CHAPTER EIGHT

YOUR HONOR, I OBJECT!

This woman needs help, not a death sentence. She needs the warmth of a family that cares for her. She needs the help of doctors who want to treat her, instead of recommending that she die.

—REPRESENTATIVE JOSEPH PITTS, PENNSYLVANIA1

One court hearing is forever seared in my mind.

In many ways this court hearing was no different from the many others we had already experienced since taking over the Schindlers’ case several months earlier. The air almost hummed with anticipation as I made my way to the front of the crowded room.

In a court case observers who support either the plaintiff or the defendant tend to sit on the same side of the courtroom as ‘‘their’’ side’s legal counsel. This particular case was very different. I noticed that only Terri’s supporters tended to come to court, and they filled both sides of the aisle.

During the entire time I represented the Schindlers, I don’t ever remember seeing Michael in court. But I had always been pleasantly ‘‘accosted’’ by all of the wonderful people who faithfully showed up to support the Schindlers. They were always waiting by the courthouse steps, by the elevators, at the courtroom door—offering prayers and words of encouragement. We often joined hands with the Schindler family and their supporters to pray just before court began.

I took my seat at the petitioners’ table. Like a boxer waiting for the bell to sound the start of round one, I mentally rehearsed the key points and objections I knew I had to register with the judge. My goal, as always, in addition to presenting the legal arguments was to attempt to enable this judge to see Terri in a new light—not as a worthless coma patient but as the beautiful, vibrant woman I had come to know and appreciate.

I prayed again for the grace to be able to make that seismic shift this case so desperately needed. I was the Johnny-come-lately to this legal battle; it had been a hard-fought legal contest for more than a dozen years before I ever met the Schindlers or Terri.

As always, with thoughts of the life-and-death issues at stake in this courtroom prominently in my mind, I placed my briefcase on the table and withdrew a yellow legal pad, a pen, and my documents. With a soft click, I closed the latch and then slipped my attache case under the table. One lesson lawyers learn early in court is that most judges do not look kindly on them marring the shiny counsel tables with marks made by briefcases.

I couldn’t help but sense the stare of the media’s watchful eye. Media coverage of Terri’s plight had been building steadily since the Florida legislature and the governor had gotten involved in this matter in October of 2003. And ever since September 2004, when Terri’s Law was struck down and the Schindlers and I had appeared for the entire hour on Larry King’s TV program, it seemed like the nation and the press had become even more aware of Terri’s story. Millions were now aware of this family drama being played out amid the beaches and palm trees of Florida’s Gulf Coast. As always, dozens of national and local reporters carrying their notebooks and shoulder cameras had arrived in force. They were seated behind me and to my left in what would have been the jury box in another sort of trial.

Like an array of unblinking glass eyes, the lenses of the television cameras were fixed on the center of the courtroom, ready to capture live every word uttered.

America would be watching. People all over the nation were forming opinions about Terri and about Michael, taking sides in this complicated family tragedy that was now anything but private.

But I was glad to see the press. One of our objectives in this case was to try to overcome the false impressions of Terri that had been planted in the media for years by Michael Schiavo and his legal team. They consistently referred to Terri as being in a coma, being a vegetable, unable to communicate, wanting to die. I had seen Terri, visited with her. I knew this portrayal of Terri was anything but accurate.

I glanced over at the table where George Felos, Michael Schiavo’s attorney, sat. I imagined he was probably feeling some of the same pre-hearing pressure. Then again, Mr. Felos had been in this case for more than a decade, since the beginning, and the long string of favorable rulings he had been handed over the years in this same courtroom had surely bolstered his confidence. He was ready to defeat me in this ring too, just as he had defeated all the other attorneys who had tried to help the Schindlers save their daughter’s life.

I glanced behind his counsel table again. Maybe Michael Schiavo would be here in court today. But as usual, I didn’t see him. The only people sitting behind Mr. Felos’s table were people I knew were there to support the Schindlers.

I never quite understood why Michael was always a no-show in court. He was the one who had started this litigation, yet he never showed up for the legal proceedings. It especially troubled me that for ten years Judge Greer had permitted this man, who was living with and having children with another woman, to remain as Terri’s guardian. Michael had clearly moved on with his life. His priority now had to be with his children and their mother.

I couldn’t understand why Michael’s new status as a parent never seemed to increase his empathy or concern for the suffering he was causing Terri’s parents in this matter.

I looked at my watch and then up at the empty bench. Judge Greer was running late. His tardiness could mean nothing—or it could mean that something was afoot. I wondered whether today’s events might be more serious than usual. Could that be what was delaying the judge?

I knew my staff was praying for me every time we were in court. As I looked around the courtroom again, I saw that several of the spectators had their heads bowed. I knew Bob and Mary Schindler, three rows behind me in the gallery, were praying. And if the truth were known, millions of ordinary Americans were praying too. Without question, by now, the fifteenth year of the Schindlers’ fight for their daughter, the case of Terri Schiavo had captured the attention of Americans everywhere. In fact, we had started to receive regular calls from the press, not only nationwide but around the globe. The world was intensely focused on this courtroom.

The fate of this one woman had raised the stakes of the life-and-death debate to an unprecedented level. And this was the first time in my career where I knew someone would die if I lost my case. The stakes here were very high.

In the last generation, the United States Supreme Court legalized abortion in Roe v. Wade, laying the groundwork for the proliferation of abortion in our society. Was our judicial system now set to approve the killing of disabled people hidden away in nursing homes and hospices?

But Terri wasn’t hidden from me. I had come to know her during the last few weeks. I had to do my best, with God’s help, to make this judge, the nation, indeed, the whole world, through those TV media eyes watching me from the jury box, understand that Terri had a life worth living. She had a family who loved her no matter what. Terri needed therapy, rehab, and good old-fashioned TLC, not a death sentence. I was eager to get this hearing underway. Was Judge Greer’s delay due to some threat against him? I was glad armed officers and security forces were on hand to worry about those things. It was enough for me to be thinking about my oral argument, the frayed emotions of the Schindler family, and the ever-present media. But was Judge Greer aware of something brewing?

As if reading my mind, one of the courtroom’s law enforcement officers crossed the room and headed directly for my table. I offered a smile. I figured he was coming over to provide some sort of routine notification for the holdup. You know, something along the lines that someone was running late, or perhaps a transcript or key document needed to be dispatched to the courthouse before we could begin.

The officer appeared at my side. He placed his left hand on the table, palm down, and then leaned in close as if preparing to offer an insider stock tip. He cleared his throat. In a low, commanding tone he spoke three words.

‘‘Don’t turn around.’’

‘‘Excuse me?’’ I said, matching his muted voice.

I noticed his eyes were focused somewhere over my shoulder on an unseen point of interest behind me. ‘‘Mr. Gibbs, I need to ask you to avoid making any sudden moves that would draw attention to us. Do you understand?’’

I offered a slow nod, although in reality I was unsure where this conversation was headed.

‘‘What’s up?’’

‘‘We have a possible . . . situation,’’ he said, as if struggling to find the right word.

I forced a smile as if to pretend we were just talking about the weather. A moment earlier I was busy arranging my notes and mentally cross-examining each aspect of the motion I was about to make. Out of habit I questioned everything. . . . Was there an oversight? A hidden insight? What about a potential weakness that my team had overlooked? I like to leave no flank uncovered.

So as you can imagine, I wasn’t real excited about the interruption and I was having some difficulty discerning what the officer was driving at.

‘‘We’ve identified what we fear is a potential threat,’’ he said, adding, ‘‘to you.’’

‘‘Me?’’

‘‘Yes, sir.’’

There had to be some mistake. Death threats against Judge Greer were well-known, which is why the judge held his hearings in four different courtrooms. Understandably, Judge Greer didn’t want anyone getting too comfortable in any particular chamber. I had been told that the judge wore a bulletproof vest under his black robes. But why would anybody want to target me?

The first flicker of anxiety started to emerge.

Granted, I knew my staff was praying. Bob and Mary Schindler were praying, and millions of Americans were praying too.

But people were praying for Terri’s life.

The officer leaned closer. ‘‘We’re concerned about the conduct of a white male sitting in the last row. He appears to be intensely focused on every move you make. We’ve made the assessment that he could be a security risk.’’

This was the first time in my career where a member of the audience might be present not to observe but to cause harm for some unknown personal agenda. Then again, maybe I should have anticipated a stunt like this—if that’s all it turned out to be. Now that Terri’s struggle had acquired a national profile, surely some nut case with a desire to cash in his fifteen minutes of fame would surface.

I started to say something, but the officer cut me off. ‘‘Don’t worry, Mr. Gibbs,’’ he said, although the stiffness of his demeanor betrayed his unease. ‘‘The suspect entered through the security checkpoint so we assume he’s not carrying a knife or a gun.’’

Assume? Even if this guy walked through the same security checkpoint as the rest of us, maybe he found a way around the safety measures. Did he manage to smuggle in a plastic bomb? Did he have an accomplice inside the court?

‘‘As a precaution,’’ the officer said, interrupting my thoughts, ‘‘we’ve stationed a number of armed, plainclothes marshals in the room. Two have taken up positions on either side of him.’’

Smart move. A smart legal move, that is. Doing so enabled the court to avoid a potential constitutional crisis by removing an individual just because he looked suspicious without proving an actual threat. Placing him under an immediate watch was a good start. I would have preferred to have heard that the SWAT team was on the way.

Suddenly, I found myself fighting not only for Terri’s life but potentially for the lives of those around me. A thousand thoughts collided in my mind.

Where was my family?

Were they safe?

My wife hadn’t planned to attend today’s hearing. Had her plans changed? As a homeschooling mother, she sometimes brought the kids to court to further their education. I had to know if they were in the gallery. I wanted desperately to turn around and search for their precious faces. Right then and there I made a decision that my family would no longer tag along with me to these hearings. No way. I couldn’t fathom what would happen if someone attempted to harm them.

That’s when a new emotion pushed its way to the forefront of my mind: fear. Not a fear of dying perse. Rather, it was the inborn response that every father has when confronted with someone or something that threatens the safety of his family.

In a way, I was experiencing firsthand a taste of the sheer panic, indeed the living nightmare that the Schindlers had been battling for years. It was the fear of a parent knowing that their child is going to suffer—and they had no legal means to stop it. Like the Schindlers, I knew I would be compelled to move heaven and earth to keep someone from harming one of my own.

What sane parent wouldn’t?

I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘‘Uh, Mr. Gibbs? Are you all right?’’

I blinked the room back into focus. The officer was speaking again. ‘‘We don’t want to create a panic. However, I need for you to discreetly turn around and take a look. Tell me if you know this individual. Take your time. Be casual . . . and don’t stare. Just scan the faces in the back row. Our man is the third guy from the doorway.’’

‘‘I understand,’’ I said, steeling myself.

I turned, slow and steady, hoping my face didn’t betray the spike of anxiety within. I saw a guy, midthirties. His unshaven face and long, dark greasy hair came back to me, although I had never spoken with him. I remembered he was a somewhat unusual protestor; he was the sort of fellow who was kind of rough around the edges. I had no idea if he was a good guy or a bad guy.

Then again, he was wearing far too much clothing for a Florida afternoon. His heavy, black trench coat could easily conceal something strapped to his body. Now what? While thankful that I didn’t find my family in the room, I still had a dilemma. Should I continue with the case, thereby becoming a lightning rod for every last person who disagreed with the outcome? After all, when I agreed to work with the Schindlers, I never dreamed that I’d become a target of someone’s delusions—or rage.

Suddenly, the bailiff’s voice broke through my thoughts.

‘‘All rise.’’

The judge was entering the courtroom. It was time to get back to the business at hand. But in that moment of waiting, I had seen this case in a new light. I sensed even more that I was being called on not only to make legal arguments but to reach for something more fundamental about my convictions regarding the worth of every human life.

Come to think of it, that had always been the reason I was pouring myself into this cause, why my office staff thought this case was worth working long hours, indeed often without sleep, looking for any way to put Terri back into the loving arms of her mom and dad. I had to march forward, do the very best I could. Warehoused in a hospice room across town, an innocent woman condemned to die was counting on me.

Looking back on these events, I’m convinced that between the presence of the marshals and the power of prayer, the proceedings that afternoon went off without further incident.

Lawyers are not supposed to become too personally involved with their clients. But this case was different. And as I stood up to make my legal arguments before the judge, I realized that my few moments of prayer and reverie had given me something invaluable. I now carried in my heart an even more unshakable appreciation—indeed, a clearer understanding of why the Schindlers refused to give up on Terri. I prayed that if I were ever in Bob Schindler’s shoes, someone would make an all-out effort for me and my family. I realized again that the effort to preserve life is always worth giving everything we have—no matter what the outcome.

I approached the podium. ‘‘Your Honor, my name is David Gibbs, and I have the privilege of representing Bob and Mary Schindler, the parents of Terri Schiavo.’’

OPEN TO A MIRACLE

While fighting for Terri’s life within the court system was our primary avenue to save her from an unjust, premature death, a legal remedy wasn’t the only potential solution. That’s why behind the scenes my staff and I had worked around the clock to find some way—any way— to settle this tug-of-war outside of court. We knew that in just a couple of short months Terri’s feeding tube was scheduled to be removed for the third and probably final time, and we were committed that no option to save her would be left unexplored.

For instance, with the single stroke of a pen, with a single decision, Michael Schiavo could have said, ‘‘You know what? I disagree with you that Terri has a quality of life worth maintaining. But she has a mother and father, a sister and brother who believe strongly that she can improve. All of her blood relatives want her to live. Maybe I should just walk away.’’

Now that would have been an unforgettable gift.

We wondered whether Michael might agree to some sort of compromise. Was there any set of terms under which he might consider releasing Terri to her family?

What about a million dollar offer to just walk away?