Protect and Defend (51 page)

Despite her gloom, Caroline smiled at this. But Montgomery did not: his eyes had the look of command, impelling her attention. “At conference,” he continued briskly, “when your turn comes to speak, don’t. Tell them you’re reflecting, and prefer to hear the wisdom of your colleagues. And don’t let Steele bait you.

“By the time we go around the table, you’ll know how the votes shape up. If the Tierney girl’s losing anyhow, vote against her—at that point, your only obligation is to become Chief Justice. A vote for the Protection of Life Act would leave Gage and his allies with next to nothing.”

That was right, Caroline thought. “And if there’s an even split? What would you advise me then?”

Blair looked down. “Perhaps, by then, you’ll be persuaded that the statute passes muster.”

What he was telling her, Caroline sensed, was that he would never judge her. No one could know if she had acted from self-interest, or belief. And if Caroline had not voted for rehearing, Mary Ann Tierney’s petition already would have failed; if now, in the moral equation, Caroline decided to vote for herself, and not Mary Ann, that decision was no worse than recusal.

“Even,” Blair said at length, “if you come to believe the statute flawed as to
this
girl, you can reserve for another day whether it’s flawed for
all
girls. A narrow decision, applying to Mary Ann alone, might be less open to reversal. Or attack.”

Caroline gathered her thoughts. “Which leaves only,” she said dryly, “my emphatic vote to throw the whole thing out.”

Blair chose not to answer, or to look at her. After some moments, he said quietly, “I can’t advise you on what course is the most expedient—or the wisest. I merely note that until the moment you cast a final vote, your slate in the Senate is clean. This morning’s vote isn’t public.”

Even in her despair—for herself and perhaps for Brett— Caroline felt a deep fondness for Blair Montgomery. Much of this conversation went against his deepest instincts as a judge and yet, for her sake, he had resolved that they should have it. To thank him would be much more than he wished.

Instead, she chose the lightest tone she could muster. “Before we get there, Blair, I have to explain this to Clayton Slade. And, by extension, the President. Perhaps you could suggest the nicest way to do that.”

K
ERRY
K
ILCANNON
looked astonished, and then began to laugh, his tenor and expression by turns rueful and—surprising to Clayton—sardonically amused at his own miscalculation.

“I certainly earned
this
one,” the President told him. “It’s exactly what I liked her for—this quaint notion that she’s larger than her ambitions. Even, it seems, her fears.”

“We can always pray,” Clayton offered, “that she’s decided to vote against the girl, and for the act.
That
would get her confirmed by about one hundred to zero.”

Kerry’s look of amusement vanished. It was nine at night; in the dim light of the study, he looked as tired as he had at the end of the campaign. “No,” he said at last. “
She
may not think she knows yet, but
I
do—at least if there’s a split. She didn’t pass on recusal just so she could pick up more Republicans, or get
us
off the hook.

“This is about Caroline’s idea of herself. That’s what
prompted her to tell Ellen Penn about her daughter and, however politely, tell
me
to take a hike after I started angling for a commitment on campaign reform.” Kerry gave a brief, ironic smile. “If she votes to overturn the Protection of Life Act, she’ll offer to withdraw. It would have been so much easier to have taken her up on that the
last
time.”

“The days of innocence?” Clayton said. “
Before
you cut a deal with Palmer—putting
you
in his debt and
him
in trouble with Gage—for what may turn out to be nothing? Or merely before the vote you think she’ll cast, inflaming the abortion issue and maybe costing you much more than you can afford to pay.”

This last reference, though coded, brought home for Clayton how angry he himself was at Masters’s arrogance, and how concerned for Kerry that Lara Costello’s abortion, if discovered, could destroy him. But Kerry’s response was an opaque silence, behind which his deepest thoughts often seemed to vanish.

“What about Gage?” he said at length.

“He set Masters up to self-destruct. He had Harshman corner her on recusal and Sarah Dash. Now he’s holding up her confirmation until she votes.”

The President shrugged. “That’s just hardball. It’s what you’d expect him to do. And what the Christian Commitment is no doubt telling him to do.”

“Fair enough,” Clayton rejoined. “But consider the rest: first, this Judge Steele assigns the case to himself, and then he turns around to call for a rehearing by the entire court. It’s like Gage is pulling his strings.”

As Kerry considered this, his expression became chill. “Life is long,” he answered softly. “If we can ever prove that, I’ll make Gage’s feel like eternity.”

At ten o’clock, amidst a debate on the new telecommunications bill that threatened to go past midnight, Macdonald Gage pulled Chad Palmer off the Senate floor.

“We need to talk,” Gage said brusquely. “It won’t keep.”

To Chad, the only business which could be so pressing was Caroline Masters. He awaited an explanation, wondering whether someone with the FBI had improperly leaked the “rumor” regarding the birth of a daughter. But Gage did not
speak again until they reached the underground subway between the Senate and the Russell Building.

“Let’s go to your office,” Gage suggested. “Less likely for the press to see us.” But though the media was covering the debate closely, the tunnel in the bowels of Congress was empty; when Chad and Gage got in the open car, they were alone.

“What’s the problem?” Chad inquired. “Did Paul Harsh-man find out that Masters is a registered Republican?”

As usual, Gage frowned at his colleague’s levity. “They’ve granted a rehearing in Tierney. Masters has been named to the panel.”

Maybe it
wasn’t
the daughter, Chad thought with relief. “When did
that
happen, Mac? I hadn’t heard a thing.”

Gage hesitated. “It’s not public yet,” he answered tersely.

Then how do you know?
Chad wanted to ask. Instead, he maintained his pose of ingenuousness. “How could Masters let that happen?”

“Maybe because she’s a true believer, like Paul was saying.” Gage’s tone became harsher, cutting through the clatter of the car as it moved through the bleak gray corridor. “The kind of liberal who wants to keep parents out of their children’s lives.”

Instinctively, Chad bridled at this oversimplification, the sort of political red meat more suitable to a fund-raising letter than to reality. He reminded himself that, with Gage, partisan rhetoric often concealed a deeper purpose. “Unless Masters is voting
with
us,” Chad replied.

“That’s the only way,” Gage said pointedly, “she’ll ever be confirmed. The Protection of Life Act is fundamental to our political base.”

And your financial base
, Chad thought. It was cynical of Gage to suggest that they had a common need to propitiate the Christian Commitment, while ignoring the complex realities which divided them. Four years hence, Gage would need the Commitment’s financial support to defeat Chad for the party’s nomination, and then wrest the presidency from Kilcannon: in the service of defeating Masters, he wanted Chad to collaborate in his own destruction. “Sometimes,” Chad observed, “it’s hard to tell a ‘base’ from an anchor.”

Gage pursed his mouth: the remark not-so-tacitly
suggested that the Christian Commitment, and Gage, would cause their party to lose to Kilcannon. “Christian parents,” Gage intoned, “are entitled to keep their children from taking an unborn life.”

At similar times, Chad had thought with some contempt that Gage had the soul of a Russian apparatchik, who cloaked his endless machinations beneath a string of pious bromides. But this particular bromide, and Gage’s willingness to advance his goals by any means at hand, reminded Chad to be wary. With renewed courtesy, he inquired, “What do you suggest I do?”

Gage turned to him. “Stop protecting her,” Gage said bluntly. “If she votes wrong, you’ll need to help me pull the plug on her. For your sake as well as our party’s.”

This was so abrupt that Chad wondered again what Gage might know. “I can’t believe she’ll do that,” he found himself temporizing. “She has her pride, but Caroline Masters is too smart to stick it to us.”

Gage shrugged, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “We’ll see, Chad. We’ll just see about that.”

Beneath the Russell Building, the car rumbled to a stop. Gage beamed at him brightly, an expression he managed without opening his lips to smile. “We’ve only just arrived,” he said in his most comradely tone, “and our business is already done. Why don’t you pour me a drink, and tell me all about Allie and Kyle.”

It was not until morning that Sarah Dash learned that her petition had been granted, midafternoon before she picked up Mary Ann at school.

They sat in Sarah’s car. As she listened, the girl’s mouth parted, her expression oscillated between hope and worry. “What happens now?” she asked.

“In three days we’ll have a hearing. After that, they’ll decide as quickly as they can.” Gently Sarah placed her hand on the girl’s wrist. “Dr. Flom thinks you should stay quiet and in bed. He doesn’t want anything to go wrong while we’re waiting for a ruling.”

Quiet, Sarah watched Mary Ann absorb a distasteful paradox: the risk of premature delivery without permission to
abort; the need to rest so that she could take her child’s life. A legal “victory” had never felt so painful and ambiguous.

E
NTERING THE
courthouse, Sarah felt the Tierney case becoming part of history.

The ornate building was besieged by Minicams and demonstrators—some in wheelchairs—carrying signs supporting the Tierneys or their daughter. In the Great Hall leading to Courtroom One, more media thronged, their calls to Sarah echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling as they had two weeks before. But today the landmark case which would decide the fate of Mary Ann Tierney and her unborn child might also determine whether Caroline Masters would become the most important legal figure of her time, or a melancholy footnote—the woman who had lost her chance to be Chief Justice of the United States.

As for Sarah herself, her cause seemed fated, but not doomed. Among the eleven judges were several, including Caroline, whose leanings were uncertain. To persuade them, Sarah must use the time allotted her with firm resolve and keenness of mind, keeping Mary Ann Tierney ever present in their consciousness. Sarah was as rested and calm as possible: buffeted by notoriety, hostility, and the legal blows dealt by Patrick Leary and Lane Steele, she had found within herself a determination and resilience that distinguished her from the young lawyer who, seven weeks ago, had watched a red-haired girl brave a crowd of pickets.

“Sarah,” someone called out, “what are you expecting?”

To do my best
, she thought. Silent, she entered the courtroom.

*  *  *

In the robing room, Judge Caroline Masters removed her black robe from the ornate wooden coatrack.

She was the last judge to do so. Beneath the fluted lamps, her colleagues waited in silence. Today there were few jocular quips, and the quiet chatter which preceded even the most contentious hearings was lacking. This monastic air was due, Caroline knew, less to the unprecedented crush outside the courthouse than to the tension inside this room: her colleagues were well aware of the unique importance of the case and Caroline’s role in it. Sitting at the conference table, Lane Steele propped his chin on folded hands and stared at the polished walnut, as though marshaling his energy and intellect. Only Blair Montgomery—raising his eyebrows and slightly smiling at her as he cracked open the door to listen—seemed more or less in character.

Caroline glanced at the wall clock. The second hand, circling, marked ten o’clock. Chief Judge Sam Harker, a courtly Arizonan in his late sixties, looked around him at the others. “Ready?” he asked. When no one demurred, he nodded toward Blair Montgomery.

The door opened slowly, and then the eleven judges filed into court.

“All rise,” the courtroom deputy called.

As the fourth most junior, Caroline sat on the left of the lower of two benches. Standing at the table reserved for her, Sarah Dash stared straight ahead.

From her own experience, Caroline knew what Sarah must see. She could still recall her only en banc hearing as a lawyer, early—as with Sarah—in her career. Now, as then, the lawyers faced two banks of silent judges, a first bench of eight, the higher bench seating only three: the Chief Judge flanked by the two most senior judges—Blair Montgomery, in this case, being one.

The courtroom itself was overwhelming in its extravagance, a lavish melange of marble mosaics, carved Corinthian columns, plaster cupids and flowers, and stained-glass windows filtering a golden light which augmented the intended sense of awe. Garlands of fruits and vegetables carved in marble around the columns and door frames portrayed the bounty of California, and the marble panel behind the two
benches had an intricate design expressive of Native American art. The upper bench was marred by a colorful piece of history—the ricochet from a bullet fired by a defendant who, in 1917, had murdered an adverse witness. But the fresh history being made was evidenced by the novel presence of two cameras, broadcasting the hearing on the motion of Judge Lane Steele—who had cited, with seeming relish, Caroline’s own responses to Chad Palmer on the virtues of televised proceedings.

Three chairs to her left, Steele peered at his notes, then at Sarah. Her counterparts each presented a different aspect: Thomas Fleming looked as gray and recessive as a diplomat hoping to draw but minimal attention; Barry Saunders personified the glazed reverence of a lawyer straining to show his respect; Martin Tierney appeared weary, spectral, and, somehow, self-martyred. When Caroline glanced at Sarah, their eyes met briefly, and then the younger woman averted her gaze. Caroline resolved not to look at her until she rose to argue.