The Promise of Stardust (8 page)

“Exactly,” he said.

I glanced over at the copy of Elle's shaky handwriting on the hospital admission record from our son's stillbirth. “And what about the fact she said she didn't have an advanced directive?”

“I will definitely use that first. But you have to realize, Elle's brother will probably testify, and the judge may be swayed by what he says.”

“Christopher? How do you know what Christopher has to say about this?”

“He was on the evening news.”

“He what!” Blood pounded at my temples.

“Sit down.”

I complied, dumfounded that Chris had the audacity to go to the press.

“The local news got him first, but it played on the networks tonight. Essentially, he said that his sister's injuries were fatal, but you were keeping her on life support because you had some misguided desire to save her. He said Elle had explicitly expressed her wishes that she be allowed to die in her living will. He
said
that although she was the bravest person he'd ever known, she was afraid of being kept alive this way.”

“Shit,” I said.

Jake grimaced. “Do yourself a favor, and watch that mouth of yours—at least in front of the cameras. The press is going to be all over this. It will be important how you present yourself.”

“And you think that ‘golly gee whiz' is going to ingratiate me?”

Jake shook his head. “I believe you when you say that under these circumstances Elle would stay on life support. We'll use everything including that there are states which prohibit the removal of life support when a woman is pregnant, but I want to you to understand I'm trying to protect you. Some people will vilify you for going against her wishes. It may look like you're willing to let her suffer for months. The fact is you are going against the wishes she expressed in her advanced directive.”

I gulped down the meaning of his words, which burned like swallowing lye.

“You need to look like you're half grieving husband and the other half saint.” He pushed a folder at me. “My fee agreement. This one's the retainer.”

I gawked at the plethora of zeros and whistled. I had eight years' worth of Ivy League school loans, and I hadn't been in private practice long enough to pay them off much less sock that amount away.

“I can do this, if the judge gives us half a chance and doesn't immediately act on her advanced directive, Matt. I promise you that I'm your best bet.”

“I don't have this kind of cash. Hell, I don't have a checkbook with me if I did.”

“Don't worry about the retainer,” he said. “I'll forgo the retainer. We're friends. I want this case because I believe in it. We can even talk about a reduced hourly rate, depending on how long the case runs. Just sign here.” He shuffled a few pages and then pointed at the blank signature line.

I drew a deep breath and picked up the pen. “Before I do, there's one thing you need to understand. I'm not interested in your political agenda, Jake. I don't want Elle to be anyone's poster child.”

“You'll change your mind before I'm done with you.”

Jake didn't get it. He never got it. People weren't things to be used for the greater good as
he
saw it. “No,” I said. “If you represent me, the case is about
this
particular situation, not about your Pro-Life cause or your ambition to get into the governor's mansion like your father.”

“I'm not interested in being governor anymore. Yvette doesn't want to be a politician's wife, and I stopped trying to convince her years ago. My sole interest is in saving your unborn baby.” Jake tapped his index finger near the blank signature line. “I have the chops to do this. I'm an expert in constitutional law. I commute to Boston to teach First Amendment law at Harvard, for heaven's sake. I'm a member of the Christian Legal Society. I get called on to consult on Pro-Life issues on a regular basis.”

An odd memory snapped into my mind's eye, something from freshman orientation when everyone asked the same three questions: What's your name? Where are you from? What's your major? Jake always answered in an odd way. He always said, “Jake Leahy Sutter, I am from the right wing, and I am majoring in a course that will lead me to the Supreme Court, preferably to the chief justice's seat.”

“You always wanted to be a judge. You believe this will get you to the bench?”

His eyes narrowed and he leaned back in his seat. “Come on. There's no way I'm ever going to get the robes. My record is too Pro-Life. It's a litmus issue. I refused to walk on the fence of political indifference.”

“Fine. Jake, do I have your word that you'll keep the focus on Elle and the baby? Yes or no?”

His tongue pushed at the inside of his cheek and he nodded.

   6   

Pro-Life advocates were already picketing the courthouse where a judge would decide my wife's fate. No. I had to stop thinking like that. Elle's fate was decided when she fell. I was fighting for the baby's life—our baby's life. The strange thing was that Elle didn't even look pregnant. I hadn't felt the baby kick. The baby was a blip on an ultrasound. And still I knew, if she could, she'd already be reading
Goodnight Moon
to her belly.

I straightened my tie and pushed past the throngs of network reporters shoving microphones in my face.

“Dr. Beaulieu, how's your wife doing?”

“Her brother said she won't survive. Would you comment?”

A guy I'd known in high school yelled at me, “Matt, just one question about Elle.”

“No comment,” I said. They'd heard Christopher's version. I wouldn't provide more fodder for what should be a private matter.

Pro-Lifers held signs on either side of the door:
GIVE LIFE
,
DON'T TAKE IT
.
SAVE ELLE
.

Even though they were technically siding with me, I avoided eye contact with the activists. They were not picketing on my behalf, and certainly not on Elle's. They came with their own agenda, and our tragedy was merely a way to promote it.

I continued through the courthouse doors hoping that once I was inside, someone would keep the reporters and protesters away. No one did.

Next door the federal courthouse had metal detectors, but Cumberland County District Court might be the only courthouse in the country without them. Reporters trailed me across the rotunda, yelping their information-hungry inquiries.

Jake met me halfway to the courtroom, turned to the reporters, and said, “Surely you recognize this is a difficult time for Dr. Beaulieu and his family. We have no comment, but when we do, I'll hold a press conference, and you can ask anything you want.”

To my surprise, they faded back. Admittedly, their eyes continued to loom on me as if they were anxious for the disclosure of a dirty secret.

At the end of the marble checkerboard corridor, my mother stood next to Christopher, looking like she'd been crying. As Jake and I passed, I almost pitied her. Almost. She was in pain, but we were waging a war. Love can conquer, but it can also divide.

The reporters found Chris, and he dove into conversation with them.

I turned to Jake and spoke in a hushed voice. “How did the right-to-lifers find out about this?”

“Come on,” Jake said.

“Did you encourage them to show up today?”

“I didn't need to. Ever since Elle's brother held his press conference, the reporters have been all over this case, and the Pro-Life people are rallying on their own.”

“But how did they know about the court case?”

“I'm sure they're watching the court docket just like the reporters. I would be. They're trying to stop women from being brutalized, children from being murdered,” he said.

I gritted my teeth. “Jake.”

“I know. Not my fight this time.” He flattened his lapel. “You look terrible, by the way. When did you sleep last?”

“I'll sleep when you get the judge to keep Elle's life support going.”

“That's what we're doing here.” Jake stopped outside the courtroom entrance and whispered, “This could take a while, so you need to pace yourself. Translation: sleep. Frankly, I'll be happy if justice moves about as fast as my grandmother who has Parkinson's disease. The longer it takes, the further along Elle is in her pregnancy, and the better it is for us. And pray the judge has a heart and a
Catholic
mother.” Jake wagged his eyebrows. “Hey, you're Catholic. Tell your priest I want him to testify.”

“My priest?”

“You're exercising your religious beliefs.” He took a step closer to me and spoke softly. “Catholics have the Pro-Life part right. I want you to look devout even if you are a heathen.”

Raised Catholic from Baptism through Confirmation, the Sacrament of Marriage with a full Mass thrown in for good measure, I wasn't a churchgoer or even certain if I believed God existed. Elle did, though. She even went to Mass from time to time. And I liked the idea of a benevolent God and believed in the do-unto-others aspect of Christian doctrine. Philosophically, I bought in. Spiritually, I remained skeptical. If God didn't exist, and if heaven and hell were myths, I'd lost Elle forever. I suppose I wanted to believe in God the way a kid wants to hold on to Santa Claus.

Jake glanced down at his buzzing BlackBerry and turned it off. Following his lead, I did the same, noting another voice mail message from Melanie.

“I've never understood,” Jake said, “why Catholics pray to saints or worship Mary, but at least your church believes life begins at conception.” He grinned. “Besides, it's about time you got something out of them besides eating fish on Friday.”

I didn't have the energy or the inclination to clarify Catholic doctrine. “So you're going to
use religion
?”

“Of course. Religious freedom is in the Constitution, or haven't you heard?”

Christopher and my mother pulled open the courtroom doors and disappeared behind them. My mother, too, was a Catholic, but a typical American cafeteria Catholic. And she believed in a woman's right to choose.

Jake patted my shoulder as we walked through the doors. “Take a deep breath. Hopefully, the judge won't rule that Elle's living will is valid before giving us a chance to present our case.”

I searched the gallery for Elle's father. No one had seen Hank in days. In one of those incongruous mental sidetracks the mind takes before it truly accepts someone's death, I thought,
Elle will be frantic about her father
.

Floor-to-ceiling oak paneling lined the courtroom walls. Mom hadn't retained a lawyer, so she sat alone on the side designated for the
RESPONDENT
, but Christopher was behind her whispering in her ear.

Jake and I took our seat at the table labeled
PETITIONER
. He flipped through papers he pulled from his briefcase, while I avoided Mom's stare. Usually, my sixty-three-year-old mother could pass for fifty, yet with the morning light shining through the transom, the thinness of her skin struck me. She was getting old and she looked like hell, but I doubted I looked much better. It occurred to me that if this didn't work out—if the baby died along with Elle—my dropping dead from exhaustion would save me the trouble of killing myself.