Chapter Seven

This Poor Youngling

“From this day forward I shall no longer tinker with the machinery of death.” - Supreme Court Justice Harry Blackmun,  author of Roe v. Wade, commenting on capital punishment.

Sidewalk-counseling, sit-ins, arrests and going to court occupied the bulk of my pro-life activity in the mid-1980s. By 1985 I had taken on a minor leadership role, having organized sit-ins with Joe Scheidler at Biogenetics, Concord and the Albany clinic on Elston Avenue.  But in addition to my growing radicalism, I also served on the board of directors of the Illinois Right to Life Committee. In 1985, after attending a year’s worth of meetings, I was offered the position of executive director. Ironically in May 1985, I stepped into the position from which Joe Scheidler had been fired in 1978, the year he and I first met. The IRLC board knew that, like Joe, I was a committed activist, but my superiors on the board and I came to an agreement that when I led or participated in sit-ins, I would not do so as the director of the IRLC.

In any case, there was little time for any conflict to develop, as my new position would only be a short-term summer stint. I had graduated four years earlier from Loyola with a Masters degree in Theology, and had taught religion since then at Madonna High School for Girls on Chicago’s west side. Soon I would head north to Milwaukee to begin work on my doctorate at Marquette University. While my new position afforded me a measure of authority, it would not be until I moved to Milwaukee that I would really come into my own as an activist leader. I planned to leave Chicago in August.

Illinois Right to Life still maintained its small, cluttered three-office suite in the Monadnock Building in the heart of downtown Chicago. On the morning of Tuesday, July 30th, I took my usual el train to work. A man sitting in front of me was reading the Chicago Sun-Times. As I glanced over his shoulder, a headline caught my eye: “Abortion ban for retarded girl lifted.” I settled back into my seat and gazed out the window at a beautiful summer day.

As soon as I got off the el, I climbed the subway stairs into the bright sunlight. Seeing a Chicago Sun-Times newspaper machine at the corner of Jackson and Clark, I dropped in my quarter and retrieved a paper from the box. One of my duties as executive director of the IRLC was to keep the action hotline updated with current pro-life news and events, and I thought this article might supply some fresh material. When I arrived at the office, I said hello to the secretary, Gertrude, and went to my office. I sipped a cup of coffee and started to read the article that had caught my attention.

The article reported that, on the previous day, the Illinois Appellate Court had ruled that the mother of what the Sun-Times described as a “severely retarded” pregnant eighteen-year-old could obtain an abortion for her daughter. This ruling overturned the decision of circuit court Judge Richard Dowdle, who had said that the girl’s mother could not seek an abortion because there was no evidence that the “procedure was necessary to protect the girl’s life or health.” The American Civil Liberties Union Reproductive Rights Project, a division of the ACLU that sought to protect and advance access to legalized abortion, represented the mother in appealing Judge Dowdle’s decision.

According to the Sun-Times, the girl had become pregnant by a neighborhood youth, who likely had taken advantage of the mentally handicapped girl’s vulnerability. The girl’s mother wanted her daughter’s baby aborted because “[if a] girl with the mental capacity of a five-year-old can’t take care of herself, how can she be expected to care for a child?”

The ACLU had recruited two doctors to testify in favor of aborting the baby, who was now nearly four months gestational age. Dr. Jerry L. Warren, a psychologist, and Dr. Marvin Roser, an obstetrician, both spoke of the girl’s pregnancy only in the bleakest terms. Dr. Roser, however, never actually examined the teen, but told the court that the retarded girl did not understand what it means to be pregnant, would not be able to cooperate with the birth process, and that the delivery would cause her psychological and physical harm. Warren even stated, iconically, that the baby should be aborted because the girl would not take physical precautions “in order to avoid injury to herself or the fetus.”

The three appellate court judges who heard the case did not seem to pay very much attention to the “expert” medical testimony. They empowered the mother to abort her daughter’s baby because, as their written opinion stated: “Plainly, there is no legal requirement that a medical necessity exist before a guardian can consent to an abortion.” In effect, their decision was abortion-on-demand for the mentally handicapped at the discretion of the legal guardian. The ACLU was completely correct in viewing the case as setting a precedent. The legal right to an abortion had not yet been extended to a guardian of a mentally handicapped person, and the ACLU saw this case as an opportunity to facilitate just that. Attorneys Colleen Connell and Benjamin Wolf of ACLU’s Reproductive Rights Project represented the mother. As the Sun-Times reported, they saw their successful overturning of Judge Dowdle’s decision as a declaration that “the disabled have constitutional rights to reproductive freedom.”

In four days the appellate court was to issue a writ of mandate to Judge Dowdle ordering him to allow the mother to arrange for the abortion. The unborn child had a court-appointed guardian, an attorney named Thomas Chuhak. If he filed an appeal to the Illinois Supreme Court before the end of the four days the writ would be automatically stayed, and the abortion delayed pending the Illinois Supreme Court hearing. An appeal would give us a window of opportunity, and therefore hope that the baby’s life would be spared. 

I was determined to do what I could to protect this child. I threw the Sun-Times down on the desk, looked up Chuhak’s number in the Yellow Pages, and placed the call. Chuhak himself answered. I introduced myself to him and told him that I was the executive director of the Illinois Right to Life Committee.

“I certainly hope you plan to appeal the decision before the writ of mandate is issued,” I said, coming to the point. “Why is the court only giving you four days? Is that enough time to file the appeal?”         

“Well, yes, we do plan to appeal, but I can’t do anything until the court issues its written opinion. That might not be ‘til this afternoon or tomorrow,” Chuhak answered. I told him I hoped the baby’s life would be saved. He responded, “I plan to do my best on this case.”

 As I spoke to him, I was struck by the idea that I really should talk with the girl’s mother myself. I asked Chuhak if he would give me her name and address, but he refused, saying that would violate legal ethics. In my briefcase I had the names, address, and phone number of a couple who was looking to adopt a child. Even I would happily adopt the girl’s baby–but Chuhak refused to pass any names or information to the girl’s mother. He told me that he was not allowed to have any contact with the plaintiff. Undoubtedly this had something to do with legal ethics too. Chuhak suggested I talk to Connell and Wolf at the ACLU.

When I hung up the phone, I had a slightly uneasy feeling about Chuhak. He sounded sincere enough on the unborn baby’s behalf, but there was a certain hesitancy in his voice and a distracted vagueness in his tone that made me a little uncomfortable.

After I spoke with Chuhak I immediately called Colleen Connell at the ACLU. When Connell came to the phone I introduced myself and told her I wanted to adopt the girl’s baby. Connell’s tone was hard-edged and terse, her obvious disdain thinly veiled behind a cool and authoritative professionalism.

She refused to give my name to the mother and said adoption had already been discussed with her. I tried to reason with Connell.

“Do you really want this baby to die?” I finally asked her.

She hung up the phone.

I immediately dialed the ACLU number again. This time I asked for Benjamin Wolf.

“I have right in front of me the name of a couple who I know would be willing to adopt this child.”

“I’m sorry, I will not pass on any names to our client.”

“Well, why not?” I asked, still trying to be pleasant.

“It’s not in the best interest of my client.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to have the baby adopted than aborted?”

“You know, if you were really sincere about adoption, you would be concerned about babies already living,” Wolf said.

“Please don’t be medieval,” I replied. “This unborn baby’s as alive as any other child.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not yet a person with rights. And as I said, there are plenty of children already born, children with special needs that no one wants to adopt,” Wolf said.

“Yes, that’s true, but those children are not in danger of being attacked. There’s a certain urgency about the child in question here.”

“I’ve said all I’m going to say to you,” Wolf responded, then hung up.

The phone receiver was attached to my ear for the rest of the day. I talked to Maura Quinlin, a lawyer with Americans United for Life whose office was directly across the street from the IRLC. I asked her to call Chuhak and give him any advice he might need to assure that his appeal was filed on time. Maura was very eager to help. I also called Greg Morrow, a very out-going, distinguished-looking man in his fifties and a seasoned sidewalk counselor who spent many Saturday mornings talking women out of abortion at Concord. Within the last year he and I had counseled three women out of abortions. Together we even visited one of the mothers when her baby was born.

Greg’s son’s mother-in-law, Mary Boyle, who had a mentally handicapped child, was very familiar with schools for special-needs children in Chicago. Chuhak had told me that the pregnant girl attended school during the day, and I asked Mary if she would make some calls to find out if there were any pregnant girls in the system. She, too, was eager to help.

That afternoon I called Joe Scheidler. He was not in his office at the Pro-Life Action League, which he founded after Friends for Life closed its doors in 1982. I spoke with his wife Ann, who told me that she and Joe would be happy to adopt the baby themselves, and she gave me the name of another couple who had been trying to adopt.

Even after I left the office for the day and went back home, I continued to make calls. Thus far Mary Boyle had not found the girl but said she would continue to try. I called Patrick Crotty, an attorney who had defended me when I was arrested for a sit-in at Biogenetics in Chicago four years earlier. He agreed to accompany me to the offices of the ACLU the next morning. We intended to present Connell and Wolf with the names of the couples who wanted to adopt the girl’s baby. Finally I flopped into my bed exhausted, a prayer for God’s help fading on my lips.

On the morning of Wednesday, July 31, Patrick met me on the street outside of the building where the ACLU had its offices. This was not the first time I had been at the Chicago ACLU’s high-rise suite. I was there four years earlier, two days before Christmas, with Joe Scheidler and about six other people. Joe used to go around to the ACLU, Planned Parenthood offices, and City Hall carrying a crèche and singing Christmas carols. Joe did it partly for fun and partly in protest. The ACLU had been litigating cases for years to ban nativity scenes on government property and Christmas carols in public schools. Our small troupe crowded in at the door of the office. Joe stood at the front holding his small cardboard crèche and we stood behind him holding our sheet music. As we launched into our chorus of “Joy to the World,” the staff smiled at us and laughed, apparently enjoying the unexpected break from their work.

The atmosphere at the Planned Parenthood offices was considerably less jovial. We decided to sing the “Coventry Carol,” a strange and haunting lament for Herod’s slaughter of the Bethlehem infants. David Levine, the executive director of Chicago Planned Parenthood, three staff members, and a young woman seated in a waiting room chair made up our audience.

Our roving little choir contained some very good voices. Joe Scheidler himself was a trained baritone, and our rendition of the Carol was quite beautiful–and effective. The message of the song was not lost on the workers. Levine listened to the song with a frown on his face.

O sisters too, how may we do

For to preserve this day

This poor Youngling for whom we do sing

Bye, bye, lully, lullay?

Herod the king, in his raging,

Charged he hath this day

His men of might, in his own sight

All children young to slay.

Then woe is me, poor Child, for Thee!

And every mourn and say,

For thy parting neither say nor sing

Bye, bye, lully, lullay.

As we neared the end of the song I cast a glance at the young woman in the waiting room. She was staring at us, tears in her eyes. I wondered if perhaps she was pregnant and at Planned Parenthood to seek advice on abortion. Perhaps she already had an abortion. She was the only one in the office who did not appear to resent our song.

On this hot July morning, Patrick Crotty and I probably would have been better received at the ACLU if we had sung a few Christmas carols. The secretary would not let us see either Connell or Wolf, claiming they were both too busy writing briefs that they were already behind in completing.

“But we only need a few minutes of their time,” I insisted.

The secretary continued to cordially refuse us. All I could do was hand her the list of names of prospective adoptive parents, which she promised to pass on to the attorneys. Patrick took out a business card from his wallet and gave it to the secretary and asked her to have Mr. Wolf call him.

As I walked the short distance back to my office, I deliberated about what to do next. I poured myself a third cup of coffee for the day and slumped into the desk chair. That morning’s Sun-Times still lay on my desk, unread. I picked it up and began to flip through it, glancing at headlines here and there. The headline on page three gave me a jolt: “Pro-life leader offers to take baby as abortion alternative.” The story was about Joe and Ann Scheidler’s offer to adopt the eighteen-year-old girl’s baby. Joe was quoted, “I just wanted the grandmother to know there is someone willing and eager to adopt the baby if the pregnancy is allowed to continue.” I was elated. There was every possibility that the girl’s mother–the baby’s grandmother–would see the article.

I decided it was time to get back in touch with Thomas Chuhak. It was silly and fruitless to try to work with ACLU attorneys. Chuhak knew the girl and the mother and could easily get in touch with them. At this point I could not have cared less about legal ethics–an innocent human being's death was about to be sanctioned, and we were bothering about professional protocol. From my perspective, if Chuhak was the guardian for the unborn baby, his job was to advocate for the life of the child. I saw no reason why he could not pass the names of potential adoptive parents to the girl's mother or permit a third party to do so. I dialed his number.

“Hi, this is Monica again, from Illinois Right to Life.”

That was as far as I got. Chuhak cut me off immediately. “The written opinion just came down,” he said hurriedly. “I can’t talk to you right now. I have to be somewhere right away.”

“Okay,” I said firmly, “but there’s something very important I want to discuss with you.”

“I’ll be out the rest of the day, Chuhak responded. “Call me in the morning.”

“Okay, I will,” I said, and hung up the phone. I had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that Chuhak did not want to speak with me. I hoped that wherever he was rushing off to so suddenly had to do with filing an appeal to stay the deadly mandate.

That evening Benjamin Wolf spoke as a guest on a WIND radio talk show. It was a program that listeners could call in on and both Joe Scheidler and I got on the air. Joe reiterated his offer to adopt the girl’s baby, and I said that there were other couples who would adopt the child as well.

“We are dealing with two lives,” I said. “We should work to do what is best for the girl and her baby without deliberately harming either.”

“Isn’t it preposterous for a mentally-retarded girl to have a baby?” the host of the program argued.

“It’s only impossible if you have no hope,” I responded. “Why should this situation be a cause for despair? The ACLU acts like there is absolutely nobody in the whole world who could possibly be a mother and father to this child. I don’t see how discriminating against the girl or her baby can be an act of justice.”

Thursday, the first day of August, was supposed to be my day off. I did not go into the office, but I spent nearly the entire day on the telephone anyway. I had been consumed for three days by the effort to save this baby from abortion, and I was now a bundle of frayed nerves. It was difficult to eat and difficult to sleep. Each moment was a battle between hope and anxiety, but my determination had not weakened.

I spent hours trying to talk to Chuhak, but every time I called his office, he was on another line, in a meeting, or out to lunch. I began to wonder what his true purpose was. Were he and I not on the same side?

I called Maura Quinlin and asked her to call Chuhak. Perhaps, since she was an attorney herself, Chuhak would feel better speaking to her. I wanted to know if he had filed the appeal. Maura assured me she would call him. Twenty minutes later my phone rang. Marua was on the other end of the line, boiling with indignation and anger.

“I am so disgusted with the conversation I had with that man,” Maura seethed.

“What happened?”

“That so-called guardian ad litem is purposely not going to appeal on time to stay the mandate!”

“What?!” I could not believe what I was hearing. Chuhak was the only real legal hope for the child, and he was going to deliberately blow it!

“He’s purposely trying to stall on it,” Maura continued. “In so many words, the man said that it would be better if the baby died. He said he thinks with the baby gone, it’ll be easier to argue the case before the Illinois Supreme Court. All of the emotion connected to the case would be out of the way. I told Chuhak that he couldn’t avoid the emotion. You can’t pretend a baby isn’t involved.”

“Please go see Judge Dowdle,” I begged Maura, “and ask him to make you the guardian ad litem.” Judge Dowdle had appointed Chuhak in the first place. If he would permit Maura to replace him, she could file an emergency petition to the Illinois Supreme Court to request a stay of the mandate.

Maura went to see Judge Dowdle that afternoon at his office in the Daley Center in downtown Chicago. When she arrived, Wolf and Connell were already there. They had been notified of the meeting–this too had something to do with legal ethics. Even though Maura told Dowdle that Chuhak was deliberately stalling on the appeal, he would not remove Chuhak as guardian. Maura got the impression that Dowdle and Chuhak were friends. Her visit to the judge had been a failure. The meeting ended, Maura left Dowdle’s office and stepped into the hallway. Wolf and Connell caught up to her.

“I hope you’re prepared to be sued,” Connell threatened.

“Sued? Maura asked. “For what?”

“Yes, sued–for court costs, because this little meeting of yours with Dowdle took us away from our work.”

“Gee, I didn’t know ACLU attorneys were so petty,” said Maura as she turned and walked away.

I decided to visit Judge Dowdle myself. I was going to make one final plea that Chuhak be replaced as guardian. Patrick Crotty agreed to go with me the next morning, which was the fourth day–the day the mandate would be given to Dowdle to grant permission for the girl’s abortion. I went to bed that night pleading to another Judge: “God, do something, please. I don’t know what, just do something so the baby won’t die.”

I awoke the next morning with my heart already racing. Pat was supposed to call me and tell me when to be at Dowdle’s office, but it was now ten o’clock and the phone had not rung. I could not wait another moment. I got into my rusted 1977 Toyota Celica and dashed downtown. Unbelievably, in the middle of a Chicago business day, I found a parking space just outside the Daley Center. I ran into the building and raced to the elevators. As I rode up to the eighteenth floor I caught my breath and wiped the sweat from my forehead. Finally, the doors slid open and I ran to Dowdle’s court. The room was completely empty except for a tall, dark-haired young woman who was sorting papers near the judge’s bench. I walked towards her.

“Hi. I wonder if you could tell me if Judge Dowdle issued the appellate court mandate concerning the abortion for the retarded girl?”

The woman glanced up at me once, then looked back down at her papers and continued shuffling through them as she spoke.

“I didn’t want anything to do with that. I was supposed to process the mandate, but I wouldn’t.”

I was delighted to hear that this woman, probably Dowdle’s court clerk, had taken a stand, but I was afraid that the mandate had already been given.

“I commend you for your stand. I wish a lot of others would do the same.”

I asked the woman her name. She told me it was Alice.

“Well, Alice, do you know if the mandate’s been issued?”

“I don’t know. I had nothin’ to do with it,” she said in disgust. “Go ask the other clerk, Lisa. She processed it. She’s here somewhere.”

I left Dowdle’s court and walked toward the suite of judge’s offices. When another young woman came out of the door carrying papers in her hand, we nearly bumped into one another.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m from the Illinois Right to Life Committee, and I’m very interested in the case involving the retarded girl who’s pregnant.”

“Oh, yes. I got the mandate for that case this morning.”

I had found Lisa.

“Do you know if the ACLU lawyers were here this morning?”

“Oh yes, they were already here,” said the clerk.

I was surprised at how extremely friendly and open the clerk was with me. Unlike most clerks I had encountered, she was not terse or in a hurry. However, it was now apparent that the mandate had been issued. My attempts to save the baby were growing bleaker every second.

Lisa shuffled the documents in her hands.

“These are the papers for the case,” she said, holding them out in front of me.

I had not even asked to see them. I did not know what sort of papers they were. Perhaps I was staring at the top page of the mandate itself. But I didn't care what they were. This was an utterly unexpected chance–I could never have predicted that a court clerk would be standing in front of me with the very documents I needed to see. I was searching for one thing only: information that would lead me to the mother.

Lisa let me feast my eyes. Before long I spotted the mother’s name and address embedded in the middle of the page. In seconds I had it all committed to memory.

I do not know why Lisa let me see those papers. I thought the case was under a court seal. I accepted it all as an instance of grace.

I decided I still wanted to talk to Dowdle to find out exactly what had happened. I also wanted Chuhak, who was going to argue the appeal whether the baby was dead or alive, removed from the case. Dowdle was out to lunch. I sat on a bench in the hall and waited for him. Dowdle returned a short while later and his secretary  admitted me into his office.

Dowdle sat behind a desk cluttered with papers and notes. He was a tall, lanky man with very large hands and a deep voice. He appeared to be in his fifties. I sat down in a chair in front of his desk and told him who I was and why I had come.

“Did you already hand down the mandate for the abortion?” I asked him.

“I issued it this morning,” he said. There was an unmistakable look of dismay on his face.

“It’s too late then,” I said.

“Look, I’m against abortion. It’s against my religion. I’m against the Roe decision and I’m against this appellate court decision. But I’m sworn to uphold the law. I’m disgusted with the appellate court’s decision.” I was staring at a man who truly regretted that he had to issue a mandate that would probably result in the death of an unborn child. It was as though abortion was a kind of a machine with pulleys and gears all twisting in every direction and this poor soul had become trapped in the mesh.

I told him that Chuhak had deliberately failed to file the appeal on time and asked if he would make me the guardian for the unborn child, but he refused.

“You know, I think the baby’s already dead,” he said. “I think the abortion was prearranged at some clinic, with a doctor standing by as soon as the mandate was issued. Besides, no matter what you might think about Chuhak, he still has the skill to argue a good appeal.”

I shook my head. I had a difficult time understanding how Dowdle could think a man who deliberately failed to appeal on time could make a good advocate for the unborn. I got up from my chair, thanked Dowdle for his time, and left the office. For now I was done with attorneys, clerks, and judges.

I immediately went to the phone booth in the hallway and called Greg Morrow. I told him I had the mother’s name and address, and  I did not want to visit her alone. Greg agreed to come, and I picked him up at his home on the southwest side.

The mother of the pregnant girl, whose name was Margaret, lived on Chicago’s south side. Her address took us to the heart of the inner city, to a drab, run-down, ugly neighborhood. I pulled up in front of a small, two-story brick home. As Greg and I got out of the car and walked towards the house I could feel my palms grow clammy. My heart beat wildly, and a terrible nervousness gnawed at the pit of my stomach. In my hand I clutched some pro-life pamphlets. I expected that as soon as the people at home knew who we were, they would fly into an indignant rage, curse us, call the police, and slam the door in our faces. I knocked on the door. Within seconds a young black man in his mid-twenties opened it.

“Hi–we’re here to see Margaret,” I said.

“Okay. Come on in,” he said, holding the door open for us.

Greg and I stepped inside. The living room was poorly lit and the furniture and carpeting were worn and shabby. I noticed that the carpet runners on the stairs to the second floor were worn completely through in the center of each step. On the living room couch a young girl sat watching television. When Greg and I entered the room, she looked up at us with wide, brown eyes. Moments later an older woman emerged from the kitchen and came into the living room. She appeared to be in her early fifties. Her face, lined with age and worry, betrayed a difficult life. I asked if she was Margaret, hoping I did not sound like a reporter or an agent from the IRS.

“Yes, I am,” the woman answered as she eyed us both suspiciously. “What’s this all about?”

“Margaret, you don’t know me and I don’t know you, but I want you to know that I really care about you and your daughter. Four days ago I read about you in the paper and I’ve been looking for you ever since. We would like to help you and your daughter.”

“Help? How? Besides, the lawyers said I shouldn’t talk to no one about this case.”

At this point, a man who was about Margaret’s age came into the room. We all exchanged greetings. He introduced himself as Thomas, Margaret’s husband. Then the girl who had been sitting on the couch got up and went over to Margaret.

“Mama, I want to go outside. I want ice cream.”

Her childlike speech told me that I was indeed looking at the girl who was the center of so much conflict. After reading the newspaper, the court’s written opinion, and speaking to the ACLU attorneys, I half-expected the girl to be deformed and babbling. What I saw was an eighteen-year-old woman, physically healthy with the mental capacity of a young child.

“This is Dorsey,” said Margaret. “She’s my child from a previous marriage, but we call her Peaches.”

Greg and I continued to explain: “Your daughter is the reason we’re here,” Greg concluded. “We were hoping to change your mind about aborting your daughter’s baby.”

“Well, I’ll be honest with you,” said Margaret. “I really don’t know what we’re gonna do.”

Her words took me by surprise. Was this the same woman who, championed by the ACLU itself, had just come through a messy and high-profile legal battle so she could gain the right to make an abortion decision for her daughter? Greg and I had arrived at a critical moment. Margaret was wavering between getting the abortion or allowing the pregnancy to continue. She was open to guidance. Greg and I showed her the pamphlets we had brought that described fetal development, abortion procedures, and contained photos of aborted babies. Both Margaret and Thomas were visibly horrified at the pictures.

“I didn’t know it was like that!” Margaret said. “But, you know, I’m afraid Peaches can’t handle havin’ the baby.”

Greg and I offered Margaret the name of a pro-life obstetrician who, after examining Peaches at no cost, would determine what sort of delivery she needed to minimize the health risks. Margaret explained that she still thought of herself as a religious person, and both she and her husband agreed that the situation called for real trust in God. Only with His power and mercy could this pregnancy be brought to term.

We talked with Margaret and her husband for over two hours. Afterwards Greg and I walked with Peaches to the corner grocer and bought her an ice cream. Peaches was extremely gentle and affectionate. It was easy to see how a neighborhood boy could have exploited her. Her mental disability was a result of oxygen loss at birth. She had a twin brother, born first, who was completely healthy. By the end of the evening, Margaret assured us that Peaches’ pregnancy would continue. I went home relieved, happy, and astounded that the baby’s life was saved after so much effort had been spent by attorneys, judges, and a guardian ad litem towards ending it.

In the following months, Greg and I often visited Margaret's family. Even though it was a temptation, Greg and I never told the media or the ACLU that Peaches’ baby was not going to be killed. We wanted the pregnancy to continue quietly, without any interference.

Five months after Judge Dowdle issued the mandate, Peaches delivered a healthy five-pound baby boy. She named him Marky. Confounding the “experts,” Peaches was not traumatized by the caesarean section. Margaret and Thomas decided to raise the baby themselves rather than place him for adoption.

Greg and I visited Peaches a week after Marky was born. As we stepped into Margaret’s living room I felt a deep sense of satisfaction—even accomplishment.  Soon I would be leaving Chicago—a city that had been my training ground in pro-life work. I was glad that my activist experience there was ending with the joy of Peaches’ baby.

Peaches dressed in a bathrobe, sat looking comfortable in a cushioned chair. She gave us a smile when we said hello.  Little Marky was alseep in a bassinet next to her. Margaret came into the room with a smile on her lined and careworn face. We asked how Peaches was doing.

“Sometimes she’s irritable because of the incision, but I think she’s doing pretty well,” said Margaret. “We’re happy it all worked out.”

“He’s a beautiful baby,” said Greg.

“Yeah, he is,” Margaret agreed, another smile breaking across her face.

I wondered if Connell and Wolf knew about the baby. Margaret said she did not think so. She had had no contact with them for several weeks. Apparently the ACLU attorneys were only interested in using Peaches’ pregnancy to litigate a case to advance the cause of reproductive rights. They would never stand in this living room to offer encouragement to Peaches and her mother and be drawn into the wonder and beauty of this child. As I gazed at the baby, I felt embedded in the hand of God. I felt Him there. God and I looked together at Peaches and her child. The tiny newborn was enveloped in peaceful sleep–unaware that the world had judged he should never have been born.

 

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