“...And
so, Sandra, it looks like folks are going to have plenty of barbecued ribs and
brisket served to them this Fourth. At
last count, eight candidates, eager to win in next fall’s primaries, announced
picnic rallies for tomorrow afternoon, where they plan to kiss a lot of babies
in return, hopefully, for lots of votes.”
The reporter paused to grin above his microphone.
“For the sake of politics, let’s hope it doesn’t rain!”
“Sounds
good, Terry. Thanks,”
but the noon anchorwoman quickened the pace.
“This report just in...one group of Houstonians may be using this
Independence Day to make a moral point.
Our
KPGS mobile unit and reporter, Galen Ross, are on the scene outside a Houston
medical clinic where Pro-Life activists have been demonstrating for the past
hour. Galen?”
“Right,
Sandy. About thirty people arrived
down here at the Sanger Clinic on Heights Boulevard an hour ago to protest this
medical facility’s business of legalized abortion. Twice just last month, this same clinic was the target of
anti-abortion advocates who contend that pregnancy termination procedures
performed under the aegis of state licensing, is nothing short of murder!”
Ross inched over, giving wider berth to a throng of men and women marching back
and forth in front of a white, pillared building with large doors that were
closed.
“Unquestionable
anger is being vented here, today, over a matter that is obviously
controversial, but, it seems to be limited to protest signs, leaflets, and the
chanting of slogans.”
Ross
kept talking while the camera zoomed in on a sign. “Innocence Gets Murdered Here!”
Then, the red eye of the camera caught up with another one.
“Unborn Have A Right To Life!” A
third placard carried the accusation, “Baby Killers!
Baby Killers! Baby
Killers!”
Sandra
Erickson’s voice had tensed. “Galen,
how would you describe the mood down there, right now?
This Pro-Life, or Anti-Abortion, issue has unleashed sporadic violence
ever since the U.S. Supreme Court ruled on Roe vs Wade in 1973.”
“Well,
that’s true, Sandy, but, I was talking to some of the marchers a few minutes
ago, and they say their primary interest is in providing young mothers coming
down here to the clinic with information on a moral imperative.” Ross was back
in full view of the camera. “I
will say this. So far, this has
been a very peaceful gathering. It
may not be a love-in, but one member from this group actually stopped handing
out pamphlets long enough to help a stranded motorist.
So, although, there hasn’t been any traffic in or out of the clinic
itself, since our arrival, it looks like these protesters are using this
Independence Day holiday weekend to exercise their Right Of Assembly in the true
spirit of that American constitutionality.”
Visual
switched over to the studio with the remote feed inset, off the left shoulder of
the anchorwoman. Erickson was
nodding, looking interested. “No
confrontation, then. Good.
Galen, when you talked to the protesters, did they mention any
particular...”
“Sandy...Sandra!
Something’s happening, here! All
Hell’s breaking loose...!!”
Galen
Ross’ face zoomed to full screen bust, flushed and groping for the facts.
In the background, a Harley-Davidson that hadn’t been there before, was
now, and down on its metal back, hot wheels spinning out of control in the
middle of a suddenly violent
pummeling of people’s arms and ugly fists.
“I can’t tell what’s happening!
I don’t know what triggered this, but, Sandy, we’ve got chaos
here!!”
Ross
had to shout above the screams coming suddenly from inside the belly of the
crowd. He tried moving into it,
then dodged back from the trajectory of objects flying through the air...one of
the protest signs...a bottle...cans. The
shoulder mounted camera was dancing frantically. Something hit the camera lens, then rolled off the surface of
the glass, and dropped like rotted fruit; the smudged lens, an early casualty of
the live battlefield coverage. Then
the camera did one inverted loop and gave viewers shots of pavement.
With that, another kind of bedlam broke out in the studio and an intercom
switch got toggled by mistake. They
goofed, and, in the process, unauthorized abuse leaked out along the air waves; the director shrieking crude directives to a faceless
assistant director. “Tell that
stupid son-of-a-bitch to keep his camera on that crowd!!” The cameraman drew back, held tough. Ross was in and out of view.
He kept yelling, though; doing
play-by-plays. “This is just
incredible!! Ladies and Gentlemen,
what started as a peaceful protest, here in front of the Sanger Clinic, is a
full-fledged riot, now...Wait! Somebody
just came out of the clinic. It’s
a woman...Oh, my God! Oh, my
God...SHE’S DOWN! One of the
protesters ran up and grabbed a woman coming out of the clinic and threw her
down to the ground...Wait a minute! I
can’t see her...the crowd’s all over her...this is unbelievable!!” The
decibel level was already at “screech”, before three sirens bumped it up.
118. 121.
The anchorwoman jumped in, desperately trying to overcome the
inexperience of a neophyte. Ross
was losing it. “We have to cut
away...Galen, we have to cut away!” The
decibels dropped back, severed cleanly by the flip of a switch.
Studio sound.
“Folks,
you’ve just seen a KPGS exclusive eyewitness report by Galen Ross from a
mobile unit outside the Sanger Clinic, where an orderly protest march over the
emotional issue of abortion erupted, only moments ago, into a major disturbance,
possibly injuring an unknown number of people there on the scene.
Please stay tuned, so we may bring you up-to-the-minute reports on any
further developments, as they occur, in what can only be called a tragic turn of
events,” her redundancy exposing the limitations of her own ability to ad-lib.
Click.
“Run
it back again. If you can, go back
to where she’s walking down the steps.” Selene Vega rose and walked over to
a VCR to activate the rewind switch. At
fast-forward, three minutes of blurred picture and sound was Mickey Mouse.
Arbitrarily, the young attorney hit the play button, so Galen Ross could
live through it once again, but, this time, starting somewhere in the middle.
“...tell what’s happening! I
don’t know what triggered this, but, Sandy, we’ve got chaos here!!”
The
girl walked back to the settee done in a moire silk the hotel used in all their
better suites. For a second, she
just stood there quietly, watching Ryland Whitley studying the drama unfolding,
as it had been preserved on studio video-tape; a procedure routinely done with
all local newscasts at this particular television station.
Normally, the station would have archived the tapes for only thirty days.
But a court order, obtained thirteen days after the incident, required
the station to keep the original tape intact until ordered otherwise by the
court. It also obligated them to
make an unedited copy on commercial VHS tape and submit it to the law firm
representing the plaintiff. Ryland
was enthralled. Involved.
Intense. She sat down next
to him, waiting through the frantic noise and uproar on the tape.
It cycled through the mayhem, finally ending with the sign-off by the
anchorwoman, Erickson. “What do you think?”
Selene’s voice was dulcet in the texture of her quiet modulations.
It went well with the rest of her; slender legs, Renoir breasts, hair, a
titian color Monet used, sometimes, for girls who sat in sunlit parks.
He smiled at her, and at her eagerness.
“I think you’ve got a case.” She corrected him,
“It’s a hell of a case, but I can’t handle it alone.
You know that. I know that.
And, I’ve got news for you. When
I bring Becca Stevens in and sit her down, that mighty firm of Riggs and Harlan
will come to know it, too.” She
paused to be delicate in lifting up her coffee cup.
“I don’t think they’d simply jerk the case away...” Ryland
Whitley shook his head. “No, they
wouldn’t slip it out from under you.”
“They’ll
team me up with someone, though. And
I want that someone to be you.
Why
not?”
She
was disarming. Ryland got up and
brought his bags over to the luggage rack, and methodically unpacked.
Once his suits were hung up in a closet in the vestibule, he walked back
into the sitting room and poured himself a drink.
On a portable cassette recorder that he carried when he travelled, he
played a tape, then, of Erroll Garner and listened for a few minutes to the
creative genius playing his own composition, “Misty.”
His instincts as a man who’d been found to be attractive by many women
in the past, told him Selene was watching him.
When he finally turned around, he knew his instincts had told the truth
again. But then they always did.
“Will
you stay tonight?”
The
girl’s lips curved softly in a smile. Desire
was running deep inside her eyes, but suddenly she frowned.
“I want to, but Oscar...” Ryland Whitley’s handsome dark head
nodded with understanding at the mention of her husband’s name.
Selene
smiled again, this time impishly. “Where
are you supposed to be tonight?
Hypothetically,
of course?”
“Dallas.”
The
formula called for him to laugh or make a joke about potent men and small
deceits, but he found little humor in this habit that he had.
He had to take hotel suites, and a minimum of twice or three times every
month. It was respite;
a vacation of a kind. Lots
of people did it; people of his position. It
wasn’t so unusual. For him,
though, it did go deeper. The
excursions guaranteed survival. Maybe
even sanity. The funny part, of course, was that this suite, in
particular, was three miles from home; a home of undisputed elegance that he
provided for two children and one wife...Jessica.
“Big D, huh?” Selene
glanced quickly at her watch before getting up and walking over to a man who
knew how to mesmerize a jury, a man she found quite sensual. “Do you want to know something?”
“What
is that?”
The
expression in her eyes was touched with gentle mystery.
“It’s early yet.”
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The Case
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