XVIII

The trial became an official media circus with the establish-ment of a reporters' outpost in a room at the Torrance court-house. Permanently staffed every day with gofers and assis-tants, well provided with food and every imaginable soft drink, it served as the central gathering point for newspaper, maga-zine, and TV reporters. It was also on the same floor of the building as the cafeteria.

"Your tax dollars at play," Fletcher muttered as she and the others pressed past the crowded doorway, surrounded by strobes, floodlights, microphone-wielding hands, and strained faces. They listened intently to Dr. Brunner's answer to a ques-tion.

Brunner gestured toward the rear doors. "Protesters on both sides aren't squabbling over human rights. They're arguing over questions of funding. Should the government fund abor-tions or not? A lot of your so-called pro-life people are more concerned with the fact that tax dollars are being used to fund large numbers of abortions than they are with the question of human rights per se. Conversely, many pro-choice people are more concerned with sustaining abortion subsidies than they are with the rights of women. If transoption were available, it wouldn't end the controversy. You'd see a very different landscape of debate if federal money were not involved, but it is. Abortion in and of itself does not affect enough people long enough to produce the social outcry that would lead to"-his hands made motions as if he were trying to fashion a planet in his palms-"to harnessing the financial resources necessary to research this properly."

"Doesn't public outcry lead to reforms?" asked one reporter in the rear. Brunner looked over the crowd at her. "It's a lot easier," he said, "to fire bomb a building or take a day off from your job to march in protest of this or that than it is to work for months or years to shake loose enough money to fund a solution. The former makes for flashier news coverage. The latter can actu-ally improve the human condition."

Terry held the floor among another clot of newshounds, his hair glistening under the lights.

"We're very confident," he said. "Dr. Brunner was an excel-lent expert witness, and I think his testimony can only help our case. And now we'd like to eat."

Members of the press were considerate enough to leave the cafeteria as a haven for the litigants. To ensure such consider-ation, a pair of sheriff's deputies stood at the doorway. The newshawk cluster disintegrated like a cell membrane to al-low its nucleus to push through the entrance. Karen and David shared a tray. Neither bought much. Just half sandwiches and half pints of milk. Evelyn picked up two cups of coffee, a bearclaw, an RC cola, and a turkey sandwich. Terry eyed her tray as he arrived with his. "Caffeine and sugar. That would completely unhinge my brain."

"The protein and tryptophan in the turkey make up for it," she said deadpan. "Besides"-she scanned his tray-"I don't think I'd last long on tomato soup and crackers." He smiled, setting the tray down next to hers. "Force of habit from law school. I was one of three who worked our way through without scholarships or loans."

"It must have been hard work," Karen said.

Johnson shrugged. "It wasn't that prestigious a school." He unconsciously added some catsup to the tomato soup, then crumbled in the crackers. "I was able to graduate before mal-nutrition set in." After a few sips, he pointed his spoon at Fletcher.

"You. When Czernek's through with his side, I'm-"

The sharp, insistent sound of Fletcher's Metagram receiver chirped through the cafeteria. Her hand jammed into her jacket pocket to silence it, withdrawing it in the same motion. She had it clipped to her pack of cigarettes. The LCD display on the pager held a message from Dr. DuQuette. Still no stem cell activity.

She pressed the advance button to display the next line.

Nearing absolute neutropenia.

Evelyn took in the news without emotion. It meant that Renata was nearing the total loss of any ability whatsoever to fight off infection. Anything could attack her now-even the sort of usually benign bacteria that floated around on dust motes and lurked on nearly every common surface. Were it not for the isolation chamber she lived in continuously, even the most ordinary and unlikely minor infection could invade and overrun her, bringing death within hours or minutes. She depressed the key one more time. Call me ASAP. Lon.

"Would you excuse me?" she asked the group. "I've got to return this call."

"How is she?" David asked.

"Dr. DuQuette just has some questions," Fletcher replied in a casual tone. She pushed the chair out to rise. "Be right back."

She found a booth and called DuQuette's office. His tenor voice-normally cheerful, currently tight with concern-an-swered. "DuQuette."

"Evelyn," she said. "What's her white?" DuQuette read her the figures on her white blood cell count. It was close enough to zero to be inconsequential. "All right," she said in a clipped tone. "Give her a few more hours with a count every hour. If you see any activity at all, call me. If you don't, call me."

"Either way-right." He rang off hurriedly.

She returned the receiver to its cradle. Walking back to the table, she announced that she was stepping out for a smoke.

"How's Renata?" This time Karen asked. Her eyes held a fa-tal concern.

"She's steady. Babies have a will to survive." Fletcher laid a gentle hand on Karen's shoulder. "It's only grownups that can choose to give up. Hang in there." She clasped David's shoul-der for good measure. Her gaze met Johnson's. She signaled him to follow and turned away. Johnson finished his soup in a few easy spoons and stood. "I want to review some testimony with Dr. Fletcher. You two take it easy."

The courtyard was blissfully free of reporters. A cool sea breeze wafted through the building while patches of high clouds scudded overhead. He saw Fletcher lighting up and joined her.

"How is she really?" he asked.

"In trouble." She took a short, nervous drag. "I should be there."

"DuQuette's good, you said."

She threw the cigarette to the ground half-smoked. Her shoe rammed down to crush out its flame.

"Sure. But if she dies, I'll never know if I'd have been able to save her. I might have known one extra protocol, seen one additional symptom, rec-ognized some obscure infection." Her eyes turned toward the clouds.

Johnson's watch chimed. He reached over to silence it. "Time to head back." She put an arm across his shoulders with weary friendli-ness. "When Czernek rests his case, what have you got in store for Karen?"

"I've decided not to put Karen on. I got the most I could out of her during my cross-exam. I want you to go up."

Her arm dropped. "What?"

Johnson grinned.