The trial so long sought by abortion foes took place this March. It quickly
became clear that the case was far from ironclad. The prosecutor produced no
evidence of shared fees, partnership agreements or kickbacks. He was reduced
to pointing out that Dr. Neuhaus had hugged Dr. Tiller before testifying.

Worse still, there was evidence that an official for the Kansas Board of
Healing Arts had suggested the arrangement with Dr. Neuhaus, who had closed
her own women's health clinic to care for her diabetic son. There was also
evidence that several times a year Dr. Neuhaus disagreed with Dr. Tiller
about whether an abortion was necessary. As for Dr. Neuhaus examining women
at his clinic, Dr. Tiller told jurors that was done to spare patients
repeated confrontations with protesters.

Why, he was asked, were so few doctors in America willing to perform
late-term abortions? "Because of the threat to themselves and to their
family," he replied.

Why had he not switched to another kind of medicine? "Well," he
said, "quit
is not something I like to do."

The jury took less than 30 minutes to acquit Dr. Tiller of all charges.

It was an enormous victory, but Dr. Tiller's supporters feared a backlash.
Anti-abortion activists who had attended court sessions were disgusted. Mr.
Newman remembered one new face among the regulars in court -- Scott Roeder,
who told other protesters that the trial was a "sham" and had argued in
years past that homicide was justifiable to stop abortions.

Facing the Risks

On Sunday, May 31, Reformation Lutheran Church celebrated the Festival of
Pentecost with a special prelude of international music.

Most members were already settled in the pews, but Dr. Tiller, an usher that
morning, was greeting stragglers in the foyer by the sanctuary entrance. His
wife was in the sanctuary where Pastor Michelson, beating a darbuka drum,
was midway through an African song called "Celebrate the Journey!"

Pastor Michelson heard a sharp noise but thought it was probably a child
dropping a hymnal. Then an usher beckoned him toward the sanctuary entrance.
"George has been shot," the usher told him quietly.

Two church members were already performing CPR on Dr. Tiller by the juice
and coffee table. Pastor Michelson heard someone say a gunman -- later
identified by the police as Mr. Roeder -- had fled.

Pastor Michelson thought of the families, the children, in the sanctuary. An
assistant pastor, trying to avoid panic, went ahead with the service. Dr.
Tiller died in the foyer.

Long ago, he had accepted the possibility he might be assassinated. It was
something he and his fellow abortion providers had quietly discussed, and
friends said he had lost count of all the death threats.

Even so, there was a mood of stunned rage when local abortion rights
advocates gathered the Friday after his killing at First Unitarian
Universalist Church in Wichita.

Marla Patrick, the Kansas state coordinator of the National Organization for
Women, spoke of all the other abortion providers who had been killed,
injured or threatened. Including Dr. Tiller, four doctors have been slain in
the United States since 1993. It was time, she said, for law enforcement to
treat abortion violence as "domestic terrorism."

Pedro L. Irigonegaray, a lawyer for Dr. Tiller, aimed his fury at Mr. Kline
and Mr. O'Reilly, saying their "fraudulent charges" had surely
been meant to
incite "a response from radicals."

But it was a demoralized group. In Topeka, the state capital, they have long
been outmuscled by conservative Christians, who have been steadily chipping
away at abortion rights. One woman, a lobbyist for abortion rights,
described how some legislators literally turned their backs when she
testified.

Gail Finney, a junior member of the Legislature, stood and asked why there
had not been more outcry from the state's leaders over Dr. Tiller's killing.

"Where's the anguish?" Ms. Finney said.

Not a single Kansas politician of statewide prominence showed up the next
morning for Dr. Tiller's funeral, which drew 1,200 mourners. Nor were any at
Reformation Lutheran the next day, the first Sunday service after his death.

In the foyer where he was shot, the juice and coffee table had been turned
into a memorial, with Dr. Tiller's photograph next to a basket of buttons he
had passed out by the boxful to patients, employees and friends. "Attitude
is Everything," they said.

Outside, Pastor Michelson greeted families with hugs. "There was no way I
was going to hide inside," he later said.

The Tiller clan took their usual spot in the pews, and Mrs. Tiller, radiant
in red, was embraced again and again. Flowers from her husband's funeral
framed the altar.

The church was more crowded than usual.

In his sermon, Pastor Michelson openly acknowledged his own apprehensions.
"Our sanctuary has been violated," he said. He urged his congregation to
rise above fear and anger, and took note of the supportive letters and
e-mail messages from churches all over the country.

Only later, during an interview, did he mention all the hate mail.

An End to the Fight

The next morning the Tillers announced the clinic's closing.

"We are proud of the service and courage shown by our husband and father and
know that women's health care needs have been met because of his dedication
and service," the family said in a statement. "That is a legacy that will
never die."

Mr. Gietzen absorbed the news in his dimly lighted basement, surrounded by
dusty stacks of anti-abortion literature, news releases and petitions.
Dozens of campaign signs, including one for Mr. Kline, covered one wall. In
a corner he had built a crude assembly line for producing the crosses he
planted at Dr. Tiller's clinic. In his driveway was Truth Truck No. 3,
proclaiming "Abortion is an ObamaNation."

Mr. Gietzen juggled two phones, one for his volunteers and one for his
Christian dating service.

A volunteer called and Mr. Gietzen issued instructions to call off a protest
at the clinic. No need now, he said.

The phone rang again. A volunteer wondered whether the announcement was a
trick.

"Listen, Donna," he said, "I'm sure it's not a ploy."

Another call: The voice was jubilant. "God has his own way," Mr. Gietzen
replied, "but you can't say our prayers weren't answered."

Yet later, Mr. Gietzen said his feelings were more complex. Many years ago,
he explained, he had wrestled with the question of whether it would be moral
to kill Dr. Tiller. Only after months of reading and praying, he said, did
he conclude that violence could never be justified. Killing men like Dr.
Tiller, he said, will only put off the day when abortion is outlawed
altogether.

"He has killed more babies than he has saved," Mr. Gietzen said of Mr.
Roeder. "I don't care how much fan mail he is getting."

As he explained himself, Mr. Gietzen did something unexpected. He spoke
admiringly of the man he reflexively referred to as "Abortionist
Tiller." He
said he was "very smart" and a "great businessman." He
said that if he had
been in town he would have attended Dr. Tiller's funeral to pay his
respects.

"A worthy adversary," he said. "He was right back at us."


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