Deadlock (36 page)

“I haven’t seen a specific case yet,” Millie said. “The time will come, I’m sure.”

“Come on, don’t duck this. Do you still believe that right is Constitutional?”

Did she? All of the arguments from her days in law school, on the Court, in briefs and at orals, came rushing back to her. For a moment it all seemed a jumble, a thicket she had no hope of fighting through.

“I’ll word my question another way,” Riley said. “Do you believe a fetus has the rights of a person?”

“Tom, until I get a case — ”

“Let me help you. You know that verse in the Bible, the one we always see in
amicus
briefs. It’s from the Psalms, I think. It says something to the effect that God knits babies in the womb. And there are other Bible quotations about God knowing people before they exist. I suspect that’s what Bill Bonassi believed.”

Millie’s head was starting to feel the grip of some huge fist. “I find this offensive, Tom.”

“Are you telling me you are the same today as you were last term? Or any previous term?”

“I am a different person in some ways — ”

“At the core, Millie. You have had a religious
conversion
. Are you saying that won’t affect you at all?”

“I don’t know!”

“And if it does, what will that do to our reputation?”

Millie’s stomach twisted. Riley’s logic was solid, as always. His ability to foresee the consequences of laws made him one of the most insightful of the justices. His insight cut like a knife.

“One thing has not changed,” Millie said. “I care just as much about the Court as you, Tom. And I am not going to let politics influence what I do here. I will fight this bogus impeachment business. And I will continue to do what I think is right as a judge.”

“I am going to fight back,” Riley said. “I — ” He seemed then, for the flicker of a moment, to break down. But his face clamped back any emotion. “That’s enough,” he said.

Millie wanted to say something, but could find no other words. She stood and walked out. The loneliness Millie felt on the way back to her chambers was overwhelming, a cavernous feeling of loss. Even Rosalind, her clerk, seemed to have put up, if not a wall, a veil. And Paul had resigned. At least Rosalind had said she didn’t want to leave Millie in the lurch.

“Ready for argument?” Rosalind asked. “I have the briefs and bench memo ready.”

“Thank you, Rosalind.”

The young woman nipped at her bottom lip with her front teeth. “It didn’t help, did it?”

“What didn’t help?”

“Talking to Justice Riley. I saw you go in.”

“No, not much.”

The clerk nodded, concern on her face. Millie put a hand on her shoulder. “I know it hasn’t been easy on you,” Millie said. “And I am truly sorry. But I want you to know how grateful I am that you’ve stayed. It means a great deal to me.”

Rosalind nodded.

“Come on,” Millie said. “It’s time to get to the bench.”

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Hardball.

Sam Levering played hardball, played to win, always had. He was never sorry, though sometimes he felt a little pang when an opponent went down in flames. He felt a little sorry for Millie Hollander. The photos that the smarmy reporter took, and the insinuations about her love life, were almost below the belt. Almost. But it had to be done. And he still had Anne Deveraux to take the fall if worse came to worst.

There was also something arousing about hardball. Whenever he hit one out of the park, as he’d just done with Hollander, he found his libido returning to youthful levels. At such times he wanted two things. A drink and a woman. The former would be sour mash whiskey. The latter could be just about anyone. Tonight it was a blonde named Sondra.

The Capitol building’s nearly one hundred “hideaway” offices were virtually unknown by the public, roped off from tourists with snapping cameras. Marked only by door numbers, many of the hideaway offices had gilded crystal chandeliers, floor-length mirrors, fireplaces, and frescoed walls. They were ostensibly for members of Congress to escape the demands of their regular offices. But Levering had discovered the real use was far more personal. LBJ, when he was Senate Majority Leader, had made legendary use of them for his “hideaway honeys.” What was good enough for a president, Levering reasoned, was good enough for him.

And room S–326-A, where Daniel Webster had once stored his wine, was his favorite.

Sondra — she must have been about twenty-five — giggled as Levering led her inside.

“Shh,” he said. “It’s past ten. The walls have ears.”

“So do you,” she said, playfully biting Levering’s right lobe.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “But keep it down.” The Capitol police were sometimes nosy.

Levering kept a bottle of bourbon in a cabinet near the window. The little minx did not drink anything except wine, but the bottle at dinner seemed to have done the trick.

As he poured himself a bourbon, Sondra snuck up behind him and kissed his neck. She giggled again. That could get old, he mused. Better to drink and get down to business.

His cell phone bleeped in his pocket.

“Oh, no,” Sondra said like a pouting coquette.

“I’ll turn it off, honey,” Levering said. “Just let me take it.”

He flipped the phone open.

“Levering.”

“This is Detective Markey.”

Something like steam heat — part anger, part alcohol, part unfulfilled desire — flushed Levering’s face. “How did you get this number?”

“Sir, I have to — ”

“I don’t want anybody calling this who isn’t — ”

“Sir, if I may — ”

“I’m gonna have a little talk with your commanding officer, boy, you better believe it.” Levering waited for an audible show of contrition.

“We found him,” Markey said.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Elijah. The homeless man who was a witness to what really happened that night with Justice Hollander.”

The steam was coming out of Levering’s nostrils now. “Listen!”

“You’d better listen, Senator. You know this man.”

“I don’t know anything about him. I told you that.”

“We’ve made a positive ID from the prints.”

“I’m hanging up now — ”

“It’s your son, Senator.”

An invisible hand gripped Levering’s throat. He held the phone to his ear, as if pressing it against his flesh would erase what was just said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Senator,” Markey said. “The body is that of Tad Levering.”

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“They found him!” Anne squeezed the cell phone like an arm wrestler.

“Whoa,” Ambrosi said. His phone crackled. He was probably between big buildings in the city.

“In the river,” Anne said.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“He was the senator’s own son.”

Pause. “So? What do you want me to do about it now?”

“I don’t know what I want.” And she didn’t. The walls were closing in around her.

“Your boss going mental?” Ambrosi asked.

“Oh, yeah. He was on edge before. But this . . .”

“Look, maybe I can help. The both of you.”

“Help?”

“I have a sense of pride here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I did a job for you. You didn’t like the results. Okay. Happens. You got access to fifty thousand?”

The sudden shift to money talk jolted Anne. “Of course. But why?”

“Let me do another job for you. This one will be clean.”

“What sort of job?”

“A biggie.”

He seemed to Anne to be smiling.

“Tell me,” Anne said.

“I been following the whole thing about the justice. What’s her name?”

A prickling came to Anne’s neck. “Hollander.”

“I could take care of that.”

Unthinkable. Absolutely unthinkable. Anne opened her mouth to tell him so. Then stopped. Unthinkable, yes, but in an incredibly exciting way.

“I can’t let you do it,” Anne said.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Too risky. There’s all sorts of security. Especially now.”

“Hey,” Ambrosi said. “You don’t remember what Al Pacino said? Somebody told Al he couldn’t whack this guy. Al says if history teaches us anything, it’s that you can kill anybody. He’s right.”

“Look, we better get off now,” Anne said. “When can I see you?”

“After.”

“After what?”

“I’ll let you know.”

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2

In the moonlight, the back acre of Bill Bonassi’s property looked like the realm of a ghost story. There were no colors, only differing shades of light and dark.

Millie and Bonassi sat on the verandah. Millie wondered if this would be the last time she did so as chief justice. Tomorrow, according to new reports, the House committee would release its report, and recommend that the members vote to impeach Millicent Mannings Hollander.

“This is only the beginning of the fight,” Bonassi said, trying as always to encourage her. Usually it worked.

Not tonight. Tonight she felt it all slipping away. As if, out in the shadows of the huge lawn, the forces of darkness were gathered to declare victory.

“But the fight is dirty!” Millie said. “They had someone taking pictures of me at the hospital! While my mother was dying some sleazy photographer was snapping away. And the alcohol story! Bill, is it un-Christian to want to claw their eyes out?”

“Righteous anger is allowable, I should think.”

“How can they do this to the Court?”

“They can because they want to scorch the earth. If the Court gets burned up, so be it. You’re a threat to them now. They’ll say anything, do anything.”

“I want to talk. I can’t stand this. Let’s call a press conference.”

“I’m preparing a statement,” Bonassi said calmly. “It will emphasize that an impeachment is nothing more than an indictment, and that anyone accused in this country is innocent until proven guilty. We seem to forget that sometimes.”

“But when do I get to speak?” Millie asked.

“Right now the dogs are barking. They won’t hear you.”

“But when?”

“We’ll know when.”

Millie let out a labored breath. Her chest was tight. “I wish I had your faith, Bill. I’m still not there.”

“Faith takes time. Instant faith is not very hearty. The Bible says it’s the
testing
of your faith that develops perseverance.”

“Why?” Millie said. “Why is this happening?”

Bonassi laced his fingers together. “That question is most often answered after the fact. You look back, and you see what God’s pattern was.”

The word plucked an inner chord in Millie. “My friend, the minister in California, said something like that. God weaving a pattern for the good of those who love him.”

“Ah, yes,” Bonassi said. “Romans 8:28. The reverse paranoid text.”

“Excuse me?”

Bill Bonassi’s smile was moonlit. “The Scriptures make an incredible claim that, for those who follow Christ, God arranges things so that
your good
is the final outcome. He is out to get you, you see, but out of love. You are a reverse paranoid if you believe this.”

Millie shook her head slightly. “Seems almost too good to be true.”

“That’s a pretty good definition of God, isn’t it?”

“The polls, I’m told, have been running 3–1 against me. And the newspapers and TV news — ”

“Forget ’em!” Bonassi said. “We have truth on our side.”

Millie flashed to the sign on Tom Riley’s desk.
Vincit omnia veritas.
And then, suddenly, she knew what would save the Court.

“Riley,” she blurted.

Bonassi looked at her.

“Riley is the key,” she said.

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