There are natural alliances formed in a courtroom. When I walk into the probate court, the hospital’s lawyer is already sitting at the counsel table on the left. With her is the neurosurgeon.
At the table on the right is Cara, and her lawyer.
Immediately I steer Edward toward the hospital lawyer’s table.
The last person to walk in is Helen Bedd, the temporary guardian. She looks at the seating arrangement and plants herself, wisely, between the tables, in the space that separates Edward and Cara.
Georgie is in the row behind me. “Hey, baby,” I say, leaning over the bar to give her a quick peck. “How are you holding up?”
She looks over at her daughter. “Pretty well, given the circumstances.”
I know what she means. This morning while she fed Cara oatmeal and juice and got ready to drive her to the hospital and then to court to meet her attorney, I grabbed a granola bar and drove to Luke Warren’s house to pick up my client. We can’t really talk about the case, because we have aligned ourselves with different camps. I feel like my marriage is a Venn diagram, and the only shared space between us right now is an awkward silence.
Don’t think I haven’t wondered about my own motivations in this case. I am representing Edward, of course, and might never have been pressed into service if not for Georgie desperately asking me to get him out of the police station. Professionally, I want a win for my client. But is that because I really believe in Edward’s right to make a medical decision for his father… or because I know what that medical decision will be? If Luke Warren dies, he is out of the picture. He’ll never come between me and Georgie again. If, on the other hand, he is moved to a long- term care facility, and Cara winds up as his guardian, Georgie will continue to play a significant role-until Cara is eighteen, and perhaps even after that.
Edward is wearing his father’s buffalo check jacket again; I think it’s morphed in status from outerwear to a talisman. When Cara sees him in it, her eyes widen and she comes halfway out of her seat, only to have her attorney pull her down and start whispering furiously.
“You remember everything I told you?” I murmur to Edward.
He jerks his chin, a nod. “Stay calm,” he says. “No matter what.”
I fully expect him to be painted as a hothead, as someone who makes rash decisions. Who else walks away from home after an argument and moves to Thailand? Or, frustrated by a turn of events, yanks the plug of a ventilator out of the wall? It doesn’t help, too, that even if the criminal charge can’t be admissible in court since it’s been vacated, this is a small town. Everyone knows what Edward did.
It’s up to me to spin it so he looks like an angel of mercy instead of a disgruntled prodigal son.
The clerk looks around at everyone who’s clustered at the tables. “We all ready, folks?” he asks. “All rise, the Honorable Armand LaPierre presiding.”
Although I haven’t argued before this judge before, I am well aware of his reputation. He’s allegedly an empathetic man. So empathetic, in fact, that he has trouble making any decisions. He often leaves court during his lunch hour to go down the street to Sacred Heart, the closest Catholic church, where he says novenas for the parties involved and prays for guidance.
The judge enters in a cloud of black-black robe, black shoes, jet-black hair. “Before we begin,” he says, “this is a deeply disturbing case for everyone here. We are convened to determine the permanent guardianship of Luke Warren. I understand that his medical condition hasn’t changed since I appointed a temporary guardian last Friday. Today I see that the hospital is represented, as well as the ward’s two children as parties of interest.” He frowns. “This is a very unconventional hearing, but these are unconventional circumstances. And what the court hopes to keep in mind is that ultimately we’re trying to make a decision that would be in line with what Luke Warren would want, if he were here to speak for himself. Are there any preliminary matters that need to be discussed?”
That’s my cue. I rise from my chair. “Your Honor, I’d like to bring to the court’s attention that one of the parties of interest here today is a minor. Cara Warren is not the age of majority, which suggests that she is legally incapable of being vested with the authority to make decisions about her father’s end-of-life care.” I look directly at the judge, unable to face the heat of Cara’s eyes. “I ask the court to strike her appearance here today and have her leave the courtroom, and to have her representative, Ms. Notch, dismissed from the proceedings, as her client doesn’t have the legal standing to make this sort of choice on her father’s behalf.”
“What are you talking about?” Cara cuts in. “I’m his daughter. I have every right to be here-”
“Cara,” her attorney warns. “Judge, what my client
“I’m quite sure what your client meant to say had a few choice expletives in it,” the judge replies. “But people, seriously. We’re thirty seconds into the proceeding and we’re already at each other’s throats? I know emotions are running high, but let’s be calm and just look at the legal precedent.”
Zirconia Notch stands. She is dressed like a lawyer from neck to knees, but her tights are a shocking lime green with red stripes, and her pumps are sunshine yellow. It’s as if the top half of her body fell on the bottom half of the Wicked Witch of the West. “Your Honor,” she says, “my client is seventeen, true, but she is also the only person in this courtroom who has been intimately involved in the day-to-day life of Mr. Warren. Under RSA 454-A, a guardian must merely be competent. The fact that Cara’s birthday isn’t for three months doesn’t have any impact on whether the court can vest her with the authority to make decisions regarding her father’s life. Indeed, if she’d been charged with a felony, like her brother, she would have been tried as an adult in court-”
“Objection,” I say. “That charge was dismissed. Ms. Notch is trying to bring up this irrelevant claim to prejudice my client.”
“People,” the judge sighs, “let’s confine ourselves to the matter before the court this morning, all right? And Ms. Notch, could you remove those wrist bells? They’re distracting.”
Undaunted, Zirconia strips off her bracelets and continues. “Once the court begins hearing her testimony, I’m certain Your Honor will determine that this young woman is of sufficient age, maturation, and intelligence to have an opinion and to be considered competent, as the criteria of the statute state.”
The judge looks like he’s having an ulcer attack. His mouth twists, his eyes water. “I’m not inclined to dismiss Cara from the proceedings at this time,” he says. “I have yet to hear the evidence, and I need to hear her perspective just as much as I need to hear from her brother, Edward. I’m going to ask you two to present brief opening arguments. Ladies first, Ms. Notch.”
She stands up and walks toward the bench. “Terry Wallis,” she says. “Jan Grzebski. Zack Dunlap. Donald Herbert. Sarah Scantlin.
You’ve probably never heard of these people before, so let me introduce you. Terry Wallis spent nineteen years in a minimally conscious state. Then one day, he spontaneously began to speak and regained awareness of his surroundings. Jan Grzebski, a Polish railroad worker, woke up from a nineteen-year coma in 2007. Zack Dunlap was declared brain-dead after an ATV accident and was on the verge of having life support terminated so his organs could be donated, when he showed signs of purposeful movement. After five days, his eyes were open; two days later, he was off a ventilator, and today he can walk and talk and continues to improve.”
She walks toward Edward. “Donald Herbert,” she continues, “suffered a severe brain injury while fighting a fire in 1995. After ten years in a vegetative state, he uttered his first words. Sarah Scantlin was a pedestrian hit by a drunk driver in 1984. After a six-week coma she entered a minimally conscious state, and then, in January of 2005, she started talking again.” Zirconia spreads her hands, a plea. “Each of these men and women had injuries from which they were never expected to recover,” she says. “Each of these men and women had lives ahead of them that their families had given up hope of them living. And each of these men and women are here today because someone loved them enough to believe in their recovery. To give them time to heal. To
She walks back to her table, her hand resting on Cara’s good shoulder. “Terry Wallis, Jan Grzebski, Zack Dunlap, Donald Herbert, Sarah Scantlin. And just maybe, Your Honor, Luke Warren.”
The judge looks up at me as Zirconia sits down. “Mr. Ng?”
“Different people believe life starts at different places,” I say, standing up. “Tibetan Buddhists say it begins at orgasm. Catholics trace life to the moment the sperm meets an egg. Those who use stem cells say an embryo isn’t alive until it is fourteen days old, when it develops a primitive streak-the thickened bit that becomes a backbone.
I shrug. “We’ve gotten used to there being a multitude of beliefs about the start of life. But what about the end
