Deadlock (32 page)

She jumped up and snatched the page that had just been cut from her ancient thermal-roll machine. The cover page made her heart jerk. It read “United States Court of Appeals, Eleventh Circuit.” Ten pages to come.

It was the decision.

The first page was squeezing out slower than cold molasses.

“Come on, come on!”

The page was a third of the way out of the machine. Charlene craned her neck so she could look at it. She could only read the caption, the case name, and the introductory gobbledygook that was part of every printed decision.

“Hurry up!”

With the first page halfway out, she saw the names of the three judges who had considered the case. She remembered their faces, heard their voices again as they asked questions of counsel. She heard Graebner’s confident answers, and her own stumbles as she tried to remain calm and clear.

What was the decision?

When the page was almost out she was at last able to read the first lines of the first paragraph. It gave an overview of the proceedings and the decision of the district court judge. Then the last line of the paragraph came into view: “For the reasons stated herein, we . . .”

The first page spat out.

“Move it!” Charlene railed at the fax machine. Page two was barely showing its top edge as it emerged.

Charlene gripped the edge with her fingers, as if she could coax it to go faster. The machine kept its own pace.

Her neck was starting to ache with the craning.

Finally, the next line came into view, and the first word was
reverse . . .

Breath left her.

. . .
the decision of the district court and remand for further proceedings.

Hot tears came much faster than the fax paper. Sarah Mae had won.

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2

The media camp outside Millie’s home was like a Russian circus. She herself had become the dancing bear. The story. Not her opinions, but her. It was the nightmare she had never wanted to happen in real life.

Now she knew what it felt like to be a prisoner in her own home. She’d seen the way politicians had to deal with reporters on their front lawn. Walking out with forced smiles. Trying to get in cars while cameras rolled. Putting up a false front.

She could never do that. What were her alternatives? Find a way to sneak around town? Ask, respectfully, for privacy? Fat chance they’d give it to her.

She was not going to watch television. She couldn’t stand hearing her name on the news.

She was about to burst. Helen hadn’t called since the bomb had exploded. Millie had left a message, but maybe Helen was out of town.

Millie walked to her front window and peeked through the blinds. The media camp was there on the street. A camera aimed at her from a van seemed to be looking right into her eyes. She quickly drew back.

Now what?

The phone rang. It seemed like the millionth time. She let her machine pick it up again. It hadn’t taken long for her private number to fall into the hands of the news outlets.

Then she heard a familiar voice.

“Millie, it’s Jack Holden. I’m here at the church. I just — ”

Millie snatched the phone. “Jack!”

“I’m so glad I got you. What is going on?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Millie said. “Just a replay of the invasion of Normandy out in the front yard.”

“That all?” Jack said. “Then I feel sorry for the other side.”

His light touch was comforting. She felt herself holding on, trying to stay rational.

“I don’t suppose you’ve been watching the religious stations,” Jack said.

“Unless Dan Rather is the pope, no.”

There was a pause. “A guy who has a network here is calling you a miracle from God. Says
Roe v. Wade
is finally going to be overturned.”

“Oh, no.” Millie’s stomach went into freefall.

“Looks like you’re getting it from both sides.”

“Why can’t they just let me do my job?”

Jack said, “Can I read something to you?”

“Please.”

“ ‘Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.’ ”

“I wish I felt blessed,” Millie said.

“It’s not a feeling. It’s a promise. ‘The God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.’ ”

“This is good stuff. You got more?”

“A whole bookful. You have anybody you can talk to back there?”

“Justice Bonassi. I’ve been meeting with him and his wife. They’ve been great.”

“That’s a godsend,” Jack said. “I’ve prayed you would find good support.” Then he added, “How are you doing, really?”

Millie thought a moment. “It’s hard, but I keep remembering what Mom used to say. Just let it roll off your back like a duck.”

“She was a wise woman.”

“What I don’t like is that it is such a distraction to the Court’s business. So I hope this blows over soon.”

“And when it does,” Jack said, “maybe I can come out there. And take you to dinner. That’d give the reporters something to talk about, wouldn’t it?”

She laughed, suddenly wishing he were here now.

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3

The barbershop for members of the House of Representatives was in the Rayburn House Office Building. A throwback to someone’s idea of a small-town hair salon, it sported a barber’s pole outside the door and three chairs. Since it had been privatized, the House barbershop had lost more barbers than it kept.

Sam Levering did not get his haircuts here. The Senate had its own, nicer, salon. His mission in the House shop was to find the House Speaker, Representative Brian Kessler. Kessler’s office had told Levering where he was, though that was no guarantee Kessler would actually be in the chair. House members were notorious for demanding an appointment with the barber, and then being late, often hours late, or not showing up at all.

But there he was, in the middle chair, being snipped by a short black-haired man.

“Hello, Brian,” Levering said.

“Sam,” Kessler said. “You slumming?” A fifty-year-old red-headed freckle face, Kessler was the quintessential boy next door. That was how he kept getting reelected. Only Levering and a few other insiders knew about certain practices that might have scandalized Kessler’s constituents.

“Can your man here take a break?” Levering said.

The barber shot a hard stare at Levering.

“Can’t this wait?” Kessler said.

“Knowing you, it can’t,” Levering said. Kessler was always doing three or four things at once. Levering wanted his undivided attention.

“Ermanno,” Kessler said. “Why don’t you give us a few minutes, huh?”

With an Italian version of
humph,
the barber walked out of the shop. Kessler spun around in the barber chair. Levering parked himself in the adjoining one.

“I want you to start thinking about impeaching Hollander,” Levering said.

Kessler remained impassive. He was a cool one. One didn’t get the speakership without developing an iron poker face.

“That’s pretty extreme, don’t you think?” Kessler said.

“Just start thinking about it, that’s all.”

“Are you nuts?” Kessler said, his cheeks starting to show the first blossoms of pink. “I don’t like the idea of messing with the Supreme Court.”

“What if the Supreme Court, by a slim majority, starts messing with our issues?”

Kessler shook his head. “Sam, you’re talking about the third arm of government. I don’t want to lead our party down that path.”

“Do you have any idea what might be at stake?”

Kessler pulled the apron off his chest and leaned forward. “Sam, listen. That’s going way too far. There would have to be a big public outcry for impeachment first.”

“You watch,” Levering said calmly. “There just might be.”

“There’s more to this?”

“I said watch. And be ready.”

Kessler ran his fingers through his incomplete hairstyle. Soon it would be lacquered down so even a typhoon couldn’t damage it. Levering had always admired Kessler’s hair.

“Look,” Kessler said, “I’m not going to make any commitments. At the most, I’ll wait and see.”

“You don’t have to wait to see. I’ll tell you how to proceed.”

A thin smile came to Kessler’s face. “You wouldn’t be trying to put the Arnold on me?”

The Arnold
was code on the Hill for strong-arming. “Let’s just say the president and I would much appreciate this little act of kindness.” Levering felt like Marlon Brando in
The Godfather.
It almost made him laugh.

“What if I refuse?” Kessler said.

“You won’t.”

Kessler’s soft cheeks became hot pink. “You think I’m going to sit here and let you — ”

“How’s your wife back in Sioux Falls?” Levering said.

Kessler’s eyes opened a little wider.

“Still in the first stages of Parkinson’s?” Levering asked.

“You slime.” Kessler said it softly, haltingly.

“Your social activities never need to get back to the old hometown,” Sam Levering said. “We’ll be in touch.”

On his way out, Levering dropped a dollar in the barber’s tip tray.

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4

Friday’s conference with the justices was like watching a slow, virulent cancer take hold in the body of the Supreme Court. Millie managed to make it through, but strain was clearly seeping into the chamber.

So she was more than grateful when Helen called, inviting her to lunch. She said she would come around with a driver and they’d go out to a secluded place by the Potomac for a picnic. It was the perfect plan.

The car entered the Court garage at one o’clock. It was a large black limo with tinted windows. Helen certainly knew how to do a D.C. power picnic, Millie mused as the driver opened the limo door. For a moment she thought she recognized him from somewhere.

When she got in, she knew. Seated next to Helen was Senator Sam Levering.

“What is this?” Millie asked. The door slammed behind her.

“Millie,” Helen said, “we have to talk.”

Speechless with shock and anger, Millie glared at the senator. The last time she had been in a limousine with him had not exactly been a pleasant experience.

“Madame Chief Justice,” Levering said with a nod.

“Helen, what is going on?” Millie asked.

The limo started up and Millie practically fell back into the seat. Outside the sun was shining. Inside the air was foul and close.

“We need to talk,” Helen said. “Sam — Senator Levering — and I are really concerned about what’s going on.”

Levering folded his ruddy hands across his stomach. “Madame Justice, do you know what Ambrose Bierce once said about politics?”

Millie just looked at the senator, anger rising in her like a flame.

“He said politics is nothing more than the ‘strife of interests masquerading as a contest of principles.’ A wise man, Bierce.”

“That politics should be without principle?” Millie snapped.

“You miss the point,” Levering said in his smooth, practiced manner. “We are awash in a strife of interests, that’s all, and you’re right in the middle of it. I want to see if I can help you out before the politics gets to the Court.”

Millie felt the tone switch to mild threat. She was livid. Threaten the Court itself? She would fight to the bitter end to protect the honor of the Court. “Just what is it you are suggesting, Senator?”

“A chance,” Levering said softly.

“A chance for what?”

“To survive.”

“The Court is strong enough to survive,” Millie said, “and so am I.”

The phony congeniality melted off Levering’s face. “Look, Madame Justice, what I’m talking about here — ”

He stopped as Helen put her hand on his leg. “Let me,” she said to the senator. Then to Millie: “What Senator Levering is trying to say, Millie, is a concern I share as well.”

“Why didn’t you come to me first?” Millie asked.

“It’s all bollixed up,” Helen said. “So much has happened. The point isn’t the past, though — it’s the future. Yours and the Court’s.”

Millie felt like screaming at them both to leave the Court alone. “Why don’t you both come out and tell me what you want?”

“I’ll take it,” Levering said firmly. “Many of us in Congress are very uncomfortable about you mixing religion and politics and the law. Very uncomfortable. Especially after a bunch of us went to bat for you. Not only to be CJ, but when you first came up as a nominee. You made certain assurances — ”

“No, Senator,” Millie said. “I never locked myself into a position on any issue.”