Protect and Defend (41 page)

Tierney’s expression was bleak, his voice diminished. “What Dr. Gersten meant was ‘over time.’ Not over the last eleven days—”

“Isn’t it true,” Sarah cut in sharply, “that
your
decision to invoke this law is destroying your own family?”

At this, Tierney straightened, half-rising from the witness chair. “My decision?” he asked. “
You
brought this lawsuit …”

“It’s not
my
lawsuit,” Sarah snapped. “It’s Mary Ann’s. It’s long past time to credit her with thinking for herself.”

Abruptly, Tierney drew a breath, his effort at self-control so visible that Patrick Leary stared at him. “Someday,” he told Sarah, “you may be a mother. If that day comes, you can call me to apologize.”

“Why?” Sarah countered. “Because it takes a mature and loving parent to impose on Mary Ann the risk which caused both of you such pain?”

For a time, Tierney studied her. “No,” he said at last. “Because you’ll realize that parenthood is not permissiveness, and love a far more complex matter than respecting a child’s ‘rights.’ Then perhaps you’ll
also
understand the reasons— despite all you’ve done—that we’ll have a loving family again.”

Sarah gazed at him, drained. There was much, she believed, that he did not yet comprehend, including the likelihood that he had just compelled his daughter to testify. “I hope you’re right,” she answered. “But I think the apology will be
yours
to make, to Mary Ann.”

“I
HOPE
this girl won’t testify,” Vic Coletti said. “It just keeps getting worse.”

The senior senator from Connecticut—and ranking Democrat on the Judiciary Committee—sat in the Oval Office with Kerry Kilcannon. The two men relaxed in overstuffed chairs; it was past seven o’clock, and the windows were dark, the President’s formal schedule done with. As often in his spare time, he was tending to the Masters nomination.

“Not to mention tragic,” Kerry answered. “This trial makes you wonder if any of our friends in Congress had a clue what they were doing.”

“No point wondering,” Coletti told his former colleague. “Gage knew what
he
was doing—giving the Christian Commitment value for their money, while choosing issues most people think they agree with. You’ll recall he passed this sucker with twenty votes to spare. Including mine.”

Coletti’s take was, as usual, shrewd and pragmatic. Stocky and balding, with a beaky nose and energetic manner, Coletti was addicted to public life and almost comically ambitious; Clayton Slade was fond of saying that, at his own funeral, Vic would pop out of the casket to announce he was running for reelection. But Coletti’s devotion to the dictum that politics, like rust, never sleeps, made him a valuable source of insight and information.

“Politically,” Kerry asked, “how does the Tierney case play out for us?”

“Television’s the killer, Mr. President. Every day this trial goes on ratchets up the pressure on Caroline Masters. You know: ‘As Chief Justice, will you stand up for the family and against dismembering babies?’ or ‘Can a Chief Justice with no family look out for our family?’ For us, this trial is like being hit by a moon rock.”

It was sobering, Kerry thought, to experience how much of being President lay not in careful planning, but in coping with the unforeseeable. “Clayton’s run some polls,” he said. “Support for Mary Ann Tierney is up to forty percent.”

Coletti gave an earthy snort of skepticism. “And the rest want to brand a scarlet
A
on her chest—for ‘abortion.’ But the real problem’s money. Yesterday, the Christian Commitment started sending out a mailer with her picture next to one of that other teen mommy, Marlene Brown, asking for money to fight the pro-abortionists who ‘would murder the nearly born.’ That’s millions for TV spots in the next congressional elections, hurting us and helping Gage—just as long as Mac behaves.”

“So,” Kerry said, “Gage tries to string out the Masters hearings.”

“Sure. He’s got to figure that everything that happens in the Tierney case—Leary’s ruling, the appeal to Masters’s court, then maybe to the Supreme Court—enables him to say how careful they have to be before confirming her. That can justify anything short of a blatant witch hunt, and there’s not much you can do about it.”

“Except depend on Chad.”

Coletti rolled his eyes. “That’s a hell of a comfort. Considering Palmer wants to run you out of here so he can take your place.”

Kerry chose his answer with care. As the ranking Democrat on Palmer’s committee, Coletti was the only other senator who knew Caroline Masters’s personal secret, and that Palmer was protecting it. But although Coletti might make shrewd guesses about Chad’s motives, Kerry had not disclosed their conversations to anyone, let alone that Chad felt that, as Chief Justice, Caroline might serve his rivalry with Gage. “I’ve never known Chad to break his word,” Kerry said simply.

At this, Coletti smiled. “You don’t suppose our hero thinks that Masters will vote to uphold his campaign reform law, and choke off Gage’s money supply? Including, perchance, all that cash from the Christian Commitment?”

No
, Kerry thought,
Vic Coletti was not a fool
. Shrugging, he replied, “I can’t help what Chad thinks.”

Coletti’s smile became cynical, a silent signal of disbelief. “It
would
help explain their caucus the day before yesterday.”

“They invited you?”

Now Coletti laughed, with a pleasure as close to childlike as such a maneuverer could ever manage. “No. But I’ve got friends.”

Kate Jarman, Kerry guessed. That the senator from Vermont disliked Mac Gage was no secret, nor that she and Coletti traded votes on occasion. “I never doubted it,” Kerry said amiably. “So what do your Republican confidantes tell you?”

“Gage tried putting the screws to Palmer, get him to delay the hearings. So far, Chad’s resisting.”

The phrase “so far” was enunciated with distinct reserve. “But?” Kerry asked.

“Chad’s position is worse than yours. As chairman, he’s on the firing line—the Tierney case creates mounting pressure to delay, especially from the pro-lifers in his own party. And before Chad beats you for President, he has to beat Gage for the nomination. If the right wing turns on him, he’s sunk.”

Once more, Kerry shrugged. “Chad’s got cover, Vic. He’s always been pro-life, sincerely so.”

“Sure. But is he truly devout? Does he go to bed at night dreaming of the unborn? He’s already pissed off the Christian Commitment over money. Face it, Mr. President, when Chad told you he’d sit on Masters’s private life, he didn’t figure on
Mary Ann Tierney. Or that Masters’s ex-clerk would be her lawyer.”

“Not helpful,” Kerry acknowledged. “Which makes your Republican colleagues in the middle that much more critical.”

Coletti pursed his lips. “Now
there’s
a wobbly bunch.”

Kerry smiled. “You don’t happen,” he said in a tone of idle curiosity, “to know where your friend Kate Jarman stands?”

Coletti raised his eyebrows, as though reminded that Kerry Kilcannon also was no fool. “Kate? She’s not standing, Mr. President—she’s hiding out with the rest of them, watching Gage and Palmer.”

Kerry considered this. “I’d bet on Chad,” he answered. “But give him all the help you can.”

“I hope I didn’t interrupt dinner,” Kerry said.

On the other end of the telephone, Chad Palmer laughed. “Of course you did—this is when normal people eat. Allie’s giving you five minutes.”

“Then I’ll make it quick. I hear Gage is looking for dirt on Caroline Masters.”

There was a brief pause, and then Chad said mordantly, “Just Masters? The other day that rocket scientist Paul Harshman suggested you were fucking her.”

Kerry emitted a mirthless laugh. “Tell Harshman she’s too tall—that’s why I’m putting her on the Court.” In weary tones, Kerry added quietly, “Do you ever wonder about your teammates, Chad?”

“All the time. But as long as Harshman’s chasing
you
, and not what’s real, I can live with it.” For a moment, Chad was quiet. “I guess you wonder if I’m putting off the hearings?”

Pausing, Kerry chose to sound surprised. “Are you?”

“I gave you my word,” Chad answered with asperity. “You’ve got four minutes left, and you’re wasting them.”

It was a fresh reminder of how much Chad disliked having his honor questioned, even by implication. “It’s not about your word, pal. I’m wondering if you can control them. Gage must be all over them—and you.”

This remark went not to Chad’s honor, Kerry knew, but to his pride. More evenly, Chad answered, “I’ve counted the votes. I’m sure Coletti’s got all eight of his, and I’ll hold at
least half of my ten. Keeping the Masters hearing on the front burner will cost you one week, tops.”

Briefly, Kerry tried to calculate the course of the Tierney case. “That’s fine.”

“
I
thought so. But understand I don’t want to be seen with you any time soon. Or even have it known how often we talk.”

There was a new sharpness in his voice, hinting at the pressure Chad felt. “I’m well aware of that,” Kerry answered.

“But don’t lose sleep.” Chad’s tone became sardonic. “Mac Gage is right, Mr. President. I always liked you best.”

W
HEN
S
ARAH
arrived home, picketers stood in front of her apartment building, holding candles which flickered like fireflies in darkness. Glancing up through her windshield, she saw Mary Ann framed in the window of her second-floor apartment.

Baby-killer …

The picketers chanted in unison. As Sarah stopped in the mouth of the driveway, waiting for the garage door to lift, they circled her car.

Baby-killer …

A face pressed against the window on the driver’s side, inches from hers, separated only by glass—the man from the clinic, she thought. When the garage opened, three teenage girls lay down in Sarah’s path.

Baby-killer …

The man’s mouth began forming words. All around her candlelight danced, distorting the faces which surrounded her. Above them, Sarah could see Mary Ann, palms pressed against the glass.

Baby-kille …

Sarah reached for her car phone to call the police. The massed bodies to each side began rocking her Honda.

Baby-killer …

Fighting to control her voice, Sarah told the dispatcher where she was. The car kept rocking. Hanging up, she turned her stereo up so loud that her Carlos Santana CD drowned out the shouting and made her eardrums throb. The car seemed to rock with the music in a clumsy, ponderous rhythm; the open mouths and contorted faces of the men and women who trapped her became hallucinatory. Startling streaks of red flashed across their faces, and then the police sirens cut through the throbbing bass.

As Sarah turned, two squad cars stopped behind her, then a third, then a wagon. Sarah released a breath.

The faces started receding. Seven cops—five men and two women—began lifting the limp bodies blocking her to clear a path to the garage. Sarah turned off the stereo.

Silent, the dark-eyed man still stared, his breath condensing on the window. A cop pulled him back, and his face vanished.

Shaking, Sarah eased the car into the garage. Tendrils of her curly hair lay damp against her forehead.

“Fame is hell,” Sarah said.

At most times she drank wine sparingly and, when in trial, almost none. Tonight, before collapsing on her couch, she had poured herself a generous glass of cabernet.

Sitting across from her, Mary Ann gazed down at her stomach. From beneath them, a disembodied chant rose to the darkened window.

Baby-killer …

“Were you scared?” the girl asked.

Sarah sipped her wine. “Was. Am. Will be for a while.”

She did not tell Mary Ann about her mother’s phone message, begging her to be careful, or that—after much probing by Sarah—her mother had admitted receiving a threat. The caller had been watching Sarah on television, he informed them, and held her parents responsible for the fate of Mary Ann Tierney’s child. His voice had been unnaturally calm.

After reassuring her mother, Sarah had called a private security
firm. She could not return to court without knowing they were safe.

Baby-killer …

“I’m sorry,” Mary Ann told her. “I never thought …”

“Why should you have? And it wouldn’t have stopped me.”

Sarah hoped that this were true. But Mary Ann seemed to believe it, and her blue eyes shone with gratitude.

“Without you,” she said, “I’d be nowhere.”

Sarah knew these were the words that parents, teachers, or coaches cherished all their lives. But after Martin Tierney’s testimony, Sarah could not.

“You’d be somewhere,” she said. “Maybe you’d be home. Maybe you wouldn’t have gone through what your father did today.”

Mary Ann rubbed her temples with the thumb and forefinger of one hand. After a time, she murmured, “I think I need to testify.”

Sarah finished her wine. Her limbs felt sluggish, inert; the chants continued unabated.

Baby-killer …

“Let’s get some air,” she said.

The roof was another six stories up. A light breeze swirled from the bay, and the cries of the demonstrators were faint.

They sat down in plastic chairs bolted against the wind. To their left the lights of commodious houses—brick, wood, or stone—dipped and rose on the gentle sloping streets of Pacific Heights. A half-mile in front of them the Golden Gate Bridge spanned the narrow opening from the Pacific to the black oval of the bay; beyond that, more lights dotted the hills of Marin County. The roof was quiet, a place Sarah came to think.

Mary Ann’s voice, soft and almost indistinct, broke her reverie.

“I can’t live with them anymore.”

There was a pitiful quality to this which pierced Sarah’s heart. The Tierneys had done their daughter great damage; had Sarah’s parents done this to her now—unthinkable to Sarah—she, as an adult, would be free to decide that this was unforgivable. But Mary Ann was helpless; she had nowhere else to go.