Fighting for Dear Life (18 page)

F
or weeks on end our attorneys scaled a mountain of case law searching for any crevice that could be pried open into a legal foothold to save Terri. We prepared briefs by night and presented arguments by day. Press conferences were wedged in between meetings. Sleep was grabbed in meager bundles of adjacent minutes: at the desk, on the couch, or in a parked car before appointments. We squeezed every precious minute out of the day trying to find a reprieve.

Most of all, we prayed—a lot.

But as we saw, even the prospect of a million-dollar offer to give Terri back to her parents could not get Michael to budge from his position. As the eyes of the world were glued to the television for the latest minute-by-minute developments, a California businessman upped the ante by depositing $1 million dollars in a trust. The money was Michael's for the taking—if he would just agree to release the guardianship of Terri to her parents.

Speaking for Robert Herring Sr., founder of both HERCO Technology and a firm called WEALTHTV, attorney Gloria Allred said Herring ‘‘retained my law firm to convey the following offer to Terri's husband.

If Mike Schiavo agrees to transfer the legal right to decide all of Terri's current and future medical decisions to Terri's parents, then Mr. Herring will pay Mr. Schiavo the amount of $1 million.''
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What motivated this most incredible offer?

Herring said, ‘‘After viewing a video of Terri on television, I came to the belief that there was hope for her.'' He added, ‘‘I believe very strongly that there are medical advances happening around the globe that very shortly could have a positive impact on Terri's condition.''
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We held the same position and wondered why Michael Schiavo and the courts would deny Terri the chance to benefit from such medical treatment. The reaction from Michael's attorney was as swift as it was abrupt. Calling the offer ‘‘offensive,'' in a huff Felos said, ‘‘Michael has said over and over again that this case is not about money for him. It's about carrying out his wife's wishes. There is no amount of money anyone can offer that will cause him to turn his back on his wife.''
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The truth is, we could only speculate what Michael's true reasons were for refusing to settle privately outside of court and for refusing cash offers to save Terri. What we did know was that if an agreement outside of court wasn't going to materialize, then we had to aggressively advocate every possible appeal that might reverse Terri's civil death sentence.

BLACK FRIDAY ARRIVES

I was up by five-thirty that Friday morning, March 18, 2005, after two hours of rest, and hit the floor running. We had a little more than seven short hours before Terri's nutrition and water would be cut off at 1:00 PM—the deadline set by the court to begin her ‘‘death process.'' I held my wife and prayed with her that God would work a miracle. Looking at my sleeping kids, I kissed them each on the forehead with fresh appreciation for their lives, and then I hustled out the door. My first stop would be Woodside Hospice to see Terri. A number of pressing issues were on the table, each with its own set of ramifications.

Number one, I wanted to encourage her with some wonderful news: The U.S. Congress had now gotten involved. Several lawyers from Congress had flown into town with a subpoena for Terri to appear before a health subcommittee of the House of Representatives. There was a razor thin chance the feeding tube would be allowed to stay in place for her to travel to Washington, D.C. Of course, we also had to be prepared for the possibility that it might still be removed.

A second issue in the works was the possibility that the Florida Department of Children and Families (DCF) might arrive at the hospice to take Terri into their protective custody. If marshals sent by DCF were dispatched to secure her, a confrontation between the concerned parties would most likely occur. The Schindlers would need us by their side to represent their interests.

RESTRICTED AREA

I was about to turn down 102nd Avenue to access the front entrance of the hospice when I hit the brakes.

For a split second it appeared that I had been somehow transported to a checkpoint at one of the world's war-torn hotspots. An uninformed pedestrian might think he was about to enter Iraq, Gaza, or Israel. For starters, a newly erected police barricade prevented vehicular traffic to the street. Armed officers patrolled the grounds with dogs as if engaged in a prison lockdown. A number of police sharpshooters were positioned on the hospice rooftop to survey the crowd for any signs of trouble.

I would later learn that the initial estimates for this Pinellas Park police protection totaled $98,162, a sum that was being paid for by the hospice facility.
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And this wasn't the first time Woodside had requested and paid for a police presence during Terri Schiavo's stay. In 2003 the hospice had paid a tab in excess of $125,000 for police security.
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Neither of these figures takes into account the nonovertime use of police officers to direct traffic, or the expenses to the public works department to erect barricades and to remove the daily trash and litter associated with the media and the crowds.

Granted, I fully expected some level of law enforcement involvement. For many months, and at the request of Michael Schiavo, an armed guard had been posted outside Terri's room. Typically, off-duty officers from the Clearwater Police Department were hired to provide an around-the-clock presence at a cost of twenty-five dollars an hour.
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With this level of security, you'd think the Secret Service was on hand working to protect the president or a visiting head of state. The no-trespassing perimeter around the hospice was being strictly enforced.

After stating my business and presenting my ID, I was waved past the first set of police patrol cars. Even this early in the day, the crowd— some of whom had spent the night camped out on the sidewalk—numbered in the hundreds. In addition to those who prayed, sang, or carried protest signs, I noticed a group of teenagers sporting bright red tape over their mouths signifying that Terri couldn't speak for herself. They'd returned for another day of silent prayer and protest.

Just beyond them, another group of disability advocates, many of them in wheelchairs, chanted, ‘‘We're not dead yet!'' As disabled persons, they had the most to lose if Terri's death was permitted to be carried out.

The media encampment across the street buzzed with activity like a hornet's nest. Members of the press from around the world patrolled the sidewalks waiting for late-breaking news. Would Terri be saved? How was she doing? How was the family holding up? Virtually overnight, an electronic forest of satellite towers had sprouted and now pierced the morning sky. This was, after all, to be Day One of Terri's death watch. Occasionally, a TV news helicopter hovered overhead, capturing the commotion below for the viewers at home, many of whom were praying fervently for Terri—a woman they had never known except through the round-the-clock press coverage. We thanked God for them.

I parked alongside a media tower truck, grabbed my cell phone, and worked my way quickly through the sea of people to the second police checkpoint in the hospice driveway. Even though my face was on almost every major network and the guards knew who I was, I still had to present my ID and explain my reason for seeking admittance to the building. My name was compared to an official list of authorized visitors before I was directed to proceed to the main doors.

At that point all guests were subjected to a physical pat down and wand treatment. Everything had to come out of our pockets no matter how innocuous: breath mints, wallets, gum, combs, paper, pens, cell phones, keys, watches—only the clothing on my back was permitted in. The guard placed these personal effects into a tray and held them until I exited. This would come to be the routine every time I visited Terri during her final days.

Inside, the mood was extremely tense. The receptionist and staff were on edge; I don't fault them for being agitated. They were there to provide services and comfort to upward of seventy terminal patients against the backdrop of a circus of activity outside. Adding to the tension was the presence of one of Michael's attorneys, who was on hand to enforce her client's wishes. Like a hawk, every move was watched.

I made my way down the corridor and was checked again outside of Terri's room. The officer standing in front of her door had another list of approved visitor names, which was consulted to make sure there hadn't been a last-minute court order or legal directive preventing me from going inside. The same drill was required of all of Terri's visitors. In spite of these hassles, I did my best to maintain an upbeat spirit for Terri's sake and for her family.

I knew the attorneys from the House of Representatives had flown down from Washington, D.C., to conduct last-minute filings with the court on Terri's behalf; they'd be arriving at my office shortly. I had to make my morning visit with Terri quick. Thankfully, Barbara Weller, my legal associate, planned to stay by her side while I rushed back to the office to meet with the attorneys from Congress; that is, after I shared the encouraging news with Terri first.

I WANT TO LIVE

Terri was in great spirits that morning. Her eyes had a brightness that seemed to complement the light pink glow in her complexion. She sat in her reclining chair clutching her favorite stuffed cat under her arm. Her hair was brushed, she was wearing a pink robe, and a light brown blanket covered her lap. Her feet, poking out from underneath the blanket, sported velveteen ballerina slippers, the kind little girls like my own daughters like to wear around the house.

Barbara Weller and Terri's sister, Suzanne Vitadamo, sat on the edge of her bed, visiting and laughing with Terri, along with several other extended family members. I hated to interrupt but I knew time was of the essence. I came alongside Terri and told her that we were working with Congress and even the president to allow her to go to Washington, D.C., to testify before a congressional committee. She seemed pleased that I was there, even though I'm sure she did not totally comprehend that news. Suzanne and Barbara interjected that Michael would finally have to get her wheelchair fixed for the trip, not to mention that they'd be able to take Terri shopping in the mall while they were in the nation's capital. That news seemed to visibly excite her.

Terri appeared to be enjoying her interaction with Suzanne and Barbara. She laughed at all the right times and was paying close attention to what was going on in her room. I could see that this was one of Terri's ‘‘good'' days, as the family often rated them.

After a number of minutes of encouraging Terri not to lose hope, that we were doing everything in our power to prevent the feeding tube from being removed, and that millions of people around the world were praying for her, her spiritual advisor of many years arrived for what I sincerely hoped would not be his last visit. Satisfied that he had been able to gain entry, I moved into the hallway to confer with other arriving family members and with Michael's attorney. I promptly retraced my steps through security and the crowds to my car and then raced back to the office.

When I arrived, the attorneys from Congress were waiting for me in our conference room. With the morning rapidly slipping away, we pored over last-minute preparations to present the congressional subpoenas in what we had hoped would be a hearing with Judge Greer. One problem: Nobody could locate the judge. The best we could figure was that he was out of town for his own safety and security. Someone suggested that we conduct the hearing by phone rather than in court. But that still required us to find Judge Greer.

Rather than risk not being able to discover his whereabouts in time, we contacted Chief Judge David Demers of the Sixth Judicial Circuit Court. We explained our predicament. Judge Demers, in turn, ruled that Terri's food and water could not be removed until we had a hearing on the matter in light of the congressional subpoenas. For the moment, it appeared that we had a much needed late-morning victory with this new judge. The feeding tube would stay in—for now.

Lunch was brought in for our guests. As we talked, ate, and worked, the phone rang. Judge Greer was on the line. Clearly, he didn't sound happy. I couldn't tell if he was upset that Judge Demers had temporarily blocked his orders to remove Terri's food and water or if he was merely displeased about the need for another hearing.

Whatever the reason for his unsettled demeanor, he allowed the attorneys from the House of Representatives to argue their case. As they presented the subpoenas and the basis and rationale for a stay, I prayed. We needed a break and we needed it right then. I thought they did a fantastic job laying out the facts. I believed we might just have a shot at protecting Terri.

After this hearing I later heard rumors that Judge Greer had been encouraged to take his time with this hearing and to go along with the congressional subpoenas. After all, there were big issues on the table, not the least of which was the matter of states' rights versus federal rights. With the entire world watching, what would be wrong with taking a few more days? But Judge Greer was not inclined to allow anyone else to take charge of his case; instead, he called us and conducted the hearing by telephone himself.

When the Washington, D.C., attorneys had finished making their legal presentation, Judge Greer unloaded both barrels: He rendered a scathing judgment against them. He made it absolutely clear that he would not wait another day, let alone a week, before her feeding tube was removed just for Terri to go to the nation's capital for a hearing. Judge Greer was insistent. He said, ‘‘My order will be upheld. The feeding tube will be removed at one PM,'' and then he abruptly hung up.

My heart sank.

As if that setback wasn't damaging enough, we also received devastating news on another front: The DCF was not going to send marshals to take Terri into protective custody. That meant the D.C. attorneys sitting across from me now had an urgent decision to make: Would they hold Judge Greer in contempt of Congress for ignoring their subpoenas? Could he, in fact, go to jail for ignoring a legitimate congressional subpoena?