Valerie faced the morning with a dread that approached ter-ror. She lay on the bed, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of vehicles stopping in front of her house. She would have to penetrate that wall. And another at the hos-pital.
Ron stepped out of the bathroom, vigorously drying his hair and beard. 'You understand why I can't go with you,' he said.
'No,' she said without emotion.
'I've got to get the ball rolling on this lawsuit. The other side's probably going to try to stall for as long as possible, tak-ing the full thirty days to demur, so I've got to be ready to get it to trial ASAP. And I've got to assemble witnesses, prepare a strategy for jury selection, rearrange my schedule-'
'I understand. You'll be busy.'
'Val,' he said, sitting on the bed to lay an arm on her shoul-der. His dark eyes gazed at her with firm intensity. 'It's good that you're going. If the baby has to have a bone-marrow trans-plant, I'm behind you all the way. It can only help the case if we cooperate in every way with her medical needs. But we can't let that sap our momentum.'
'It's supposed to hurt. A lot.'
He hugged her. 'Honey, I'll be there. You'll be spending the night at the hospital, right?'
'Right.'
'So I'll be there after five.' He kissed her cheek tenderly. 'Just relax and concentrate on saving our little girl.'
He escorted her to the Porsche. The reporters flashed pic-tures, shouted questions, and pointed their videocams. Wisely, they stayed on the other side of the property line.
'How do I get past them?' she whispered.
'Just tell them that you can't comment on the case but that all you're interested in is seeing your baby get the medical care she needs.' He shut the door with a firm push. 'Drive carefully and remember-The press can be our best friends in this.'
She pulled slowly out of the driveway. A crush of newshounds encircled the vehicle, thrusting microphones into the half-low-ered window.
'What did you feel when you found out your baby hadn't been aborted?'
'Can you explain what's wrong with the baby?'
'Why do you want her back?'
'What name do you have picked out for her?'
'What do you feel toward the surrogate mother?'
Valerie just said, 'I want my baby to be healthy,' and rolled up the window.
'How sick is she?'
'Did you foresee your decision to abort having such reper-cussions?'
'How do you feel helping the doctor who did this to you?'
She rammed her foot on the accelerator and peeled away.
The newspaper and radio teams hastened to form a convoy behind her, leaving the TV crews to tape wrapup segments using the house as a backdrop.
The trip down the hill toward Harbor City unnerved Valerie. Trying to concentrate on the simple act of driving, she none-theless kept gazing into the rearview mirror in an effort to observe the cars and vans behind her. She counted six, sev-eral sporting the logo of a radio station or newspaper. Curious glances from drivers and passengers in other lanes made her blush with embarrassment and fury. She pulled into the medical center's north parking lot after a quick survey of the entrance. The line of protesters was longer than ever. Several policemen stood at the periphery, quietly watching the proceedings, making their presence tangibly felt with that projected mixture of self- assurance and mortal threat that members of their profession so effectively exude.
As soon as she parked her car, reporters surrounded it, quickly joined by the others from the convoy.
