Mr. Justice (17 page)

“Come on,” Burton said again.

Clay followed the imperial wizard into the secret room behind the bookcase.

CHAPTER 58

Clay took a quick inventory of the room. He estimated the room’s dimensions at twelve feet by twelve feet with a ten-foot ceiling. Its walls were white marble, as were the walls in most of the rooms in the U.S. Capitol. But unlike the other rooms in the Capitol building, this particular room had a large cross in the west corner. No American flag. No South Carolina flag. Just a large wooden cross. The cross … always and forever … the fiery cross.

Burton directed Clay to the two chairs next to the cross.

Clay sat in the chair closest to the entryway. He noticed that both chairs were embossed with the seal of the U.S. Senate. The Senate’s seal, based on the Great Seal of the United States, included a scroll inscribed with the words
E Pluribus Unum
floating across a shield with thirteen stars on top and thirteen vertical stripes on the bottom. Olive and oak branches symbolizing peace and strength graced the sides of the shield, and a red liberty cap and crossed fasces represented freedom and authority. Blue beams of light emanated from the shield. Surrounding the seal was a legend that read,
United States Senate
.

This is surreal, Clay thought. He turned to Burton but was at a loss for words.

“What is it, son?” Burton said. “What did you need to talk to me about?” She placed her hand on Clay’s shoulder the way she used to do with her grandson.

“It’s about my uncle.”

“What about him?” Burton straightened in her chair. After all, Earl Smith was a member of the kloncilium, he was dead, and Burton had asked Clay to find out how he died. “Did you find out who killed him?”

Klansmen didn’t die. They were killed.

“Ye … yes …”

“Who was it, son? Who was it?”

“Me… . It … it was me.” Clay started to cry.

“
What
? You killed your uncle?
Why
, son? Why?”

“Because he was sleeping with a nigger woman.” The mere thought of such an unforgivable act had changed Clay’s demeanor from sorrow to shame. Earl Smith was Clay’s blood.

The secret room filled with silence, although if Clay listened closely enough he could swear that he heard the wheels in Burton’s head turning. Clay was no dummy—a student didn’t get admitted to the University of Virginia School of Law unless he was at the top of his college class and scored in the ninetieth percentile or better on the Law School Admissions Test—but he knew that Burton was operating at a different level. Only a truly brilliant woman could have had the kind of career that Burton had enjoyed: sitting U.S. senator, likely Republican candidate for president, and most important of all as far as Clay was concerned, imperial wizard of the Ku Klux Klan.

Burton said, “You did the right thing, son. I’m proud of you. Sleeping with a nigger is a sin. It’s an insult to the sacred order and a betrayal of everything that’s just and right.”

“But he was my uncle … my blood.”

“The Klan is your blood, son. When your uncle slept with a nigger woman,
her
blood became
his
blood. He ceased being
your
blood then. He ceased being your family.”

“Thank you for saying that, Your Excellency. That makes me feel a lot better.” Clay had stopped crying. “Is there anything you need me to do? I’m here to serve. I’m here to fight for what’s just and right.”

It took Alexandra Burton merely a moment to realize that someone as bright as Clay Smith, and someone who was willing to kill a member of his own family, could be of tremendous value to her. The senator—the imperial wizard—explained to Clay what she wanted him to do.

CHAPTER 59

Cat Wilson exited Interstate 95 about two miles north of Richmond and searched for somewhere to eat. She spotted the familiar yellow Scrabble-like letters and parked her dilapidated Chevy in the space closest to the door. The irony wasn’t lost on her: She had selected a Waffle House as her lunch venue. But she had never traveled outside of South Carolina before, she was nervous, and she wanted to eat at someplace she knew. Besides, she said to herself as she entered the diner, it would be fun to see how her colleagues did their jobs.

“Sit anywhere you like, hon,” a waitress said when Cat crossed the threshold.

“Thanks.” Cat grabbed a corner booth.

A different waitress approached. She looked like she was in high school. “Do you need a menu?”

Cat smiled and shook her head. “No, thanks. I work at a Waffle House in Charleston.”

The waitress returned Cat’s smile. “You’ve got the menu memorized then, huh?”

“Yep.”

“What would you like? Get whatever you want. This one’s on the house.”

Cat choked up a bit. She wasn’t used to people being nice to her… . Only Earl Smith was. Earl … “Thanks. That’s sweet of you. Since it’s free, I’ll have the All-Star Special!”

“A little thing like you?” The waitress was one to talk; she was as tiny as a teapot.

“Yep. I haven’t eaten a thing since yesterday mornin’.”

It took less than ten minutes for Cat’s meal to arrive, but she took her time eating it. She didn’t eat out much. She couldn’t afford to. Almost every dollar she earned she spent on her daughter. She wanted to savor the moment, even if the moment involved a couple of eggs over easy, hash browns, two slices of bacon, and a waffle.

Fifteen minutes later, the waitress topped off Cat’s coffee. “How’s everything?”

“Wonderful. Everything’s just wonderful.”

“Glad to hear it.” The waitress wiped the lip of the coffeepot with the spare napkin she kept tucked in her apron. “You never mentioned why you’re in our neck of the woods. Richmond isn’t exactly Atlantic City in the fun department.”

Cat took a sip of coffee. “Richmond’s just a pit stop on my way to D.C.”

“D.C., huh? What are you gonna do there? Are you on vacation?”

“Kind of.” Cat salted her eggs. “I’m hoping to surprise my boyfriend. He’s in D.C. on business. I haven’t heard from him in a while, and I miss him.”

“I love that sort of thing.” The waitress returned the spare napkin to her apron’s pocket. “It’s romantic. It’s like one of those old Meg Ryan movies my mom is always watching.”

Cat thought it was romantic, too. She could only hope that Earl agreed.

CHAPTER 60

Peter McDonald struggled to put on his shirt and tie. It still hurt when he moved. He planned to wait until the last possible moment to twist into his jacket.

Jim Westfall entered the room. He said, “Good morning, Professor. How are you feeling?”

McDonald had grown tired of that question. He was asked it seemingly every hour on the hour. He understood why: he had been nominated to the Supreme Court of the United States and he had been shot. He answered as he always did: “Fine, thanks.” Then, he said something new: “I’m just looking forward to getting these hearings over with. They make a Dickens plot look simplistic. It’s
Bleak House
all over again.”

Westfall said, “I know. We’re looking forward to the end zone, too. The president wanted me to pass along his best wishes. He also wanted me to say that he appreciates your continued willingness to serve our great country. He has complete confidence that you’ll be confirmed and that you’ll eventually go down in history as one of the finest justices to ever serve on the Supreme Court.”

McDonald wiggled out of his hospital bed and inched his way to a chair in a corner of the room. “Tell the president I’m grateful for his kind words.” McDonald sat. He grimaced when he did. “Is this where I’m supposed to be?”

“Yes. The camera’s up there.” Westfall pointed to a small TV camera hanging from a cord on the ceiling.

McDonald combed his hair with his fingers. “Obviously, the committee will be able to see me. But how will I see them?”

“Through the television. As you know, your hearings are being broadcast live on all the major networks. You’ll see what the nation sees.”

The nation saw a close-up of Senator Alexandra Burton.

The FOX News reporter said, “Good morning, America.” The reporter used to be a news reader for ABC and he often forgot that “Good morning, America” was a registered trademark of a rival television network. “After much delay, the Senate Judiciary Committee’s confirmation hearings for Supreme Court nominee Peter McDonald are about to resume. It looks like Senator Alexandra Burton, the committee’s chairwoman, is reaching for her gavel as I speak.”

Burton sounded her gavel. “Order. Order. The hearing room will please come to order. I hereby reconvene the confirmation hearings of Peter McDonald to be an associate justice of the Supreme Court of the United States.”

The crowded hearing room became so quiet that Jim Westfall double-checked to make sure the volume on the TV was still on. It was.

The FOX News reporter said, “I feel like I’m back in constitutional law class. Boy, was my professor strict.”

McDonald smiled at the comment. He wasn’t a “strict” classroom teacher, but several of his colleagues were. They weren’t particularly popular with the students. If a student was caught instant-messaging or surfing the Web during class, he or she was booted unceremoniously from the room.

The camera panned from Burton’s regal profile down the dais of her fellow Judiciary Committee members. All were sporting expressions that bespoke the solemnity of the occasion.

Burton said, “Good morning, Professor. I was pleased to learn that you were feeling well enough to resume your confirmation hearings.”

Of course that wasn’t true, and McDonald knew it. But the nominee merely said, “Thank you.”

Burton said, “If memory serves, it’s Senator Foley’s turn to question you. Senator Foley …”

CHAPTER 61

“Thank you, Madam Chairwoman.”

Frank Foley was a freshman senator from Massachusetts, and he was gay. He had already had several skirmishes with Alexandra Burton. None were major. They involved matters such as where Foley sat on the dais (Burton placed him on the end), whether Foley was entitled to an extra staff member to assist him with his Judiciary Committee responsibilities (Burton had said no), and whether Foley could participate by conference call in committee meetings when he was out of town (Burton had again said no). Foley could see the logic in Burton’s decisions about those protocols, but he resented the fact that the senior senator from South Carolina tried to lord over him like, say, a master over a slave, especially given who Foley was: the rising star of the Democratic Party and, probably sooner rather than later, perhaps the first openly gay president of the United States. He was so popular that Ellen DeGeneres often raised money for him.

Frank Foley had been swept into office after delivering a stirring keynote address to the Democratic National Convention, the same convention that had selected Charles Jackson as the Democratic nominee for president. Foley wasn’t merely a charismatic speaker; he was also a profound intellect and a dedicated public servant. He had graduated at the top of his class from Yale Law School but opted to work as a poverty lawyer in the rough-and-tumble Roxbury neighborhood of Boston rather than as a mergers and acquisitions attorney in the velvet-draped offices of the financial district. It didn’t hurt his political prospects that his husband, whom he had met during a fundraising trip to California, was a beloved Hollywood actor.

Senator Foley said, “Welcome back, Professor.”

Peter McDonald said, “Thank you, Senator.”

McDonald knew all about Foley’s past and probable future—the White House had made certain that the nominee knew everything they knew about every member of the Judiciary Committee—and he had been looking forward to being questioned by the senator. McDonald recognized a brilliant mind when he saw one. He was surrounded by them every day as a law professor at an elite law school.

“I’ve got a number of questions that I’d like to ask, but insufficient time in which to ask them.” Foley shot a quick glare in Burton’s direction. “Given the constraints of time, I’d like to focus my questions on gay rights.” Foley reached for the sheet of paper that contained the list of queries he planned to ask the nominee. “I trust you’re not surprised that I’m intrigued by what you’ve written on the subject.”

McDonald said, “No, I’m not surprised.”

Foley continued, “Is it fair to say that your approach to gay rights is closely related to your widely known interest in substantive due process?”

“You’re being far too generous in your definition of ‘widely known,’ Senator. My colleagues in the legal academy are familiar with my views, but I can’t say that the American people know anything about them.”

“That’s precisely why I’m asking about them, Professor. Please explain those views.”

McDonald had to admit—to himself at least—that he was surprised by the confrontational nature of Senator Foley’s line of inquiry. He expected Foley to be a certain vote for confirmation. They were both highly successful professionals … They were both Democrats … They were both Ivy League liberals. In a way, though, McDonald admired Foley’s integrity. Apparently, not every politician was a partisan hack.

“I’d be happy to explain my views,” McDonald said. He straightened in his chair. He did his best to suppress another grimace. “I became interested in substantive due process as a law student years ago when we were reading the
Dred Scott
case in con law class.”

Foley leaned forward. “By ‘con law,’ you mean constitutional law?”

McDonald said, “Correct. Sorry for defaulting so quickly to code. And by the ‘
Dred Scott
case’ I mean
Dred Scott v. Sanford
, the 1857 decision in which the Supreme Court held that no African American, slave or free, was a citizen of the United States. The case involved a claim by a black man born into slavery that his subsequent residence in a state and a territory that prohibited slavery made him free. By a seven-to-two vote the high Court, speaking through Chief Justice Roger Taney, disagreed and went so far as to strike down the Missouri Compromise, a set of federal laws adopted in 1820 to maintain the balance between slave and non-slave states, on the ground that the Compromise violated the Fifth Amendment property rights of slave owners.”