Naomi exited the courtroom with the other justices, the court’s police officers shadowing them step-by-step, foot echo by foot echo, the justices peeling off one by one to retire to their respective chambers.
Inside her chambers she settled in with a late afternoon cup of coffee, served in an elegantly hand-painted Johnson Brothers Wild Turkey Native American cup and saucer, part of a set her clerks had presented her in celebration of her first day. As she sipped, she thought about Babineau v Turbin. It had two prongs, the second prickly as a porcupine.
She expected Stare Decisis, the been-there, done-that doctrine of precedent, as in rendered decisions reigned authoritative in future cases, to address the first prong, as long as the facts were essentially the same. Her read, and corroborated by questions and comments voiced by her peer justices, was that the fourteenth amendment’s right to privacy provision, rendered as it had been in Roe v Wade, would dictate striking down the lower court decision that had instituted mandatory ultrasound viewing. Ms. Philomena Babineau would prevail, the decision could have written itself, if this were all they’d need to address. But it wasn’t.
Called into question, and hanging as a tangent off the Texas ruling, was the pain of the fetus. Ms. Babineau had had the abortion at twenty-two weeks after fertilization, within the legal federal maximum of twenty-three weeks, but past the new legal Texas age max of twenty weeks. Twenty weeks was becoming the new pro-life cry in many states, not just Texas. Beyond that age, per some doctors’ opinions but not yet validated by science, it was posited that a fetus felt pain. If true, or if ruled as true, this could be a game-changer. This case was therefore all or nothing for both the petitioner and the prior Roe v Wade decision. To affirm the Texas ruling by accepting the twenty-week premise would change the factors used to originally decide Roe. If one undermined the facts, one undermined the decision. There’d be no recourse if the Texas statute were upheld: a new strain of Roe would rear itself, with the strong likelihood of obsoleting the 1973 decision. Abortions would return to the back alleys.
Advantage, pro-life, disadvantage, pro-choice and feminism. She admitted she disliked this prospect. The admission of this bias, in these chambers inside this hallowed courthouse, with disregard to her oath, and ignoring whether her bias did or did not play well with the Constitution, shamed her. She lowered her coffee cup to its saucer, the contents suddenly bitter and undrinkable.
“Come in,” she said, in response to a knock.
“Your Honor,” Edward closed the door behind him, “sorry to bother you. Can you tell me when you plan to leave today?”
“I’d like to stay until around eight. No need to wait for me, Edward. I’ll get a cab.”
“I’ll wait, Your Honor.”
“Senator.” Higby Hunt was on a speakerphone with Senator Folsom.
“Reverend.”
Senator Folsom sat in her Capitol Hill office awaiting delivery of a print version of the morning’s oral arguments, bootlegged by a sympathetic law clerk. Higby Hunt spoke to her from his office in Texas.
“How did she do?” the reverend asked.
“The new kid on the block. Fairly quiet as I understand it from our Texas district ADA, but that’s typical. Once I read the transcript we’ll know better.”
She watched cable news as they conversed. The names of the dead in the abortion clinic fire had been released early afternoon. No suspects had been identified per the news anchor, but there were “persons of interest. The dead include a long-time resident physician of the clinic and three medical assistants. No patients were involved.”
“Mildred, turn off your TV please,” Higby’s speakerphone voice asked. “I have an interesting development.”
She lowered the volume instead. “What is it, Higby?”
“A news item from that local anonymous Texas blogger who fashions himself an expert on state and federal court cases. You need to check it out. I’ve decided to come back to D.C. tomorrow. I think it’s necessary.”
Larinda double-parked her Tahoe SUV on a D.C. street a block from the Supreme Court Building. Binoculars raised, she watched a Lincoln Town Car limo leave from an underground garage exit, then another, then another. Two black, one charcoal. She was here to pick out one to tail, but she had no reason to select one over another. This process of elimination could take a few days. A fourth car service limo exited. Four out of nine, all within an hour of the end of today’s session.
She decided. She’d tail the last car to leave, except she hadn’t a clue how late that would be.
Funny. Some justices reveled in their freedom from needing security, well documented as to how much security was not in place. They traveled the city, the world, unnoticed, like everyday citizens. The two clinic attacks and one of the Court’s fall agenda items had changed this. If an interested party were able to uncover these security details, enhanced court police presence, U.S. marshals, car service, the anonymity these judges enjoyed on the outside would be removed. Oh, the irony. A self-fulfilling prophecy, and she liked prophecies. Prophecies were good. The Bible had many.
She lowered her binoculars. In her rearview she caught a Segway as it scooted past the end of the street. It backed up, stopped, circled in place, then changed direction. It now moved swiftly up the street, closing in on her SUV, the operator’s features more discernable the closer it got. Dark helmet, grey uniform top, navy uniform pants, fluorescent yellow vest. A black female, no weapon visible; a parking authority employee. The Segway arrived.
“You can’t park here, ma’am,” the officer said into her open window. “Move your car.”
“Yes, officer. Sorry.”
Larinda circled the block, a two-minute ride, returned to the same spot, and with the Segway gone she again double-parked, hoping she hadn’t missed any of the exiting limos. She raised her binoculars. Ten minutes passed. It was close to four p.m. Another limo exited the garage. She’d now seen five.
The limo rounded the corner just as another parking authority Segway quickly bore down on her. She lowered her binoculars to the floor before it arrived. The operator tapped on her passenger window then showed Larinda his thumb, mouthing “Move.”
Larinda again circled the block, taking a little longer this time, returning to the same spot. She was getting annoyed. Limo number six exited. Impatient, she decided to follow this one.
Another Segway arrived, this one gliding into her SUV’s path before stopping. Goodness, it was the same Segway operator who’d stopped by thirty or so minutes earlier. The operator glared at her.
“Ma’am, I gave you a chance,” she called, loud enough to better the SUV’s idle, “now I’m writing you up. Pull in over here.”
The operator pointed to a short alley in the middle of the block, with Dumpsters and a loading dock and room for maybe three vehicles, the alley surrounded on three sides by multiple stories of brick. Larinda complied, checking her mirrors. The operator dismounted the Segway and recorded her plate number. Suddenly the operator stopped writing, leaning in closer to the rear of the SUV. She squinted into the tinted window.
Larinda saw it too, in the rearview. The tarp covering her cargo had an un-tucked flap. A carton of ammo and the butt end of a rifle were visible.
She had a split second to assess the situation. Short alley lined with commercial waste containers, an empty loading dock, after hours, no witnesses. An easy decision. The second decision was pending: handgun or knife?
Larinda pushed open the driver’s door. Ambulance sirens rose and fell, chasing away the white noise of a city at night.
“Ma’am, you need to stay in your vehicle,” the meter maid said, raising her voice to better the sirens.
When Larinda reached her she raised her weapon, a handgun with a suppressor. The woman’s eyes got big. “No! Wait! Please…”
“You’re just doing your job, miss. I understand, and I’m sorry. God bless you.”
She cut her down with one shot to the face, the pffft overwhelmed by a crescendo of ear-piercing sirens as they dopplered past the alley.
Larinda grunted as she hefted the body over the side of the dumpster. She leveraged the Segway, handle first then the wheels, not as heavy as she’d expected, and she deposited it with the body. The Segway ignition engaged when it hit the metal floor. It banged around inside, its wheels kicking up trays of bread loaves and cheeses and vegetables and other scrapped food, sending some of it airborne before it shut down. She tossed the woman’s electronic ticket pad into the passenger seat of her SUV, snugged up the cargo tarp, and quickly backed the SUV out of the alley.
Some luck: an empty space opened up near where she’d been double-parked. She executed a three-point turn and slipped into it. Chances were, not all of the justices had left. She raised her binoculars again and settled in.