Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy Read online

  Bacall sat forward. "John, let me be perfectly frank here. Inés and I both have a bad feeling about this. I can't tell you it's completely rational, because feelings aren't rational to start with. But we both believe someone should be looking into this, and I agree that you can't do much without Maisy's cooperation. However, that's why you are the perfect person to help us."

  "I don't see it."

  "Maisy is terribly concerned about appearing invincible to the public. Hence our concern about confidentiality with Tommy and with you."

  Bacall dropped both the tone and the pace of his voice. "And there is another factor too. Some time ago, Tommy told me about your wife, John. It's precisely because of your experience that Maisy might let you look into this for her."

  I shifted in my chair. "Spell it out."

  As Bacall hesitated, Roja said, "Mr. Cuddy, we respect your decision in your own life. What Alec means is that the professor would not speak to most investigators we could find, but she would be . . . interested in you."

  "Because she'd see me as a whipping boy for her own views?"

  "No," said Bacall. "Because she'd see you as someone who understood her views but hadn't embraced them. She'd find that . . . interesting, as Inés said."

  "And if I don't especially feel like being a convert-in-waiting?"

  Bacall sat up straighter. "I imagine that you often have to pose as someone other than who you are. We aren't asking that here. We're simply asking that you be yourself, the man Tommy described to me, so that Maisy will receive the professional help she requires despite herself."

  There was a certain dignity in the way Bacall made his argument. He seemed to care as much about stating his position accurately as about ultimately persuading me of it.

  Roja said, "Please, Mr. Cuddy?"

  "Okay, I'l1 meet with her. Then it's her decision and my decision from there."

  Bacall said he'd call me at home that night with details. Roja just said thank you.

  =4=

  MONDAY MORNING THE CLOCK RADIO WOKE ME UP AT SIX-THIRTY. I had stayed at the office for a while Sunday afternoon, then walked home via Newbury Street to do some window shopping toward Nancy's Christmas. By the time I'd gotten back to the condo, Alec Bacall had left a message on my telephone tape machine, telling me to come to the law school by ten-thirty A.M. Monday and ask the security guard for Inés Roja. The four hours gave me plenty of time. After using the bathroom, I heeded the weather forecast by pulling on a T-shirt and Puma shorts under an outer layer of sweatshirt and sweat pants with elastic cuffs. I laced up the running shoes I'd broken in over the prior few months and contemplated my first training run toward the marathon.

  The longest distance I'd ever done before was a little under six miles, but that was in the summer, when I carried less weight. I figured the seven or so miles to Harvard Square and back would be just the ticket for burning off the extra pounds from Thanksgiving. I figured wrong.

  The condo I rented was in the rear of a brownstone on the corner of Beacon and Fairfield. Coming out the front door of my building, I could just about see the pedestrian ramp rising above Storrow Drive to the running and biking paths along the Charles River. The wind was blowing fifteen miles an hour from a northeastern sky that understudied snow, the temperature in the high twenties.

  As I approached the ramp, a homeless man sat against the foundation of the expensive high-rise catercorner from my brownstone. He was wearing a bunch of tatty sweaters under a brown tweed sport jacket. The jacket's seams burst across the shoulders, a wilted red carnation in the lapel. His soiled Washington Redskins watch cap was pulled over the ears, his eyeglasses taped at the nose and both temples. He waved to me as I passed him on the other side of the street. I waved back, crossed over Storrow on the ramp, and started west.

  Halfway to Harvard Square. I'd already perspired through the T-shirt and into the sweats. At the Larz Anderson bridge, I decided to turn around instead of going uphill into the square itself. Even so, as soon as I reversed direction, I was running into the teeth of the wind. Soaking wet.

  My hands got cold first.

  My feet got cold next.

  My legs chimed in third.

  By the time I reached the Boston University bridge, maybe a mile and a half to go, my head and chest both hurt. My pace flagged, meaning more steps to finish, but I didn't see that I had much choice. I wheezed to the Massachusetts Avenue bridge, breaking down to a trot and finally a walk. A fast walk, because as soon as I stopped running, my teeth began to chatter.

  There are a few public benches upriver of the Fairfield ramp. The bum in the Redskins hat was sitting on one of them. As I drew even with him, my right calf cramped. I stopped walking to stand still on it, then tried to stretch it, using a tree as support for my palms. A voice behind me said, "A little of that beforehand'd do you a world of good."

  I turned my head. The bum on the bench nodded. Without replying, I turned my head back to the tree.

  He said, "Might also run into the wind first. You won't sweat so much, and on the homeward leg, you'll be going with her and feeling cozy."

  I gritted my teeth and over my shoulder said, "Right."

  "But consider the source, eh?"

  This time I turned completely around. The man's voice had the singsong quality of Frank Perdue hucking chickens. The eyes behind the glasses were alert, almost jovial. What hair I could see sticking out from under the hat looked black and gray, the three-day growth on his cheeks and chin grayer still.

  I said, "Sorry. Thanks for the advice."

  "Another thing?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You won't ever get to the marathon, much less finish her, without changing your stride some."

  Watching him, I put my fists on my hips and tried walking gingerly. The cramp was still there, but not as compelling. "The marathon."

  "That's right."

  "What makes you think I'm aiming at that?"

  "Everything. It's cold enough, the fair-weather folks are on treadmills or stationary bikes somewheres, comparing their portfolios with the person next to them. You're out here, early enough in the morning, but you obviously don't know how far you can go in this weather and that kind of outfit. Or much about your own endurance curve and how to build it. Oh, the shoes are beat up, so you haven't been on your dead ass all year, but basically you don't have a clue how to condition yourself."

  "Anything else?"

  "Yeah. You're the right age too."

  I stared at him. "The right age."

  "Yeah. The age where you start wondering, 'Can I really do it?' That wondering, that gives you the look."

  "I've got the look too, huh?"

  "Like Rocky in that first training scene, where he gets to the monument steps and looks like he's maybe gonna infarct."

  I laughed. Which made me shiver and reminded me how cold I was. I shook my head and turned to go.

  "One suggestion about that stride?"

  I stopped. "Yeah?"

  "Man your size has to lengthen his stride a little, cover more ground. Otherwise, you're gonna pound your knees to powder, all the steps you'll be taking in training. Only two ways to lengthen the stride. One's to lunge with the front foot. Bad in more ways than you got time to hear. Other way's to push off with your back foot a little more, use the quads at the front of your thighs to kind of launch that back leg into the next stride. Try that, the longer distances'll come a little easier."

  Made sense. "Thanks again."

  The man stood up. In a quieter voice he said, "Better get yourself inside and warm now," and began moving upriver, hands in the side pockets of his jacket.

  I said, "Hey?"

  "Yeah'?"

  "Why all the free advice?"

  The man stopped, turned partway. I didn't think he was going to say anything, then he spoke quickly. "When I was sitting against that skyscraper over there?"

  "Yes'?"

  A shrug and the quieter voice again. "You waved back."

  * *
*

  After showering I wolfed down a couple of English muffins and a quart of ice water. I put on a suit and tie, then started walking to the South End.

  Boston has law schools like New York has museums, seven all told. Harvard is Harvard. Boston College and Boston University are both solid institutions often confused with each other by people from out of state. The schools with the most interesting histories are New England (founded to give women the opportunity to study law) and Suffolk (founded to give male immigrants the same). Northeastern's co-op program fills the niche for people who want to alternate school and on-the-job training.

  Mass Bay thought it could fill a niche too. In the late sixties some entrepreneurs figured they could prosper on the baby boomers' abject horror of graduating college and having nowhere to spend their parents' remaining money. Even though both New England and Suffolk offered long-established evening divisions, Mass Bay felt it also could cash in on full-time employees who wanted part-time law study. After getting back from Vietnam, I was one.

  Given that my stipend under the G.I. Bill would cover most of the tuition, a career counselor at Empire allowed as how it wouldn't be a bad idea for me to do one year of law school. I chose Mass Bay because I hadn't been what you'd call a scholar during my undergraduate days at Holy Cross. Also, I did about as well on standardized tests like the LSAT as Ray Charles would shooting skeet. The only standardized number Mass Bay cared about was 98.6, and the school was located within blocks of Empire's office tower. At the end of the year my grades were a little better than average, but I knew the law and I would not enjoy each other over the course of a lifetime. So I simply didn't register the following fall.

  Mass Bay's first and only building was a converted armory, the facade of pink granite and turrets still impressive. The security desk was just inside the entrance, only a few students sitting on plastic chairs in a linoleum lobby.

  "Help you?" said the guard, a pensioner with a green uniform shirt, khaki pants, and no tie or badge.

  The clock on the wall told me I was ten minutes late. "I'm here to see Inés Roja."

  The guard moved something around in his mouth. "Good luck to you." He pushed a button on an old — fashioned switchboard and said into the receiver, "Inés, you expecting somebody? . . . Didn't say . . ." He looked up at me. "Yeah, yeah, that's him .... Right."

  Hanging up, he pointed to the elevator at the back of the lobby. The only elevator. "Take that to three and turn left. Can't miss it."

  "Thanks. Kind of quiet, isn't it?"

  "Kids are out for Christmas already, you can believe it. We're in special session now." He spoke the phrase the way a prison guard would say "rehabilitation therapy."

  When the elevator doors opened on three, Inés Roja didn't give me a chance to turn left.

  Pulling back the cuffed sleeve of a copper-colored suit, she checked her watch. "The professor teaches at eleven. I will take you to the classroom. After that you and she can return to the office to talk."

  "Wait a minute. I'm going to sit through a whole class hour before I talk with her?"

  "It will not be as long as an hour. It is the initial meeting of special session, so it will be short. The professor wants you to see her in the classroom. Please?"

  Roja got on the elevator with me, and we rode down to the second floor. She indicated a door marked 205. The room I'd sat in for my first-year courses.

  "Please, go in and make yourself comfortable."

  From what I remembered about 205, that would be quite a trick.

  =5=

  "TAKE YOUR SEATS, PLEASE.”

  Shuffling mixed with comments and laughter as thirty or so students arranged themselves in the classroom that could hold seventy-five. Unlike my day, the ratio of women to men was now almost fifty-fifty.

  The room itself hadn't changed, though. Floor flat rather than pitched, tiled rather than carpeted. Fixed, narrow tables in straight lines. Fixed, narrow benches as well, the backs too low and at right angles to seats too shallow. It was as though an extraterrestrial designer had been told the function of the room without being shown the human bodies that would occupy it for hours at a time.

  A slightly raised Stage was centered at the front of the room, a blackboard on the wall behind Maisy Andrus. She looked at her notes on the podium, then looked at us and said, "Welcome to the special session course, Ethics and Society."

  Andrus came down off the stage and began moving around the room, a trial attorney opening to the jury. She was even more imposing at floor level. Nearly six feet tall in one-inch heels, she had auburn hair swept up from her ears and back behind her neck. sprigs of gray here and there. The face was boxy but attractive. Germanic or Scandinavian in cast.

  Andrus wore a yellow sweater-dress gathered loosely by a teal sash at the waist, the hem riding a bit above her knees. She spoke about the required text, office hours, and other housekeeping details of the course. Her manner reminded me of a black Special Forces captain in basic training who ran the TTIS, the Tactical Training of the Individual Soldier, the most miserable obstacle course I ever experienced.

  ". . . and regarding class hours, your attendance and punctuality are not just expected, they are required. Sufficiently severe absence, especially in a four-week course such as this one, will be grounds for barring you from the examination. Effective class participation can raise your grade. Ineffective, incompetent participation can have the opposite effect. Effective participation requires preparation of the written materials assigned for discussion as though you were the lead counsel litigating that case. You by now have the expectation of being treated like the budding lawyers you are. Appreciate that I will hold you to the standard such professionals are expected to attain and maintain."

  Every head, male and female, followed Andrus. Each student had a notebook open and a pen or pencil in hand, but nobody took notes. No one even smiled or jabbed a neighbor in the ribs. All were focused on her.

  A blocky man in a continental suit and old-fashioned pompadour had come into 205 with Andrus. Pompadour sat, arms folded and feet flat on the floor, watching her with the rest of us. Just occasionally he glanced over at me, seeming not to care if I noticed him doing it. I bet myself that Pompadour was the house servant Alec Bacall had called Manolo. If so, Manolo was acting very much like a bodyguard.

  ". . . and now, a little warm-up for tomorrow's session." Andrus swung her head once in an arc of the room, then pointed to a gawky kid with blond hair. "Male student in the maroon shirt. Stand, please."

  I'd never seen this before. The kid got to his feet.

  "Your name?"

  "Uh, Dave."

  "Your last name."

  "Oh, uh, Zimmer."

  "Mr. Zimmer, do you believe in the use of torture to extract information from someone under governmental control?"

  Zimmer blinked.

  "Mr. Zimmer?"

  "Could you repeat — "

  "It's a rather simple question, Mr. Zimmer. Torture, yes or no'?"

  "No. Uh, no, I don't believe in that."

  "Why not?"

  "Why?"

  "W-h-y. Why don't you believe in it?"

  "Well, because . . . it's not right."

  "Why isn't it right?"

  Zimmer took a quick look around the room. No volunteer sent up a hand to take the heat off him, and I sensed that none would.

  "Mr. Zimmer. Today, please'?"

  "Because it's an invasion of the right of a citizen."

  "The right not to be tortured by one's own government?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Why is that an invasion?"

  "Yes."

  Zimmer seemed to rally a little. "Because the government's supposed to exist to defend a citizen from invasion of his rights, not to do — "

  "His or her, Mr. Zimmer."

  "Excuse me?"

  "In this class, if you refer to a person who hasn't been identified as a man or woman, you will use 'he or she,' 'his or her.' In t
he real world, you must not run the risk of offending your audience. This is especially important if the 'person' involved is a client or an authority figure in the system, like a judge. Now, Mr. Zimmer, please restate your point."

  Zimmer inhaled. "The government's job is to protect a citizen's rights, not to invade his or her rights itself."

  "And, ultimately, why is that, Mr. Zimmer?"

  "Why . . . ?"

  "Why is it that government is to defend its citizens from invasion of their rights?"

  "Because everybody has the right to life."

  "I see." Andrus turned and pointed to a brunette woman who had squirreled herself in the farthest corner of the room. "Female student, pink blouse. Stand, please."

  Rising, the woman knocked her notebook askew, the pen rolling off the page and down onto the floor in front of her table.

  "Your name, please'?"

  The woman seemed to speak to her departed pen. "Queenan."

  Andrus cupped a hand to her ear and said, "I can't hear you."

  The woman lifted her head and boomed a little. "My name is Queenan."

  Andrus nodded. "Ms. Queenan, do you agree or disagree with Mr. Zimmer's position?"

  Hopelessly, Queenan looked at Zimmer, who had folded his hands in a fig-leaf pose of prayer.

  "Ms. Queenan?"

  "I agree that a government shouldn't use torture on its citizens."

  "Just its 'citizens,' Ms. Queenan'?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Your rule of no torture would apply only to protect the citizens of the country involved, not visiting tourists or resident aliens?"

  "No. I mean, yes, the government shouldn't use torture on anyone."

  "On anyone. Mr. Zimmer, agree or disagree."

  "Uh, I agree."

  "Because you hold human life of any citizenship sacred, correct?"

  "Correct."

  "Ms. Queenan?"

  "Right. I mean, I agree with that."

  "Is that a pretty basic principle for you, Ms. Queenan'?"

  "Basic?"

  "Yes, basic. Bedrock belief. The sanctity of human life above all else."