The Court (16 page)

Mother General had issued orders that Sister Agatha Murphy was not to be allowed in, or even near, the infirmary. Considering her past history, it could be the occasion of temptation for her, and far worse for the patients. It was the mother house, the place where elderly nuns retired. Most of the population consisted of older or infirm sisters who no longer had the stamina to perform the order's work among the sick. So like the legend of the African elephants, this was their burial ground, and they returned to the mother house to die.

God treated nuns with the same equal hand applied to the rest of the world's population. They expired of heart disease, stroke, and cancer in the same ratio as American women of their age anywhere.

The infirmary beds, because of the nature of the mother house and its retirement feature, almost always held a few nuns who were terminally ill. For the sisters the infirmary had become something like a way station to the afterlife; sort of a spiritual bus stop where a heavenly van would waft the soul away, to a blessed and earned reward, they hoped.

But despite their religious belief and their own skill as nurses, none of the sisters was really fond of the infirmary. They visited their friends there, but they recognized that it was here where they themselves would most likely die. It was accepted, but not relished.

Sister Agatha Murphy had contracted an upper respiratory infection. Her lungs were congested and she was running a fever. Only a healthy Agatha Murphy was barred from the infirmary. Illness was another matter. Therefore, she was admitted, X-rayed, and examined by the order's doctor.

Not quite pneumonia, but getting there, according to the doctor. Sister Agatha Murphy was made comfortable in the isolation room. She would be kept there until her coughing stopped and it was judged that she was no longer contagious. Then a decision would be made as to whether it would be safe to house her with the other nuns in the regular ward.

Mother General, the head of the order and the head of the mother house, was kept informed of Sister Agatha Murphy's condition. The Mother General, kindly by nature, never wished ill toward anyone. However, as an administrator, she couldn't keep the thought from her mind that if Sister Agatha Murphy passed on it would save the order from a continuing embarrassment. And it would certainly save the Church from having to decide what to do with Sister in case the Supreme Court reversed her conviction. Sister Death, as the press called her, was unrepentent. And she had been judged sane, despite what the order, and the Pope himself, considered mad behavior, at least for a Catholic nun. If she were discharged from the criminal charges against her then it would be up to the Church to take appropriate action. They could punish her, or she could leave. No matter what the outcome it would be damaging to Holy Mother the Church. Mother General dismissed from her mind the thought of how very convenient Agatha Murphy's death would be, at least she honestly tried not to think about it.

Within three days of her confinement in the infirmary the antibiotics did their work and Sister Agatha Murphy was much more comfortable, although she still had a hacking cough. So she stayed in isolation.

Sister Barbara Filmore ran the infirmary. Like Sister Agatha, Sister Barbara had several degrees in nursing science and had served both in hovels and giant hospitals during her many years of service. She walked with a pronounced limp, a souvenir of being beaten and shot in Central America. The military death squad had stormed her hospital, shooting doctors and nurses. She had been hurt and left for dead but had survived. She was a practical woman who had seen much of life. She visited Sister Agatha daily. She constituted the one and only social caller for Sister Death.

“Feeling better, according to your chart,” Sister Barbara said as she limped into the isolation room. She pulled up the single hard-backed chair and sat down. “Still coughing?”

Agatha Murphy looked at the other woman. They were about the same age and had been novices together. “Yes, there's still a cough, but not as much as before. I should be as good as new in a few days.”

“We'll see. These things can be tricky for people our age, as you well know.”

Sister Agatha seldom smiled, but now just the hint of that expression played on her thin lips. She studied the other nun through her thick glasses. “You're right, lung problems can be tricky. And it would certainly take a lot of heat off the order if I were called to my heavenly reward. I think that may have been on a few minds ever since I was admitted here.”

Sister Barbara grinned. “More than likely. By the way, Agatha, are you so sure that the reward will be so heavenly? Why don't you confess to the chaplain? That way you can at least receive the Sacrament.”

“So you'd like to see me gain heaven on a technicality?”

The other nun shifted uncomfortably in the chair, her hip always caused her pain on sitting. “I'm not here to lecture you, as you well know.”

Sister Agatha sighed. “And I appreciate it. You're one of the few around here who doesn't give me little sermonettes.”

“Allow me to make a simple suggestion. If I were in your situation I would continue to take the position that what I did was not illegal, that I had committed no crime. However, I would go on to say that I recognized that the assistance of suicide is a sin in the eyes of the Church. You know Father Benjamin, he would accept that as repentance. You'd be forgiven, get the Sacrament, and the Church could breathe a bit easier. Perhaps even yourself, eh?”

“But it isn't a sin,” Sister Agatha replied. Her voice suddenly became stern and her tone that of a person who expected no disagreement.

Sister Barbara frowned. “I'm not going to debate whether what you did was wrong in the sight of God. That's between God and yourself. But the Church condemns the practice, and that makes it a sin as far as the Church is concerned. Why not admit that much publically? What can it harm?”

“Equivocation! You sound like a Jesuit priest.”

Sister Barbara laughed. “I'm not advising you to lie. You would be stating an absolute truth; that what you did what a sin in the eyes of the Church, nothing more.”

“Is Sister Marilyn still alive?” The question was asked quickly, Sister Agatha's blue eyes suddenly intense.

“Yes. But she is dying hard.”

Sister Agatha nodded. “If it weren't against the law, and it weren't a sin in the eyes of the Church, or your own, honestly, Barbara, just between the two of us, wouldn't you go down to the critical care unit and put an end to that poor woman's suffering?”

Sister Barbara thought for a moment, pursing her lips as she weighed her answer. “If the conditions you proposed were true, I would step down there this minute and give her a shot that would end it.”

“Then there is no difference between us.”

“But the conditions you set up aren't true, and that's the point. I'm not going to talk about God's will, we've both seen too much suffering in this world to try to try to lay it to some simplistic spiritual reason. But life is sacred, Agatha. We've both been trained to fight to preserve it. Of course I would welcome Sister Marilyn's death. I know the pain, but the time she dies isn't my decision. It isn't hers either. That belongs solely to God.”

Sister Agatha's expression never changed. “In her condition she may die tonight, or she may linger for a few more days, and there is no chance of recovery, correct?”

“Basically, that's true.”

“Then I tell you it is cruel to make her endure these long hours and days of pain needlessly. If there were any chance that she might recover, I'd agree, but there isn't, and to make her go through all this is evil.”

Sister Barbara held up her hands. “I don't wish to argue. I just thought I'd try to suggest a practical way out of your difficulty.”

“It wouldn't work. Of course, I do thank you for your concern.”

Sister Barbara pushed herself erect. “If you need anything to make you comfortable.…”

“I have all I need. Thank you.”

The nun limped to the door of the isolation room, then turned. “There are others who are watching your case, people who would take human life and profit from it. I trust you know that?”

Sister Agatha nodded. “I am painfully aware of that possibility.”

“If you are found not guilty and rational suicide is declared legal, those people will use your case to justify the taking of lives, and not just the lives of the dying either. Agatha, doesn't that bother you?”

Sister Agatha shook her head. “I think most of that is just foolishness, it comes from the scare tactics used by the prosecutor to frighten the Court. Nothing will change, except a number of dying people will have their last moments eased.”

“If you win your case, what do you plan to do? You know the order will never allow you to stay, at least not as a nurse.”

“I will leave the order and lecture. I am informed there is a great deal of money in that. I shall raise funds until I have enough to start my own hospice.” She paused. “Eventually the Church will come around to my point of view. My conscience is clear.”

“And if you lose?”

“I suppose I will be sent to prison and given a job in an infirmary. After some of the stations where I have served, an American prison holds very little terror for me.”

“When will you know? About the case?”

Sister Agatha looked up at the ceiling, there was no expression on her placid face. “My lawyer says they will soon argue the matter before the Supreme Court, then a decision will come down later. It will be a number of months. I will welcome the decision, no matter what the outcome, for then I will be able to make some kind of life plan for myself.”

“What does your lawyer think?”

“If I shall win or lose?”

“Yes.”

She continued gazing at the ceiling. “It will be very close. He says it will be decided by one vote. He seems to know about these things.”

Sister Barbara stood at the door. “I honestly cannot pray for you to win, Agatha. I will pray that the outcome shall be the best in the sight of God.”

Sister Agatha looked directly at her. “That will be my prayer also.”

Sister Barbara hurried away from the isolation room. It seemed so incongruous that such a quiet, mild woman could be called Sister Death. Still, she had assisted in dispatching over a hundred ailing men and women, and had admitted all of it.

Sister Barbara limped to her desk and wrote out an order for the other nuns on infirmary service: under no circumstances was Sister Agatha Murphy to be allowed near the dying Sister Marilyn. She thought of Sister Marilyn. She had been their teacher. A good woman, kind and gentle, and now she was suffering greatly. Sister Barbara studied her own order, and was tempted to erase it. She slowly shook her head. The order would stand. Death was strictly in God's jurisdiction.

*   *   *

A plan began to formulate in Senator Dancer's mind as he guided his sports car along the twisting roadway below the vast Arlington Cemetery. He had received his instructions directly from the President himself. And it was fully understood between them that if successful, Senator Dancer could expect significant reward. When he had left the White House gate he had no idea of what he might say, or even how he could approach the subject. But now he smiled to himself as he looked up at the silent slopes of graves. They inspired the beginning of an idea.

He drove leisurely, moving with the midday traffic. He had used the White House telephone to call Martha Howell and alert her that he planned to drop by. He had been there several times since Brian Howell's stroke, so he knew his visit would seem quite natural, they would suspect nothing beyond the ordinary courtesy call.

Dorothy, the Howells' married daughter, answered the door. She held her one-year-old son perched on one hip. Dorothy had a towel around her neck and a loose strand of hair drifted across one eye. She looked harried and exhausted.

“Did I come at a bad time?” Dancer asked as she ushered him into the Howell's living room.

“Oh no, it's just that young Brian here has just discovered the ability to walk. I spend all day running after him, and I'm just not used to all the exercise.” She turned and called. “Mother, Senator Dancer is here!”

She put the baby down and he toddled along at a determined clip, passing his grandmother as she entered the room. Dorothy gave chase.

“I'll try to get him to take his nap,” Dorothy called as she disappeared down the hallway. “If you hear screaming, it isn't child abuse.”

Hugh Dancer grasped Martha Howell's hands. She had lost weight and looked drawn, almost gaunt.

“Sit down, for heaven's sake, Hugh. You're considered family around here.” She managed a smile. “Can I get you coffee, or a drink perhaps?”

“A drink sounds fine, Martha. Scotch with a little soda, if you have it.”

“I'll join you.” She sounded glad to have an excuse. “I'll be right back.”

The room was the same, nothing had been changed. However there was one prominent addition. A large framed color photograph of Brian Howell, complete with judicial robes, had been set on the fireplace mantle. It was an oversized portrait more suitable for a courtroom or display in a public place. It seemed inappropriate in the carefully arranged and tastefully furnished room.

Martha Howell returned with the drinks and two coasters. She was the kind of woman who insisted on neatness above all else. He accepted the glass and placed the coaster on a table at the side of his chair.

She sat primly. The large glass seemed out of place in her hand. She looked a bit guilty. She came from a background where afternoon drinking was considered sinful. She took a dainty sip of her drink. “I'm drinking more lately, but I suppose that's to be expected.”

“Why don't you have your doctor prescribe a mild tranquilizer. It might help.”