mrs. Howell.” He did not extend his hand, but turned and walked from the room.

“He's a monster,” she snapped.

Dr. Kaufman sat down. He looked tired and ill at ease. “No. He sees only the most difficult cases. He has, I think, built up some strong defense mechanisms, not only against feelings he might have for the patients he encounters, but also against the natural reaction of their loved ones.”

She shook her head. She felt hot tears as they began to roll down one cheek.

Dr. Kaufman bit his upper lip nervously, then spoke. “Mrs. Howell, I think most people in your circumstances usually consider what decision the patient might have made, if he or she had the power to do so. You know your husband. If he could speak to you, what do you think he would advise?”

She stared at him.

“Com'on,” he said, getting up and helping her from her chair. “You come along to my office. You can make calls there, or just lie down for a while.”

She shook her head. “No.” The tears were unstoppable now. “I just want to go back to Brian. I want to be with my husband.”

*   *   *

Amos Deering sat at his cluttered desk, scrolling through the dozens of e-mail notes that had collected in his “in” box.

Ed Huntington, the President's chief of staff, poked his head in the doorway.

“Got a minute, Amos?”

Deering looked up. Usually he was summoned to Huntington's office.

“Sure.”

“Let's take a walk. I'd like to get a bit of fresh air,” Huntington said.

“It's raining.”

“You have a raincoat, use it.”

Deering slipped into his loose poplin coat and followed Huntington out into the White House grounds.

The rain had diminished to just a drizzle, but it was cold and Deering could feel his beard and hair getting wet.

Huntington didn't seem to notice.

“I'm glad I got a chance to talk to you,” Deering said. “The President has scheduled a press conference for tomorrow to discuss that damn Middle East thing. That will be the second press conference this week. Look, Ed, I can understand his wanting exposure, but it's dangerous, one of these hurry-up press conferences is liable to backfire. He can't go in there half-briefed, not when he's dealing with these Washington news sharks. They allow him to get away with some fuzzy answers now, but as soon as the honeymoon is over, these people will scramble his ass.”

“Even Reagan did all right at those things. And he was no rocket scientist.”

Deering grunted. “He didn't hold them at this rate. Besides, he might have looked casual but he was a programmed talking machine. Ed, without adequate preparation, a press conference can be a disaster.”

Huntington nodded to a security officer as they walked past him. “I'll tell the man your concerns, but frankly I don't think he'll change.”

“Another thing, Ed. If you hold too many of these things and the press corps gets used to it, then when a time comes when the President doesn't want to go public on something for a while, just the absence of press conference becomes a hell of a story.”

“I said I'll tell him,” Huntington snapped. “How's your man coming with the dean?”

“You mean Jerry Green?”

“Yes.”

“That's right. I forgot you didn't know him,” Deering said. “You weren't with us in the old days.”

“Amos, I asked you how Green was coming along with the Pentecost matter?”

“Christ, he just got to Michigan. I told him time was important. He'll do a job, but he isn't a miracle worker.” Deering cupped his hands around a cigarette and managed to light it despite the drizzle. “A thing like this takes time, a couple of weeks. That's if you want a good job done. You certainly don't want anybody like her ladyship on the Court.”

Huntington nodded. “No. We want to know exactly what we're getting. The President doesn't want any surprises.”

“Anyway, what's the hurry? Howell is still unconscious, isn't he?”

Huntington stopped and casually glanced around. They were alone. “According to my reports he's had a second stroke. He's suffered brain death. The machines keep him breathing. If they pull the plug, he dies.”

“Where are you getting your information?”

Huntington smiled. “One of his treating physicians. It's not public yet.”

Deering shook his head. “Wait until the press finds out you've infiltrated Howell's medical team and are sitting on information for political purposes.”

“There's nothing illegal about getting that information. A question of medical ethics exists, perhaps, but nothing criminal. Anyway, the Howell family is trying to decide whether or not to turn off the machines.”

“That's a tough decision.”

Huntington shrugged. “We have some people, close to them, who I hope can influence them to get this damn thing over with.”

Deering inhaled deeply on his cigarette, his eyes on Huntington. “Jesus, now that would be a great headline ‘White House Urges Plug Pulled.'”

Huntington frowned.

“I'll worry about that. You get on your man Green and let him know that he really has to move. I expect this to be over in a couple of days. The President hopes to nominate the new man a few days after the funeral.”

“They may not pull the plug.”

Huntington shook his head. “I doubt it, but that's my job, not yours. You just see that Green does his job.”

“There's always judge O'Malley, just in case. At least you know he isn't a double-crosser.”

“True. But O'Malley would have a tough time getting through the Senate committee. Besides, ever since Howell had his stroke, O'Malley has been pressuring people to put the heat on the President on his behalf. The man thinks that's poor form. And I don't think he likes O'Malley in the first place.”

“Politicians always go for the jugular when there's a job available, or even the possibility. It's a fact of life. O'Malley's no different.”

“Maybe, but usually it's done with a bit of tact. O'Malley is carrying on a wide-open campaign for the job, and the man isn't even dead yet. It's the wide-open part that the President finds offensive.”

“What about Dean Pentecost? Isn't he trying for the job?”

“We received a couple of calls, but he wasn't responsible for them. I checked. Seems to be strictly upright. The man likes that.”

“Then why fart around sending someone to check up on him? Why not just make the decision to put him up if and when there's a vacancy?”

Huntington smiled again. “The man doesn't like him that much. He's still something of an unknown quantity. We need a reliable profile of the real person. You know as well as I do, Amos, that in politics often what you see isn't what you get. Everybody puts on a front. Everybody hides behind a mask. We know what the dean's mask looks like, we just want a peek at the real face.”

“Okay, I'll contact Green and tell him to shake a leg.”

Huntington nodded. “There's another matter, Amos. You'll be assuming the full title of Press Secretary next week.”

“I figured, but it's always nice to hear it confirmed.”

“That means you'll be before the cameras a lot yourself. You'll be handling the daily press briefings and so on.”

Deering inhaled and blew out smoke. “You don't have to tell me, Ed. I know my job.”

Huntington looked at him. “The President wants you to shave off that damn beard.”

“You're kidding.”

Huntington shook his head. “It's an image thing. Get rid of the beard. The President wants you created in his own image and likeness.”

“Shit.”

“Bad word, Amos. The man would have said ‘that's just swell.' Try to clean up your act.” Huntington turned and headed back toward the White House.

“Who are you having talk to Howell's family?” Deering called after him.

Huntington didn't even turn his head as he walked away. “That's on a need-to-know basis. You have no need to know.”

Deering stopped. He stood motionless for a moment in the drizzle. “Life and death. Pulling plugs.” He spoke the words in a whisper. “Need to know.” He took a last drag on the soggy cigarette and then flicked it away.

Amos Deering suspected why they had come outside in the rain to talk. Had Huntington wanted to escape being picked up on any electronic recording devices? It seemed absurd, but perhaps White House bugs had been installed once again. Or maybe Huntington was just playing it safe.

Deering looked up into the dark gray clouds above the White House.

*   *   *

Despite the passage of so many years and the change in the student body, both in composition and dress, Jerry Green felt at home. The stately old dormitories and class buildings still remained, although gleaming new structures had been sandwiched in between them. High-tech and nuclear science were partners with the mysteries of producing a good asparagus crop.

In a way, the change of classes was not unlike midtown Manhattan during rush hour; there just didn't seem to be enough walkway to go around. Platoons of bicycles glided through the moving human tangle, their riders floating like smoke through a forest, silently weaving in and out, but managing to miss anything that might bar their progress.

He could remember other times, pleasant times, years ago, when he used to go on campus to visit his father. He had the same feeling now. Many of the physical elements had changed but the spirit of the place remained, tangible somehow, more like a ghost than a memory. He thought of his father, and for the first time in years the recollection was neither bitter nor obscure. He could vividly picture his father in his cubicle of an office, wrapped in a mountain of sweaters, a stained and battered pipe grasped between his teeth, his ragged mustache completely concealing his upper lip. And he recalled the glasses, the half glasses perpetually perched upon the end of his father's nose. They were for reading, yet he could never remember his father ever actually looking through the glasses. In his memory he could conjure up his father's dark piercing eyes, always peering just over the top of the frames of those half spectacles.

His father had been an associate professor, teaching courses in political anthropology, plus a graduate seminar in cultural anthropology. He could recall listening to his father's lectures at the dinner table. Green had enjoyed the anecdotes of classroom give-and-take, but not the subject matter of the courses themselves. As a boy living in East Lansing it mattered little to him what kind of social structure the Tygodas of Central Africa employed to organize their sweating black ranks. His father never mentioned the social and political turbulence that struck the campus. But his accounts of student antics could be, hilarious, especially when he acted them out, taking both parts, the student and the instructor. His mother, who taught art, tolerated the wild stories, but obviously didn't encourage them. Hank, his brother, seemed to ignore the whole thing, at least during those rare times when Green could remember him being home for family dinner. Yet, today Hank was a full professor of anthropology, a descendant not only in blood, but also in the academic discipline of their father.