Train said, “Well, it seems that Miss Smith is a fraternity brother of the Judge and myself. Mmm . . . ‘sister,’ I suppose. Judge, it’s easy to check this on both Johann Smith and Mr. Salomon. In the meantime I find it persuasive.”
“Perhaps I can add to it,” Joan said. “Mr. Train—Brother Alec—of course you should check on both Jake and myself. But look me up in our fraternal archives under ‘Schmidt’ rather than ‘Smith’ as I changed my name in forty-one. Which my granddaughters know. But you both know of our fraternal Distress Fund?”
“Yes.”
“Certainly, Miss Smith.”
“The fund did not exist when I was pledged—my senior year it was, after I made Phi Beta Kappa and because our local chapter needed a greasy grind and had an alumnus willing to pay for my initiation. The fund was started during World War Two; I helped augment it some years later and was one of its trustees from fifty-six until late in the eighties when I dropped most outside activities. Judge, you tapped the fund for fifteen hundred in the spring of seventy-eight.”
“Eh? So I did. But I paid it back, eventually—then donated the same amount at a later time, according to our customs.”
“I’m glad to hear it. The latter, I mean; you were off the hook before I resigned as a trustee. I was a hard-nosed trustee, Judge, and never okayed a loan until I was certain that it was a distress case and not just a convenience to a lazy undergraduate. Shall I relate the circumstances which caused me to okay your loan?”
The Judge blinked. “I would rather you did not, at least not now. Alec knows them.”
“Yes,” agreed Train. “Would have lent him the money myself if I had had it.” (What is this, Boss?) (Case of ‘rheumatic fever,’ sweet.) (Abortion money?) (No, no—he married the girl—and here lam digging up the skeleton.)
(Bitch.) (No, Eunice—my granddaughters don’t know what I’m talking about, nor does Jake.)
“I see no reason to discuss it,” Miss Smith went on, “unless the Judge wants to question me privately—and if you do, Judge, do remind me to tell you a real giggle about the ancestries of my so loving granddaughters. Odd things happen even in the best families—and the Schmidt family was never one of the best. We’re a vulgar lot, me and my descendants—our only claim to prominence is too much money.”
“Later perhaps, Miss Smith. I am now ready to hand down a decision—temporary and conservative. Counsels?”
“Ready, Judge.”
“Nothing to add, Your Honor.”
McCampbell fitted his fingertips together. “Identity. It need not depend on fingerprints or retinal patterns or similar customary evidence. John Doe could lose both hands and both feet, have both eyes gouged out, be so scarred and damaged that even his dentist could not identify him—and he would still be John Doe, with the same Social Security number. Something like that happened to you, Miss Smith, assuming that you are indeed Johann Sebastian Bach Smith—though I am happy to see”—he smiled—”that no scars show.
“This Court finds persuasive the evidence of your identity brought out in this hearing. We assume, pro tem, that you are Johann Sebastian Bach Smith.
“However”—the Judge looked at Salomon—”we now get to the Parsons case. Inasmuch as the Supreme Court has ruled that the question of life or death resides in the brain and nowhere else, this Court now rules that identity must therefore reside in the brain and nowhere else. In the past it has never been necessary to decide this point; now it is necessary. We find that to rule in any other fashion would be inconsistent with the intent of the Supreme Court in ‘Estate of Henry M. Parsons v. Rhode Island.’ To rule in any other way would create chaos in future cases in any way similar to this one: Identity must lie in the brain. “Now, Jake, I am in effect going to shove the burden of the proof over onto you and your client. At a later time you must be prepared to prove beyond any possible doubt that Johann Sebastian Bach Smith’s brain was removed from his body and transplanted into this body”—McCampbell pointed.