'I want to help you. I want to help Renata. I want to help the women who can't keep their babies but don't want to kill them.'
'It might not help. One lower-court decision won't shift cen-turies of outdated opinion.' Valerie smiled in spite of the ache in her chest. 'It's a first step.' ' The hospital became, over the weekend, a refuge for Valerie and for the Chandlers. Stern, granite-faced nurses, muscular Johnny Mason, and other grim orderlies (borrowed from the neuropsychiatric wing) guarded Renata and the trio from re-porters and miscellaneous gawkers with an intransigent glee that bordered on feral savagery. When Karen Chandler's mother and father arrived for a visit, the receptionist sent her a Xerox of their drivers' licenses for confirmation of their sta-tus. They passed. Few others did.
Dr. Lawrence showed up once to 'check on the baby's progress.' He gazed for a moment through the ICU window, nodded, then glared at Evelyn. She smiled wearily.
He walked away in silence.
XXI
The steps to the courthouse swarmed with reporters, pro-testers, police, the curious, and the unfortunate. People with business that had nothing to do with Dalton Vs. Chandler et al. had to wade through the swamp of humanity, cursing their luck. Some granted interviews solely on the basis of being in the right place just as an opinion-hungry newshound decided to grab a few sound bites for local color.
'And what's your outlook on the Baby Renata case?'
'I dunno, lady. I'm here about my landlord.'
The word was out that something big would happen today. The betting was that the defendants would either continue presenting their side of the case or the judge would dismiss the suit. Or something. Rumors flew like pigeons around the courthouse steps.
A Bayside General employee van pulled up to the sidewalk. Audio and video electronics vied with eyes and ears for posi-tion around the blue-and-grey vehicle. The side door slid nois-ily aft and out stepped Johnson, dressed in a grey suit, crisp white shirt, and navy tie. He grinned in triumph, shouted,
'No questions, please!' and urged the crowd to make room. The Chandlers followed him, smiling and waving at the cameras.
This was new. The photographers fired vollies of shots. The videocams captured every motion. Karen looked as if she had just stepped out of the beauty parlor. Every strand of her dark hair was in place, her makeup subtle and perfect. She wore a deep emerald dress with a matching knit sweater, the cowl draped over her shoulders. Her matching handbag and pumps were just a shade darker. If green meant go, the reporters had their signal.
David dressed in beige slacks and yellow polo shirt under a tan cardigan sweater. He looked like a young version of the classic American father figure. It might not have suited him very well, but the way he beamed with joy told everyone that he sensed victory.
Dr. Fletcher was the next to step out. Her outfit was a simple, austere grey suit with a black cowl-neck blouse.
'How's the baby?' someone shouted.
'Renata is stable at the moment.' Evelyn gazed around at the farrago of lenses and microphones.
'We still don't know whether her stem cell activity will return, but for now her tem-perature is normal, and she's resting quietly.'
She turned to extend a hand into the van. Valerie Dalton nervously made her way to the sidewalk, then looked up into the wall of noise and light. Her light blue skirt and vest over a taupe blouse gave her an authoritative aire that contrasted sharply with her apprehension.
The questions erupted immediately.
'Is it true Ron Czernek walked off the case?'
'Are you in pain from the second transplant?'
'Will you drop the suit?'
'Will you continue the suit without him?'
'Why are you here with the defendants?'
The noise level threatened to overwhelm her. She gripped Evelyn's hand tightly. Evelyn squeezed back with even stron-ger pressure.
