Abortionists are apt to be a mite diffident in speaking of their calling—hardly surprising, given the nature of their work and its attendant hazards. How many abortionists have you encountered socially? None, I’d wager. After all, open avowal of their daily labors would hardly invite exchange of further pleasantries. Picture the scene over the hors d’oeuvres spread at your local Women’s League fundraiser: “Hello, I’m Gladys McNulty. I’m the nutritionist at Edengrove—you know, the assisted-living facility?”
“Hello. Pleased to meet you, Gladys. I’m Ted Fisher. I do abortions for Planned Parenthood at the clinic down on South Main.”
“Oh, how . . . nice.”
“Gladys, I believe I know Laura, your daughter. The resemblance is striking.”
“Oh, pardon me, there’s my old friend Maggie Burns. Haven’t seen that gal in ages! So good to have chatted with you, Ted!”
Canapés, anyone? Well, let’s just say that any self-regarding abortionist in America these days isn’t exactly eager for publicity. Apart from the clinic bombers (God’s own assassins) and the death threats, we might note that there is, more than 30 years after Roe v. Wade, still a stigma attached to...