WE SLEEP IN THE TINY CABIN, moored to its slip. Tight quarters, but that hardly seems to matter: all nightlong, she fits herself around me. She snores, just a little. Her front tooth is crooked. Her eyelashes are as longas the nail of my thumb.
These are the minutiae that prove, more than anything else, the difference between us now that fifteen yearshave passed. When you’re seventeen, you don’t think about whose apartment you want to sleep in. Whenyou’re seventeen, you don’t even see the pearl-pink of her bra, the lace that arrows between her legs. Whenyou’re seventeen it’s all about the now, not the after.
What I had loved about Julia—there, I’ve said it now—was that she didn’t need anyone. At Wheeler, evenwhen she stood out with her pink hair and quilted army-surplus jacket and combat boots, she did this withoutapology. It was a great irony that the very fact of a relationship with her would diminish her appeal, that themoment she came to love me back and depend on me as much as I depended on her, she would no longer bea truly independent spirit.
No way in hell was I going to be the one to take that quality away from her.
After Julia, there weren’t all that many women. None whose names I took the time to remember, anyway. Itwas far too complicated to maintain the fa.ade; instead, I chose the coward’s rocky route of one-night stands.
Out of necessity—medical and emotional—I have gotten rather skilled at being an escape artist.
But there are a half-dozen times this past night when I had the opportunity to leave. While Julia was sleeping,I even considered how to do it: a note pinned to the pillow, a message scrawled on the deck with her cherrylipstick. And yet the urge to do this was nowhere near as strong as the need to wait just one more minute, onemore hour.
From the spot where he’s curled up on the galley table tight as a cinnamon bun, Judge raises his head. Hewhines a little, and I completely understand. Detangling myself from Julia’s rich forest of hair, I slip out ofthe bed. She inches into the warm spot I’ve left behind.
I swear, it makes me hard again.
But instead of doing what comes naturally—that is, calling in sick with some latent strain of smallpox andmaking the clerk of the court reschedule the hearing so that I can spend the day getting laid—I pull on mypants and go above-deck. I want to make sure I’m at the courthouse before Anna, and need to shower andchange. I leave Julia the keys to my car—it’s a short walk to my place. It’s only when Judge and I are on ourway home that I realize unlike every other bloodshot morning that I have left a woman, I haven’t fashionedsome charming symbol of my exit for Julia, something to lessen the blow of abandonment upon waking.
I wonder if this was an oversight. Or if I have been waiting all this time for her to come back, so that I cangrow up.
When Judge and I arrive at the Garrahy building for the hearing, we have to fight our way through thereporters who have lined up for the Main Event. They thrust microphones in my face, and inadvertently stepon Judge’s paws. Anna will take one look at walking this gaunt-let, and bolt.
Inside the front door, I flag down Vern. “Get us some security out here, will you?” I tell him. “They’re goingto eat the witnesses alive.”
Then I see Sara Fitzgerald, already waiting. She is wearing a suit that most likely hasn’t seen the outside ofthe plastic dry cleaner’s bag for a decade, and her hair is pulled back severely into a barrette. She doesn’tcarry a briefcase, but a knapsack instead. “Good morning,” I say evenly.
The door blows open and Brian enters, looking from Sara to me. “Where’s Anna?”
Sara takes a step forward. “Didn’t she come here with you?”
“She was already gone when I got back from a call at five A.M. She left a note and said she’d meet me here.”
He glances at the door, at the jackals on the other side. “I bet she took off.”
Again, there is the sound of a seal being breached, and then Julia surfs into the courthouse on a crest ofshouts and questions. She smooths back her hair, gets her bearings, then looks at me and loses them again.
“I’ll find her,” I say.
Sara bristles. “No, I will.”
Julia looks at each of us. “Find who?”
“Anna is temporarily absent,” I explain.
“Absent?” Julia says. “As in disappeared?”
“Not at all.” This isn’t a lie, either. For Anna to have disappeared, she would have had to appear in the firstplace.
I realize that I even know where I am headed—at the same moment that Sara understands it, too. In thatmoment she lets me take the lead. Julia grabs my arm as I am walking toward the door. She shoves my carkeys into my hand. “Now you do understand why this isn’t going to work?”
I turn to her. “Julia, listen. I want to talk about what’s going on between us, too. But this isn’t the right time.”
“I was talking about Anna. Campbell, she’s waffling. She couldn’t even show up for her own court date.
What does that say to you?”
“That everyone gets scared,” I answer finally, fair warning for all of us.
spaceThe shades to the hospital room are drawn, but that doesn’t keep me from seeing the angel pallor of KateFitzgerald’s face, the web of blue veins mapping out the last-chance path of medication running under herskin. Curled up on the foot of the bed is Anna.
At my command, Judge waits by the door. I crouch down. “Anna, it’s time to go.”
When the door to the hospital room opens, I’m expecting either Sara Fitzgerald or a doctor with a crash cart.
Instead, to my shock, Jesse stands on the threshold. “Hey,” he says, as if we are old friends.
How did you get here? I almost ask, but realize I don’t want to hear the answer. “We’re on our way to thecourthouse. Need a lift?” I ask dryly.
“No thanks. I thought since everyone was going to be there, I’d stay here.” His eyes do not waver from Kate.
“She looks like shit.”
“What do you expect,” Anna answers, awake now. “She’s dying.”
Again, I find myself staring at my client. I should know better than most that motivations are never what theyseem to be, but I still cannot figure her out. “We need to go.”
In the car, Anna rides shotgun while Judge takes a seat in the back. She starts telling me about some crazyprecedent she found on the internet, where a guy in Montana in 1876 was legally prohibited from using thewater from a river that originated on his brother’s land, even though it meant all his crops would dry up.
“What are you doing?” she asks, when I deliberately miss the turn to the courthouse.
Instead I pull over next to a park. A girl with a great ass jogs by, holding on to the leash of one of thosefroufrou dogs that looks more like a cat. “We’re gonna be late,” Anna says after a moment.
“We already are. Look, Anna. What’s going on here?”
She gives me one of those patented teenage looks, as if to say that there’s no way she and I descended fromthe same evolutionary chain. “We’re going to court.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. I want to know why we’re going to court.”
“Well, Campbell, I guess you cut the first day of law school, but that’s pretty much what happens whensomeone files a lawsuit.”
I level my gaze on her, refusing to be bested. “Anna, why are we going to court?”
She doesn’t blink. “Why do you have a service dog?”
I rap my fingers on the steering wheel and look out over the park. A mother pushes a stroller now, across thesame spot where the jogger was, oblivious to the kid who’s trying his best to crawl out. A titter of birdsexplodes from a tree. “I don’t talk about this with anyone,” I say.
“I’m not just anyone.”
I take a deep breath. “A long time ago I got sick and wound up with an ear infection. But for whateverreason, the medicine didn’t work and I got nerve damage. I’m totally deaf in my left ear. Which isn’t such abig deal, in the long run, but there are certain lifestyle issues I couldn’t handle. Like hearing a car approach,you know, but not being able to tell what direction it’s coming from. Or having someone behind me at thegrocery store who wants to pass by me in the aisle, but I don’t hear her ask. I got trained with Judge so that inthose circumstances, he could be my ears.” I hesitate. “I don’t like people feeling sorry for me. Hence, the bigsecret.”
Anna stares at me carefully. “I came to your office because just for once, I wanted it to be about me insteadof Kate.”
But this selfish confession saws out of her sideways; it just doesn’t fit. This lawsuit has never been aboutAnna wanting her sister to die, but simply that she wants a chance to live. “You’re lying.”
Anna crosses her arms. “Well, you lied first. You hear perfectly fine.”
“And you’re a brat.” I start to laugh. “You remind me of me.”
“Is that supposed to be a good thing?” Anna says, but she’s smiling.
The park is starting to get more crowded. An entire school group walks the path, toddlers tethered togetherlike sled-dog huskies, pulling two teachers in their wake. Someone zooms past on a racing bike, wearing thecolors of the U.S. Postal Service. “C’mon. I’ll treat you to breakfast.”
“But we’re late.”
I shrug. “Who’s counting?”
Judge DeSalvo is not a happy man; Anna’s little field trip this morning has cost us an hour and a half. Heglares at me when Judge and I hurry into his chambers for the pretrial conference. “Your Honor, I apologize.
We had a veterinary emergency.”
I feel, rather than see, Sara’s mouth drop open. “That’s not what opposing counsel indicated,” the judge says.
I look DeSalvo right in the eye. “Well, it’s what happened. Anna was kind enough to help me by keeping thedog calm while the sliver of glass was removed from his paw.”
The judge is dubious. But there are laws against handicapped discrimination, and I’m playing them to thehilt; the last thing I want is for him to blame Anna for this delay. “Is there any way of resolving this petitionwithout a hearing?” he asks.
“I’m afraid not.” Anna may not be willing to share her secrets, which I can only respect, but she knows thatshe wants to go through with this.
The judge accepts my answer. “Mrs. Fitzgerald, I take it you’re still representing yourself?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” she says.
“All right then.” Judge DeSalvo glances at each of us. “This is family court, Counselors. In family court, andespecially in hearings like these, I tend to personally relax the rules of evidence because I don’t want acontentious hearing. I’m able to filter out what is admissible and what is not, and if there’s something trulyobjectionable, I’ll listen to the objection, but I would prefer that we get through this hearing quickly, withoutworrying about form.” He looks directly at me. “I want this to be as painless as possible for everyoneinvolved.”
We move into the courtroom—one that’s smaller than the criminal courts, but intimidating all the same. Iswing into the lobby to pick Anna up along the way. As we cross through the doorway, she stops dead. Sheglances at the vast paneled walls, the rows of chairs, the imposing bench. “Campbell,” she whispers, “I won’thave to stand up there and talk, right?”
The fact is, the judge will most likely want to hear what she has to say. Even if Julia comes out in support ofher petition, even if Brian says he will help Anna, Judge DeSalvo may want her to take the stand. But tellingher this right now is only going to get her all worked up—and that’s not any way to start a hearing.
I think about the conversation in the car, when Anna called me a liar. There are two reasons to not tell thetruth—because lying will get you what you want, and because lying will keep someone from getting hurt. It’sfor both of these reasons that I give Anna this answer. “Well,” I say, “I doubt it.”
“Judge,” I begin, “I know it’s not traditional practice, but there’s something I’d like to say before we startcalling witnesses.”
Judge DeSalvo sighs. “Isn’t this sort of standing on ceremony exactly what I asked you not to do?”
“Your Honor, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important.”
“Make it quick,” the judge says.
I stand up and approach the bench. “Your Honor, all of Anna Fitzgerald’s life she has been medically treatedfor her sister’s good, not her own. No one doubts Sara Fitzgerald’s love for all her children, or the decisionsshe’s made that have prolonged Kate’s life. But today we have to doubt the decisions she’s made for thischild.”
I turn, and see Julia watching me carefully. And suddenly I remember that old ethics assignment, and knowwhat I have to say. “You might remember the recent case of the firefighters in Worcester, Massachusetts, whowere killed in a blaze started by a homeless woman. She knew the fire had started and she left the building,but she never called 911 because she thought she might get into trouble. Six men died that night, and yet theState couldn’t hold this woman responsible, because in America—even if the consequences are tragic—youare not responsible for someone else’s safety. You aren’t obligated to help anyone in distress. Not if you’rethe one who started the fire, not if you’re a passerby to a car wreck, not if you’re a perfectly matched donor.”
I look at Julia again. “We’re here today because there’s a difference in our system of justice between what’slegal and what’s moral. Sometimes it’s easy to tell them apart. But every now and then, especially when theyrub up against each other, right sometimes looks wrong, and wrong sometimes looks right.” I walk back tomy seat, and stand in front of it. “We’re here today,” I finish, “so that this Court can help us all see a littlemore clearly.”
My first witness is opposing counsel. I watch Sara walk to the stand unsteadily, a sailor getting her sea legsagain. She manages to get herself into the seat and be sworn in without ever breaking her gaze away fromAnna.
“Judge, I’d like permission to treat Mrs. Fitzgerald as a hostile witness.”
The judge frowns. “Mr. Alexander, I truly would hope that both you and Mrs. Fitzgerald can stand to becivilized, here.”
“Understood, Your Honor.” I walk toward Sara. “Can you state your name?”
She lifts her chin a fraction. “Sara Crofton Fitzgerald.”
“You are the mother of the minor child Anna Fitzgerald?”
“Yes. And also of Kate and Jesse.”
“Isn’t it true that your daughter Kate was diagnosed with acute promyelocytic leukemia at age two?”
“That’s right.”
“At that time did you and your husband decide to conceive a child who would be genetically programmed tobe an organ donor for Kate, so that she could be cured?”
Sara’s face hardens. “Not the words I would choose, but that was the story behind Anna’s conception, yes.
We were planning to use Anna’s umbilical cord blood for a transplant.”
“Why didn’t you try to find an unrelated donor?”
“It’s much more dangerous. The risk of mortality would have been far higher with someone who wasn’trelated to Kate.”
“So how old was Anna when she first donated an organ or tissue to her sister?”
“Kate had the transplant a month after Anna was born.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t ask when Kate received it; I asked when Anna donated it. The cord blood wastaken from Anna moments after birth, isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” Sara says, “but Anna wasn’t even aware of it.”
“How old was Anna the next time she donated some body part to Kate?”
Sara winces, just as I have expected. “She was five when she gave donor lymphocytes.”
“What does that involve?”
“Drawing blood from the crooks of her arms.”
“Did Anna agree to let you put a needle in her arm?”
“She was five years old,” Sara answers.
“Did you ask her if you could put a needle in her arm?”
“I asked her to help her sister.”
“Isn’t it true that someone had to physically hold Anna down to get the needle in her arm?”
Sara looks at Anna, closes her eyes. “Yes.”
“Do you call that voluntary participation, Mrs. Fitzgerald?” From the corner of my eye I can see JudgeDeSalvo’s brows draw together. “The first time you took lymphocytes from Anna, were there any sideeffects?”
“She had some bruising. Some tenderness.”
“How long was it before you took blood again?”
“A month.”
“Did she have to be held down that time, too?”
“Yes, but—”
“What were her side effects then?”
“The same.” Sara shakes her head. “You don’t understand. It wasn’t like I didn’t see what was happening toAnna, every time she underwent a procedure. It doesn’t matter which of your children you see in thatsituation—every single time, it breaks you apart.”
“And yet, Mrs. Fitzgerald, you managed to get past that sentiment,” I say, “because you took blood fromAnna a third time.”
“It took that long to get all the lymphocytes,” Sara says. “It’s not an exact procedure.”
“How old was Anna the next time she had to undergo medical treatment for her sister’s well-being?”
“When Kate was nine she got a raging infection and—”
“Again, that’s not what I asked. I want to know what happened to Anna when she was six.”
“She donated granulocytes to fight Kate’s infection. It’s a process a lot like a lymphocyte donation.”
“Another needle stick?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you ask her if she was willing to donate the granulocytes?”
Sara doesn’t answer. “Mrs. Fitzgerald,” the judge prompts.
She turns toward her daughter, pleading. “Anna, you know we never did any of these things to hurt you. Ithurt all of us. If you got the bruises on the outside, then we got them on the inside.”
“Mrs. Fitzgerald,” I step between her and Anna. “Did you ask her?”
“Please don’t do this,” Sara says. “We all know the history. I’ll stipulate to whatever it is you’re trying to doin the process of crucifying me. I’d rather just get this part over with.”
“Because it’s hard to hear it hashed out again, isn’t it?” I know I’m walking a fine line, but behind me there isAnna, and I want her to know that someone here is willing to go the distance for her. “Added up like this, itdoesn’t seem quite so innocuous, does it?”
“Mr. Alexander, what is the point of this?” Judge DeSalvo says. “I am well aware of the number ofprocedures Anna’s undergone.”
“Because we have Kate’s medical history, Your Honor, not Anna’s.”
Judge DeSalvo looks between us. “Be brief, Counselor.”
I turn to Sara. “Bone marrow,” she says woodenly, before I can ask the question. “She was put under generalanesthesia because she was so young, and needles were put into the crests of her hips to draw out themarrow.”
“Was it one needle stick, like the other procedures?”
“No,” Sara says quietly. “It was about fifteen.”
“Into the bone?”
“Yes.”
“What were the side effects for Anna this time around?”
“She had some pain, and was given some analgesics.”
“So this time, Anna had to be hospitalized overnight…and she needed medication herself?”
Sara takes a minute to compose herself. “I was told that donating marrow isn’t considered a particularlyinvasive procedure for a donor. Maybe I was just waiting to hear those words; maybe I needed to hear themat that time. And maybe I was not thinking as much of Anna as I should have been, because I was so focusedon Kate. But I know beyond a doubt that—like everyone else in our family—Anna wanted nothing more thanfor her sister to be cured.”
“Well, sure,” I reply, “so that you’d stop sticking needles in her.”
“Enough, Mr. Alexander,” Judge DeSalvo interjects.
“Wait,” Sara interrupts. “I have something to say.” She turns to me. “You think you can lay it all out inwords, black-and-white, as if it’s that easy. But you only represent one of my daughters, Mr.
Alexander, and only in this courtroom. I represent both of them equally, everywhere, every place. I love bothof them equally, everywhere, every place.”
“But you admitted that you’ve always considered Kate’s health, not Anna’s, in making these choices,” I pointout. “So how can you claim to love both of them equally? How can you say that you haven’t been favoringone child in your decisions?”
“Aren’t you asking me to do that very thing?” Sara asks. “Only this time, to favor the other child
These are the minutiae that prove, more than anything else, the difference between us now that fifteen yearshave passed. When you’re seventeen, you don’t think about whose apartment you want to sleep in. Whenyou’re seventeen, you don’t even see the pearl-pink of her bra, the lace that arrows between her legs. Whenyou’re seventeen it’s all about the now, not the after.
What I had loved about Julia—there, I’ve said it now—was that she didn’t need anyone. At Wheeler, evenwhen she stood out with her pink hair and quilted army-surplus jacket and combat boots, she did this withoutapology. It was a great irony that the very fact of a relationship with her would diminish her appeal, that themoment she came to love me back and depend on me as much as I depended on her, she would no longer bea truly independent spirit.
No way in hell was I going to be the one to take that quality away from her.
After Julia, there weren’t all that many women. None whose names I took the time to remember, anyway. Itwas far too complicated to maintain the fa.ade; instead, I chose the coward’s rocky route of one-night stands.
Out of necessity—medical and emotional—I have gotten rather skilled at being an escape artist.
But there are a half-dozen times this past night when I had the opportunity to leave. While Julia was sleeping,I even considered how to do it: a note pinned to the pillow, a message scrawled on the deck with her cherrylipstick. And yet the urge to do this was nowhere near as strong as the need to wait just one more minute, onemore hour.
From the spot where he’s curled up on the galley table tight as a cinnamon bun, Judge raises his head. Hewhines a little, and I completely understand. Detangling myself from Julia’s rich forest of hair, I slip out ofthe bed. She inches into the warm spot I’ve left behind.
I swear, it makes me hard again.
But instead of doing what comes naturally—that is, calling in sick with some latent strain of smallpox andmaking the clerk of the court reschedule the hearing so that I can spend the day getting laid—I pull on mypants and go above-deck. I want to make sure I’m at the courthouse before Anna, and need to shower andchange. I leave Julia the keys to my car—it’s a short walk to my place. It’s only when Judge and I are on ourway home that I realize unlike every other bloodshot morning that I have left a woman, I haven’t fashionedsome charming symbol of my exit for Julia, something to lessen the blow of abandonment upon waking.
I wonder if this was an oversight. Or if I have been waiting all this time for her to come back, so that I cangrow up.
When Judge and I arrive at the Garrahy building for the hearing, we have to fight our way through thereporters who have lined up for the Main Event. They thrust microphones in my face, and inadvertently stepon Judge’s paws. Anna will take one look at walking this gaunt-let, and bolt.
Inside the front door, I flag down Vern. “Get us some security out here, will you?” I tell him. “They’re goingto eat the witnesses alive.”
Then I see Sara Fitzgerald, already waiting. She is wearing a suit that most likely hasn’t seen the outside ofthe plastic dry cleaner’s bag for a decade, and her hair is pulled back severely into a barrette. She doesn’tcarry a briefcase, but a knapsack instead. “Good morning,” I say evenly.
The door blows open and Brian enters, looking from Sara to me. “Where’s Anna?”
Sara takes a step forward. “Didn’t she come here with you?”
“She was already gone when I got back from a call at five A.M. She left a note and said she’d meet me here.”
He glances at the door, at the jackals on the other side. “I bet she took off.”
Again, there is the sound of a seal being breached, and then Julia surfs into the courthouse on a crest ofshouts and questions. She smooths back her hair, gets her bearings, then looks at me and loses them again.
“I’ll find her,” I say.
Sara bristles. “No, I will.”
Julia looks at each of us. “Find who?”
“Anna is temporarily absent,” I explain.
“Absent?” Julia says. “As in disappeared?”
“Not at all.” This isn’t a lie, either. For Anna to have disappeared, she would have had to appear in the firstplace.
I realize that I even know where I am headed—at the same moment that Sara understands it, too. In thatmoment she lets me take the lead. Julia grabs my arm as I am walking toward the door. She shoves my carkeys into my hand. “Now you do understand why this isn’t going to work?”
I turn to her. “Julia, listen. I want to talk about what’s going on between us, too. But this isn’t the right time.”
“I was talking about Anna. Campbell, she’s waffling. She couldn’t even show up for her own court date.
What does that say to you?”
“That everyone gets scared,” I answer finally, fair warning for all of us.
spaceThe shades to the hospital room are drawn, but that doesn’t keep me from seeing the angel pallor of KateFitzgerald’s face, the web of blue veins mapping out the last-chance path of medication running under herskin. Curled up on the foot of the bed is Anna.
At my command, Judge waits by the door. I crouch down. “Anna, it’s time to go.”
When the door to the hospital room opens, I’m expecting either Sara Fitzgerald or a doctor with a crash cart.
Instead, to my shock, Jesse stands on the threshold. “Hey,” he says, as if we are old friends.
How did you get here? I almost ask, but realize I don’t want to hear the answer. “We’re on our way to thecourthouse. Need a lift?” I ask dryly.
“No thanks. I thought since everyone was going to be there, I’d stay here.” His eyes do not waver from Kate.
“She looks like shit.”
“What do you expect,” Anna answers, awake now. “She’s dying.”
Again, I find myself staring at my client. I should know better than most that motivations are never what theyseem to be, but I still cannot figure her out. “We need to go.”
In the car, Anna rides shotgun while Judge takes a seat in the back. She starts telling me about some crazyprecedent she found on the internet, where a guy in Montana in 1876 was legally prohibited from using thewater from a river that originated on his brother’s land, even though it meant all his crops would dry up.
“What are you doing?” she asks, when I deliberately miss the turn to the courthouse.
Instead I pull over next to a park. A girl with a great ass jogs by, holding on to the leash of one of thosefroufrou dogs that looks more like a cat. “We’re gonna be late,” Anna says after a moment.
“We already are. Look, Anna. What’s going on here?”
She gives me one of those patented teenage looks, as if to say that there’s no way she and I descended fromthe same evolutionary chain. “We’re going to court.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. I want to know why we’re going to court.”
“Well, Campbell, I guess you cut the first day of law school, but that’s pretty much what happens whensomeone files a lawsuit.”
I level my gaze on her, refusing to be bested. “Anna, why are we going to court?”
She doesn’t blink. “Why do you have a service dog?”
I rap my fingers on the steering wheel and look out over the park. A mother pushes a stroller now, across thesame spot where the jogger was, oblivious to the kid who’s trying his best to crawl out. A titter of birdsexplodes from a tree. “I don’t talk about this with anyone,” I say.
“I’m not just anyone.”
I take a deep breath. “A long time ago I got sick and wound up with an ear infection. But for whateverreason, the medicine didn’t work and I got nerve damage. I’m totally deaf in my left ear. Which isn’t such abig deal, in the long run, but there are certain lifestyle issues I couldn’t handle. Like hearing a car approach,you know, but not being able to tell what direction it’s coming from. Or having someone behind me at thegrocery store who wants to pass by me in the aisle, but I don’t hear her ask. I got trained with Judge so that inthose circumstances, he could be my ears.” I hesitate. “I don’t like people feeling sorry for me. Hence, the bigsecret.”
Anna stares at me carefully. “I came to your office because just for once, I wanted it to be about me insteadof Kate.”
But this selfish confession saws out of her sideways; it just doesn’t fit. This lawsuit has never been aboutAnna wanting her sister to die, but simply that she wants a chance to live. “You’re lying.”
Anna crosses her arms. “Well, you lied first. You hear perfectly fine.”
“And you’re a brat.” I start to laugh. “You remind me of me.”
“Is that supposed to be a good thing?” Anna says, but she’s smiling.
The park is starting to get more crowded. An entire school group walks the path, toddlers tethered togetherlike sled-dog huskies, pulling two teachers in their wake. Someone zooms past on a racing bike, wearing thecolors of the U.S. Postal Service. “C’mon. I’ll treat you to breakfast.”
“But we’re late.”
I shrug. “Who’s counting?”
Judge DeSalvo is not a happy man; Anna’s little field trip this morning has cost us an hour and a half. Heglares at me when Judge and I hurry into his chambers for the pretrial conference. “Your Honor, I apologize.
We had a veterinary emergency.”
I feel, rather than see, Sara’s mouth drop open. “That’s not what opposing counsel indicated,” the judge says.
I look DeSalvo right in the eye. “Well, it’s what happened. Anna was kind enough to help me by keeping thedog calm while the sliver of glass was removed from his paw.”
The judge is dubious. But there are laws against handicapped discrimination, and I’m playing them to thehilt; the last thing I want is for him to blame Anna for this delay. “Is there any way of resolving this petitionwithout a hearing?” he asks.
“I’m afraid not.” Anna may not be willing to share her secrets, which I can only respect, but she knows thatshe wants to go through with this.
The judge accepts my answer. “Mrs. Fitzgerald, I take it you’re still representing yourself?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” she says.
“All right then.” Judge DeSalvo glances at each of us. “This is family court, Counselors. In family court, andespecially in hearings like these, I tend to personally relax the rules of evidence because I don’t want acontentious hearing. I’m able to filter out what is admissible and what is not, and if there’s something trulyobjectionable, I’ll listen to the objection, but I would prefer that we get through this hearing quickly, withoutworrying about form.” He looks directly at me. “I want this to be as painless as possible for everyoneinvolved.”
We move into the courtroom—one that’s smaller than the criminal courts, but intimidating all the same. Iswing into the lobby to pick Anna up along the way. As we cross through the doorway, she stops dead. Sheglances at the vast paneled walls, the rows of chairs, the imposing bench. “Campbell,” she whispers, “I won’thave to stand up there and talk, right?”
The fact is, the judge will most likely want to hear what she has to say. Even if Julia comes out in support ofher petition, even if Brian says he will help Anna, Judge DeSalvo may want her to take the stand. But tellingher this right now is only going to get her all worked up—and that’s not any way to start a hearing.
I think about the conversation in the car, when Anna called me a liar. There are two reasons to not tell thetruth—because lying will get you what you want, and because lying will keep someone from getting hurt. It’sfor both of these reasons that I give Anna this answer. “Well,” I say, “I doubt it.”
“Judge,” I begin, “I know it’s not traditional practice, but there’s something I’d like to say before we startcalling witnesses.”
Judge DeSalvo sighs. “Isn’t this sort of standing on ceremony exactly what I asked you not to do?”
“Your Honor, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important.”
“Make it quick,” the judge says.
I stand up and approach the bench. “Your Honor, all of Anna Fitzgerald’s life she has been medically treatedfor her sister’s good, not her own. No one doubts Sara Fitzgerald’s love for all her children, or the decisionsshe’s made that have prolonged Kate’s life. But today we have to doubt the decisions she’s made for thischild.”
I turn, and see Julia watching me carefully. And suddenly I remember that old ethics assignment, and knowwhat I have to say. “You might remember the recent case of the firefighters in Worcester, Massachusetts, whowere killed in a blaze started by a homeless woman. She knew the fire had started and she left the building,but she never called 911 because she thought she might get into trouble. Six men died that night, and yet theState couldn’t hold this woman responsible, because in America—even if the consequences are tragic—youare not responsible for someone else’s safety. You aren’t obligated to help anyone in distress. Not if you’rethe one who started the fire, not if you’re a passerby to a car wreck, not if you’re a perfectly matched donor.”
I look at Julia again. “We’re here today because there’s a difference in our system of justice between what’slegal and what’s moral. Sometimes it’s easy to tell them apart. But every now and then, especially when theyrub up against each other, right sometimes looks wrong, and wrong sometimes looks right.” I walk back tomy seat, and stand in front of it. “We’re here today,” I finish, “so that this Court can help us all see a littlemore clearly.”
My first witness is opposing counsel. I watch Sara walk to the stand unsteadily, a sailor getting her sea legsagain. She manages to get herself into the seat and be sworn in without ever breaking her gaze away fromAnna.
“Judge, I’d like permission to treat Mrs. Fitzgerald as a hostile witness.”
The judge frowns. “Mr. Alexander, I truly would hope that both you and Mrs. Fitzgerald can stand to becivilized, here.”
“Understood, Your Honor.” I walk toward Sara. “Can you state your name?”
She lifts her chin a fraction. “Sara Crofton Fitzgerald.”
“You are the mother of the minor child Anna Fitzgerald?”
“Yes. And also of Kate and Jesse.”
“Isn’t it true that your daughter Kate was diagnosed with acute promyelocytic leukemia at age two?”
“That’s right.”
“At that time did you and your husband decide to conceive a child who would be genetically programmed tobe an organ donor for Kate, so that she could be cured?”
Sara’s face hardens. “Not the words I would choose, but that was the story behind Anna’s conception, yes.
We were planning to use Anna’s umbilical cord blood for a transplant.”
“Why didn’t you try to find an unrelated donor?”
“It’s much more dangerous. The risk of mortality would have been far higher with someone who wasn’trelated to Kate.”
“So how old was Anna when she first donated an organ or tissue to her sister?”
“Kate had the transplant a month after Anna was born.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t ask when Kate received it; I asked when Anna donated it. The cord blood wastaken from Anna moments after birth, isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” Sara says, “but Anna wasn’t even aware of it.”
“How old was Anna the next time she donated some body part to Kate?”
Sara winces, just as I have expected. “She was five when she gave donor lymphocytes.”
“What does that involve?”
“Drawing blood from the crooks of her arms.”
“Did Anna agree to let you put a needle in her arm?”
“She was five years old,” Sara answers.
“Did you ask her if you could put a needle in her arm?”
“I asked her to help her sister.”
“Isn’t it true that someone had to physically hold Anna down to get the needle in her arm?”
Sara looks at Anna, closes her eyes. “Yes.”
“Do you call that voluntary participation, Mrs. Fitzgerald?” From the corner of my eye I can see JudgeDeSalvo’s brows draw together. “The first time you took lymphocytes from Anna, were there any sideeffects?”
“She had some bruising. Some tenderness.”
“How long was it before you took blood again?”
“A month.”
“Did she have to be held down that time, too?”
“Yes, but—”
“What were her side effects then?”
“The same.” Sara shakes her head. “You don’t understand. It wasn’t like I didn’t see what was happening toAnna, every time she underwent a procedure. It doesn’t matter which of your children you see in thatsituation—every single time, it breaks you apart.”
“And yet, Mrs. Fitzgerald, you managed to get past that sentiment,” I say, “because you took blood fromAnna a third time.”
“It took that long to get all the lymphocytes,” Sara says. “It’s not an exact procedure.”
“How old was Anna the next time she had to undergo medical treatment for her sister’s well-being?”
“When Kate was nine she got a raging infection and—”
“Again, that’s not what I asked. I want to know what happened to Anna when she was six.”
“She donated granulocytes to fight Kate’s infection. It’s a process a lot like a lymphocyte donation.”
“Another needle stick?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you ask her if she was willing to donate the granulocytes?”
Sara doesn’t answer. “Mrs. Fitzgerald,” the judge prompts.
She turns toward her daughter, pleading. “Anna, you know we never did any of these things to hurt you. Ithurt all of us. If you got the bruises on the outside, then we got them on the inside.”
“Mrs. Fitzgerald,” I step between her and Anna. “Did you ask her?”
“Please don’t do this,” Sara says. “We all know the history. I’ll stipulate to whatever it is you’re trying to doin the process of crucifying me. I’d rather just get this part over with.”
“Because it’s hard to hear it hashed out again, isn’t it?” I know I’m walking a fine line, but behind me there isAnna, and I want her to know that someone here is willing to go the distance for her. “Added up like this, itdoesn’t seem quite so innocuous, does it?”
“Mr. Alexander, what is the point of this?” Judge DeSalvo says. “I am well aware of the number ofprocedures Anna’s undergone.”
“Because we have Kate’s medical history, Your Honor, not Anna’s.”
Judge DeSalvo looks between us. “Be brief, Counselor.”
I turn to Sara. “Bone marrow,” she says woodenly, before I can ask the question. “She was put under generalanesthesia because she was so young, and needles were put into the crests of her hips to draw out themarrow.”
“Was it one needle stick, like the other procedures?”
“No,” Sara says quietly. “It was about fifteen.”
“Into the bone?”
“Yes.”
“What were the side effects for Anna this time around?”
“She had some pain, and was given some analgesics.”
“So this time, Anna had to be hospitalized overnight…and she needed medication herself?”
Sara takes a minute to compose herself. “I was told that donating marrow isn’t considered a particularlyinvasive procedure for a donor. Maybe I was just waiting to hear those words; maybe I needed to hear themat that time. And maybe I was not thinking as much of Anna as I should have been, because I was so focusedon Kate. But I know beyond a doubt that—like everyone else in our family—Anna wanted nothing more thanfor her sister to be cured.”
“Well, sure,” I reply, “so that you’d stop sticking needles in her.”
“Enough, Mr. Alexander,” Judge DeSalvo interjects.
“Wait,” Sara interrupts. “I have something to say.” She turns to me. “You think you can lay it all out inwords, black-and-white, as if it’s that easy. But you only represent one of my daughters, Mr.
Alexander, and only in this courtroom. I represent both of them equally, everywhere, every place. I love bothof them equally, everywhere, every place.”
“But you admitted that you’ve always considered Kate’s health, not Anna’s, in making these choices,” I pointout. “So how can you claim to love both of them equally? How can you say that you haven’t been favoringone child in your decisions?”
“Aren’t you asking me to do that very thing?” Sara asks. “Only this time, to favor the other child