Larinda sipped burned black coffee while she keyed search info into a desktop computer in a motel lobby in Arlington, Virginia. She paged through an online Bible, stopping on occasion to read a few passages. She’d give herself five minutes more before she left for the Georgetown Waterfront Park in D.C., where she’d lose her most recent prepaid phone in the Potomac. After that, she planned to do some escape route planning. Her online response to a certain Internet blogger had garnered feedback.
“To Anonymous: Let’s meet. You can tell us what is troubling you. Maybe we can help.”
She chuckled. A funny man, this Thurgood Cochran.
Larinda typed another response in the comments area. “You should hope that meeting never happens.”
‘You can tell us what is troubling you.’
Larinda crossed the Francis Scott Key Bridge into Georgetown with her new SUV, a Toyota. Rush hour traffic, both sides heavy. Alternative routes per the navigation system were no help. Toughing this out was her only choice. On the river below the bridge were a few kayaks, paddleboats and an outboard. It was considerably less crowded. A better place to be than where she was. She made a mental note to that effect.
She punched the radio scan button in search of a good D.C. evangelist for the few minutes she had before Reverend Higby Hunt’s morning Power Hour. After a spin through the dial, she found no preacher worthy of her time. Radio off.
‘…tell us what is troubling you.’
What troubled her was what would happen after she killed the justice, because her elimination was not a permanent solution. A new appointment, another confirmation hearing, and a new justice would take a seat. Still, she could only deal with what she could control. And what she could control was killing the judge. It would keep this Court, now suddenly a festering scab of liberal majority, from rendering decisions detrimental to Christians. Decisions that had killed millions. Eliminating the judge counted for something. She was doing something.
Which included getting herself all worked up. She needed some scripture, needed to tune in to some soothing, reaffirming scripture. She popped an oxy.
Her phone on, she found KLTY, her go-to online radio station. It was the top of the hour.
“Now, back to the Christian Charismatic Ministry of Wisdom and Light Cathedral based in Dallas, Texas, streaming live to you today as a simulcast from W-M-W-L Christian Radio studios at FM one-oh-five-point-one in…”
A godsend, always, to hear the clarity of a good, God-fearing person deliver God’s word.
“…the nation’s capital…”
Here? In D.C.? Why hadn’t she known this? Car radio on, phone off.
“Reverend Higby Hunt. Let’s give a big virtual clap of the hands for evangelist Higby Hunt!”
“…virtual clap of the hands for evangelist Higby Hunt!”
“Thank you, dearest friends in Christ, for your hospitality.” The reverend turned full preacher, now punctuating every phrase. “I do not have a prepared sermon. I am here, in this great District, for the next few days, as an observer. To provide unqualified support, to a very important, yet difficult, judicial process. To bear witness, to the birth, of change.”
Also in the studio, Senator Mildred Folsom. She faced the reverend, headphones around her neck, there for when it was her turn to speak. She felt the electricity in the room: Christian evangelism royalty was on the air, on their airwaves in particular, in their studio. The reverend would introduce her shortly as a guest on this, his daily show, which had temporarily taken to the road. Right now it was all him. And it was all about today’s very special message.
What the senator and Higby both knew: Larinda Jordan would be listening. She did not miss a sermon.
“Yesterday an attorney presented to the Supreme Court an argument regarding a case first decided in my home state of Texas, but the case could have been decided anywhere. Texans know the case’s importance, and the reasons the original decision was handed down. To inform women. To let them know that a fetus feels pain earlier than first thought. Not all women, not all Americans, agree it is necessary to teach women with child about the life they carry inside them, and that, my friends, is a shame. However,” he raised his index finger to make his point, visually scanning the studio, connecting with his small audience, “there is such a thing as too literal an interpretation of the Bible. And trust me, my friends in Christ, that I do know me some Bible.” He winked at the senator while he dialed up a little down-home vernacular. “And an eye for an eye only makes everyone blind.
“We need to let this judicial process play out. I, and the rest of the faithful, implore whoever is responsible for these horrific, violent acts against these clinics to please stop. If the urge to commit this violence rears itself again, call me, or the studio, or another clergyman. Call someone. The message you are sending is wrong. The justices our representatives have chosen as our nation’s interpreters of the law are smart, caring people; each of them, young and old, new and not so new, from wherever they hail. They are sworn to follow America’s jurisdictional bible, the United States Constitution. But like us, they are human. Imperfect. And like us, they can be led down a sinful path. God will forgive them if they seek His forgiveness. God will give them the grace they need to make things right, however many times they are called. We, the faithful, pray that this time, they do. That this time when they rule, they will see the light. That they will correct the sins of the past. But they must be given their space to do so. The space to let the process happen, without interference.
“And now I have the distinct pleasure of introducing a U.S. Senate stalwart for over thirty years, a woman who has done everything humanly possible to help shape the American judicial process in God’s image. One of the faithful. A true Christian, a true Texan, and a true American. My friend for over forty years, Senator Mildred Folsom.”
The reverend reached over, offered a fist bump to his tag team partner in Christ. The senior senator returned it. The small audience in the studio clapped and hollered.
“Reverend, thank you very much. I won’t take up much of your time, ’cause I know some of you out there still got to slop the hogs, dig the well or dress some beef before breakfast. (Laughter.) Aside from reinforcing the reverend’s message about non-violence, and adding that I too am a good listener should those who are responsible want to reach out, I have one important notion to get across today. There walks among us, assuming she is still alive forty-plus years after her birth, a person most of us would not believe exists. Someone who is the antithesis of all the other someones whose lives were terminated. Those terminated someones, because of a certain Supreme Court decision, now number in the millions. I speak, of course, of Jane Roe’s baby. Because nature took its course before Roe v Wade was decided, she was not aborted. Yes, she is out there, an adoptee, but no, she has never known who she is.
“So we need to ask ourselves this: If you were this person, how would you feel if you suddenly learned your identity? Would you be happy to have lived your life? Happy to have produced your own progeny? Knowing the alternative, yes, of course you’d be happy, and thankful, for all of it. But would you be thankful enough to want to make a difference for future unborn lives? One would hope so. Now take it a step further and indulge me. One of you is this person. The Roe baby. If given the opportunity to preserve life, as this person you should choose to do so in acknowledgment of the death you were spared. And, again reiterating the reverend, you must have faith in the judicial process. Have faith that we, the faithful, have put the right justices in place to achieve this outcome. What is upon us now is a decision that will stop the marginalization of the unborn. Let the process that is in place for producing that decision produce it. Thank you, and may God bless you.”
There had been four distinct references to, or more like messages from, ‘The Faithful’ on the reverend’s program. Larinda counted them. This was code. It meant listen up, Larinda, this broadcast is for you.
The message: no more clinic attacks, no more violence, period, and oh, by the way, you need to call us. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to talk with her. The blogger, the reverend, the senator. Federal agencies. Everyone wanted her to come in.
She tapped on the steering wheel, processing this. Her SUV crossed the bridge, and a beautiful day that had started out with so much promise in Arlington had soured, rain coming down in torrents on the Georgetown side. She killed the radio, listened to the rhythmic swipe of her wipers as the SUV crept forward in the traffic.
For her, the math was obvious. With the new associate justice in place, every Supreme Court decision Larinda might care about from that point forward would be five-to-four or worse, always the wrong way. She didn’t get the senator’s logic. It was out of character for The Faithful to leave something to chance.
‘Let the decision be rendered. Do not interfere. Trust us. It will all work out.’
They were speaking in tongues. The things she had done at their behest over the years, in the name of God. Horrific things. Larinda was living proof The Faithful did not risk outcomes to random throws of the dice.
Someone, the liberal left, the feminists, the atheists, all of them, holding a gun to their heads. No other explanation. Political blackmail. To get to Larinda. To help neutralize her as a threat.
In Georgetown now, she headed to Waterfront Park, but she made a snap decision. A hard left into an entrance road curled her around under the Key Bridge the blacktop ending at a festively colored boathouse. The thunderheads that shuttled through had dumped their rain and dissipated, revealing a morning sun that blazed against the bridge’s concrete arches, steaming away the dull wet gray, and in that process returning the arches to a clean, Caribbean-sand white. She switched off the wipers, parked, and got out. The Potomac lapped against the boathouse docks, was a bit rough, its aggression left over from the downpour. The boathouse hadn’t opened yet. Fluorescent-colored kayaks were layered haphazardly on the docks like flopped flounder, and next to them were canoes as bright as the kayaks, stacked neatly. Paddleboats were tied to the docks. She breathed in, today’s air crisp but not chilly.
‘Let the Court decision be rendered.’
No.
‘Trust us.’
No.
‘Call someone.’
Maybe. To give them a chance to explain themselves. Plus she needed them to do something.
With the sun out again the river quickly calmed itself, became understated and pleasant. Above her on the bridge beeping horns, accelerating engines and coughing exhaust pipes cluttered the noise scape. Down here, no such congestion, just a quiet river.
She decided. This would be her escape route out of Georgetown. Yes. She’d need to get to the river.
She picked out a few smooth stones from the shore, winged them into the water where they skipped before dropping below the surface like the stones that they were. She took her phone from her pocket.
‘Call someone.’
She keyed in a text message to Reverend Higby, short and to the point.
—I need meds.
Naomi entered the Supreme Court conference room. Wood paneling, built-in bookcases stuffed with law texts, a centered Oriental rug in reds and blacks and blues covering a hardwood floor, plus nine high-backed, wheeled chairs around a long table inlaid with slate. A black fireplace. The room dripped with profundity.
Babineau v Turbin. Her straw vote would be to vacate the Texas ruling. She had arrived at this decision easily. On the side of overturning the ruling, in her opinion and that of her clerks, Stare Decisis ruled here. No new worthwhile info was presented for this case, which meant for her there was no reason that a person’s right to privacy wouldn’t again prevail regarding the legality of terminating a pregnancy. About the speculation regarding when a fetus felt pain: no new scientific evidence had been posited, but on the side of upholding the lower court ruling, the doctors’ opinions produced as part of the judicial record provided convincing arguments that for sure had tugged at heartstrings and sentimentality.
The preliminary vote didn’t take long: five-to-four in favor of vacating the lower court ruling. Not much more than a temperature check, their straw poll was far from binding, and could be quite changeable the deeper they got into the term. Nevertheless it was a good place to be, the right place to be, as far as Naomi was concerned.
One additional Court housekeeping mention before the Chief Justice dismissed them was that the elevated courtroom security would remain in place until further notice. To blame, the Planned Parenthood clinic hits. What remained unspoken among the justices was that until the case was decided, Babineau v Turbin would keep the justices, as well as the general public, on edge.
Naomi’s iPhone beeped while they filed out of the conference room. It was a text from one of her law clerks:
—Your Honor: The mailroom tried to deliver an overnight package you will need to sign for, from a Chester Plunkett in OK.
Oh my. Chester Fights Like A Badger Plunkett. Texas tribal elder and a law professor at her alma mater, the University of Oklahoma, until his retirement at age eighty. A strong Naomi supporter for her entire career. Her Indian confidant and mentor. Fond memories of his attendance at many of her major life events rushed her as she neared her chambers: college graduating ceremonies, her swearing in as a Texas federal judge, her wedding, and birthday parties for her children. When she reached the door to her chambers she was suddenly overcome by…something. A presence. It took her breath away.
A tingling from deep within spread its warmth throughout her body, and for a wondrous moment a peaceful calm overwhelmed her. She steadied herself against the doorjamb. When she recovered, she was keenly aware that something spiritual had passed through her.
“Chester. My dearest Chester…”
Another text cued up, this one from Chester Plunkett’s daughter. As she read it, tears welled:
—Madam Justice Coolsummer. My dearest Naomi. The spirit of our great and wonderful Badger has left its host to join our ancestors.