Mr. Justice (12 page)

The Prince
, written in 1513 but not published until after Machiavelli’s death in 1532, was one of the most significant books ever written about the art of politics. Its essential contribution rested in Machiavelli’s assertion of the then revolutionary idea that theological and moral imperatives had no place in the political arena. “It must be understood,” Machiavelli had written, “that a prince cannot observe all of those virtues for which men are reputed good, because it is often necessary to act against mercy, against faith, against humanity, against frankness, against religion, in order to preserve the state.”

That was precisely what Burton was trying to do: “preserve the state.” Or at least that was what she kept telling herself when she arranged Ku Klux Klan hits on innocent people who got in her way.

The senator sat back in her captain’s chair. Her eyes scanned the four television screens in front of her. CNN was in the midst of what was likely its tenth story of the day about the “crisis in North Korea.” MSNBC was broadcasting some sort of political talk show hosted by a former legislative aide to a backbench congressman. CNBC was squawking about the latest insider trading scandal rocking Wall Street. Last but far from least, FOX News was busy spinning out conspiracy theories against the “liberal establishment” in general and the “liberal media” in particular.

But then everything changed in the blink of a digital eye. All four twenty-four-hour news networks cut to an anchorperson for “breaking news.” Burton turned up the volume on the television tuned to CNN. She muted the other three. She leaned forward in her chair. She cupped her chin in her hand.

“This is Marie Gonzalez in Washington,” the anchorwoman said. “CNN is reporting that Kelsi Shelton, a student assistant to Supreme Court nominee Peter McDonald, has been wounded at her apartment in Charlottesville, Virginia.” The anchorwoman, who barely looked old enough to have graduated from law school herself and who undoubtedly had landed her plum assignment as part of CNN’s diversity initiative, continued. “There’s no word yet about whether Ms. Shelton has survived the attack… . Stay tuned to CNN throughout the day for updates on this developing story.”

Burton switched off the TVs and smiled. She opened
The Prince
and began rereading her favorite passage. For the first time since her grandson’s suicide, she thought that her plan to capture the presidency might actually work. Burton loved her grandson, and she was being sincere when she had stated publicly that she supported her daughter and son-in-law’s lawsuit against the University of South Carolina “one hundred percent.” But she loved power more and realized soon after her grandson’s death that she might be able to parlay that tragedy into the most powerful office in the world … an office currently occupied by a black man.

CHAPTER 41

The University of Virginia Medical Center had received a fifty-million-dollar upgrade two years earlier. It was a good thing, too. Otherwise, Kelsi Shelton wouldn’t have stood a chance.

The EMT burst through the emergency room door. “Laceration to the abdomen! Massive blood loss! Patient isn’t conscious! Stat! Stat, goddamn it! Stat!” The EMT maneuvered the stretcher down the congested corridor like Jeff Gordon on a NASCAR track.

The ER doctor came running. “Excuse me!” she said as she weaved through a sea of nurses, orderlies, and hospital staff. “Excuse me, please!”

The UVA Medical Center usually wasn’t this busy. However, a school bus had slid off the road in Albemarle County, and dozens of injured teenagers were in need of medical attention.

“Geez, Doc,” the EMT said. “It’s like Foxfield in here.”

Foxfield was the annual steeplechase that drew thousands of people to the Charlottesville area every spring. That was a happy day. This wasn’t.

“I know. It’s nuts.” The ER doctor directed her attention to Kelsi Shelton. “What happened?”

“Campus police said that somebody stabbed her. Can you imagine such a thing? This is a university town, for God’s sake.” The EMT was still pushing the stretcher down the corridor. “Lucky for her, a friend came in and found her. Lucky for her, her friend had decided to skip class this afternoon.”

The ER doctor was eyeballing the location and depth of the stab wound. “Bring her to trauma five. I just hope we’re not too late.”

Dr. Morris Tanenbaum appeared on the scene almost the instant he was paged. Normally, the pressure of prior commitments would have made it difficult for him to answer a page in less than fifteen minutes, but this page concerned a nominee to the Supreme Court of the United States.

“Welcome back,” Dr. Tanenbaum said to his patient. “We were worried there for a while.” The doctor couldn’t hide his joy.

Peter McDonald stared up at Tanenbaum. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He said, “Where am I? Wh… what happened?”

Tanenbaum said, “You’re at Bethesda Naval Hospital. You got shot. I’m Morris Tanenbaum, the doctor in charge of your case.”

McDonald’s eyes searched the room. He still didn’t appear to know what was going on or where he was. “What do you mean, I got shot? Who would want to shoot me?”

Tanenbaum inched closer to the bed. He checked the IV bag and the heart monitor. Both were in good shape. He entered these facts onto McDonald’s chart. “The police said that it was probably someone who wanted to keep you off the Court.”

The mention of the Court snapped McDonald back to coherence. “Where’s Kelsi? Is she all right?”

Tanenbaum swallowed. “We don’t know yet. She wasn’t hurt when she was with you, but she got stabbed earlier today.”

“Stabbed! I need to see her!” McDonald swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to struggle to his feet.

“Don’t, Professor. You need to stay put. Besides, Kelsi’s not here. She’s down in Charlottesville at the UVA Medical Center.”

“Then that’s where I’m going.” McDonald pulled the tubes from his arm and scavenged through the closet for his clothes.

CHAPTER 42

The stabbing of Kelsi Shelton was receiving major play in the national media. CNN, MSNBC, CNBC, and FOX News had been focusing exclusively on the story for the better part of the afternoon, while ABC, NBC, and CBS were devoting special reports to it during breaks in their regular programming. Even E! and MTV were covering the story. People got attacked every day in the United States, but they usually weren’t beautiful research assistants to telegenic Supreme Court nominees. TV journalists lived for stories such as this one.

The ER team was working feverishly to save Kelsi’s life. A doctor applied compression to try to stop the bleeding. A nurse attached an IV bag and a heart monitor. A second nurse watched Kelsi’s breathing. Both her heart and breathing were extremely weak.

“We’re losing her,” the first nurse said.

“
Come on
, Kelsi,” the doctor said. “Stay with us. Stay with us!”

Kelsi wasn’t responding.

The second nurse handed the doctor the defibrillator. The doctor hadn’t asked for it, but this particular ER team had worked together long enough that each member anticipated what the others needed.

“Clear!” the doctor said. She applied the paddles to Kelsi’s chest and administered a two-hundred-volt shock.

The first nurse said, “Still falling.”

“Give me three hundred.” The doctor administered another shock.

“Still falling.”

“Four hundred… .  Clear!”

“Got it,” the nurse said.

The ER team issued a collective sigh of relief as the patient’s vital signs began to stabilize.

The doctor pulled her surgical mask from her face, wiped the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her scrubs, and said, “Any word on Professor McDonald?”

The second nurse said, “The news said he’s going to make it.”

The first nurse said, “They called from Bethesda to let us know that he’s on his way.”

“Here? To the hospital?” The doctor pitched her surgical mask into the wastebasket. “Tell them to stop him. Kelsi’s not ready for visitors. Kelsi’s not out of the woods.”

CHAPTER 43

“Please, get back in bed.” Secret Service Agent Brian Neal watched helplessly while his body—Supreme Court nominee Peter McDonald—struggled to pull on pants. “You’re not well enough to travel.”

Dr. Morris Tanenbaum said, “He’s right, Professor.” Dr. Tanenbaum sounded more helpless than Agent Neal did. But the doctor was hoping to play a trump card.
Please
, he said to himself. Ring.
Ring.
He stared at the telephone on the nightstand next to McDonald’s bed. Unlike the proverbial watched pot, this phone did ring.

Tanenbaum sprang across the room to answer it. “Mr. President,” he said. “Thanks for calling.”

McDonald and Neal both froze. Mere mention that the president—
any
president—was on the phone tended to elicit that sort of reaction. It always had, and almost certainly always would.

Tanenbaum next said, “Yes, Mr. President. He’s here.”

The doctor handed the telephone to McDonald.

The professor said, “Good afternoon, sir.”

Peter McDonald had spoken to Charles Jackson on only one prior occasion. But he would never forget that conversation because of where it had occurred and what they had discussed. The place: the Oval Office. The topic: filling a vacancy on the nation’s highest court.

That particular week had started out innocently enough. McDonald had faced the usual crush of publishing deadlines, teaching preparations, and law school committee meetings. However, on Tuesday, February 5—McDonald would never forget the day—he returned to his office to find a telephone message taped to his computer screen. The note, written in his secretary’s familiar succinct style, read:

PM:

Call Jim Westfall at the White House ASAP.

MJ (2:47 p.m.)

Speculation about who would be nominated to replace Edwin Crandall on the Supreme Court had dominated the blogosphere that week, and any law professor with even a pea-sized brain would know what the message from Jim Westfall meant. McDonald certainly did. But before he returned Westfall’s call, he wanted to talk to Jenny about it.

McDonald could have contacted his wife on her cell phone, but this news was too important for anything except a face-to-face conversation. The principal reason that Peter and Jenny McDonald’s marriage had stayed so strong for so long was communication. At least that was what Jenny would remind McDonald of every time he reverted to the tight-lipped behavior that John Gray had described so vividly in his mega-selling book
Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus
. Jenny had bought her husband the book on CD so that he would have no excuse not to read it.

“What are you doing home?” Jenny said when her husband strode through the back door of their four-bedroom colonial on the south end of Charlottesville. She was folding laundry on the kitchen table. “I thought you had office hours this afternoon.”

McDonald smiled at his wife and kissed her on the forehead. Twenty years into their marriage, he still got chills when he saw her. “I canceled them. Where’s June Bug?”

“She’s taking a timeout in her bedroom. She’s been a little cranky this afternoon. She threw a tantrum when I told her to stop wiping her muddy paws on her new outfit.” Jenny reached into the laundry basket for another batch of clean clothes to fold. “Why did you cancel your office hours? Unlike most of the prima donnas over there, you never do that.”

McDonald chuckled at his wife’s perceptive remark about his law faculty colleagues’ dislike for holding office hours. Meeting with students took time away from research and writing, they insisted. He said, “You might want to sit down for this one, Jen.”

Jenny’s brows furrowed. “Did something bad happen?”

“No.” He pulled out a chair for his wife. “Please, Jen. Sit.”

Jenny sat. She rested an elbow on a pile of laundry. “What is it, Peter? The suspense is killing me.”

McDonald rubbed the heel of his hand across his cheek to erase any trace of the powdered donut he had eaten on the ride home. He was supposed to be dieting. “I got a call from Jim Westfall today.”

“President Jackson’s chief of staff?” Even housewives with small children to raise knew who Jim Westfall was. Or at least Harvard-educated ones did. “It’s about the vacancy on the Court, isn’t it?”

“Probably.”

“‘Probably?’ You mean you haven’t called him back?”

McDonald blushed. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wanted to discuss it with you first. It’s not like I’m being asked to deliver a paper in San Diego over the weekend. It’s a lifetime commitment. And not just for me. Do you really want your life to change that much, Jen? And what about Megan’s? Wherever she goes, she’ll be known as the daughter of a Supreme Court justice. Is that fair to her? She’s a little kid.”

As if on cue from Steven Spielberg, Megan Mallory McDonald came skipping into the kitchen. “Daddy!” She raced to her father and wrapped her tiny arms around his waist.

McDonald lifted his daughter into the air, smothered her with kisses, and said, “Hi June Bug.”

“Did you bwing me a prethent?”

McDonald always brought something for Megan when he came home from work. Jenny said he was spoiling her, but given the difficulty they’d had becoming pregnant, she never discouraged the practice.

McDonald searched through his pockets and retrieved an individually-wrapped Lifesaver he had snatched from his secretary’s candy dish. “Here, June Bug.” He handed his daughter the candy.

“Yippee! … A Lifethaver!”

Jenny beamed at what was transpiring in front her: pure, unadulterated love between a father and daughter. She said, “Obviously, Megan will go anywhere you need her to go, Peter. So will I.” She rose from her seat, ran her fingers through her daughter’s tussled hair, and kissed her husband softly on the mouth. “Accept the nomination, Peter. You’ve earned it.”

CHAPTER 44

Peter McDonald snapped back to the moment. “Good afternoon, Mr. President.”