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The Court
By William J. Coughlin St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 1999 William J. Coughlin
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-7591-3
CHAPTER 1
He pushed the worn bell button at the entrance.
A nun quickly answered the door. She was young. Dressed in a light blue blouse and dark skirt, only her headdress, a mixture of black and white cloth, identified her as a nun.
"I'm here to see Sister Agatha Murphy," he said. "My name is Michael Wright. I'm one of her attorneys."
The young woman forced a polite smile. "Of course. Please come with me, Mr. Wright." She led him down an empty hallway to a sparsely furnished sitting room. "Please have a seat. I'll tell Sister you are here."
"Thank you."
This was not his first visit. He had learned the building was the "mother house" of the order of nuns called the Sisters of Help, a nursing order founded in France. The mother house served as the headquarters of the order and also as a refuge for those sisters who could no longer carry out their duties.
He hoped the inner quarters were more cheerful than the waiting room for visitors. It contained only three hard-backed chairs, a table, and a lamp. A picture of the crucified Christ was the only decoration that adorned the drab beige walls. A worn rug covered a part of the wooden floor.
Michael Wright sat down in one of the chairs and waited. The red brick building was large, four storied, long and wide, of simple institutional design. He had been told that it housed a permanent population of over one hundred nuns. However, he could hear nothing. There was no hint of human life, no strains of music, no squeaking floors, only barren silence. He detected no cooking odors, no lingering reminders of cabbage or other foods, not even a whiff of furniture polish although everything in the room gleamed under heavy coats of shining wax. The still, sterile atmosphere of the room made him uncomfortable.
But she had asked him to come. He was reluctant, but he was handling her appeal and he considered it his duty to at least maintain some minimal contact with the woman. Sister Agatha Murphy had been tagged as Sister Death by the media. She was in residence at the mother house, out on bond pending appeal. Aiding and abetting a suicide was a felony in this state and a jury had found her guilty. It was his job to reverse that outcome.
The chair creaked as he shifted his weight. He welcomed the sound. It broke the dreamlike silence in the stark room.
Wright speculated that prison well might be preferable to entrapment in this brick tomb. If her conviction stood up and she was sent to prison, Sister Agatha Murphy at least would have the solace of sounds, odors, and contact with the hustle and pulse of living humanity. He had never thought that noise in itself might possess any positive quality until he had visited the mother house.
She swept into the room. The hall carpeting had muffled any warning of her approach and despite himself he jumped. He quickly stood up.
"Sit down, sit down," she said irritably. Although she always spoke softly, there was the unmistakable quality of command in her tone. She was accustomed to giving orders.
Sister Agatha Murphy was wearing a modification of the old habit once worn by her order and now forbidden. Stark black with only a starched white piece at the throat, it was unmistakably a nun's habit. Her headdress was full and concealed everything except her round bland face and some stray strands of her graying hair.
She sat opposite him, primly tucking her hands beneath a cloth fold in her habit. She looked at him, her clear blue eyes slightly enlarged by the thick lenses of her plain square glasses. She had put on some weight since his last visit and was bordering on stout. Her skin was smooth and she looked younger than her age, which he knew was fifty-six.
"How have you been, Mr. Wright?" she asked.
"Just fine, Sister. And you?"
She did not reply immediately, but hesitated for a moment. "I have no work to do. I am accustomed to being busy. They will not allow me to even work in the infirmary here at the mother house. However, putting aside the inactivity, I am well."
"Perhaps if I spoke to your supervisor, the ... the ..."
"Mother General," she finished for him. "I rather doubt that would help, Mr. Wright. It is only a rumor, you understand, but I am told she is under direct orders from the Pope himself in this matter." Sister Agatha Murphy smiled wryly. "As you know the church has been taking a rather unrelenting position on assisted suicide."
"What about other work?" he asked. "Surely there must be other things to occupy you besides nursing duties?"
Her blue eyes flashed. "I am a nurse," she said firmly. "May I remind you, Mr. Wright, that I hold three degrees in my profession. I have run hospitals. I doubt very much that peeling potatoes would prove entirely satisfying."
"How are you being treated otherwise?"
She again smiled wryly. "Oh, some of the younger sisters have been kind. The older ones regard me as a murderer. Very few people here talk to me. They are, however, polite for the most part." She sighed. "I miss my hospice."
"It's been closed. Your order closed it right after your arrest."
She nodded slowly. "That, I think, is the only thing I truly regret. Those poor dying people needed the help we could give them in their final hours. I have been able to handle everything, the implications of madness, the silly examinations by psychiatrists, the condemnation by the Church, but I carry a sense of guilt for all those who were in the hospice. They should never have been turned out just because of me."
"I can appreciate your feelings," he said, eager to change what was obviously a painful subject for her. "Now, is there something you wanted to see me about? You did call and ask to see me." He forced a smile.
She looked out the window for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts. Then the cool blue eyes once again swung toward him. "You stated before, Mr. Wright, that one justice seems to control the outcome of many of the cases before the United States Supreme Court, is that not correct?"
"Yes, Justice Howell."
She nodded. "As I recall in our last conversation, you hoped he might rule for us. What was it you called him, the swing man?"
He started to reach for a cigarette then changed his mind. There were no ashtrays in the room. "You have an excellent memory," he said. "And accurate. Justice Howell's vote often decides the issues before the Supreme Court. Sister, I'm sure you realize we don't know what the Court will do, we can only base our thinking on what they have done in the past concerning similar cases. We believe your conviction, like the abortion decisions, will divide the Court. If that happens, Howell's vote would probably decide the case."
"And you thought he might vote in my favor, at least that was your guess," she said.
"Yes."
"But that's only a guess." Her voice was flat, a hint of defeat coloring her usual commanding manner.
It would be unwise to give her any false hope. Still, Wright felt pity for the woman. He paused for a moment to choose the correct words. "I suppose 'guess' is the proper way to express it. But we have obtained some additional information. Quite encouraging, at least in my opinion."
Her placid features revealed no emotion, but her eyes expressed some curiosity.
"Sister, I don't want to mislead you. But you're an intelligent woman so I'll just tell you what I know and you can then make your own judgments."
The cold blue eyes narrowed with increased interest.
"There's a professor at the University of Oregon. He's not a lawyer, he teaches political science. However, he has made a study of the Supreme Court and the justices. Over the years he has developed a database of court decisions and an uncanny ability to predict how each justice will vote, particularly on this kind of case, the kind that attracts wide public interest."
"Sounds like a soothsayer."
"If he is, he is a very accurate soothsayer." He made an effort to conceal his irritation. "The basis for his predictions is quite scientific. He knows the justices' backgrounds and what kinds of attitudes they have displayed in the past. He tracks their public speeches and published articles. Inputs it all. He knows exactly how they voted on similar cases. He has developed quite a feel for the individual thought and character of each member of the Court."
"And what has all this to do with me?"
"At first, this professor made these analyses merely for his own satisfaction. However, he received enormous publicity when he began to call each important decision exactly. He became nationally known, at least among lawyers. He no longer does it for free. He now demands and gets very substantial fees for his computer-assisted predictions."
The nun sighed. "Superstition still plagues the human race."
Wright merely shrugged. "He has a better than ninety-five percent ratio of success, so it matters little if he does it with a computer or chicken bones, does it? The result is the same, and that result is valuable."
"And he has a prediction of how the court will deal with me, I suppose?"
"He does."
"As you know, Mr. Wright, I have no money. Even if I did, I certainly wouldn't waste it on buying the prophesy of some Oregon sorcerer."
The lawyer forced a smile. "The costs of your appeal are being paid by various organizations, people, and groups who agree with your position."
A flash of anger briefly crossed her features. "I don't want their support. I merely helped desperately ill people stop the pain that was tormenting them. Some of the people and groups you mention are Godless monsters whose views are diametrically opposed to my own."
"Still, they do pay the bills."
Her face once again became placid and emotionless. "I did not ask them to do so. That is their choice."
"Well, they got up the money to pay the professor for his prediction."
"Foolish."
Once again Wright had to control his irritation. She had no idea of the huge fee the man had demanded. "As you know, there are nine justices on the United States Supreme Court. It takes a majority of those nine to overturn any lower court decisions. As it stands now, three justices are classified as liberals, and three as conservatives, one leans left, one leans right."
"And that makes Justice Howell, the ninth man, the deciding vote. The swing man."
"That's correct, Sister." Wright was desperate for a cigarette. "Our professor has combed over the justices and their stands on such issues as the death penalty, abortion, and similar matters."
"I don't agree there is any similarity."
He shook his head. "It's a matter of opinion, of course. In any event, the professor believes the Court will again split, as it does so often now, and it is his opinion that Justice Howell will decide for you."
She silently regarded him for a moment. He felt uncomfortable under her steely gaze. "And you think you can actually rely on such a thing," she asked.
"I rely on nothing except the brief we are submitting and the argument we will present. This is a contest, Sister, an important contest. I play to win. We not only bought the professor's predictions, but also his study on the background of each justice. How I approach the brief and argument will be influenced by what I determine is the best avenue for success. The professor's data will be of great use to me. Remember, when all is said and done, I must find the means to persuade the majority of the Court to our point of view."
She looked out the window. "If I lose the case I shall be forced to serve the sentence imposed by the lower court, is that not correct?"
He almost whispered the answer. "Ten years. To be served at the state women's prison."
She looked back at him, the hint of an icy smile upon her thin lips. "I shall be one of the few nuns in prison, at least in this country. But I do not consider myself a martyr. I presume I will be assigned to the prison infirmary where I can once again serve as a nurse, at least in fact, if not in name. I also suppose that my fellow inmates, while perhaps not the genteel ladies I associate with here, will talk to me. That, in itself, would constitute an improvement."
"Prisons are not convents, Sister."
The smile vanished and the commanding eyes narrowed. "I am not afraid. Do you know what will happen to me if you should win my case for me?"
"You'll be free. Not just out on bond, but really free."
"Mother General has made it quite clear that if I wish to remain in the order I shall be required to spend time with a cloistered order. We shall pray together, but we will not be allowed to talk. The Church regards what I have done as murder. It is a time-honored way of exacting penance. Unlike your civil authorities, no time is set. I shall serve in silence until someone designated by the Church believes I have seen the error of my ways and have been sufficiently punished for my transgressions. When that occurs, if ever, I shall be sent back to serve perhaps as a teacher, but I shall never be allowed again to nurse the sick. I am not to be trusted." Her words were spoken without bitterness, but just as a flat, objective statement of fact.
"That is the fate that Rome will demand," she continued. "That is, should I choose to bow to the Pope's authority."
"And if you don't?" He was interested. Wright had never considered the ultimate consequences to the nun if they were victorious before the Supreme Court.
A cold smile haunted her lips. "I shall be excommunicated. That may not mean a great deal to you, Mr. Wright, but I have taken vows of obedience and I still believe in my Church. If I ignore my superiors I shall be cast out."
"I'm in no position to advise you in religious matters. Still, it is your choice. You could leave. You have a tremendous educational background, Sister. Surely you could get work. ..."
She held up a restraining hand. "Of course. But what kind of work? I am quite notorious, am I not? Do not protest. They call me Sister Death. Can you honestly see any reputable hospital taking me on? Wouldn't the media jump on that?"
"Well, there are a number of things you could do. You could teach. And there are clinics where you would be welcome."
"Abortion mills? I am a nun, Mr. Wright, but I am not naive. Certainly there are a number of medical places where I could be exhibited like a prize freak, perverse places where men calling themselves doctors scrape away the lives of thousands of unborn and innocent children. No, I'm afraid such a fate would be inconsistent with my beliefs."
Wright was confused by her attitude. "You make it sound as if you really want to lose the case."
Her ability to be inscrutable, to conceal her thoughts and emotions behind her placid features, was impressive. He sought a hint of her feelings in the cold eyes behind the spectacles but found none.
She seemed to be carefully choosing her words as she spoke. "I have given my situation considerable thought. Believe me when I tell you that I feel completely justified in the eyes of God, despite whatever position the Church may take at this time. I believe eventually my actions will be seen as blameless under civil law. However, what the future may hold is not in my command. I was trained to serve God and humanity, Mr. Wright. I may be serving God here but I feel the need to serve humanity. I need to resume nursing. That is why I called you, Mr. Wright. I wish to withdraw the appeal and begin my sentence."
The attorney knew the shock had shown on his features, but he quickly composed himself. A lot would depend on just how he handled the situation. He paused, then spoke. "Come now, Sister. You can't be serious?"
Her chilly eyes never blinked. Sister Agatha Murphy was a determined woman. One eyebrow lifted slightly as she replied. "Surely you can have no objection to dropping the matter? I would have thought you would welcome it. I understand most of your work on this case is donated. What do you lawyers call it? Pro bono — for the public good?"
Michael Wright sat back in his chair. He was an experienced trial lawyer and quite accustomed to controlling panic. He knew if he reacted too quickly or emotionally she might perceive the true situation. She was intelligent. It would have to be handled very delicately.
"If you want the matter dropped, Sister, I shall certainly do so." His mind raced for just the right words. "However, your case has really gone beyond the fate of Sister Agatha Murphy, hasn't it?"
She said nothing. Her only response was a slight narrowing of her eyes.
"Sister, there are desperate people all over America. They are dying. Slowly. Painfully. There is no hope of recovery. The pain medications no longer work. Surgical nerve blocks no longer work. You know what is happening to them much better than I. They pray for release. If they are comatose and living on life-support systems, even your own religion allows the plug to be pulled. But if they are alive and screaming in pain, they are forced to endure to the very last."
"Young man, I am not a jury and you don't have to paint any word pictures for me. I have spent most of my life serving such people. If you have a point, make it." Her tone was soft but her words crackled with command.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Court by William J. Coughlin. Copyright © 1999 William J. Coughlin. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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