Stung, Charlene sat back down. Sarah Mae seemed upset. Charlene patted her arm.

Winsor said, “Also in subsection d, Doctor, where do you see the word psychiatric?”

Hutchinson stared at the lawyer. “It is not there.”

“And Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?”

“Not there.”

“And who drafted this informed consent statute, Dr. Hutchinson?”

“I presume the legislature.”

“And they didn’t include any of those terms, did they?”

“No, sir.”

Winsor paused to look at the jurors. They seemed transfixed by him. Charlene fought to keep her heart steady.

“Doctor, this supposed syndrome after abortion, is it recognized in any of the standard texts as such?”

“Well, there have been some articles in – ”

“Doctor, please. My question is about the standard reference texts in the field. Will we find this syndrome listed in any one of these?”

“I do not believe so.”

“Fine. Just so we’re clear on that. One last thing, Dr. Hutchinson. Are you being paid for your testimony here today?”

With a slightly victorious smile, Dr. Hutchinson said, “No, sir.”

“Isn’t that a bit unusual, Doctor? Don’t expert witnesses get compensated for their time so they can come to court?”

“I think that’s the usual practice, yes.”

“And you chose not to be paid, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it because you are an anti-abortion activist?”

“Objection,” Charlene heard herself say, and immediately knew it was a mistake. It would seem she was hiding the truth about her witness from the jury. Once again, Winsor had played her like a violin.

“Overruled,” said Lewis.

“Do you need the question repeated?” Winsor said.

“No, sir,” said Hutchinson. “I have been associated, proudly, with the pro-life cause.”

“In fact, you were listed on the letterhead of the American Rescue Foundation, were you not?”

Hutchinson looked like he’d been hit with a bucket of cold water. Charlene could almost feel the jurors changing their opinion of him on the spot.

“I was for a time, yes,” Hutchinson said.

“Was that the same time that family planning center in Minnesota was bombed?”

“Objection,” Charlene said.

“Sustained,” Lewis said.

Winsor looked unconcerned. Of course it didn’t matter what the answer was, or that the judge had sustained the objection. The question had been asked, and it was in the minds of the jurors. Charlene considered asking the judge to admonish the jurors not to take any of that into consideration, but knew that would only play into Winsor’s hands again. Telling a jury to disregard something was almost a guarantee they’d consider it.

Suddenly, Winsor’s tone turned cold and sharp. “So you would have us all believe that your unpaid testimony here is not biased in any way, is that right, Doctor?”

“Objection.” Charlene had no other choice. The question was clearly argumentative.

“Sustained,” said the judge.

She’d won the point, but the big picture was cloudy. When Winsor said, “No further questions,” it seemed to Charlene that the jury was suddenly in his corner.

The Santa Lucia Community Church had a homey feel to it, built as much by memories as materials. The people knew her as Ethel Hollander’s little girl, the one who became one of the most powerful women in the country. She saw a few old faces who knew her way back when. The newer people sort of stared at her, like she was a rare fish in an aquarium.

Why had she consented to come? To keep her mother from harping about it, sure. Maybe this one time would be enough to appease Ethel’s crusade for her daughter’s soul.

But she also had more than a little curiosity about the pastor. What he might say. How he presented himself in the pulpit. Maybe she wanted, in her own mind, to check this man’s intellectual bona fides. He had said he disagreed with her judicial opinions. Was there any real firepower in his thoughts?

Ethel, as if sensing her daughter’s discomfort, settled with her in the back row. That was fine with Millie. Easy exit.

A few people came by to say hello to Ethel and perhaps gawk at Millie. She smiled politely and tried to seem human. She felt anything but.

A short, intense-looking man in a suit that didn’t quite fit slipped into the chair in front of them.

“Morning,” he said.

Ethel said, “Good morning to you, too. Happy to have you visit.”

“Thank you,” the man said. Millie had the feeling she’d seen him before. But where? Something told her he wasn’t a local.

“And hello to you, Madame Justice,” the man said, reaching his hand to Millie. “My name is Dan Ricks.”

Millie shook his hand. It was sweaty.

“Sure would like to have a chance to talk with you afterward,” Ricks said.

“My daughter has come here to rest,” Ethel said. “I’m sure you understand.”

He was a reporter. Millie was sure of it. And then she remembered him. It was at the hospital, the day she was released. He had poked his face out of the crowd of reporters and shouted a question at her.

“Well,” Ricks said, “your daughter is a famous person. No getting around that now, is there?” He snorted a laugh. “I have an obligation to my readers, Madame Justice. I’m a gentleman of the press.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Ricks,” Millie said. “But as I have consistently told reporters, I do not want to give any interviews at this time. If you’ll give me your card, I’ll make sure you get a copy of any official statements.”

The man made no move for a card. “I’m into exclusivity, Madame Justice. That’s my stock in trade.”

“What paper do you write for?”

The man smiled, his teeth looking like they could gnaw wood. “The National Exposure.”

“Oh, my,” Ethel said.

“News you can use and won’t make you snooze,” Ricks said. “You read our stuff?”

“I see it in the store,” Ethel said. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

He laughed. “Now if I was ashamed of myself, I wouldn’t be a good newspaperman, would I? After all, I’m protected by the First Amendment, isn’t that right, Justice Hollander?”

For a moment he just stared at her, then he winked. “Be seeing you,” he said. He slipped out of the row and walked toward the exit.

“What a disagreeable little man,” Ethel said.

Before Millie could answer, a young man at the front holding a guitar said, “Good morning, everyone. Please stand as we praise the Lord.”

After what seemed like an eternity of singing and announcements, Jack Holden took the pulpit for his sermon.

Millie studied him. He was dressed in a suit and tie and held a Bible. It looked as natural in his hand as a hammer in the hand of a carpenter. Millie wondered if he was still wearing those beads under his shirt.

“I have a cheery topic this morning,” Holden said. “I’d like to talk to you about death.”

The word hit Millie like a slap. In fact, a slap to the face might have been less intrusive. And then she had a terrible thought. He was preaching to her. He must have seen the book she’d been reading.

“You know what Woody Allen once said about death?” Holden continued. “He said he didn’t fear it. He just didn’t want to be there when it happened.”

A smattering of laughter rose from the congregation. Millie thought about walking out, but her mother would be mortified. No, she had to stay, like a prisoner forced to listen to the warden’s inspirational speech.

“Well, we’re all going to be there when it happens. And we have to think about that. It’s crucial that we think about it. Because as morbid as it sounds, our life is really about how we prepare for death.”

Holden, Millie noticed, was speaking without notes. He made eye contact with his audience. She couldn’t help thinking that as a lawyer he would make a great impression on the justices of the Court.