Tattooed (13 page)

13

K
ate tapped her pen on the notepad that lay on her desk, the phone cradled to her ear. She had been on hold for—she glanced at her watch, her mouth twisting—oh, six minutes too long for her taste.

Well, what else did you expect from the Honorable Harry Owen, Kate?

She knew she shouldn’t feel irritated, given that Harry Owen had agreed to a phone call with her on short notice, but her extended wait allowed her to repent the fact she had consented to this dirty job. For she knew it could not be anything but. Harry Owen was a flagrant fearmongerer. She had enough terrors, thank you very much, to not be reminded of them by her elected official.

His noted dalliances did not improve Kate’s opinion of him. He was probably a closet sexist, enjoying the lovely young interns on Parliament Hill while hiring all his hotshot cronies who had no real skills except the ability to spell their surnames.

Ooh, that was rather cynical.

Remember, you have a job to do, Kate. You have to win him over, so stop sneering. Frances Sloane—and God help you, Don Clarkson—are depending on you… .

“Hello. Ms. Lange, this Harry Owen.” The voice of Canada’s youngest member of Parliament was energetic, smooth. It fit in nicely with the findings from her late-night Google search: a thirtysomething confirmed bachelor, former corporate lawyer, of multiple immigrant extraction tramping unimpeded on the road to ministerial glory.

She straightened. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Mr. Owen.”

“Sorry for keeping you waiting. I was on a mind-blowingly dull conference call. It is truly a pleasure to meet you.” His tone held genuine admiration. “I’m a big fan of yours.”

Oh?

“But I’m afraid I have another call scheduled in less than ten minutes, so before we begin, let’s make sure that we can even have this conversation.”

“Of course,” Kate murmured. She knew exactly what he was going to ask. And she knew exactly what she was going to say.

Maybe this lobbying gig could be fun, after all.

“Are you on the registry for lobbyists?” he asked. “My assistant checked this morning and didn’t see your name.”

The first shot had been fired across the bow.

Kate studied the fax on her desk from the Office of the Commission of Lobbying. “I sent in my report to the registry last night. I received confirmation a few hours ago. It was faxed to your office just after lunch.” Fortunately, the registrar had been sympathetic to her circumstances and recognized the need for urgency. Her bona fides were straightforward to confirm, and within two hours she was officially a federally registered Consultant Lobbyist.

“I see. Just hold a moment, please.”

Kate leaned back in her chair, a smile curving her lips. She was enjoying herself. Perhaps a little too much.

A minute later, he said, “Yes, we just received it.” He cleared his throat. “Now, what can I do for you, Ms. Lange?”

“As I explained to your assistant, I am representing a client who is stricken with an incurable and horrific disease that afflicts her motor neurons.”

“Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis,” he said. “So sad.”

Very impressive, Harry. You have done your homework.

“As you may remember,” Kate continued, “a woman named Sue Rodriguez mounted a legal challenge against the criminalization of assisted suicide almost twenty years ago.”

“And the court upheld the Criminal Code. Assisted suicide is a crime in Canada.”

He was sending her a message with his subtle emphasis of “crime.” “Yes. But my client is desperate, Mr. Owen. She wants to take control of her life. Die on her own terms.”

There was a pause.

“Ms. Lange, the Criminal Code provision is in place for a reason. It protects the vulnerable from being euthanized.”

A sweeping, emotionally powerful sound bite that would work well on TV.

“That was the concern of the Supreme Court,” Kate said. “But subsequent research has shown that the slippery slope the court feared did not materialize.”

“Ms. Lange, as you yourself have experienced—”

You’d better lose that patronizing tone, Mr. Owen.

“—we are facing increasingly violent criminals, as well as a severe increase in cyber fraud, child pornography, drug and financial crimes.” He must have read her mind, because his voice was no longer patronizing, but instead sounded resolute. “I am one of the members working on a committee to toughen our criminal laws. Our goal is to send a message to anyone who is thinking of committing a crime, not to open a door for opportunists to commit murders. I am a firm believer in deterrence. And if that doesn’t work, punishment. Someone shouldn’t get away with murder.” He ended on a final, passionate note.

The power of his charisma, the strength of his convictions, resonated over the phone line.

Her job would be that much more difficult with a political adversary such as Mr. Owen.

Kate knew why the member of Parliament held such passionate conviction. The
world
knew why. In fact, Harry Owen had often said that the bullet his father took in his spine during a late-night holdup when Harry Owen was eight was one of the reasons Harry chose to go into law, and then politics.

“Mr. Owen, I beg to differ. Assisted suicide is not murder. It is assisting someone to take their own life. And suicide is not a criminal offense.” Before he could respond, Kate added, “I’ve studied your political platform. I know that you are bullish on deterrence and, if that doesn’t work, punishment.”

It was the third arm of the corrections model that Harry Owen had eliminated from his platform: rehabilitation. “But I also know that you are very much in favor of autonomy. That is why you didn’t support the gun registry.” Several years ago, the government at the time put in place a long-gun registry. Anyone who owned a gun had to register it. It was recently disbanded.

Harry Owen had been outspoken about his disdain for the registry in the past, even going so far as to suggest that the gun control legislation in Canada should be modified to allow citizens to carry handguns.

“If my father had had a gun the night he was held up, he wouldn’t be in a wheelchair now. And that bastard—pardon my language—wouldn’t be living off social assistance and getting his cable TV paid for by the taxpayers, of which my father is one.”

Ouch.

“I don’t understand why you are lobbying this issue,” he said. “The Criminal Code is the only thing that keeps innocent people from getting hurt. It protects people, Ms. Lange.” His voice lowered. “Pardon me for saying this, but I would have thought that after your experiences, you would be in favor of making the Code even stronger. You barely survived being murdered.”

“I may have survived being attacked—” Kate said, her mind racing as she struggled to find a way to break through his indomitable wall of righteousness.
Screw it. I’ll tell him the real reason I’m doing this.
“—but I may not survive the consequences of it. Did you know I might be infected with an incurable disease that would completely rob me of cognitive function?”

There was a shocked silence. Then he said, “My God. No. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too.” Kate swallowed. “That was, by the way, confidential information.”

“Yes, of course.”

Was anything confidential in politics when someone was trying to come out on top?

She closed her eyes. She no longer enjoyed this conversation. She wanted to end it as soon as possible. “So, to answer your question, that is why I am helping my client. She deserves—just like any of us—to die with dignity.”

“What exactly do you want from me?”

Kate tried to swallow her frustration. He was not making this easy for her.
Welcome to politics, Kate.

“My client doesn’t have the months or years it will take to mount another legal challenge of the Criminal Code. The public climate has changed since the Rodriguez case, Mr. Owen. We want the government to strike down the provision in the Criminal Code making assisted suicide a crime. This could be an opportunity for the government to show its compassionate side.” Kate waited.

He exhaled. “Kate, I’m sorry. But there is a reason the Supreme Court ruled against Rodriguez, and there is a reason that assisted suicide is in the Criminal Code. People could claim that they were asked to help kill their loved ones—and then cash in on their insurance policies. It is not an issue that the government is prepared to explore. Just a moment—” He paused. “My assistant says that my next call is about to begin.” His tone became formal. “Thank you for sharing your client’s concerns, Ms. Lange.”

“Mr. Owen, please reconsider,” Kate said, her voice urgent. She was losing him. “This could be a savvy move by the government. And it would make a huge difference to my client—”

“I’m afraid you are knocking on the wrong door.” His voice now had an edge to it. “Assisted suicide is a crime.”

“And forcing someone to suffer terribly is not?” She let that sink in. “Call me if you change your mind.”

He hung up on her.

She stared at the phone. “Jerk.”

She had revealed one of her deepest secrets—and he’d told her to get lost.

She dialed Frances Sloane’s number.

“Phyllis, it’s Kate Lange. Is Frances able to take my call?”

“Oh, yes, Ms. Lange. She’s doing better this afternoon.” There was a note of excitement in Phyllis’s voice. They knew about her scheduled phone call with the M.P. “I’ll just take off her mask so she can speak to you.”

While Kate waited for her client to have her respiratory mask removed, she thought of a few choice curses for the M.P.

“Kate?” Her client’s voice held the same note of anticipation as her caregiver’s.

Kate’s stomach became a hard knot. “Hi, Frances. I just spoke with Harry Owen today. I won’t drag this out—he was a no-go. I’m sorry.”

I knew I shouldn’t have let myself get talked into this.
A professional lobbyist could have finessed this.

There was a pause. Kate envisioned Frances’ eyes, such a vibrant blue in such a wasted body. A life force in a dead zone. “I wish I could have done more, Frances. I tried everything.”

“I understand. You did your best.” Frances’ voice held forgiveness and acceptance.

Unexpectedly, tears tightened Kate’s throat. “I’m sorry.”

“I haven’t given up yet, Kate.” She began to cough.

Phyllis got on the line. “We have to go.” She spoke hurriedly. “She will call you later. I need to suction her.”

Frances’ life had been stripped down to meeting basic needs. Breathing trumped talking.

Kate hung up the phone and stared out the window. Cars crawled in a steady stream below. What she did up in this office tower sometimes felt so disconnected. And yet she knew it mattered.

She should have felt relieved that her lobbying efforts were dead in the water. She had not wanted to do it; she had not wanted to put herself on the line for this cause, this client.

But now she wanted to give Harry Owen a wakeup call. As Randall had said, the M.P. talked the talk but he obviously had never walked the walk.

He was the voice of his constituents. He had a duty to listen to them.

Harry, I can make you a man of the people if you let me.