Right To Die

I'd just spotted Walter Strock confiding in a cornsilk blonde who had "Kimberly" written all over her when I felt a strong hand on my shoulder.

I looked up the sleeve into the face of Alec Bacall, a slim black man hovering behind him.

"John! Glad you could make it. May we join you?"

"Sure."

I stood to let them go by me, communion style. Bacall was wearing double-pleated trousers again. They billowed as he shuffled his feet. Bacall sat himself between his companion and me, saying, "John Cuddy, Del Wonsley."

Wonsley leaned across Bacall, extending his hand. His complexion was deep black, looking almost spit-shined under the strong house lights. The nose was aquiline, a pencil mustache under it and a mushroom haircut above it. Wonsley wore a red sweater with maize horizontal stripes over a knit shirt, collar turned up. His slacks were cavalry twills, the creases sharp.

Bacall said, "We could sit closer if you'd like, John. The first few rows are reserved for family and friends."

"Better view from up here."

"Oh. Yes, of course."

Wonsley said, "Alec told me about you. Can you believe the turnout for this?"

He had a flat Chicago A in his voice.

I said, "Do we know who else is on the program?"

Bacall said, "A doctor from Mass General and a minister from a Protestant church."

Wonsley waved to a middle-aged black man in a lower row, who from the expression on his face curdled cream for a living.

Wonsley said, "Oooo – ooh, the look he gave me. For sitting up here in Sodom and Gomorrah country instead of down there with the Children of God."

Bacall patted Wonsley's forearm. "The best is yet to come, Del. The Hitler Youth make their grand entrance."

I was turning as Bacall said it, because I could hear the clumping on the floor. Five white kids, heads shaved, were stamping their boots just enough to attract the attention of the cops. The cops couldn't do much when the kids stopped their noise and held up their hands in mock innocence. They took three seats a few rows below us and two more seats immediately in front of the three. All wore brown leather flying jackets over white T-shirts and studded blue jeans, the jeans bloused into the boots like army fatigue pants. Body language suggested that the kid in the middle, a redhead from his eyebrows, was the leader. One of the others called him "Gun."

Maybe short for "Gunther," as in Gunther Yary, the author of the white supremacist hate letters in the Andrus file.

I said to Bacall, "Know them?"

"No."

"See anybody else I ought to worry about?"

Bacall murmured something to Wonsley, and they both craned forward, scanning the room. Each hesitated on a few places as people turned to talk to each other or stood to remove another layer of clothing. Wonsley looked at Bacall, shook his head, and settled back.

Bacall did the same but pointed toward the sashed area. "I can introduce you later, but the striking man sitting next to Manolo and Inés is Tucker Hebert."

Hebert was turned sideways, deep in conversation with his wife's secretary. He had broad shoulders under a dull rose blazer. His hair was dishwater blond, but the cleft in his chin caught you even from the bleachers.

Del Wonsley said, "First time I saw him in tennis shorts, I cried myself to sleep."

The only empty spaces were around the skinheads. A few late arrivals chose to stand rather than sit near them.

Without fanfare, a side door on the stage opened, and the crowd began to applaud. A man and three women, one of them Maisy Andrus in her yellow sweater dress, walked out in a line. The man and one of the other women were white and wore suits. The third woman was black and wore a choir robe.

The skinheads made hooting noises. One of them said, "Christ, Gun, check out old Maisy in the yellow horse blanket."

Gun said, "Fuck all, Rick. She didn't shave her legs, I'da thought she was a Clydesdale."

Rick said, "Maybe the guy drives the Bud wagon knocked off a little early, y'know," then ducked his head and shrank from the look Gun gave him. Like it was one thing to feed Gun a line and another to top his joke.

The white member of the police team came down the aisle. He stopped at Gun's row and leaned in, armpit in a skinhead's eyes. A series of grunts was all you could hear, but when the cop walked back up the aisle, the skinheads were facing front and staying quiet. Wonsley laid his head lightly on Bacall's shoulder. "Ah, for the paramilitary life."

The white woman on the stage settled the other three into their seats behind the table and moved to the podium.

As the house lights dimmed, she stood in the baby spot and introduced herself as Olivia Jurick, the manager of Plato's Bookshop. Jurick thanked a covey of public and private benefactors for helping to sponsor the event before thanking everybody for coming out on a cold winter night for such an important and stimulating topic of our time.

Then, "Our first speaker will be the Reverend Vonetta Givens. Our second speaker will be Dr. Paul Eisenberg, and our third speaker will be Professor Maisy Andrus. After all have presented prepared remarks, there will be an opportunity for questions from the audience."

Jurick turned a page. "Reverend Vonetta Givens is the pastor of All Hallowed Ground Church of Roxbury. Born in Oklahoma, Reverend Givens is a graduate of Morehouse College in Atlanta and attended several theological seminaries prior to her ordination in 1979. She ministered to congregations in Atlanta, Memphis, and Trenton before assuming her present position in 1984. A charter member of Boston Against Drugs, Reverend Givens leads the African-American community's struggle against the scourge of crack cocaine. She also has been extremely active among the elderly and the infirm."

Olivia Jurick's voice dropped, and I expected to hear Reverend Givens at that point. So, apparently, did Reverend Givens, because she had gathered her papers into a sheaf, almost rising before Jurick continued.

"Our second speaker, Dr. Paul Eisenberg, is a graduate of Cornell University and the Harvard Medical School. Dr. Eisenberg is currently a member of the Department of Internal Medicine at Massachusetts General Hospital and adjunct professor of ethics at the Tufts University School of Medicine. Between college and medical school, Dr. Eisenberg served for two years in the Peace Corps in Brazil, and enjoyed staff privileges at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York and Philadelphia Presbyterian before assuming his present position in 1986." Jurick held up a book. "Dr. Eisenberg is also the author of The Ethical Physician in the Modern World."

Eisenberg, poring over his notes, didn't look up at the audience.

"Our third speaker is Professor Maisy Andrus of the Law School of Massachusetts Bay. A widely known lecturer in the area of legal and societal mores, Professor Andrus is a graduate of Bryn Mawr and the University of Pennsylvania School of Law. Prior to joining the faculty at Mass Bay, she taught at Boston College School of Law and George Mason University. Professor Andrus practiced health and hospital law in Washington, D.C., also serving as a school committee member and a trustee of a battered women's shelter."

Jurick held up another book. "Professor Andrus is the author of Our Right to Die."

Jurick lowered the book. "It is now my pleasure to turn the podium over to our first speaker, the Reverend Vonetta Givens.

Reverend Givens?"

Steady applause began as Jurick retreated to the shadow chair. Parishioners shouted brief encouragement as Givens moved to the mike. Perhaps five three under a beehive wig, even the robe couldn't conceal the serious tonnage she carried. Wonsley whispered, "I've heard she's very good." The mike was on a gooseneck. Givens adjusted it, none too gently, down to mouth level. She spread her notes across the podium, clamped both hands on the sides of the surface, and opened fire.

"You all have been told this is a debate tonight. I suggest to you it is no such thing. I suggest to you that it is a contest, a contest you shall witness between the forces of God and the forces that are not God's."