The Divine Appointment (7 page)

“What time did you come home last night!” Evelyn screamed as her husband entered the dining room dressed and ready for another day in the Senate chamber.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but it was about two this morning.” Lance sat down in a chair at the opposite end of the table and began reading the front page of the Monday-morning edition of the
Washington Post
.

“Who was she this time?” Evelyn demanded.

He held the newspaper in front of him, intentionally blocking Evelyn from seeing his face. It was a defensive tactic he had used on numerous occasions to aggravate her and to remind her that she was of little importance to him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Evelyn,” he replied from behind his paper shield.

“Don’t give me that, you lying philanderer! You know exactly what I’m talking about!” She glared at him, burning a hole through the newspaper from the opposite end of the table.

She hated him. What was worse, she knew he didn’t care. That was the way it had been for years. Thirty years ago they had been in love. But infidelity, lies, and mental abuse had a way of changing things. She was glad they didn’t have any children. It would’ve been a terrible marriage to be born into.

“I need a cup of coffee, Hazel,” he called out.

Hazel nervously entered the dining room with a cup and saucer and set it on the table in front of him. A small amount of the coffee sloshed over the rim of the cup and filled the saucer. Hazel hastily wiped the saucer and bottom of the cup with the hem of her apron before returning to the kitchen.

“Lance, look at me!” Evelyn yelled after Hazel left the room. Her frustration had reached a breaking point. She knew there had been other women with whom her husband had intimate relationships. How many she wasn’t certain, but it no longer mattered whether it was one or one hundred. She had reached a point where their marriage wasn’t worth salvaging.

Lance unhurriedly folded the newspaper at its creases and placed it to the right of his unused breakfast plate. He crossed his arms over his chest and returned her long, piercing stare. “What?” he said in a condescending tone.

“Who was she?” Evelyn demanded again. She banged her hand on the table, and the two china coffee cups rattled against their saucers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was calm.

Lance’s calmness angered Evelyn even more. He was a liar and a cheat and had no remorse about either.

“You’re lying, and I know you’re lying!” she screamed. “You think I don’t know about all of your other women? You think I enjoy having people come up to me and tell me that they saw you with someone else?”

“C’mon, Evelyn, you get as much out of this marriage as you put into it. We haven’t loved each other in years. Do you honestly expect me to come home night after night to a loveless place like this?” He waved his arms at the walls around them.

“You may not love me,” Evelyn cried, “but I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“That’s not true, and you know it. When was the last time you ever directed any affection to me?”

Awkward seconds elapsed. Evelyn opened her mouth to speak but had nothing to say.

“You can’t think of anything, can you? That’s because you don’t love me. You’re in love with being a senator’s wife,” he accused her. “You love the parties, the privileges, the lifestyle. Not me.”

“You may have convinced yourself of that to ease your conscience about your infidelity, but despite what you may think, I’ve always loved you.” Courage suddenly welled up inside her. She decided to risk saying the words out loud that she’d only been able to speak silently to herself before now. “But if that’s the way you feel, then I want a divorce.”

“Let me tell you something,” Lance growled.

Evelyn shivered at the rage in his face.

“You don’t want a divorce. You know why? I’ll tell you why. Because I’ll ruin you, that’s why. You’ll get nothing out of a divorce. I’ll make sure of it. You’ll end up homeless and broke, without any friends. Is that what you want, Evelyn?” He paused briefly.

Evelyn knew the pause was to make sure she absorbed the fullness of his wrath and completely understood the consequences of her demand. She had seen it before in every argument they’d had.

“Do you want your little drug problem spread over the front pages of the newspaper?” Lance snatched the newspaper from its resting place beside his plate, waved it at Evelyn, and slammed it back down on the table.

Evelyn could feel the color leave her face, and her stomach lurched. Her heart began to race, and although she tried to hide it, she was certain her body was trembling. He had made his point.

“You didn’t think I knew about that, did you?” he said proudly. “But I know all about it. I know about the doctor hopping so you can get more painkillers. I know about all of it. Now you listen to me.” His voice was calm, but forceful, and he brandished a menacing finger at her. “Don’t
ever
mention the word
divorce
to me again. I’ll come and go when I want, with whom I want, and you won’t complain about it. Do you understand me?”

Evelyn’s body still shook. She was unable to form a verbal response to his question. She could only muster a slight nod.

“Good,” Lance said as he rose from his chair. “Albert,” he called toward the kitchen door, “I’ll get something to eat at the office.”

And he left the room.

Evelyn continued to stare at the empty chair where Lance had been sitting. It took minutes for the trembling to finally subside.

But it did subside. And there, in the midst of her fear, she decided she’d had enough.

Washington DC

Over the weekend journalist Holland Fletcher saw the AP wire-service report from Nashville on the death of Jessica Caldwell and the subsequent arrest of Todd Allen Grissom, MD. He made a few phone calls, got quotes, and used the wire report to write a crisp but short article that appeared on page fifteen in section A of the Sunday
Washington Post
. It wouldn’t have otherwise been newsworthy except that Jessica had been Justice Robinson’s law clerk. The article said nothing more than the facts: she was murdered, a doctor had been arrested, and she had previously served the late-Supreme Court justice. That story was stale by Sunday night, and he thought nothing more about it.

Holland was always telling his parents, his college fraternity brothers—and the few girls he could get to date him—with enthusiasm that he was an investigative reporter. He was twenty-eight and had gotten an entry-level job at the
Post
two years earlier, right after he’d broken a story of city government corruption while working at a weekly newspaper in a small town in Virginia. The editors at the
Post
had liked his writing and offered him $30,000 a year, a metal desk, and long hours. He’d jumped at the opportunity. Those same editors were still waiting for him to demonstrate the
investigative
part of being an investigative reporter.

Holland had thinnish red hair that lay flat against his scalp, got little exercise, and generally stayed out too late.

It was still dark when his phone rang Tuesday morning. He pulled the pillow over his ears and tried to ignore it. Four times it rang. Then the answering machine clicked on. No message.

He rolled onto his back. Within a minute the phone rang again. He managed to focus enough to see the clock: 4:30 a.m. He hadn’t seen 4:30 a.m. from this direction since…since—He couldn’t remember the last time he’d awoken at 4:30 a.m. The caller ID indicated that the call was from a restricted number.

He finally answered after the next ring. “Fletcher,” he mumbled.

“Is this Holland Fletcher with the
Post
?”

A woman’s voice
. Holland held the phone in his left hand and rubbed his bleary eyes with his right. “One and the same. Who is this?”

“I’d rather not say.”

Holland sighed into the phone. The conversation barely kept him awake. He thought about hanging up. Any wacko playing telephone pranks at this hour of the morning deserved to hear the phone slammed in her ear.

“Well, Ms. ‘I’d rather not say,’ can you at least tell me why you’re calling?”

“I saw your article about the Caldwell girl in Sunday’s newspaper. That was real sad.”

“Yeah, it was sad. Look, I need to get back to sleep. I have to be at work in less than four hours.”

“There’s more to her murder than you know.”

Holland sat up on the side of the bed. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell you right now. You just need to look deeper and you’ll see what I’m talking about.”

“You need to at least give me something so I know you’re credible.”

There was silence on the other end. Holland thought the caller had disconnected the call.

“How about the name of President Wallace’s nominee?” the female voice asked.

Holland was fully awake by this time and was up pacing in his pajama bottoms. He stopped and stared through the second-floor apartment bedroom window. Every talking head and print reporter was trying to get the name of the Supreme Court nominee. A short list had been talked about. It had been pared down to five through leaks from the White House and Capitol Hill, but nobody had identified the leading candidate.

“You know the name of the president’s nominee?”

“Yes.”

If this woman, whoever she was, had the name of the next Supreme Court justice, then she was on the inside. Deep inside.

“Who is it?”

“I’m not going to tell you unless you agree to investigate the Caldwell murder further.”

“All right, I promise.”

“You really promise?”

“I said ‘I promise,’ didn’t I?”

“I know who you are, Mr. Fletcher. If you’re lying to me, so help me God, I’ll get even with you somehow.”

Holland raised his eyebrows in the dark at the threat and went back to pacing. “I said ‘I promise,’ and that’s what I meant. Are you going to tell me or not?”

After another brief silence the woman said, “A judge from Mississippi named Dunbar Shelton.”

“Dunbar Shelton?” Holland chuckled. There was simply no way a Southern judge could get appointed to the Supreme Court. “He’s not even on everyone’s short list.”

“Whatever. I know he’s the one.”

“Assuming you’re right about Shelton, where do you suggest I start in investigating the Caldwell murder? It happened in Tennessee, you know.”

“She worked at the Supreme Court building. Start there.”

With that the line went dead. Holland stood still with the phone in his hand for five or six seconds before placing the receiver back in its cradle. He shook his head. He was kidding himself if he thought he could convince his editor to run a story about Dunbar Shelton based on an anonymous phone call.

The Oval Office, the White House, Washington DC

Porter McIntosh paced anxiously as he waited for President Wallace to return from a Tuesday-morning meeting with the joint chiefs of staff. It wasn’t good news that had brought Porter to the Oval Office, so what was only fifteen minutes of waiting time felt like hours.

At last President Wallace entered the Oval Office. “What’s the matter, Porter?”

“Collins over in Justice told me he got a call from a cub reporter named Fletcher at the
Post
. He was trying to get Collins to confirm that Dunbar Shelton is the nominee.”

The president hung his suit coat in the closet and sat down behind the desk. “Fletcher? I’ve never heard of him.”

“Me neither, but I checked it out. There’s a Holland Fletcher who’s a reporter at the
Post
. Fortunately Collins is far enough down the ladder that he knows absolutely nothing about the background investigations or who rose to the top of the list. His denial was genuine.”

Porter was still pacing. It was too soon for Judge Shelton’s name to get out. And they wanted to announce it on their terms.

“Sit down, Porter,” President Wallace ordered. “You’re making me nervous.”

Porter sat down in a chair across the desk from the president. He folded his hands into a little steeple under his chin.

They both sat in silence for a moment, thinking.

“Who do you think leaked it?” the president finally asked.

“I don’t even know if it was leaked. The kid may be guessing, hoping to get a response. Shelton isn’t on anyone’s list.”

“All the more reason to think it was leaked, right? If Shelton was on everyone’s list, then the reporter would have a reason to be asking about him. But since he’s not, then this Fletcher got information from someone who knows.”

Porter had hoped that without confirmation Fletcher would go away. But he probably had enough to run the story already. “You’re right,” Porter relented. “There’s a leak.”

“Where are you with Proctor’s office?”

“I hope to finalize the deal with the devil this afternoon. You sure you still want to do this? We could take control of the Senate if we take those three races.”

Porter watched President Wallace as he thought briefly—very briefly—and smiled confidently.

“I’m sure, Porter. As sure as I am of my own name. Who do you think leaked it?”

Porter was back up pacing again with his arms rigidly locked together behind his back. “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to anyone other than the attorney general and Cooper. I don’t think it would be anyone in the AG’s office.” He stopped and pondered. “It must’ve come from Proctor’s office.”

The president stood and walked to the window leisurely. “And if they’re leaking, then they must plan on reaching an agreement with us on the nomination.”

“Or they may be trying to embarrass us. They leak Shelton’s name and then say there’s no way Senator Proctor’s going to support him. Too conservative, antiabortion, and all that. That would make us look like fools.”

Porter kept pacing and the president continued to face the window. Silence reigned again in the room.

At last Porter spoke to the back of the president’s brown-and-gray head.

“What if I call this Fletcher and feel him out? Pick his brain a little and see where he got his information? If he’s bluffing, I’ll know it.”

“If you call him from out of the blue, he’ll be suspicious,” the president said to the window. “Then he’ll know for sure that he’s on to something. I think you leave it alone. If his best contact is a low-level staffer in Justice, then he doesn’t have the right contacts. If he prints it and it gets out a little earlier than we wanted, no big deal. I’m going to nominate Shelton whether Proctor is onboard or not. The upside is, if you don’t call him, maybe he won’t print it.”

Porter didn’t like going into the confirmation battle without Proctor as an ally.
Ally? Is Senator Proctor really an ally?
But he knew the president was serious when he said Shelton was the nominee, with or without Proctor. As sickening as the thought seemed, Porter preferred to have Proctor as an ally in this process rather than an enemy.

“You’re right. It’s probably better not to call.”

President Wallace turned from the window and faced Porter.

Porter stopped pacing. He was near the sofa.

“See if you can reach Cooper this morning and get the deal finalized,” the president urged.

The Hart Building, Washington DC

Senator Proctor was behind his desk working the crossword puzzle in the
Washington Post
while Cooper was on the telephone with Porter McIntosh. He had only completed a couple of the answers in the puzzle. He was stuck on thirty-two across. The senator didn’t like Porter and made Cooper talk to him.

Cooper, wireless to his ear, was slouched on the leather sofa. Senator Proctor didn’t pay attention to Cooper’s exact words but noticed his big smile. Cooper victoriously pumped his fist in the air and nodded rapidly. He said a few more words before flipping his wireless shut and moving toward Senator Proctor.

“We’ve got a deal,” Cooper announced excitedly. “The president will stay out of the races in Wyoming, Kansas, and Kentucky, and you’ll support Dunbar Shelton’s nomination.”

Proctor lifted his chin. His seat of power was now completely secure. He had been only slightly worried about it, but now there was nothing to worry about at all. He was confident he’d rule for years to come.

“That’s good news. It might be time to redecorate my office again, Cooper. By the way, what’s a five-letter word for
discombobulated
?”