I GET TO MY FEET, look at my notecards, and—like Sara—toss them into the trash. “Like Mrs. Fitzgerald justsaid, this case isn’t about Anna donating a kidney. It isn’t about her donating a skin cell, a single blood cell, arope of DNA. It’s about a girl who is on the cusp of becoming someone. A girl who is thirteen—which ishard, and painful, and beautiful, and difficult, and exhilarating. A girl who may not know what she wantsright now, and she may not know who she is right now, but who deserves the chance to find out. And tenyears from now, in my opinion, I think she’s going to be pretty amazing.”

I walk toward the bench. “We know that the Fitzgeralds were asked to do the impossible—make informedhealth-care decisions for two of their children, who had opposing medical interests. And if we—like theFitzgeralds—don’t know what the right decision is, then the person who has to have the final say is theperson whose body it is…even if that’s a thirteen-year-old. And ultimately, that too is what this case is about:

the moment when perhaps a child knows better than her parents.

“I know that when Anna made the choice to file this lawsuit, she did not do it for all the self-centered reasonsyou might expect of a thirteen-year-old. She didn’t make this decision because she wanted to be like otherkids her age. She didn’t make this decision because she was tired of being poked and prodded. She didn’tmake this decision because she was afraid of the pain.”

I turn around, and smile at her. “You know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if Anna gives her sister that kidneyafter all. But what I think doesn’t matter. Judge DeSalvo, with all due respect, what you think doesn’t matter.

What Sara and Brian and Kate Fitzgerald think doesn’t matter. What Anna thinks does.” I walk back towardmy chair. “And that’s the only voice we ought to be listening to.”

Judge DeSalvo calls for a fifteen-minute recess to render his decision, and I use it to walk the dog. We circlethe little square of green behind to the Garrahy building, with Vern keeping an eye on the reporters who arewaiting for a verdict. “Come on already,” I say, as Judge makes his fourth loop around, in search of theultimate spot. “No one’s watching.”

But this turns out to not be entirely true. A kid, no older than three or four, breaks away from his mother andcomes crashing toward us. “Puppy!” he yells. He stretches out his hands in hot pursuit, and Judge steps closerto me.

His mother catches up a moment later. “Sorry. My son’s going through a canine stage. Can we pet him?”

“No,” I say automatically. “He’s a service dog.”

“Oh.” The woman straightens, pulls her son away. “But you aren’t blind.”

I’m epileptic, and this is my seizure dog. I think about coming clean, for once, for the first time. But thenagain, you have to be able to laugh at yourself, don’t you? “I’m a lawyer,” I say, and I grin at her. “He chasesambulances for me.”

As Judge and I walk off, I’m whistling.

When Judge DeSalvo comes back to the bench he brings a framed picture of his dead daughter, which is howI know that I’ve lost this case. “One thing that has struck me through the presentation of the evidence,” hebegins, “is that all of us in this courtroom have entered into a debate about the quality of life versus thesanctity of life. Certainly the Fitzgeralds have always believed that having Kate alive and part of the familywas crucial—but at this point the sanctity of Kate’s existence has become completely intertwined with thequality of Anna’s life, and it’s my job to see whether those two can be separated.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not sure that any of us is qualified to decide which of those two is the mostimportant—least of all myself. I’m a father. My daughter Dena was killed when she was twelve years old bya drunk driver, and when I rushed to the hospital ............