Protect and Defend (31 page)

Leary nodded. “I’m sorry, Dr. McNally, but the question falls within the scope of your direct testimony.”

Slowly, McNally turned to Sarah, speaking with a dignity she found far more affecting than his air of moral certainty. “Ms. Dash, I’ve practiced medicine for thirty years. I’ve brought countless children into the world and, on occasions, saved lives. But nothing can erase the pain of those mistakes.”

“Neither for you,” Sarah answered, “nor for the two infertile women, I suppose.”

Briefly, McNally averted his gaze. “I suppose not, no.”

Sarah nodded, maintaining a few feet of distance. “Isn’t it likely, Doctor, that your moral repugnance for abortion affected your medical assessment of the risks to Mary Ann?”

The witness studied his hands. “That’s impossible to say …”

“So you’re not claiming—after all—that a classical cesarean section performed by you is safer than the procedure performed by Dr. Flom? Or even
as
safe?”

Resentful, the witness looked up at her again. “I’ve made mistakes, Ms. Dash. Doctors do.”

“Or that you’re certain the risks of infertility aren’t closer to your original estimate of five percent?”

“No.”

“Or that other risks aren’t
twenty times
greater?”

“Certain? No. Though I
believe
they’re not.”

“Nor are you certain that this fetus has a better chance of developing a cerebral cortex than Mary Ann has of becoming infertile?”

“No.” McNally folded his hands. “What I’m saying is that there’s no way of finding out unless Mary Ann goes to term. And that, whatever the odds, we should value unborn life.”

“
And
that,” Sarah followed, “in the case of Mary Ann Tierney, her parents should force her to find out, regardless of the risks.”

“I’m saying they
can
, morally.”

“Even if you were
certain
it had no brain?”

For a long moment, McNally hesitated. “Yes,” he said simply. “In my value system, the life of one patient outweighs the finite risk to the other.”

Sarah put her hands on her hips. “Even though such a ‘life’ would barely survive its birth?”

Quiet, McNally considered his answer. “That’s not my province, Ms. Dash. It’s God’s.”

“Except,” Sarah retorted, “when the baby is normal, and the life of the mother is at risk. Shouldn’t God decide that, too?”

The witness hesitated, caught in a logical inconsistency. “That’s the worst possible dilemma,” he conceded. “I cannot imagine God sanctioning such a sacrifice for any lesser reason.”

“And so it’s God who deprives you—and Mary Ann Tierney—of choice?”

“Not in the sense that He speaks to me. Except as He speaks to us all: ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

“Is that a medical judgment, Doctor? Or one which reflects your particular moral and religious beliefs?”

Trapped, the witness searched for a politic answer, then seemed to settle for truth. “Everything I’ve learned, Ms. Dash, suggests that they’re inseparable. Whatever the risks.”

Sarah stared at him. “Until they happen,” she answered. “And not to you.”

S
ITTING IN
the Majority Leader’s wood and leather office, Caroline Masters wondered at the tug of memory this evoked—she had not been here before, nor met Macdonald Gage. But she had little time to ponder this: Gage compelled her full attention.

His amiable demeanor and courtly air put Caroline on edge; she sensed that his conversation was not meant to convey meaning, but to conceal the traps which lurked beneath. Even his appearance—the frequent smiles; the small, shrewd eyes; the pedestrian gray suit with the Kiwanis pin in its lapel—seemed intended to suggest a small-town mayor, not the master of the Senate, one of America’s most powerful men. Their first five minutes together were a minuet of exquisite courtesy, as Gage assured her of his fondness for Kerry Kilcannon, her native state of New Hampshire, and, with the barest hint of irony, San Francisco.

“Seems so far away from home,” he said. “How’d you decide to move there?”

Because there were so many gay folks
, Caroline considered saying. Smiling, she answered, “Because it seemed so far away from home.”

Gage produced his automatic smile, a movement of the jaw muscles which signaled that this, too, was ritual. Though her answer seemed to tell him little, it was closer to truth than anything they had said—at twenty-two, Caroline had fled her father, a tyrant who concealed his insecurities and implacable will beneath the velvet glove of paternal concern.

“Growing pains,” Gage remarked pleasantly. “Never wanted to leave Kentucky myself, never doubted where I’d raise my children. Just lucky, I guess.”

This did not seem to require comment; rather than utter some banality, Caroline smiled yet again. Reticence was another lesson forced on her by Judge Channing Masters, whose every conversation with the young Caroline had been a subtle probe. And then the dormant memory caused a tremor which broke through to her consciousness: Gage’s office was far too like her father’s den.

The remembrance caught her short. “Chief Justice of the Supreme Court,” Gage remarked with a joking air. “Feel like you’re up to it?”

This time Caroline did not smile. “Yes,” she answered simply. “I do.”

Her decision to scorn the usual platitudes—what an honor this would be, how humbled she was—seemed to throw him off, but only for a moment. “That’s real good,” he drawled in a contemplative manner. “You know, I can’t help thinking of Roger Bannon—his legacy at the Court, the wonderful family he had. America’s most preeminent judge should not only be a symbol of jurisprudence, but a model for everyone. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The thrust of the question, slightly more pointed, unnerved her. Perhaps it was the thoughts she had carried here, and her burden of concealment. “If not a model of perfection,” Caroline responded, “at least of humanity.”

The answer, which Gage might interpret as suggesting that Bannon had been less than that, evoked from him a smaller smile. Nodding toward the blank screen of his television, he said, “Speaking of humanity, are you watching the Tierney case?”

The question could have many facets—political, legal, and personal. “No,” Caroline answered. “For the same reason I don’t go to any trials in the lower court—to avoid appearance of bias.”

Though Gage might interpret this as evasive, he nodded his approval. “Yes, indeed, Judge Masters. A wise policy. Especially what with Sarah Dash.”

Delivered with surface innocence, the bland remark told Caroline that Gage was delving into her life. Left unspoken was whether he intended to refer to Sarah’s clerkship, or their friendship, or to jar loose some deeper admission; what seemed
plain was Gage’s intention to alarm her. “In
any
case,” Caroline answered.

Gage shot her a keen, fleeting glance. Then he settled back in his chair, hands folded across his belly, and gazed at the ceiling as if musing to himself. “Still,” he said. “You must have been as taken aback as I was when they challenged this law in court. Who, I asked myself, could be
for
partial-birth abortion and
against
involving parents—even if they believe themselves pro-abortion? But then I realized this trial was a virtual seminar, especially for young women who may face this situation.”

Caroline said nothing. Gage lowered his eyes, and then looked directly into hers. “That’s why it’s good,” he said, “that you’ve been so strong on adoption.”

Was this about Brett, Caroline wondered, or another tangent of abortion? Or merely a signal that he was studying Caroline’s record as closely as her life. “To be unloved,” she answered, “is a tragedy. For the child and, perhaps, the rest of us.”

Gage nodded sagely. “A loving family,” he said, “is the best social program of all. I learned that from my own adoptive family, and from the little girl my wife and I took in as our own.”

This could be either an attempt to ferret out her social views, or a tacit reminder that Caroline had no family of her own, perhaps aimed at whatever hidden vulnerability might account for this. Detaching herself, Caroline considered Gage anew. Every nuance, every molecule, of the persona he had constructed, suggested to her that he should remain in the shadows of the Senate, ruling by indirection and maneuver, rather than run for President. It was hard to imagine this consummate pragmatist inspiring millions, as had Kerry Kilcannon. Though Gage lacked the bedrock dedication to country above all that helped place other men—a Robert Taft or Bob Dole—among history’s great Majority Leaders, his gifts, like theirs, were well suited to the intimacy of the Senate. And yet, Caroline knew, powerful forces wanted Macdonald Gage to be the President, and that was how he saw himself. This mismatch between his ambitions and his popular appeal might make Gage that much more calculating,
that much more beholden to the interests who promoted him, that much more dangerous to Caroline herself.

“Family,” Caroline responded, “can be the best thing that ever happens to us. Or the worst.”

Gage’s look of piety slowly faded. “Tell me, Judge Masters, how would you describe your judicial philosophy?”

Caroline was prepared for this. “Careful,” she answered. “Respectful of precedent. I don’t think judges should legislate.”

Gage nodded in feigned relief. Smoothly, he said, “So you believe as Roger Bannon did?”

Caroline pretended to consider her answer. “I can only be myself, Senator. Let me put it this way: a Supreme Court which is careless of the law can diminish respect for law. But there are clearly times when what might have been acceptable to Thomas Jefferson becomes unacceptable to us, and whether in 1954 Jefferson might have made Sally Hemings drink at the water fountain marked ‘Coloreds Only’ becomes irrelevant. At best.”

By picking this sardonic example, Caroline placed her response beyond debate—especially by a man whose private club memberships, Clayton Slade had told her, included those which admitted a mere trickle of minorities, and excluded women altogether. With a first fleeting trace of annoyance, Gage asked, “What about the Second Amendment? Think the founding fathers put it there for a reason?”

“Of course,” Caroline answered promptly. “At a minimum, it bars the government from confiscating all guns. But is it reasonable to suppose that Thomas Jefferson contemplated cop-killer bullets, or rocket launchers in the back yard? Once more, the founding fathers seem to have left us on our own.”

Gage folded his hands. “As you apparently think they did with respect to laws regulating campaign contributions.”

Once again, Caroline blessed Clayton Slade for briefing her: she had parried Gage’s first inquiries on abortion and guns—crucial to important sources of money for his prospective campaign—and now, he was moved to be even more direct. “I take it,” Caroline answered, “that you read my opinion on the subject.”

Gage nodded. “Yes, indeed.”

“In which I ruled that a limit on donations in Oregon was legal, but expressed no view on what wasn’t before our court—
such as the far more comprehensive reform law pending in the Senate. Nor can I now, in simple propriety. Any more than Roger Bannon would have.”

This veiled irony produced, in Gage, an amiable smile. “Of course not. I was more interested in your philosophical framework.”

His tone of mild interest belied the sharpness of his gaze. “It’s more or less the same,” Caroline assured him. “The First Amendment protects speech in many forms. Did Jefferson imagine television, endless political campaigns, or million-dollar contributions? Clearly not. Does that mean such contributions aren’t protected by the First Amendment? Not in itself. Like any prudent judge, I’ll wait to see what comes before me.”

Stymied, Gage gave a smile which, to Caroline, seemed deliberately slow in coming. “And I admire that, Judge. It speaks well for you—professionally.”

The last word, Caroline sensed, was far from casual. She had shown him that attacking her on principles would not be easy; he was warning her that there were other ways. Her smile, Caroline hoped, was suitably enigmatic.

“Well that’s good then.” Suddenly, Gage stood. “And it’s been just fine to meet you.

“But I have to tell you, Judge, we have our ways in the Senate. Sometimes they’re more leisurely than a nominee might want. Some of my colleagues believe ‘deliberative’ means kicking the tires and turning over every last rock. But I think that’s better for the Court, don’t you?”

Beneath the words, Caroline heard a second warning: if there was anything she hoped to conceal, which Gage could yet discover or perhaps already knew, she was better off withdrawing.

“I agree,” Caroline answered. “Completely.”

“Good.” Clasping her hand, Gage beamed at her, though his cool gaze of appraisal did not change. “Then everything will be just fine.”

He ushered her to the door with elaborate courtesy, and no encouragement. He was careful to avoid the press—another signal, if Caroline needed one, that Macdonald Gage had resolved to bring her down. Perhaps this was inevitable, but the
experience of meeting him left her far more unsettled than she had anticipated.

Alone in her room, she called Brett Allen in Iowa, to say hello.

F
OR MOST
of its duration, the testimony of Marlene Brown was as bad as Sarah had anticipated, but no worse.

The sixteen-year-old girl, Barry Saunders’s witness, was a portrait of the rural Midwest—wearing a simple dress, and little makeup, the plump brunette answered his questions with respectful docility. “Could you tell us,” he asked, “what happened after you became pregnant?”

“It was hard, at first …” Marlene paused, glancing down in modesty. “Mike and I were only fifteen, and all our folks thought we were too young to get married.”

“Did you consider abortion?”

The girl nodded. “I thought about everything. But we’re very strong in our personal relationship with Jesus Christ. I had to ask myself if Jesus would approve my taking our baby’s life.”