Capitol Threat (5 page)

5

T
hey trampled the petunias.

Thaddeus Roush had known his actions would attract a certain degree of attention. No, he had known he would set off a firestorm. But it hadn’t really sunk in—it hadn’t seemed real—until he found a platoon of reporters buzzing around his house like ants in an ant farm, shouting for him to smile or toss them a quote, as if he were a trained seal performing for their damned minicams. Yesterday he was an unknown; today, they all wanted a piece of him.

The grass was ruined, positively ruined. And the petunias were destroyed.

Ray’s petunias.

Roush sat in his library, one hand pressed against his forehead, the other clutching a Scotch-and-soda that he had not even sipped. Never in forty-seven years had he experienced a day like this one. Up before dawn for a meeting with the President, who behind the closed doors of the White House asked all the questions he was not supposed to ask. Abortion. Gun control. Even gay rights. And Roush hadn’t lied, either. He didn’t for a minute believe the framers of the Constitution intended to provide any rights to homosexuals, penumbral or otherwise. Such a thing would have been unheard of at that time. Any rights of that nature had to come from the legislature, not from the Constitution—and certainly not from the Supreme Court. And so President Blake, confident that the forty-seven-year-old bachelor posed no overt risks, had led him to the Rose Garden and publicly bestowed ringing praise about his judicial acumen, even though Roush was quite certain the President had never read any of his opinions and never would.

Then Roush sandbagged him. He dropped his little surprise in full view of the nation, the tiny revelation that changed everything.

Even as he had approached the podium, he wasn’t sure he would be able to do it. He’d known he should; it was a matter of conscience. As he’d said, he would not live a lie, not once he became a public figure. Furthermore, by coming out as he did, he could make a stand for tolerance in the political arena that could benefit thousands, perhaps even millions, of Americans.

But only at a cost. Yes, he’d known he should do it. Yet in the final seconds leading to the utterance of the speech, he was not certain that he would. Did he have the courage, not only to look the unblinking camera in the eye and tell it who he really is, but also to face the subsequent consequences? The painful price of honesty?

The questioning following his announcement had been extremely awkward and was soon curtailed by the POTUS staff, who treated him as if he had sold nuclear secrets to a hostile nation. The President himself disappeared, probably never to be seen by Thaddeus Roush again. Blake’s chief of staff harangued him for the better part of an hour, saying Roush had abused their trust to forward his personal agenda. And perhaps she was right. Who could say? Roush never felt as if he were advancing an agenda; he was a judge, not an advocate. But he did have a core instinct for the difference between right and wrong. Hiding would have been wrong.

Although he had used the phrase in his speech, he never saw what he had done as “coming out of the closet.” He’d never considered himself in the closet. His sexual preference wasn’t a secret; it was simply something he never talked about. Heterosexual judges never talked about their sex lives; why should he? He knew many of his friends suspected the truth; for that matter, he knew that the President’s investigators who had been burrowing into his life for the past two weeks suspected it. So long as it wasn’t out in the open, it wasn’t an issue, not even for the farthest of the far right. But he had brought it into the open. He had changed everything.

When the White House had finally released him and he came home, Ray was waiting for him. They stared at each other for the longest, most excruciating time. But neither spoke.

Should he have told Ray what he planned to do? Of course he should have. It seemed so obvious now. By outing himself, he had outed his lover as well. Ray should have had some say in that. Chalk it up to Roush’s muddled state of mind. He was running on instinct, blind instinct, more impulsive than compulsive, more feeling than planning. Ray had always been adamant about remaining apart from Roush’s political and judicial work—in part because he wasn’t really interested, and in part because he was a fiercely left-wing liberal.

Roush wondered what the press would do with that, allowing himself a tiny smile. Strike Two for the President’s investigators—they hadn’t discovered that, either.

And Strike Three was the Big Secret. The major-league blot that the investigators had missed altogether. The hidden piece of his past that made his homosexuality utterly unimportant by comparison.

Surely that was too long ago, too far in the past.

Who was he kidding? If he had learned anything from his brief foray into politics, it was this: There’s no such thing as too long ago.

He should have told the President about that secret. Or at the least, declined the nomination for unspecified reasons. But how could he pass up such a momentous opportunity? The crowning achievement of his career—an intellectual feast! It would take a stronger man than he to say no to the Supreme Court, even though he knew that if the truth were ever revealed…

But he was worrying himself unnecessarily. Why should it ever be revealed? No one had discovered the truth in the past. None of the investigators associated with any of his previous appointments had so much as sniffed the scent of the truth. There was no reason to believe anyone ever would. It was long ago and far away, water under the bridge. It had been a mistake, but we all make mistakes, and Roush was entitled to move on. No one could stop him…

Or so he had believed. So he had tried to tell himself until he saw the phone message, the single pink slip in a massive pile of pink slips that actually mattered. It seemed there was another downside to being the subject of the latest media blitz.

The past can find you. Ghosts can return to their old haunts.

Enough. He would need rest if he were going to face the onslaught of the new day. Senator Hammond was bringing over a junket of potential friends. Sadly enough, having been virtually abandoned by his own party, he was forced to look across the aisle to the Democrats for support. That would give Ray a good deal of pleasure.

He needed to be in top form. Since his previous press conference had been abruptly curtailed, he would have to answer more questions from the press. He would be expected to tell them whether he would bow to the call from dozens of right-wing organizations to step down.

And he would have to try to find some way to reconcile with Ray, some way to atone for what he’d done.

He would have to deal with the consequences of revealing his secret, while simultaneously praying that the Big Secret never came to light. He could survive being labeled a traitor, a liar, even a faggot. But no one was likely to lend their support to a murderer.

6

B
en had never before visited Montgomery County, Maryland, a well-heeled suburb outside D.C. He didn’t much care for it; it didn’t seem so much like a real town as it did an overgrown, overpriced housing development—or several housing developments absorbing one another like a multicelled bacterium to create the semblance of a community. Prefab cottages and sprawling McMansions stretched as far as the eye could see, huge spreads located far enough away from the urban centers that they remained affordable to the upper middle class in a way that anything older or closer would never be. There were neighborhoods like this back in Tulsa, Ben knew, especially as you moved south of midtown, where more square footage could be obtained for less. The distance from the notoriously high crime districts of D.C. probably worked in the neighborhood’s favor, too. Still, he didn’t like it. There was something creepy and artificial about it. Like a Stepford town. An overgrown theme park. Not a real city.

But of course, that was the opinion of a guy who lived in the upstairs apartment of a semi-seedy boardinghouse, so what did he know? Christina’s eyes lit up like a pinball machine as they pulled into the driveway. She had been urging Ben to look at houses. They would need something larger, she said. She understood Ben’s attachment to the boardinghouse, to the legacy Mrs. Marmelstein had left him, but they would need more space after they were married.

After they were married.
He still couldn’t say it, or even think about it, without picturing a fleecy word balloon above his head reading
“Gulp!”

Judge Roush’s front lawn was so encrusted with reporters that Ben couldn’t tell whether he liked the exterior of the house or not. But the interior was definitely to his taste. Lots of wide open spaces, not much clutter. Ben hated houses that were filled to the brim with tchotchkes, a never-ending array of doodads. He didn’t do that with his place. Of course, he didn’t really own any doodads.

If Christina moved in, she would bring all of hers. The ceramic pig collection. The knickknack tribute to all things French.

Was it a bad sign that shivers ran up his spine?

This house appeared to have been decorated sparely by choice, and that said a lot about its occupants. It had a modern feel: straight lines, white paint, lots of light flooding in from the wide windows, flat ceiling—almost Frank Lloyd Wright flat—and modern art on the walls.

“Is that a Chagall?” Ben asked, pointing to a predominantly pink and blue watercolor above the sofa in the living room.

“Indeed,” Senator Hammond answered. “You have a good eye, Ben.”

Well, a good eye for the signature at the bottom. “I’m going to assume it’s a print.”

“Actually, it’s a page removed from an art book. But the signature is genuinely Chagall’s. One of the last things he did before he passed away. It’s quite valuable.”

“And this,” Ben said, pointing to the spot-illuminated painting on the opposite wall, “is a Dalí?”

“Right again. From the
Paradise Lost
series.”

“Wasn’t there a problem with forgeries after Dalí’s death?”

“It wasn’t forgeries, exactly. It was the difficulty of distinguishing actual Dalís from the work of his students, which he sometimes signed, particularly late in life. But this is the real thing. Thaddeus knows his art. He’s been collecting for many years.”

“It’s my passion.” Ben turned and saw the new Supreme Court nominee standing behind him. “One of them, anyway.”

Ben shook his hand. “And what are your other passions?”

“Truth. Justice.” He motioned Ben toward the nearest sofa. “And unicorns. I love anything with a unicorn on it.” He smiled. “That last part was a joke.”

“Thank goodness.” Ben eyed the man sitting opposite him. He looked different up close than he did on television, or even on a somewhat distant brightly lit dais. He supposed anyone would. He was tall and trim, dark-haired—just a hint of gray—with prominent brows and a crescent nose. Roush was dressed casually in a polo shirt and khaki chinos, but he had clearly paid close attention to what he was wearing. Probably obsessed over exactly what image he wished to convey, Ben suspected. He knew
he
would. And now Roush had the added problem of having to dress in a manner that was attractive but not…fussy. Dandified. Or any of the other euphemisms his opponents would be using to remind everyone that he was gay. “You must be exhausted. Bob tells me you’ve been talking to senators all morning.”

“I’d rather be grilled by senators than by that horde amassed on my front lawn.” Ben didn’t doubt it. “I haven’t had so many people around my home since we hosted the block party. The press conference isn’t until four in the afternoon. They started setting up their equipment at four in the morning. Can you believe it? I’m the scourge of the block. I’ll be lucky if they don’t drum me out of the neighborhood association.”

Ben doubted that was much of a threat. “Looks like you have quite a spread here.”

“Oh, two acres. Honestly, I only bought the surrounding lots to prevent them from being developed. This town was in danger of becoming a little too cookie-cutter, if you know what I mean.”

Ben raised an eyebrow.

“Then Ray got into gardening and, well, you can see for yourself.”

“Where is Ray, anyway?” Hammond asked. He turned to Ben. “Did you know this man’s partner used to be my law clerk? About a million years ago.”

“Small world, huh?”

“So it seems,” Roush said. “Anyway, after Ray put his green thumb to work, this little house became the tail that wags the dog. Can I show you around?”

Roush took Ben through the rear sliding doors and gave him a guided tour of the grounds. The backyard reminded Ben of the Philbrook mansion in Tulsa—which had the most magnificent garden he had ever seen in his life, until now. What Roush had called the “backyard” was actually a rectangular expanse that stretched almost to the low horizon, all of it planted, all in excellent shape. The lawn was virtually manicured. The flowering plants were clipped, the bedded flowers were in bloom. Roush identified each for Ben as they passed, usually offering the Latinate name as well as the common. As they strolled down the cobbled path, Ben marveled that a garden could seem so rich and wild, yet simultaneously seem perfectly planned and ordered. Even if Roush wasn’t the primary gardener, it was clear he took great pride in it. Ben wondered if all the senators who were visiting today had gotten the backyard tour, and what effect Roush imagined that might have on them. He couldn’t help thinking of
Pride and Prejudice:
Elizabeth Bennett initially rejects the presumptuous Darcy, but her feelings change when she sees the artistry and majesty of his estate, Pemberley. Perhaps Roush was hoping for a similar transformative effect.

After the tour, Roush took Ben into his private library; the walls were lined with beautiful Folio Society editions of the classics. The man Ben recognized from the press conference as Roush’s partner, Raymond Eastwick, was sitting on the sofa reading a magazine.

“Ben,” Roush asked, “have you had a chance to meet Ray?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” Ben said, extending his hand. As he did, he couldn’t help but notice the contrast between the two. Eastwick was larger, a little heavy, stronger-looking. He was dressed in jeans, and one of the knees was soiled. Early morning weeding, perhaps.

“Pleasure’s mine,” Eastwick said, “and I mean that. Been with Taddy for seven years, and I think this is the first day in all that time there’s been another Democrat in the house.”

“You’re on the side of the forces of goodness and light?”

Eastwick laughed. “Yeah. It’s a mixed marriage. But somehow, we make it work.” He gave Roush an odd look. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

Roush poured Ben a glass of lemonade, then took a seat across the coffee table from him. Senator Hammond came in from the other room and joined them. “What can I tell you about myself?” Roush asked.

“As far as your public life goes,” Ben said, “that’s all over the airwaves. Not to mention the Internet. Your personal life is a little sketchier. Any problems?”

Roush tugged at his collar. “No. The President thoroughly vetted me. How could I possibly have any secret bigger than the one I revealed yesterday? And that wasn’t a secret. That was just none of anyone’s business.”

“Well…are there any other tidbits of information that are none of anyone’s business but might nonetheless derail your confirmation?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll go out on a limb and assume you tilt to the right.”

“I am a Republican. I’ve voted for the Republican presidential candidate all my life.” He paused. “But I’m a reasonable man.”

“I read your Fifth Circuit opinion in
Chalders v. Boring.
You struck down the parental notification requirement in the state abortion law. Even though the Supreme Court upheld the one in Oklahoma.”

“They were very different statutes. The one in
Chalders
clearly violated the right to privacy—even allowed the state to put women’s names on the Internet. I wasn’t ruling on the constitutionality of abortion. I was ruling on the appropriateness of a specific statute.”

“I got that,” Ben said, eyeing him carefully. He saw no hint of dissembling, no sense that the man was putting on a show. “But it’s a distinction a lot of die-hard Republicans I know wouldn’t have perceived.”

Roush held out his hands. “Like I told you, I’m a reasonable man.”

Ben kept watching the eyes. “At the same time, you buried the Connecticut gun control bill. The one the state legislature spent five years getting passed.”

Roush remained unruffled. He maintained eye contact the entire time he spoke. He was firm, but not insistent. “The statute violated the Second Amendment. Plain and simple. I know you probably don’t agree, but there was a sound Fifth Circuit precedent that provided persuasive authority. And just for the record, I didn’t ‘bury’ the bill single-handedly. It was a unanimous opinion. Even my distinguished Clinton-appointee colleague agreed.”

Solid reasoning, even if Ben didn’t much care for the result.

Hammond arched an eyebrow. “What did I tell you, Ben? He’s the real deal.”

“The real what? An honest man?”

“A thinking Republican.”

Ben decided to steer the conversation away from politics and judicial opinions. Christina had prepared an extensive brief on the man’s public life, and as far as Ben could tell, he was a dutiful and honest judge who did his work in a prompt and efficient manner. But there should be something more than a good work ethic in a man who wanted to be considered for a position on the highest court of the land.

“I know you probably don’t want to address specific issues like the death penalty—”

“Reprehensible,” Roush said, without blinking. “I don’t know if any government has the right to take lives. But we certainly don’t, given our gigantic error rate. How many people have been released from death row because DNA evidence proved they didn’t commit the crime of which they were convicted?”

“Over a hundred,” Ben said, more than a little stunned.

“Besides, we all know executions have been applied disparately on racial grounds. If they can target racial minorities, who’s next? I’m familiar with the Jay Wesley Neill case from your home state, Ben. The prosecutor repeatedly referred to the defendant’s homosexuality during his closing plea for the death penalty. He ended up executed by lethal injection—while his partner and co-conspirator got life. Appalling.”

Ben felt his eyes widening of their own accord. That case was a notorious blight on the history of Oklahoma jurisprudence. Although the appeals court criticized the prosecutor’s remarks, the decision was not reversed and the defendant was executed.

“The whole death penalty situation is an international embarrassment,” Roush added. “We run around the world preaching to others about human rights, while simultaneously carrying out a practice considered unjust and inhumane by virtually every other civilized nation.” He drew in a breath. “So, you see, I part ways with my party on this issue.”

And how often did that happen in this day and age? Ben wondered. He glanced at Hammond, who was beaming from ear to ear.

“You’re probably familiar with Senator Hammond’s Environmental Protection Wilderness Bill,” Ben ventured. “My fiancée has been working for months to get that bill to the floor.”

“She must be glad Senator Hammond is in the Senate,” Roush replied. “He’s the only man on earth who could get that bill passed, especially in the current political climate. Ditto for the Poverty bill, and that stands to benefit—what—around three million poor and indigent people?”

“Yes. But the bill hasn’t passed yet.”

“And you’re concerned that even if it does, the Supreme Court will kill it. Not without reason. It does raise some constitutional issues regarding congressional power and the interstate commerce clause that are not frivolous.”

Ben waited. He didn’t want to ask the question.

“Of course,” Roush said, “it would be inappropriate for me to comment on a specific pending law.” He leaned forward and smiled. “But just between you and me, if I killed a piece of environmental legislation, that handsome young man you met a few minutes ago would never forgive me. And if I killed an antipoverty bill, I would never forgive myself.”

Ben tried to be skeptical. “Even if there were constitutional issues involved? The rules say you have to enforce the letter of the law—and damn the result.”

“The rules.” Roush turned his eyes skyward. “Even the most conservative, I’m-opposed-to-judicial-activism jurists in the country apply the rules when and where they see fit, and we all know it. Are you telling me
Bush v. Gore
was decided based on judicial precedent, or the letter of the Constitution—both of which require judges to stay out of the election process? Nonsense. The Republican members of the Supreme Court saw an opportunity to pick the next President and they took it.” He leaned forward. “I hope you don’t mind, Ben, but I’ve taken the liberty of asking my clerk to do a little checking up on you. It appears to me your whole career has been about applying the rules when it served a righteous cause—and looking the other way when it didn’t.”