On January 16, two bombs rocked an abortion clinic in Atlanta. The first went off when no one was around; the second exploded an hour later, injuring six people who had rushed to the scene, including federal agents, rescue workers and a TV cameraman.
Freshman representative Barry Arrington, a Republican lawyer from Arvada who ran billboard ads several years ago soliciting cases against abortion doctors, got angry when a reporter asked for his reaction to the bombing. "Your purpose is to connect me to the bombing because I support the right to life," he responded. "Lawlessness is reprehensible. I don't care who does it."
It was Arrington who introduced the bill to ban so-called partial-birth abortions that drew Scott to the legislature three weeks ago. Introducing the measure, Arrington described a near-term fetus delivered feet-first up to its neck, at which point the doctor collapses its head. He did not mention that the antiquated procedure is rarely, if ever, performed, and then only to save the life of the mother.
Despite his nearly three dozen arrests, Scott was treated politely, almost deferentially, by members of the State Affairs committee. His testimony went uninterrupted until he pronounced that the bodies of aborted fetuses were harvested to make cosmetics "for rich women." Even then, the challenges were reserved.
But when it was Hern's turn, he was required to testify under oath--a rare request not made of Scott. Hern, who testified against the bill even though he doesn't do the procedure, was repeatedly interrupted by Arrington and Representative Mark Paschall, the Arvada Republican who caused a stir last year when he offered a prayer composed by anti-abortion activists on the House floor. "I felt it was necessary to give Dr. Hern some incentive to tell the truth," Arrington said later.
A week later, the day of a hearing on a bill that would criminalize late-term abortions--another Arrington proposal--Scott stuck "Pro-Life Christian Coalition" leaflets with photographs of dismembered fetuses in the mailboxes of House members, angering many in the process.
Still, Paschall again insisted on putting Hern, and no one else, under oath. He tried to get the doctor to swear by an antiquated and seldom-used version of the oath that includes the words "by the Living God"; Hern swore only to "tell the truth."
That bill was defeated; the entire House is scheduled to vote on the partial-birth abortion measure this Friday.
For Hern, his treatment at the legislature was more proof that the separation between church and state no longer exists. "There are Christians of good conscience and legislators in both parties of goodwill," he says, "However, they're not the ones in power."
Those who scoff at his theory that the country is on the verge of a civil war over abortion should study history, he suggests. "The only difference between this and the slaughter of the Jews in Venice is a thousand years," he says. "The only difference between this and the Islamic jihad is 8,000 miles.
"This isn't about abortion. This is about people who think that they can tell everyone else how to think and what to believe. Once they've outlawed abortion and locked up abortion doctors, who will they go after next? People who write for newspapers? People who read books? Blacks? Jews? They hate freedom. They hate secular thought."
And they hate Hern, who is as fanatical about his cause as they are about theirs. He has paid a high price for his principles. His clinic is now surrounded by a high steel gate and boasts bulletproof windows and doors with heavy locks. Even so, some staffers cannot bear the emotional burden. "I just lost a superb nurse," Hern says. "She was terrified and came to me one morning in tears and said, 'I just can't take it anymore.'" Some banks won't cash Boulder Abortion Clinic paychecks. And although some doctors are very supportive and assist Hern when he needs help, there are still anti-abortion doctors ready to challenge his hospital privileges, "just waiting for me to slip up."
At his mountain home, he no longer feels he can go for a walk without taking along his rifle. "Sometimes I get quite frightened," he says. "I wake thinking I heard something. I'm afraid to check the telephone, thinking the lines may have been cut and that he's out there."
Hern is a lonely, isolated, man. He says he wants a family and someone to share his life with, but that hasn't worked out. As much as she liked him, one woman told him, "I could never take you home to my parents."
At times he thinks how much easier his life would have been if he'd pursued his first love of photography--the Sierra Club used his picture of a jaguar in the Peruvian Amazon on the cover of a calendar--or stayed in the jungle, living like Albert Schweitzer. But he knows he made the right choice.
"My practice matters to women and their families," he says. "And now these people, from Reagan to Scott and that son of a bitch Arrington, want to make it a crime against the state.
"The crime is freedom.
