James Halperin - The First Immortal

Jan felt her blood pressure spike; she’d never expected to have to defend her actions to her own siblings. “C’mon, it’s not like it’s actually Dad in that freezer.” She looked at Gary, hoping for some sign of approval from her big brother. “He’s surely in heaven by now. It’s only his corpse we’re fighting over.”

Max also glanced at Gary. He felt compelled to speak. “The whole thing’s convoluted, all right. Don’t have a clue what I’d do if I were you. No kids to worry about, and let’s face it, I didn’t have the greatest relationship with Dad. So don’t look to me for the answer.” He raised his eyes to his grandmother as if in supplication.

Alice forced her head up and gazed intently at her only grandson. Was now the right time to say it? She wavered only a moment, then said with a boldness intrinsic to her conviction, “I’ve been thinking about it for quite some time.” She laughed quietly. “In fact, thinking is just about the only thing I can still do well enough to please myself.”

“And what do you think, Grammy?” Jan asked, expecting Alice to endorse her strategy.

Alice surveyed the table, making eye contact with each person seated, then she focused on Jan. “Ever since Benjamin was a little boy,” she began, “he was a thinker. Oh, I’m not saying he didn’t have emotions like everyone else—he most certainly did—but your father was a careful, deliberate man. And he was a doctor, a man of science. So I have confidence his decision was carefully researched and calculated. Now I don’t claim to understand anything about this cryonics business, but if my Ben thought it worth the risk, that’s good enough for me.”

No one spoke. Not one of them would have been more surprised had she started dancing on the table.

“But the viability of cryonics isn’t even the real issue here, is it?” she went on. “Fact is, Jan, your father’s intentions were quite clear. He wanted his body frozen, along with the bodies of any of us willing to follow him when we die, and he wanted most of his money—money that he earned—set aside to pay for it. So what it really boils down to is: Whose life and whose money is it? I believe my son’s wishes should be honored. Period.”

Jan felt like a treed cat staring down from the limb at a German shepherd. “Grammy, I’ve talked to you about this lawsuit at least a dozen times. Why didn’t you ever say that to me before?”

Alice smiled. “This is the first time anyone here has asked for my opinion about it, dear.”

May 14, 1990

—After a seven-year legal battle, the parents of 33-year-old Nancy Cruzan await a Supreme Court ruling on whether they may remove a feeding tube that has kept their irreversibly brain-damaged and unconscious daughter alive since her automobile accident in January 1983. The taxpayers of Missouri have already paid over $1 million in medical costs, and even more in legal expenses, despite Cruzan’s parents’ wishes. “I think most people would agree,” explains a spokesman for the state, “that it’s simply wrong to stop feeding any person who’s still alive.”—As unification plans draw steadily ahead, East and West German economists meet to iron out details of a treaty to merge their currencies along with all monetary and social policies.—Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev rejects as “irresponsible” the notion of “shock-treating” the Russian economy through immediate conversion to free markets. Gorbachev maintains that such a transition must come gradually, and only after extensive public debate.—Scientists at International Business Machine’s Almaden labs spell the letters I-B-M in xenon atoms, thus demonstrating the feasibility of precise manipulation of single atoms.

Justice delayed is justice denied.

Somewhere long ago Tobias Fiske had read that aphorism, and assumed he understood its full meaning. But today he recognized the shallowness of his comprehension at the time, as opposed to now. This recent insight had been acquired at great personal cost; his life had been on hold for over eighteen months, with no end to the ordeal in sight. In the wake of the publicity of the charges, his practice had diminished by nearly a third. Worse yet, his concentration was off, his ethics thus forcing him to refer his most complicated, and therefore most lucrative, operations to other cardiologists. As his savings rapidly dwindled, he suspected also that the stress was starting to affect his health.

“The wheels of justice grind slowly,” Webster commiserated.

Toby gazed blankly out Webster’s office window. Tiny wisps of cotton-ball clouds decorated the azure sky. The Quincy Market courtyard was jammed, the weather far too glorious to consider lunching indoors; yet another day that Toby Fiske could not appreciate as long as he remained in purgatory.

“The Phoenix got another restraining order this morning,” Webster added. “That’s certainly good news.”

“How long’s it good for?”

“Three months. Time enough to prepare an expert report on the viability of cryonics. Then Butters’ll have to get his expert to tear our expert apart, which should take another six months, at least.”

“You’d think something would’ve happened by now,” Toby griped. “Some kind of decision one way or another.”

“Possibly in New Hampshire or Texas, but not in Massachusetts,” Webster explained. “Besides, the longer it takes, the less likely you’ll serve jail time. You’re sixty-five, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they’d be hard-pressed to throw a seventy-year-old doctor in jail even if a jury found you guilty of second degree manslaughter. And no jury’s going to convict you of murdering Ben.”

“Sure hope you’re right. From my perspective, I’m already in jail. It’s a limbo where life is simply less valuable.”

“Might seem that way now, but believe me, jail would be far worse.”

“I guess the toughest part is not knowing.”

“I understand, Toby. Still, my job is to keep you out of jail and keep our friend Ben Smith from being thawed, dissected, and buried. That’s gotta be my entire focus if I’m to do my job well.”

Toby simply nodded.

Thank God the Trust was paying his bills, Webster thought. Somehow the money would have felt less satisfying had it been coming from this bedeviled man.

The Phoenix had been active in the case, refusing to release Ben’s body, and filing motion after motion in federal and state court both in Massachusetts and Arizona to fight extradition. Judges and their clerks were typically open to the argument that there was no reason to rush an autopsy of a body frozen in liquid nitrogen; such bodies were unlikely to change in any forensically material way. Still, the legal work was expensive. Even with their attorneys working pro bono, the Phoenix had already spent well over the $75,000 Ben had paid them for his suspension. Webster considered that as further evidence of their sincerity. And the Phoenix’s lawyers, both cryonicists themselves, understood the routine, having been involved in similar cases before, which made them very useful allies. Webster found their principled intelligence remarkable, and all too rare.

What he failed to consider was that to these lawyers, the Phoenix was no mere client: Each case delineated issues which they believed might someday save, or cost them, their own lives.

“How far along are we?” Toby asked.

“If I had to put a number on it, two more years before the autopsy issue is irrevocably decided, and three to six before your case is finally settled. The best thing you can do is go on with your life; learn to deal with the uncertainty. Set it apart in your mind.”

Toby sighed. “I’m just used to knowing where I stand, I guess. I’ve been a careful doctor, Pat; believed in the sanctity of life, respect for the patient. Learned it from watching Ben. It worked, too. I must know two hundred other doctors in Boston, but only five or six, besides Ben and me, who’ve never been sued for malpractice. Ben was careful and open because it was his nature, but I had to work at it. Maybe I also knew deep down that I couldn’t take the pressure if I ever screwed up.”