Naomi’s son and daughter were with her in D.C., mother and kids watching the Cowboys-Eagles playoff game on TV. Naomi took the call.
Larinda Jordon was confirmed dead, this time for sure, in Texas. A woman with her, an alleged accomplice, was being held for questioning.
She thanked the local Texas police chief for alerting her to the story before it went public. After she hung up the news outlets picked it up and fed the crawl at the bottom of the TV screen, the football game deep in the third quarter: “Breaking News. Missing domestic terrorist dead in bloody Texas encounter.”
Naomi’s son and daughter were on Christmas break, spending as much time with their convalescing mother as possible, Cowboys fans all. She’d remained in Georgetown, a three-bedroom condo rental across town from her destroyed condo. Too much still hurt…the trauma played out on the deck, in the common area, and at a nearby cross street…the loss of Edward Trenton…for her to ever return there. She’d sell it when it was livable again.
Another phone call, this one less of a surprise. She’d spent hours in conference with her Supreme Court peers on Thursday and Friday, discussing this topic in painstaking detail, but the weekend calls kept coming. The Court’s decision was to be read two days from now, on Monday. On the phone was yet another one of The Nine who had voted differently than she had.
“Wishing your Cowboys luck, Madam Justice.”
“Thanks so much. Today they need it. Philly’s young quarterback is having the game of his life.”
“He certainly is. Listen, Madam Justice, about Babineau v Turbin…”
Of course it was about Babineau. All today’s judicial calls were. Her vote had decided the case.
She concentrated, needed to block out the game so she could focus on the conversation. An internal avowal gathered steam. It steadied and emboldened her.
I am a Native American. I am a woman. I’m a mother, a daughter, a feminist. I’m a human being. I’m a U.S. Supreme Court associate justice, sworn to uphold the U.S. Constitution.
And, for a short time, I was Jane Roe’s baby.
I am all these things, but only because I lived.
“Yes. My fourth call today about Babineau, Your Honor. What’s on your mind?”
“Monday is a big day, Justice Coolsummer. Anything I can do to have you rethink your vote?”
Maybe in my heart I still am Jane’s baby, with all the complexity, guilt, and appreciation this identity entails.
And this has changed me.
“No, not a thing, Your Honor.”
THE END