3

Rosalind was waiting for Millie back at Millie’s house in Fairfax County. Who was it Rosalind had wanted her to meet?

It was a young, rather slight, but confident-looking African American woman who shook Millie’s hand with gusto.

“Meet Charlene Moore,” Rosalind said.

Over tea, Charlene Moore told Millie her story, up to the filing of the certiorari petition by Larry Graebner.

“He’s formidable,” Millie said. “And your case sounds like one the Court may grant cert on.”

“Which is why I came here,” Charlene said. “I’ve been asking God who would be the right person to help me with this. I kept flashing on you.”

“I’ve never been flashed before,” Millie said.

Charlene Moore laughed. “But will you do it?”

“You don’t waste time, do you, Miss Moore?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I’ll really have to think about this,” Millie said.

“You know,” said Charlene Moore, “sometimes God kicks thinkin’ in the pants.”

Millie laughed. “The strange thing is, I think I understand exactly what you mean. Why don’t we pray, right now, and whatever God wants, we’ll do.”

“Right on,” Charlene said.

“Roz,” Millie said. “Do you mind?”

The young woman shook her head. “I’d like to join you, if I may.”

“This is very cool,” Charlene said.

Three women joined hands. And sought God.

Part Three

CHAPTER NINETEEN

1

“Oyez, oyez, oyez.”

The Supreme Court marshal solemnly intoned the medieval French words handed down from more than a thousand years of English common law. Though Millie had heard them countless times before, she now felt them entering into her like trumpet blasts.

“The honorable, the chief justice and associate justices of the Supreme Court of the United States,” the marshal continued. “All persons having business before this honorable Court are admonished to draw nigh and give their attention, for the Court is now sitting. God save the United States and this honorable Court.”

And there they stood, her former colleagues – Byrne, Facconi, Johnson, Parsons, Weiss, Velarde, and Chief Justice Atkins, along with the judge who had replaced her, Walter Saxon. And, finally, Thomas J. Riley. His face, as far as Millie could tell, was a mask of impassivity.

The justices sat in their high-backed leather swivel chairs as Millie’s knees trembled. That she was here at all was still unbelievable to her.

It was June again, the time when she would have been wrapping up her Court matters before the summer break. Instead, she was about to argue for the first time as an advocate in front of the Supreme Court.

She had spent the last six months going over and over the case, researching precedent, scanning the transcripts from the lower court for every nuance of legal reasoning. In that time, through e-mails and phone calls, Charlene Moore had come to be something of a little sister to her, more than just in a spiritual way. She was a support, a sharp legal mind, and full of energy.

But as Millie sat at the Respondent’s table, she realized that after all that work, she still did not know how her argument would do. It was, she and Charlene had decided, to be directed at the newest justice, Saxon. Millie knew she would have the four conservatives with her. Riley, of course, would oppose her, as would the three other liberal-moderates. Saxon, even though he was a Francis appointee, was at least new enough not to have set himself permanently in any coalition.

If she had any hope of winning, it would be in convincing Saxon. From her research on his opinions from the Ninth Circuit, she got the impression that he was a logical technician. He liked his arguments tight, to the point, and without fluff. So, for the last month, Millie had practiced her presentation with Saxon in mind.

Millie silently prayed, thanking God for trusting her, asking one more time for her mind to be primed and ready.

Then she saw Lawrence Graebner approach the podium. “May it please the Court,” he said.

The justices allowed him to argue for nearly five minutes without a question. Millie felt herself wanting to engage Graebner herself. Old habits.

“The use of the term unborn child in the statute is clearly unconstitutional,” Graebner was saying. “It is a loaded term with only one view in mind, to stop an approved medical procedure from taking place.”

Ray Byrne spoke. “Don’t you think it’s time we looked at this whole question again? In Roe Justice Blackmun tied up this issue with medical knowledge. Haven’t we had progress in medicine in thirty years? Aren’t we behind the times?”

Graebner did not hesitate. “On the contrary, Roe has proven its worth over the last thirty years, and this Court should resoundingly reaffirm it. A world of expectations has been built upon it. It has allowed a national controversy to be resolved, however contentious that effort may have been. To overrule or eviscerate Roe now would open up the floodgates of disaster.”

Byrne did not follow up. Millie saw Thomas J. Riley nodding slowly.

2

Anne Deveraux, inmate number 03-99873, could not stop crying.

She’d done fairly well for two months. She had managed to get a good night’s sleep for a change, even with a new cell mate who snored like a Georgia chainsaw. But when she woke up and realized she was still in prison, she broke out in a torrent of hot tears.

Her cooperation with the feds in the case against Ambrosi Gallo was enough to garner her a ten-year sentence, and with the right breaks she could be out in seven. But seven seemed like forever, and what would she do when she got out? The Calibresi family would have her on their short list for early retirement.

She’d probably have to stay away from New York City for the rest of her life. Some life. She felt all of the toughness she had built up so carefully over the years turning to warm putty in her stomach. She was no longer the power monger, the mover and shaker, the politico with an unlimited future. She was just another number in a cage.

She had not cried like this since she was a little girl. And no one was going to help her. She had no family, and those with whom she had so carefully networked over the years were dropping her faster than a politician’s promise. Even Cosmo had not contacted her since the arrest.

Damaged goods was a generous description of what she was now.

Her crying drew a response from Sheela, her cell mate. She had been a prostitute who sold crack to an undercover agent and got twenty-five years. She seemed strangely serene about it. “Won’t do you no good to keep on like that, honey,” Sheela said.

Anne couldn’t help it. Maybe part of it was the irony of this day. She’d seen the Post, which she got days late in the prison library. Arguments were scheduled today in that abortion clinic case, and one of the lawyers was Millicent Mannings Hollander! Unbelievable, after all she and Levering had gone through over her.

Yet there Hollander would be, standing in front of the Supreme Court, while Anne was locked away in a cell, losing the best years of her life.

She kept her face in her pillow, wondering if Levering’s way out was perhaps the best solution after all.

The whole thing with his son had been so weird. It was like he knew something, knew her. Those times she had seen him had been creepy. But creepy in a way that was almost too real. It’s not too late, he had said.