Capitol Threat (4 page)

3

S
ometimes Ben had to shake himself just to remember that it was real—he was an actual U.S. senator. And he had been invited to the White House. As his car whizzed down the stretch between Lafayette Park and 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, he marveled once again at his great good fortune. The elm trees and retractable bollards were lovely, and they kept you from noticing the camouflaged guard booths. Couldn’t have the White House looking like a penitentiary—even though at times Ben thought that was exactly what it was.

Ben had seen the Rose Garden a million times on television, but it looked like an entirely different place when you visited in person. For one thing, you noticed that there actually were roses, long rows of tall flowering red and pink rosebushes. The air was sweet and the endless green expanse of perfectly trimmed lawn was an amateur golfer’s dream. All in all a wonderfully tranquil location—or it would be, if it hadn’t been infested with a thousand or so reporters, politicians, and sundry other dignitaries, not to mention a tangled weave of minicams, boom mikes, and miscellaneous technical equipment, all centered around the currently unoccupied podium bearing the seal of the POTUS—President of the United States.

“A rather impressive display, isn’t it? Even when no one’s up there.”

Ben turned and found himself face-to-face with the top dog in his party, the Senate Minority Leader, Robert Hammond. Ben glanced at his watch. “President Blake is late.”

Hammond chuckled. “President Blake is always late. Haven’t you noticed? He likes to build anticipation, put on a show. It’s because he’s from Missouri.” The wind whistled through Hammond’s thinning silver mane. “But I suppose when you’ve gone to all the trouble of running for the highest office in the land, you’re entitled to a few idiosyncrasies.”

Ben smiled. During his short time in Washington, he had repeatedly been impressed by Hammond’s warmth and good humor. He couldn’t help but be pleased that this senior legislator had taken so much interest in him, a puny appointed fill-in senator from Oklahoma. Ben almost felt as if the man were grooming him for a future in politics, as if Hammond saw a potential in him that no one else was seeing, including himself. Hammond was also the author of the federal Environmental Protection Wilderness Bill, a sweeping piece of reform legislation designed to undo the damage of previous administrations and declare an unprecedented amount of untouched wilderness and national parkland free from development. It was the legislation closest to Christina’s heart. She had spent hundreds of hours trying to make the bill a law. Hammond was also assembling a coalition to pass the largest aid bill in history for the millions of Americans living below the poverty level.

“Have we got the votes yet, Senator?”

“For the Wilderness bill? Still three short. Don’t worry. I’ll find them.”

“You’re the only man who could.”

Hammond grinned. “Might be right about that, Ben. Might be right. I’ll let you know when we’ve got a plurality.”

“Great. I’m hoping to give Christina a signed copy of that bill for a wedding present.”

“Can’t think of anything that would please her more. Or me.” He turned his attention to the empty podium.

“You already know who it is, don’t you?” Ben asked.

“Well…a small group of the senior legislators did have a private heart-to-heart with the President this morning.”

“It’s Judge Haskins, isn’t it?”

“That would be telling.”

“Can you at least say whether you’re pleased about the selection?”

“Yes. I can tell you that, under the circumstances, I’m very pleased. It could’ve been a lot worse, given the deeply Republican President who’s doing the picking. I can only assume the President wants to end his administration on a high note with a popular, quickly confirmed addition to the Court.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Ben knew that the Supreme Court, in the wake of the death of Justice Cornwall, was evenly divided among conservatives, liberals, and centrists. The next person appointed to the Court might well cast deciding votes on the death penalty, gun control, abortion, right-to-die, and a host of other critical constitutional issues.

“They’ve been planning this dog and pony show for days,” Hammond said. “No coincidence this is happening on a Friday afternoon, either. Most of the press won’t be on the story until Monday. In the meantime, the President’s staff will blanket the Sunday news shows with flunkies selling the candidate, rattling on about how he’s God’s gift to jurisprudence. They’ll get endorsements from the Christian Congregation and law enforcement organizations and anyone else who needs a favor from the White House. They’ll distribute puff pieces and video clips, stuff the media can regurgitate until they have a chance to do a little digging on their own. By Monday you’ll be reading stories about people whose lives were changed for the better by this judge’s courtroom brilliance. The press will look for something negative. But the truth is, they won’t find much, because if there were anything to find, the President’s men would’ve found it first—and he would never have been nominated. By the end of the week, most Americans will have heard something that gives them a favorable first impression of the man. And the President’s battle will be four-fifths won.”

“The President’s investigators have missed things before,” said Ben. “Remember, they don’t do a full-fledged FBI investigation until the President makes his nomination. That’s the one wild card in every nomination—the President can never know what the Feebs might find. I was still at OU when my contracts professor Anita Hill went to Washington to testify about Clarence Thomas.”

“That was eons ago. Today, these boys take no chances. Sad result is, the only people who can get nominated are nebbishes with no lives.” He winked. “But at least this time we’re getting a fairly reasonable nebbish.”

“Good to know.”

The applause began before anyone was even in view. Advance men, Ben reminded himself. Even the President depended upon them. A few moments later, as the applause reached its crescendo, the Commander-in-Chief appeared, shaking hands as he walked, smiling, slapping people on the back, until he reached his podium. He was not a tall man, but his bearing was so straight and self-confident that he seemed taller than he truly was. He had a smile so perfect, so carefully calculated for the television cameras, that in person, Ben thought it seemed almost external to his body, something he could put on or take off like a necktie.

“Some have said that the power to appoint justices to the Supreme Court is the greatest of all executive powers,” he began, reading off an almost invisible translucent teleprompter, flashing the telegenic good looks that had gotten him elected. “Even greater than the power of war. While this administration opposes judicial activism, and judges who think they’re legislators, we nonetheless recognize that the appointment of a new member to the Supreme Court is a matter of grave import.”

A wind whistled through the Rose Garden, bathing Ben in the aroma of rose petals. The President was doing a good job, he thought, getting straight to the point yet simultaneously letting the suspense build, so the ultimate announcement would seem all the more dramatic—even if no one had heard of the man before.

“Ideally, Supreme Court justices should be many things—wise, impartial, insightful, full of idealism yet imbued with a keen eye on the wicked ways of the world,” President Blake continued. Ben thought his slow Missouri drawl—not that different from a western Oklahoma accent—effectively conveyed a sense of “regular guyness” without mitigating the importance of the occasion. “They must interpret the letter of the law, yet at the same time they must see beyond the letter to the people: the people who wrote the law, and the people it was designed to protect and defend. They must be intellectual, but never so much as to elevate the head over the heart, because every time they hear a case, every time they sign an opinion, lives are changed. This is not a mere exercise in logic, but a sacred trust with the power to alter and affect millions of Americans. Most important, Supreme Court appointees must make sure that justice—equal justice—rings out in this hallowed land of ours, now and for-evermore.”

“Is he announcing a judicial nomination,” Ben whispered, “or canonizing a saint?” Hammond motioned him to shush.

The President smiled. “Fortunately, today I am proud to announce that after an extensive search, we have found someone worthy of and equal to this daunting responsibility. It is my very great privilege to announce this day my nominee for the office of the Supreme Court of the United States—the Honorable Thaddeus T. Roush.”

Another round of applause broke out as a tall, thin man emerged from the restricted area behind the podium. He waved to the crowd, then approached the President, who gripped him by the shoulder and shook his hand.

“Am I supposed to know who he is?” Ben whispered.

“No,” Hammond answered. “But you will.”

Roush was wearing a blue suit with a red tie—standard politico television wardrobe since Ronald Reagan. He was obviously unaccustomed to the attention, not to mention the crowd, the lights, and the microphones, but he held himself together and approached the podium, readjusting the microphone to account for his greater height.

“Thank you, Mr. President. And let me say that it is my very great honor to even be considered, much less chosen, to be your Supreme Court nominee.” His slow, precise voice did not contain much inflection, highlighting his almost ascetic, intellectual appearance. “While I have enjoyed my work for the Court of Appeals, I am humbled by the possibility of playing an even greater role in the judicial affairs of this great nation. Again, I thank the President for this opportunity and assure you all that I will do the best I can to earn this honor and to respect and dignify the great tradition of the Supreme Court.”

A spattering of applause. Roush hesitated. Ben wondered if he were done. He’d said enough—no rule required a Supreme Court justice to be a great orator, after all. Not part of the job description.

“There is one thing, however,” Roush continued, “that I feel I must say, and Mr. President, I hope you will pardon me if I go off script here, because as important as the rest of it is, this must come first.”

Ben saw President Blake smile, but there was an awkwardness about it that convinced Ben that Roush’s extemporaneous remarks weren’t just for dramatic effect.

“I hadn’t planned this,” Roush said, much more quietly than before, “but as I gaze out into this sea of faces I am reminded once again that this is a good nation, a great nation, filled with large hearts and great souls, people who would always rather know the truth than be placated with a lie.” His face seemed to change. He was more nervous now. His slow voice became almost stuttering. “Throughout our history we have experienced prejudice and inequality, but time after time and year after year we have fought the good fight, and watched as the old ways and the unfair ways were extinguished. We were once a nation plagued by the stench of slavery, but we fought that battle, both for freedom and, later, for equal rights. We were once riddled with gender inequality, but slowly and surely we have made this country a better, fairer place for people of both sexes. People of differing races, creeds, and colors are equal in the eyes of the law, as the Fourteenth Amendment says they must be. Today there is only one group of Americans that remains constrained by inequality with the full sanction of the law, and just as with the other terrible inequalities of the past, this blight on our collective conscience must fall, must pass away, and those who work to that end will be remembered as freedom fighters, tireless soldiers in the battle for truth and justice.”

Ben searched the faces of all those who surrounded him in the garden. Everyone else seemed just as puzzled by this strange and sudden turn of oratory as he was.

“This has nothing to do with my service as a judge or justice,” Roush continued. “This is a matter of conscience. I would rather you hear it from me than read about it Monday morning in some supermarket tabloid. I thought the truth might emerge during the prenomination screening process, but since it did not, I will make the announcement myself. I will not be a part of a lie, because lies are what hold us down, keep us from attaining our greatest potentiality as a nation. Ladies and gentlemen, the man you see sitting behind this podium is not my brother, not my uncle, not my cousin, not—as the Secret Service believes—merely my best friend. He is my partner, my life partner, and he has been for almost seven years.”

Roush paused, then looked directly into the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am a gay American. And I will not live in the closet any longer.”

4

T
he phones were ringing so incessantly that Jones was certain he had developed tinnitis. In the wake of the previous day’s dramatic development in the Rose Garden, everyone, it seemed, wanted to talk to the junior senator from the state of Oklahoma. If Ben was getting this volume of calls, Jones could only wonder what senators of the slightest importance had to handle. The administrative assistants in the other senators’ offices, however, would at least have the pleasure of seeing the pile of messages from other politicians, lobbyists, constituents, press, and various and sundry cranks occasionally diminish. Ben’s stack wasn’t shrinking at all. Because Ben wasn’t anywhere to be found.

Jones saw Christina burst through the door and tried to take advantage of the three seconds or so before she disappeared into her office. “Any sign of the Boss?”

“None.” She stopped just outside her door. “And I can’t waste any more time looking. Someone has to start returning calls before the villagers revolt.”

“They’re going to want to know what Ben’s position is on the gay Supreme Court nominee.”

“Which will be challenging, since I have no idea.”

“What, you two don’t go in for pillow talk?”

She looked at Jones sharply. “Not about politics. In fact, I expressly forbid it.”

“So what are you going to do?”

She threw up her hands and disappeared into her office. “What politicos do best. Equivocate.”

Jones didn’t blame her for feeling overwhelmed. There was always a wave of publicity following the announcement of a new Supreme Court nominee, but no one had been prepared for the tsunami that followed the revelation of the nation’s first openly gay nominee—nominated by a very conservative Republican President, no less. The White House had been marshaling their forces and ducking all the important questions, such as: Did you know he was gay? Will you still support him? Don’t you risk losing the fundamentalist Christian support that got you elected in the first place? Similarly, everyone had expected to see presidential flak pieces saturating the airwaves over the long weekend. Instead, literally from the second Roush made his surprise announcement, the pundits’ attention had been focused not on the candidate himself but on the cause he might represent. His nomination had stopped being about his qualifications as a judge and had metamorphosed into a referendum on gay rights.

Loving wandered in from the outside corridor, his head hung low.

“Any luck?” Jones asked.

“Not a trace.”

“You’re supposed to be a private investigator. Surely you can locate one U.S. senator.”

“Not if he doesn’t wanna be found.”

“You think he’s hiding? Why?”

“ ’Cause that’s what I’d do, if I represented the very conservative state of Oklahoma and somebody put up a gay Supreme Court justice. What do the people callin’ say?”

“They’re opposed, by a six-to-one margin. Most of the calls are from rural towns in the western part of the state.” A quick phone call to Paula, Jones’s librarian wife back in Tulsa, had told him that the consensus of opinion was no different in the second-largest city in the state.

“That doesn’t mean much. The outraged always speak the loudest. We need some real intel.”

“There are about half a hundred pollsters working on that as we speak.”

“I could fly home, visit a few bars, and give Ben a more accurate picture of the public opinion. Be a lot cheaper, too.”

“He might want you to do that. It’s hard to tell. Since we don’t know where he is!”

Even though it was Saturday and the Senate was not in session, Ben had come to the Senate chamber early in the morning and sat at the little desk in the corner bearing his nameplate. Actually, he liked it better when the Senate was not in session and he could enjoy the historic setting without having to listen to people bickering with one another. He gazed across at the expanse of brown antique desks, row after row, curving toward the center. He was reminded of Arlington National Cemetery; it had essentially the same effect, except with desks instead of graves. Symbolic? He hoped not. The inkwells, snuff boxes, and spittoons reminded him that this was a very old room, with a hallowed and distinguished heritage. All the Presidents since John Adams had walked down that center aisle and taken their place behind the elevated rostrum to deliver their State of the Union addresses, flanked on either side by a long succession of outstanding party leaders. All the Vice Presidents had sat in that chair at the rear center, serving as President of the Senate, nine of them future Presidents themselves. Behind that raised dais, the electoral votes were counted every four years so the President of the Senate could announce the identity of the next President. This was a room that had been a bastion of excellence, a home to brilliant minds and daring idealism. In truth, Ben had never been particularly political, but sitting here always reminded him that despite the distastefulness of much of modern politics, the U.S. Senate was part of a long-standing and important tradition, one that had shaped a nation, and as a result, shaped the world.

“Place kinda gives you the willies, doesn’t it?”

Ben turned to see Senator Hammond sitting beside him. He started to rise, but Hammond waved him back down. “This is my second private audience with you in as many days,” Ben said. “If you don’t watch out, someone’s going to mistake me for a person of importance.”

The corners of the Minority Leader’s lips turned upward. “Modesty. I like that. And I don’t get to see it much in this town. Made up your mind yet?”

“You and Christina. To which of my many undecided decisions do you refer?”

“Thaddeus Roush.”

“Oh. Well…I’m torn.”

Hammond leaned back and rested his head against his hands. “Between what and what?”

“Between a gut instinct that the time for a gay Supreme Court justice has come and might do the country a lot of good, and my realization that gay or not, if he was nominated by this oh-so-Republican President, he must be evil.”

Hammond grinned. “I told you yesterday, Ben—he’s a lot more to the center than you might expect. We could do a lot worse.”

“We could do a lot better.”

“Not with this President.”

Ben frowned. Good point. “Did you know he was gay? Yesterday, I mean.”

“I did not.”

“Did the President?”

“No way. Oh, they might’ve had some intimation. The man is in his late forties, never married, has a male roommate, that sort of thing. But it wouldn’t have been a problem, even for the Republicans, as long as he stayed in the closet. There are a lot of gay people in this town, Ben. We’ve known that ever since Gerry Studds became the first openly gay congressman back in 1983. No one cared about Mark Foley—till his suggestive electronic messages to congressional pages started surfacing. You’ve seen The List—the unofficial roster of gay congressional staff members. Even the Republicans have them. We call them the Pink Elephants. As long as they keep their private lives to themselves, no one much cares. Try to make a fuss about it and you get labeled homophobic. Hell, people were speculating that Justice Souter was gay when he was nominated to the Supreme Court—the man lived with his mother, for Pete’s sake. But that didn’t stop Bush the First from nominating him. Long as it’s not in the public eye, it’s not a problem.”

“But now it
is
in the public eye. And there’s no taking it back. Will President Blake stand behind him?”

“Well, he can’t exactly withdraw the nomination, can he? That would be too blatantly anti-gay even for that rascal. Especially after that swell speech he gave yesterday saying what a brilliant legal mind Roush has, and how he’ll be a crusader for truth, justice, and the American Way. But the inside skinny is that Blake feels hoodwinked, and frankly, I can see the man’s point. Word is he wants the nomination to fail so he can appoint someone else quickly, before his second term expires, but he doesn’t want to be the hatchet man. He’s counting on the Judiciary Committee to do that for him. The Constitution gives them the right to advise and consent. So the Republicans are most likely hard at work searching for some nongay reason to withhold their consent. And given that there’s more of them than us on the committee, they probably will succeed.

“And,” Hammond added, “whether we like the man or not, if his nomination fails, it’ll be a major-league slap in the face to gay rights. What Roush said yesterday is accurate—we’ve corrected a lot of the prejudices and problems that have haunted the nation, or at least put laws into place that make it clear we don’t tolerate disparate treatment. But the law still doesn’t protect gay and lesbian people. We actively discriminate against them, prohibiting gay couples from sharing medical benefits and passing legislation with code names like the Defense of Marriage Act. Defense against what? Gay people, obviously.”

“Change takes time,” Ben said. “It’s a mistake to force it before the populace is ready. Could create a backlash. I know a lot of good people who nonetheless have sincere religious objections to homosexuality.”

“You always think the best of people—even when they’re at their worst, don’t you, Ben? You remind me of my boy.”

Ben blinked. “I didn’t know you had a son.”

“Not many people do. He died…well, quite some time ago. But he was a great kid. So full of optimism. Such a good spirit.” He paused reflectively. “Losing him was about the toughest thing that ever happened to me.”

“I can only imagine.”

“Hieronymous Carroll, we called him.”

“Hieronymous?”

Hammond grinned. “I know—it’s awful. What can I say? I was a Latin major.”

“Ah,” Ben said, nodding. “I studied Latin in college myself.”

“But your point is correct, Ben. There is still a lot of homophobia in this country.”

“Nonetheless, I believe we will eventually have gays on the Supreme Court. Even in the White House. Eventually.”

Hammond slapped the back of his chair. “You know what? So do I. I’m just not sure I’ll be alive to see it.” He ran his fingers through his graying hair. “But if someone’s going to go down in the history books as the senators who took a stand against the last bastion of prejudice—why not us?”

“Tempting, I must admit. But I keep coming back to the same stumbling block: he’s a Republican.”

“Like it or not, Ben, the next justice appointed to the Court is going to be a Republican, this one or some other.” He gripped Ben firmly by the shoulder. “Will you do something for me? Come out to the man’s house with me tomorrow. He’s setting up a press conference—to make an announcement as to whether he’ll comply with the President’s unspoken request, or whether he’s going to tough it out. There’ll be people swarming all over the place. Everyone wants to talk to him, but he’s promised me a solid hour when he’ll talk to anyone I bring him.”

“An hour’s not long. Especially if you’ve invited a lot of people. Perhaps another day would be better.”

“An hour will be long enough. And tomorrow he’ll be expecting visitors. It’s not far from here, Ben. What better have you got to do? Meet him. Talk with him. See if he doesn’t impress you as much as he impresses me. Then make your decision.”

Hard to turn down such a reasonable request. “May I ask another question? Why me?”

“Modesty rearing its ugly head again?”

“No. I just know that there are more influential senators around than yours truly.”

“Who says you’re the only person I’ve invited? I’ve been shaking the bushes all morning. Getting a regular junket going. But I know many of our brethren will never support a Republican candidate. They may not oppose him too hard, especially now that such a position could be perceived as anti-gay. But they won’t support him. They’ve got constituents. Careers.”

“And I don’t?”

“You weren’t elected. You didn’t raise campaign funds. You’re not beholden to anyone. Last I heard, you hadn’t even decided whether you’ll seek another term. For a U.S. senator, you have a rare degree of independence. And let me also say that I think I’m a pretty good judge of character. I’ve read your résumé, Ben. I remember that big case you had in Chicago, the gay-bashing hate crime.”

“But I represented—”

“I know. Nonetheless, everyone recognized where you stood on the fundamental issue of equal rights, and I don’t imagine that’s changed much since then, has it? Bottom line—you’ll do what your heart tells you to do, and damn the consequences.” He leaned forward eagerly. “This boy Roush—he needs someone like that. He needs a friend.”

Ben walked to a window and gazed across Constitution Avenue to the Supreme Court building, the home of the most momentous legal decisions in the history of the nation. Could anything possibly be more important than helping determine who would write the next nation-shaking opinion? “I don’t know…”

“So come meet the man. That’s all I’m asking. Bring that pretty little fiancée of yours. You know,” he added, looking Ben directly in the eye, “a lot of our colleagues serve in this chamber for twenty, thirty years, and never do a damn thing of any consequence. You’ve been here a few months and you’ve been given a chance to make history. To change the face of the world. Can you really afford to pass that up?”