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the pro-lifers I meet; they’re sincere, and their concerns aren’t trivial. But the Christian Commitment tries to have it both ways—substantive in public, and scary at the margins. This guy who confronted Mary Ann seemed like a lot of them—marginal, a loner, and resentful of women. I’m sure it’s psychosexual: they’re so afraid that women will compete with them—or even, God help them, expect an orgasm during sex—that making us have babies is their last line of defense. It would be pathetic if it weren’t so scary.”
    Caroline’s faint smile quickly vanished. “It’s a mistake to satirize your opponents,” she admonished. “Or to be confused about what drives them. Maybe
this
man today couldn’t get a prom date. But Martin Tierney is a philosopher.”
    “You know him?”
    “I’ve seen him, in debates.” Turning, Caroline eyed the sea bass she was preparing, and commenced to stir the sauce. “His beliefs—moral and religious—are consistent, well developed, and intellectually compelling. However much you think you’ve considered the issues, he’s considered them more. Add the fact that he
is
this girl’s father, and squaring off with him in court would
not
be easy. I know I wouldn’t relish it.”
    It was a benign way of reminding Sarah of her own inexperience: at forty-nine, Caroline Masters had spent twenty more years in the law—beginning as a public defender—and was known as a brilliant trial lawyer. But Sarah felt pride, and stubbornness, overcome her. “In civil trials,” she rejoined,“experience is overrated. What you need most is ability and preparation, to make sure the other side doesn’t surprise you.”
    Caroline considered her, wineglass touching her lips. “Actually, I agree with you—at twenty-nine, I was defending indigents accused of rape or murder. The difference is that no one hated me for it, except the survivors. If any.” Sipping her wine, Caroline finished, “The times when a judge can duck a case are few and far between. That’s not true of a lawyer. For you, I think the standard should be, ‘Do I, as a matter of moral choice, absolutely
have
to take this case?’”
    Placing her glass on the black marble kitchen island, Sarah leaned forward on her stool, arms folded: as Caroline no doubt intended, her advice had sobered Sarah. “Let me ask you this,” Sarah said at last. “Under the case law, what are the odds of winning?”
    Caroline shook her head, demurring. “There’s a chance, however slim, that this case will wind up in the Court of Appeals, with me on the panel. Even if there weren’t, I shouldn’t be giving legal advice to prospective litigants.”
    For the first time, Sarah felt frustrated. There were twenty-one active judges on the appellate court, with three assigned at random to any given case, making Caroline’s chances of drawing an appeal one in seven. But Caroline’s code, Sarah knew, did not admit exceptions.
    Caroline seemed to read her disappointment. “I wish I could be more helpful,” she observed gently. “But judges are the opposite of politicians: we’re real people who pretend not to be. I’ll very much want to know what you decide.”
    Turning, Caroline returned to the matter of the orange sauce. Beside her, on television, the Chief Justice of the United States was collapsing in slow motion. As if by instinct, Caroline glanced over at the screen.
    “Incredible,” Sarah remarked. “What was he like?”
    “A superior intellect, of course.” On the screen, Senator Palmer rushed to the fallen man’s aid; watching, Caroline added, “Also rigid, narrow-minded, and as self-serious as a judge in a Marx Brothers comedy. And he made no secret that he despised Kerry Kilcannon. His death must have come as a crushing disappointment—especially to him.”
    The mordant summary was so like Caroline—a woman who disdained false sentiment—that Sarah found herself smiling. But Caroline was not. Still watching the television,