The Mayor sat behind the large mahogany desk in his office on Friday afternoon and read the latest report from his pollster. For the first time in weeks the report brought a smile to his face. He was now trailing his strongest opponent by only two percentage points. In only five days he had cut into his opponent's advantage by more than half, and the remaining deficit was now within the margin of error. His campaign still had life in it after all, he thought to himself contentedly, and more importantly, the late stage momentum had shifted decidedly in his favor. Three more days with this type of movement in the numbers and the governorship could very well be his.
He leaned back in his chair, drew his hands together behind his head and interlaced his fingers there, resting the back of his head in his palms in thoughtful repose. The ugly stories of his encounter with the priest and that girl outside the church the previous weekend had all but died, and he allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. His instincts, just as they had always done in the past, had proved themselves correct once again. With the girl safely cloistered away, the media had found no avenue by which to pursue the story further. Few people seemed to know this girl, and those who did seemed less than eager to speak out in her defense. Even Rachel, to the Mayor's great surprise, had remained strangely silent throughout the week. With no supply of fresh information to be reported, the story had retreated innocuously from the headlines, and his poll numbers had benefited, he was sure, as a direct result.
The Mayor wondered, though, at his daughter's strange behavior, or, more precisely, at her lack of normal behavior. Her tantrum at the house earlier in the week had been completely in character for her, and he had taken seriously her threat to rally the press against him. If she had done so, he would have been fully prepared to defend himself, although he had to admit that such a diversion would almost certainly have muted the gains that his pollster was now reporting.
But the ensuing silence was very strange, he thought, recalling the vitriol and vengefulness with which Rachel had hurled her anger at him. She had clearly been in a fighting mood on Monday night and had undoubtedly meant everything she had said. Why, then, had she not acted? What reason did she have for restraint?
The Mayor shook his head to clear the question from his mind. No matter, he told himself, as he tried to refocus his attention on the pollster's report. He was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He still had an election to win, and the next four days would be hectic beyond belief. He had no fewer than a dozen planned appearances on his schedule, up to and including election day. Throw in the odd television interview here and there, and perhaps a last minute strategy meeting or two, and he was going to be a very busy man.
Feeling that he had no time to waste, the Mayor made a final pass through the pollster's commentary and, seeing nothing further of interest, he laid the report aside. He picked up a draft copy of a speech that he was to give the next day and began to read it over. With a red pen he carefully edited the script, excising words he thought too weak or vague and substituting more forceful language. He wanted coverage, relentless coverage, so as to give his opponents no voice, and the best way to assure that coverage was to say exactly what he wanted to say.
The Mayor was midway through the document when the phone on his desk rang. With a look of annoyance he pressed a button next to the receiver.
"What is it, Sheila?" he asked irritably, still scanning the text of his speech.
"Sir, you have two visitors here to see you," the Mayor's receptionist said. "I told them that your time is tightly scheduled, but they insist that it's urgent that they speak to you. Shall I show them in or ask them to come back another time?"
"Who are they?" the Mayor asked, ready to turn away any but the most important visitor.
"There's a priest," the receptionist said. "Father Andrew from Saint Michael's parish. I believe you know him. And a doctor from the clinic. A Doctor Wheelan."
The Mayor laid his speech on the desk. For several moments he debated with himself as to whether he should see them. He was aware that they both knew the girl who had been taken into custody, and he could think of no other common connection that would bring these two people to his office together. They were a severe distraction to him at the moment, but something told him that they should not be ignored at this time. They were probably there to complain about the girl's situation. If so, he thought, he might be able to quietly placate their complaints before they made noise about it to the press.
"Sir?" the receptionist asked, breaking the silence. "Shall I show them in?"
"Is there anyone else with them?" asked the Mayor.
"No, sir, just the two of them."
"Very well, then," he said. "Show them in."
The Mayor stood up from his chair and straightened his necktie. Ten minutes, he told himself. No more than ten minutes of his time would he allow them to take. He would hear their concerns, express his empathy and his commitment to assist them in every way that he could, then thank them for their time and show them to the door. He was a busy man these days. He had an election to win. Looking at his watch, he marked the time. Ten minutes.
The door to the office swung open and the receptionist led Father Andrew and Doctor Wheelan into the room. The Mayor greeted them warmly.
"Hello, Father," he said to the priest with a smile and a well-practiced handshake. "Good to see you again."
Father Andrew shook the Mayor's hand and introduced him to Doctor Wheelan. The Mayor greeted the doctor with equal warmth, then motioned his guests to a set of chairs in front of his desk.
"So what can I do for you folks today?" the Mayor said, getting right to the point as he took his seat behind the desk.
"Mr. Mayor," Father Andrew began, "we'd like to talk to you about Eppie."
The Mayor nodded his head silently.
Andrew was unsure whether the Mayor remembered her name. "I believe you know who she is," Andrew reminded him. "She's the young girl who was with us last Saturday when that scuffle broke out with the reporters."
The Mayor nodded again. "Yes, yes," he said. "I remember her."
"Well, sir," said Andrew, "as you may be aware, she's been sitting in jail since Monday on charges stemming from that incident. Doctor Wheelan and I are greatly concerned about her welfare, and we've come to ask for your assistance in getting her released."
The Mayor furrowed his brow slightly as Andrew spoke.
"Now we're not here to condone what she did," Andrew went on. "She assaulted your security guards, and the city has every right to hold her accountable for her actions. But until such time as her case can be decided by the court, we think that she ought to be released. We feel that she has already been held far too long given the nature of the charges against her."
The Mayor cleared his throat. "I understand that her case is being handled by the Office of Child Welfare, isn't that correct?" he asked.
"Yes, that's true," Andrew affirmed.
"And a representative from that office has been assigned to assist her?"
"That is true as well," Andrew said. "But we are not satisfied with the level of effort that is being devoted to Eppie's case. We feel that the case worker has done a rather poor job of moving her case through the court."
"Have you spoken to the case worker about this?" the Mayor asked.
"Only briefly," Andrew said. "I've had a couple of short telephone conversations with her, but I've not been able to meet with her personally. Several other people, including Doctor Wheelan, have tried to arrange appointments with her throughout the week, but they've been unsuccessful as well. We've been told that the woman keeps a very busy schedule—busier than your own, even. In fact, no one other than Eppie herself has met with this case worker, and Eppie hasn't seen her since the day of her arrest. Suffice it to say, Mr. Mayor, that we are very concerned about Eppie's situation and we've come to appeal to you. We'd like you to use your influence on her behalf."
The Mayor leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin thoughtfully with his fingertips. "I share your concern, Father," he said soberly. "Believe me, I do. This does not sound like the ideal level of response that one would like from the OCW. But I'm not sure that there's much I can do for you. It's really a matter for the court to decide. Have you spoken with the judge?"
"We've tried," Andrew replied. "I've called his office several times and asked to speak with him, but I've been told that the judge will only hear such requests in court, and they simply referred me back to the case worker."
"I see," said the Mayor, nodding his head again. "That certainly is a tough situation. But what is it, precisely, that you would like me to do for you?"
"We'd like you to talk to the judge yourself, or the case worker, or both of them," Andrew said, somewhat perplexed that he should have to spell out his request in such detail to the Mayor. "We'd like you to use your influence with them. Surely they would speak to you about the case, seeing as you are the mayor of the city and that you were a witness to the event itself. Surely you could do something to move the case along."
The Mayor drew in a deep breath and then let it out slowly.
"I must tell you," he said with a reluctant shake of his head, "I really hate to get involved in matters that are before a court of law. People can get very touchy about that sort of thing—politicians interfering with the business of the courts and all that. Especially politicians who are running for higher office." He looked at his two visitors with raised eyebrows, as if to tell them that their request entailed a great personal risk on his part.
Andrew was unmoved by the expression. "Be that as it may, Mr. Mayor," the priest said, "I'm sure you would agree that Eppie doesn't deserve to be kept in jail for so long over that incident last weekend. You and I were both there, and we both saw what happened. Eppie didn't really cause all that much trouble. She just got scared for a moment and she lashed out at your guards without thinking, that's all. Her actions in that context were no worse than my own, yet I was released from custody in less than an hour."
"Yes, but that's really not a fair comparison, Father," the Mayor replied. "The police know you. You're a well-respected member of the community. Everybody knows that you're not a flight risk or a repeat offender, but who knows about this girl? The court can't take any chances with her. Maybe she's got warrants from out of state on other charges. Maybe she would skip town as soon as she was released. I hear that she's already run away from home once. I'm not saying that she would do it, necessarily, but it's been known to happen fairly often with juvenile offenders. I can't blame the judge for being cautious with her."
Andrew leaned forward in his chair and tried, with some difficulty, to maintain a tone of patience in his voice. "Eppie's a good kid," he said firmly. "I'll vouch for her one hundred percent. She's not wanted anywhere else, and she's not going to run away. She deserves better treatment by the judicial system than she's been receiving."
The Mayor pursed his lips and thought for a few moments before replying. "I believe you, Father," he finally said. "If you say the girl is clean, then that's good enough for me. So I'll tell you what I'll do for you. I'll call the judge personally and I'll ask him to expedite the case for you. I'll tell him what I saw on Saturday and I'll let him know that I don't think the girl should be held any longer than is absolutely necessary. Now I can't guarantee that he will do what I ask. He is the judge, after all, and the decision is ultimately in his hands, but I will make the call. Of course, I may not be able to reach him until Monday, since I know that His Honor likes to spend his weekends at his fishing cabin upstate. He's probably on the road as we speak. But I'll leave a message for him to call me first thing Monday morning, and if everything goes well, I should think that Eppie could be released by mid-week."
The Mayor gave his guests a satisfied grin, an expression of the pleasure that he would receive from doing such a favor for them. He placed his palms down on the desktop and began to raise himself up from his chair, indicating that he felt their meeting had reached a successful conclusion.
"I'm sorry, sir, but that's not good enough."
The Mayor, still not completely upright, looked at Doctor Wheelan. These were the first words that she had spoken since the three of them had sat down.
"I beg your pardon?" said the Mayor, his hands still flat on the desk.
"Not good enough," Wheelan repeated. "Eppie should not be kept in jail that long. In addition to all of the very valid points that Father Andrew makes, it's unacceptable from a medical standpoint."
The grin drained away from the Mayor's face as he lowered himself slowly back into his chair.
"The girl is seven months pregnant," Wheelan continued. "Pregnancy is a stressful experience for any woman under any circumstances. In Eppie's case, those stresses will be multiplied severalfold. Consider her situation. She's fourteen years old. She has no husband or boyfriend to help her raise her child. She's a social outcast at school, and she may be forced to leave school before she has a chance to graduate in order to provide for her child. She has no job and no money of her own. For years to come she will be heavily dependent on others, such as Father Andrew and others like him, to meet her basic needs and those of her child. All of these things have to be weighing heavily on her mind. Imagine how you would feel under those circumstances. And then, on top of all those difficulties, imagine being thrown into jail indefinitely over some minor incident and not being able to get a straight answer from anyone as to when you might be released. It's the last thing this girl needs right now."
The Mayor lowered his brow toward the doctor. "Doctor Wheelan," he said sternly, "much as I would like to help you in your cause, I must point out to you that this girl's actions are a serious matter and not merely some 'minor incident' as you call it. Assault on a government security official, even under the unusual circumstances which we have here, is a felonious offense; one which can not be dismissed as lightly as you seem to want me to do. The courts have a solemn obligation to ensure that the law is upheld here, and I have an equally solemn obligation not to interfere. Beyond that, the facts which you present to me are things which I can do nothing about. I can not change this girl's age for her. I can not find her a husband or a boyfriend to take care of her. And I certainly can not change the fact that she's pregnant—not that there aren't those among us who might like to help her solve that little problem."
"You're changing the subject," Wheelan said, brushing aside the Mayor's argumentative joust. "We're not asking you to change those things. The immediate problem is that she's in jail and she shouldn't be. And I'm telling you as her doctor that the stress is unhealthy for her. It's unhealthy for her child."
"Her child?" the Mayor interrupted. "I believe you're off script, Doctor. The correct term is 'fetus', if I’m not mistaken. Otherwise, you're in the business of killing children."
Wheelan closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Struggling to maintain her composure, she addressed the Mayor as calmly as she could manage. "As her doctor," she said, "I insist that she be released immediately. Not next week. Not tomorrow. Today. Her health depends on it."
"You're insisting to the wrong person, Doctor," the Mayor said. "As I've already told you, this is a matter for the court to decide. I've agreed to do what I can by calling the judge, and quite frankly, that's more than I really ought to do. Beyond that, it's out of my hands. Now if you will excuse me, I've got a great deal of other work to attend to." He rose from his chair once again.
"Mr. Mayor, please," said Father Andrew. "We wouldn't be appealing to you if we didn't think you could help us. Isn't there any way that Eppie can be released today?"
"No, there isn't," the Mayor said with finality. "Besides, I think you're both missing the positive influence that this experience might have on the girl."
The priest and the doctor looked at each other, then they both looked at the Mayor incredulously. "What do you mean?" Andrew asked.
The Mayor looked down at his guests. "It seems to me," he said, "that this young lady got herself into all of these problems while she was free to associate with whomever she chose. Looks like she made some bad choices in that regard. Who knows what kind of crazy notions she's been exposed to—things that may have led her into her current predicament. Perhaps a few days of quiet reflection might do her some good. If nothing else, at least she won't have anyone filling her head with any rash ideas."
Father Andrew and Doctor Wheelan looked blankly at each other. They were getting no farther with the Mayor than they had gotten with Eppie's case counselor. They realized that there was no point in continuing the conversation further. The Mayor would not do any more than he had already offered to do.
"Thank you for your time, sir," Andrew said dejectedly as the two of them rose to leave. "We appreciate whatever you can do for Eppie."
The Mayor crossed the office and opened the door for them. "I do hope things work out well for your friend," he said as he extended his hand. "She seemed like a nice girl to me."