The Divine Appointment (3 page)

Stella had hoped there would be no vacancies during the Wallace presidency. Even now she still couldn’t comprehend how he had been elected eighteen months earlier. She detested Richard Wallace. He represented everything she opposed, and since the day after he was elected, Stella had been working day and night to ensure that he wouldn’t be reelected.

But fate—and pancreatic cancer—had handed President Wallace an opportunity to change the shape of the Supreme Court, and Stella was determined to thwart him at all costs. Had one of the four conservative justices died, it wouldn’t have been an issue. President Wallace could have appointed whomever he wished and Stella wouldn’t have raised a hand. But Justice Robinson’s seat was a different story altogether.

No legal scholar needed to speculate about how Justice Robinson would vote on certain cases or issues. Her opinions were very predictable—always to the extreme left of every issue. And Justice Robinson stood, unwavering, on the one issue that was of paramount importance to Stella—the right of a woman to choose to have an abortion. That’s why Stella admired her so much.

Pushing her red-rimmed bifocals farther up from their resting place at the end of her nose, Stella dared anyone to cross her, particularly on this day. The National Federation for Abortion Rights—the largest pro-choice organization in the country—carried tremendous weight, and she was president. Her Avenue of the Americas office was the main war room for the campaign to defeat any conservative Supreme Court candidate nominated by President Wallace.

Stella made her grand entrance at 10:00 a.m., just as she did every day. Her employees scampered to hiding places when she entered, but she caught a couple in the break room before they could escape. She barked instructions at one of them and yelled at the other. After they ran scared from the room, she smiled to herself and poured a cup of hot coffee. Then she strode off to her office. She loved the power. Aides and staff all scurried to satisfy her demands. The NFAR office buzzed with the same noise and energy as a campaign headquarters during the last few days of an election. Justice Robinson had been dead less than twenty-four hours and Stella had her office ready for battle.

Once inside her personal office, Stella plopped down in her chair, reviewed her battle plans, and began making phone calls to senators’ offices and news outlets. She demanded to be interviewed on CNN, NBC, CBS, ABC, and Fox so she could spew her venom at President Wallace and any nominee he submitted. Executives with every network and cable news station cowered and agreed immediately to whatever she wanted. Nobody dared to cross the heavyset, midforties redhead who was known for her cutthroat politics. Next Stella called the newspapers and demanded op-ed space in the
New York Times
, the
Washington Times
, the
Washington Post
, and the
Los Angeles Times
, to name a few. By noon all her demands were met, and she checked the media off her to-do list.

“Valerie,” Stella called out from her chair behind the desk. Covering the phone, cradled to her ear, with her hand, she peered over the top of her glasses at her assistant. “I need an updated list of every appellate court judge—state and federal—in the country who is a member of any right-wing legal organization. That’s where Wallace is likely to look.”

Valerie Marcom scribbled notes on a steno pad. She had been working for Stella for the better part of the last five years. She was of average appearance, with short, mouse-brown hair, and wore black-rimmed glasses. Stella kept her around because she did what she was told and never complained.

Valerie nodded. “I’ll get some of the legal-clinic students to work on it right now.”

Stella had more volunteers from the legal clinics of the law schools in New York City than she could possibly need. But she put all of them to work anyway. The more young, liberal minds she could foster, the better for her own future…and that of NFAR. Two dozen of them were currently scattered throughout the NFAR offices, eagerly awaiting instructions from Stella.

“That’s a great idea,” Stella replied. “And contact our largest donors. We’re going to need at least twenty-five million dollars to fight this campaign in the media and in the Senate.” She paused. “Make arrangements for me to attend the memorial service on Friday.”

“Have you heard who he’ll nominate?” Valerie asked.

“Not yet, but it won’t matter. Anybody he nominates will be unacceptable.”

Washington DC

Jessica Caldwell had served two years as a law clerk for Justice Robinson. The news of her death on Tuesday was difficult to take. It wasn’t unexpected, but that didn’t make it any less difficult to stomach.

Justice Robinson’s body lay in repose in the Great Hall of the Supreme Court Building on Lincoln’s catafalque for two days before Friday’s memorial service. Jessica arrived at Reagan National Airport from Nashville just after 10:00 a.m. eastern time on Friday. She flagged a cab to take her to the Washington National Cathedral and arrived just as the memorial service began.

For the past couple of days, she had gone back and forth about whether to attend the service. After all, she had memories of living in Washington DC for the two years during her Supreme Court clerkship. Many were pleasant memories, but others were downright awful. Those memories—the awful ones, the ones that made her sick just thinking about them—had almost kept her away. But in the end she decided she owed more to Justice Robinson than a mere donation to the American Cancer Society.

After her black leather handbag was searched and a metal detector waved over her black dress and black shoes, Jessica entered the cathedral through a pointed-arch doorway and sat near the back. President and Mrs. Wallace sat in the front-left row with the Robinson family. Senators, congressmen, Supreme Court justices, and other Washington dignitaries filled the first twenty rows of each section of pews. Secret Service agents—some she could see, but she was certain others were blended in with the crowd and into the walls—were scattered throughout the church.

Jessica sat in a crowded pew between two other women also dressed in black and whom she didn’t know. She smiled politely but didn’t engage either in conversation. They were probably just well-dressed sightseers, she guessed. She crossed her legs at the ankles, sliding them under the pew and setting her purse nearby. She clutched a tissue in her left hand.

The organist played “Amazing Grace” as a prelude—which struck Jessica as odd for Justice Robinson’s memorial service—on the great organ. Jessica had never seen nor heard of Justice Robinson attending church, much less making any reference to God. Yet the priest spoke eloquently about Justice Robinson’s life. His speech was followed by words from President Wallace, then a member of the Robinson family.

Jessica dabbed occasionally at the corners of her eyes during the hourlong service. She had admired and respected Justice Robinson for her intelligence and jurisprudence. When the great organ began to play the recessional, Jessica left the sanctuary and descended the concrete steps in the front of the building. She hailed a cab for the return trip to Reagan National. She had been back in Washington long enough.

Just as she opened the rear passenger door to the cab, someone grabbed her arm from behind.

“I need to talk to you,” a voice said.

Jessica jerked her head around and faced the voice. Gradually she backed into the cab. The voice sat down beside her and closed the rear door.

“Just drive,” the voice ordered the cabdriver.

The law offices of Elijah J. Faulkner, Jackson, Tennessee

The building that housed Eli Faulkner’s office was located one-half block west of the courthouse square in downtown Jackson, on Washington Street. Rays of sunshine were slowly chasing away the chill on Monday morning when Eli pulled into the alley between his office building and the First National Bank building and parked in his reserved parking space. The weekend had been pleasant, and he had played a rare round of golf on Sunday afternoon.

Now it was back to work. Eli entered the building through a rear door. He climbed the back staircase to a landing on the third floor that opened into the kitchen his employees used mainly for morning and afternoon breaks.

The building had been a very popular hotel during the late 1800s and early 1900s. Several political dignitaries had occupied various rooms during those years—some for reasons that remained untold. The facility had been in a serious state of disrepair when Eli bought it at a foreclosure sale three years earlier. It had taken six months to rehabilitate the structure, but he was quite proud of the finished product. The old Otis elevator in the lobby of the building was still operational and serviced all three floors of the historic hotel. Eli had converted the third floor into an enviable suite of offices. The bottom two floors were likewise remodeled and leased for more than enough money to cover the mortgage.

“Good morning,” Barbara said as Eli emerged from the stairwell. She was in the kitchen refilling her coffee cup. Even though her face was perhaps fifteen years past its prime, Barbara tried to look younger. Employees joked about her standing appointment at the beauty salon to replenish the dark red color in her hair at the first sign of a gray strand. She exercised regularly and had a steady boyfriend. He was a salesman or a truck driver or had some such occupation that kept him on the road often. Eli had met him at the office Christmas party last December but had immediately forgotten his name.

“It’s a little cool outside for the third week of May, isn’t it?” Barbara stirred her coffee and propped herself against the kitchen cabinet.

“It’ll warm up soon enough.” Eli lingered in the kitchen, preparing his own cup of hot liquid breakfast with caffeine, flavored creamer, and sweetener. “And”—he grinned—“we won’t even notice because we’ve got a busy day.”

Barbara nodded in agreement.

“Come into my office in a few minutes and we’ll get our game plan prepared.”

With that, he disappeared—coffee mug in hand—into the hallway that led to his office in the back of the building. The old wood floor creaked with each step he took.

A borderline perfectionist, Eli kept his office orderly. Every book was in its place, and his desk was free of clutter. His life was organized, too, and he liked it that way. The discipline had been instilled in him through high school and college athletics. At six feet two he wasn’t tall enough to play professional basketball, but he had never lost his love for the game. He still played in an early morning pickup game at a local high school gym two days a week.

The office decor was minimal but tasteful. Frames with matted undergraduate and law school diplomas from the University of Tennessee hung on one wall of the room, next to his license to practice law. A settee and two leather wingback chairs formed a sitting area across from his most cherished piece of furniture: an antique partners desk. The desk occupied a prominent position in the middle of the room. The dealer from whom he’d acquired it had tried to convince him that it had been used by Supreme Court Justice Learned Hand. Eli wasn’t that gullible, since he knew Judge Hand had never served on the Supreme Court. But Eli was convinced that the leather-covered top and oak drawers contained many personal and historical secrets that would never be discovered.

The whole room exuded success…for good reason. In his ten years as an attorney, Eli had risen head and shoulders above his peers. Now, at thirty-five, he was recognized as one of the best trial lawyers in Tennessee. He was at the point in his career where he possessed the two traits most important to a successful lawyer. He was old enough to have the necessary experience in handling difficult cases but still young enough to be hungry.

The legal business had been good to Eli. He had a nice home. Luxury cars. A large bank account. He had no complaints about where he was in life. And he knew exactly where he was going.

He and Sara had been high school sweethearts and had married as soon as they graduated from the University of Tennessee, in Knoxville. She had studied primary education. He had studied political science. He had gone on to law school, and she had supported them during those lean three years. Eli had worked for another law firm in Jackson for a couple of years, but since he’d started his own practice eight years ago, Sara hadn’t worked outside the home.

Barbara entered Eli’s office not long after he did, and the two of them spent the better part of an hour reviewing files and charting a course of action on each. Barbara made notes in a steno pad of the files on which she needed to prepare drafts of discovery requests and on which depositions needed to be scheduled. Armed with enough assignments to keep her busy for several hours—even days perhaps—she left Eli’s office to return to her workstation.

“Hold my calls,” Eli directed as Barbara left. “I’ve got some things I need to get finished this morning, and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

Barbara nodded and closed the door to his office as she exited.

Eli removed several files from his credenza and stacked them neatly on his desk. He opened the first one and began dictating a letter to the opposing attorney about scheduling a date to conduct depositions of physicians who had treated his permanently injured client. But his mind wandered, and he laid the dictation recorder on his desk. He ran his fingers through his hair and stared across the room at nothing in particular. Losing concentration had become a common occurrence since his argument with Sara last week about having children.

He wasn’t certain why that particular disagreement troubled him so much—especially since they had disagreed in the past about having children. But this time it had been almost a week, and he was still bothered by it. Was it because he’d violated the old adage of not going to bed angry? Or was it because Sara had cried herself to sleep? She had never done that before.

Eli sighed. Sara was a great wife. She didn’t deserve to be upset about anything. He would make it up to her somehow…

The built-in intercom in the telephone on his desk rang, startling him. He punched the button to speak to the intruder.

“Your wife’s on the phone,” Barbara said over the intercom before Eli had an opportunity to scold her for disobeying his instruction.

Eli picked up the receiver and pressed the blinking light to connect to the line on which Sara was holding. “Hey, honey. I was just thinking about you.”

“Really?” She sounded surprised and pleased. “What about?”

“Just how wonderful you are. What are you doing for lunch?”

The Oval Office, the White House, Washington DC

President Richard Wallace entered the Oval Office at precisely 5:30 a.m. on Tuesday for his therapeutic daily quiet time. It was never completely quiet at the White House, but this time of day was the quietest. A carafe of coffee, pastries, and fresh fruit were waiting for him when he arrived. The two Secret Service agents who escorted him from the third-floor residence assumed their post immediately outside the office door after he entered.

“Preacher is in the Oval Office,” one of the agents said into the tiny microphone hidden in the sleeve of his suit coat. President Wallace liked the code name the service had assigned to him. He had overheard one of the agents using it not long after the primaries were over and had inquired about its origin.

“You act like one, sir,” came the stiff reply. Whether it was meant as a compliment or not, President Wallace wasn’t certain, but he decided to take it as one.

He had been elected to the presidency after two terms as the governor of South Carolina. The race was close. His opponent had more money as well as the backing of popular celebrities from both coasts. Liberal-interest groups ran television ad after television ad critical of Wallace’s social conservatism, but that seemed only to fuel his own campaign. When the votes were tallied, he had won, and that was all that mattered. Now was the time to make good on his campaign promise.

President Wallace and Lauren had been married for thirty years and had two children. Thomas was in medical school at Duke, and Joann was a senior at the University of South Carolina in Columbia. Even though the demands of public service were great, he had vowed never to shortchange his children. And he had followed through on that vow. He had attended every athletic event, every recital, and rarely had missed an evening meal. He had also introduced each of them to Jesus Christ, the most important Person in his life. Best of all, his children were following through on their own commitment to God.

Before sitting down to his simple breakfast, President Wallace gazed around the room. He respected the Oval Office and had made sure when he took office that certain furnishings remained from prior administrations. The white marble mantel from the original Oval Office—constructed in 1909 on the south side of the White House—adorned one wall; the American and presidential flags stood faithfully on either side of his desk; and the presidential seal embossed on the ceiling presided over all meetings. President Wallace had chosen the resolute desk given by Queen Victoria of England to President Hayes in 1880 as his personal desk, although it was necessary to remove the two-inch base that President Reagan had added for his lanky frame in 1981. The paintings and prints that covered the walls of the Oval Office were of lighthouses and seascapes. They were on loan from museums throughout his native South Carolina.

After preparing a cup of coffee with a dash of half-and-half and two cubes of sugar, he settled in behind his desk for his morning Bible study. Purposefully, he studied a passage from the fourth chapter of Esther in the Old Testament, focusing on the woman who was called by God “for such a time as this.” President Wallace could relate. He felt certain, and humbled, that God had chosen to put him in the position he had and knew that he also was called to serve “for such a time as this.” He prayed every day that he would be worthy, knowing that he never would be but accepting the responsibility that lay before him. And, like every day, when he had completed his Bible study, he spent time conversing with God.

Then he began to review the contents of a stack of manila folders that had been placed on his desk overnight. He began with the clippings of headlines and news articles from newspapers around the world and the translation summary that accompanied them. Media reports were rarely accurate, but it was important to digest what information was being disseminated to the world’s population.

Next were intelligence reports. The Middle East was always boiling, but recently there were elevated concerns about terrorist cells in Sudan and the Philippines. One folder contained a report on North Korea’s and Iran’s nuclear production. He read through the reports briefly before placing them in the manila folder printed with the words
For the President’s Eyes Only
. The national security advisor, secretary of state, and CIA director were scheduled for their daily briefing with him at 8:00 a.m., and he’d get a detailed overview from each of them then.

President Wallace laid his reading glasses to the side, stretched his legs, and refilled his coffee cup. With fresh coffee he began to work through the economic reports: consumer spending, durable goods orders, unemployment data. All seemed to indicate that the economic policy his administration had implemented was performing splendidly.

President Wallace closed the last of the manila folders and placed them in the stack for the morning file clerk to retrieve. He heard some stirring in the outer office and glanced at his watch.

“Already six forty-five,” he mumbled to himself.

His daily meeting with his chief of staff was scheduled for 7:00 a.m. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. Foreign and domestic policies were certainly important, but President Wallace had something else on his mind this morning.

There was a light knock on the door.

“Come in,” President Wallace called, knowing his brief peace and quiet was gone for the day. He rose from his desk chair to greet Porter McIntosh as he entered the room.