“I can’t deny it is very different from our state courts,” Charlene said. “But the jury is still made up of people, just like you and me.”
“We ain’t their kind,” Aggie said. “And they ain’t our’n.”
“When Sarah Mae first came to see me with Pastor Ray, we had a long talk about how she felt about filing a lawsuit. She said she wanted to do it so the whole country could hear what happened to her. So it wouldn’t happen to other girls. You remember that, Sarah Mae?”
The girl nodded slowly.
“And do you still feel that way?” Charlene asked.
“You talk to me now,” Aggie said. “Sarah Mae ain’t old enough to make that decision.”
Charlene noticed a slight twitching in Sarah Mae’s cheeks when her mother said that.
“Of course, Mrs. Sherman.” Charlene needed to respect this woman, a single mother struggling day to day. It was a precarious situation. Her daughter’s suicide attempts had shaken Aggie to the point where her defensiveness was understandable.
Charlene continued. “Sarah has undergone such trauma that her story needs to be told. The abortion industry is engaged in a willful practice of deceiving women about the dangers and consequences of abortion. They are especially deceptive about the psychological dangers. They refuse to admit such dangers exist. And women continue to suffer depression, guilt, shame. Studies show that the guilt gets worse as time goes on.”
At least Aggie Sherman appeared to be listening. When Charlene had first interviewed her, Mrs. Sherman seemed to be completely oblivious to the long-term effects of abortion. Most people were. The media never reported on the studies that indicated such effects.
“Post-abortion trauma is real, Mrs. Sherman, and it will continue unless people find out about it. I believe most Americans are fair-minded but aren’t getting the whole story. If they hear Sarah Mae’s story it will make a difference.”
“Why can’t we tell the papers or the TV or something?” Aggie said.
“Leverage,” Charlene said. “As it stands now, your daughter’s story might make the local news, but that’s where it will stop. A lawsuit has a way of getting attention.”
Aggie Sherman chewed on this for a moment, then her eyes narrowed. “That’s what you’re after, ain’t it?”
The tone in her voice puzzled Charlene. “What do you mean, Mrs. Sherman?”
“Attention. This’ll bring a lot of attention to you.”
Charlene shook her head. “That is the furthest thing from my mind.”
“Is it? You ain’t the busiest lawyer in these parts. And you’re a…” She stopped short.
Charlene didn’t have to hear the word to know it was in Aggie’s throat. A black lawyer, especially a female, was rare in the region. Charlene fought hard to keep her emotions in check. “I am a lawyer, Mrs. Sherman. When someone like your daughter is hurt, the law should provide justice and maybe prevent the same thing from happening again. That’s all I am interested in.”
“Well,” Aggie said, “my daughter is what I’m interested in. And four hundred thousand sounds more than interesting to me. I want you to get us that money.”
“Mrs. Sherman, please – ”
“No. I don’t want to have to go through a whole trial. Sarah Mae don’t either.”
Charlene’s heart plummeted. She had invested not only time and money in this case, but her very soul. It was a case she passionately believed in. A battle she was sure God had entrusted to her. It couldn’t be yanked away.
“You can’t do this, Mrs. Sherman,” Charlene said desperately.
“I can!” Aggie Sherman said. “You get us that money.”
Charlene looked at Sarah Mae. The girl said nothing. Her mother grabbed her arm, pulled her off the chair, and out of the office.
5
The first time Millie Hollander saw the Supreme Court she was on her father’s shoulders. He had a business trip to Washington, D.C., and insisted on taking her along. She was eight. They had turned the corner, Daddy giving her a ride that was bracing in the cool breeze, and suddenly there it was.
It literally took her breath away.
Great white steps led up to a main portico flanked on either side by two large marble figures. Seated majestically, the twin statues looked ready to hand down decisions of timeless wisdom. The portico itself was supported by sixteen massive Corinthian columns. It was like some palace of the gods.
And over everything, etched in stone for all the world to see, were the immortal words: Equal Justice Under Law.
The impression was overwhelming. Millie knew there had to be something of incredible importance housed here.
Perched on her father’s shoulders, she felt ten feet tall. She also sensed immediately that whatever she was going to do in her life would, in some way she couldn’t possibly know, have something to do with this building.
Millie recalled those feelings at the end of every term. Today was no exception. Official Court business was wrapping up. She gave her clerks her traditional sendoff – her famous cheesecake – along with a gold watch with the Supreme Court symbol on the face.
Other than her mother in California, Millie’s clerks were her only family. Each year she grew close to each of them before they left to make their way in the world of law. Of course they sent cards, letters, e-mails; but they had, in a sense, left the nest. Though that was the way it should be, Millie always felt more than a pinch of sadness about it.
Now she was alone in her chambers, getting ready to leave for the summer recess. And she began the little ceremony she’d started ten years ago.
First, she paused to look at her judicial hero. From the start of her legal career she’d kept a portrait of Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes in her office. Beneath the famous face – the sweeping white mustache and Yankee patrician nose – were his words: “Every calling is great when greatly pursued.”
Then she walked through the Great Hall, passing the marble busts of the former chief justices, and exited into the late D.C. afternoon.
Finally, descending the magnificent steps, she paused to look back at the Supreme Court building itself. It seemed as if she were on holy ground. She drew strength from the thought, knowing she had been given the greatest privilege in the law – to serve on the Supreme Court.
“Never gets old, does it?” Thomas J. Riley had come up to join her. He was dressed in his usual manner – a suit about ten years out of fashion – and carried his favorite walking stick.
“Did you follow me out?” Millie asked.
“We all know this is what you do. Sort of your ritual.”
“You might call it that.”
“You bet I do,” Riley said. His eyes, sharp blue, were the most intelligent she had ever known. Behind them was a legal mind that had become legend. Millie could hardly believe that a little girl from rural California could call such a man her colleague – and friend.
“This is our temple,” Riley said. “And ritual is an important part of our practice. When we don the robes, shake hands before taking the bench, listen to the oyez – it is all part and parcel of our
