The Divine Appointment (27 page)

“But now they know where to find us.” Tag glared at Anna in disgust.

Anna ignored him and focused her attention on the front of the church again. After the offering plates were collected, a man who had been sitting in a chair on the stage approached the podium.

Anna bent her head near Tag. “That’s the pastor,” she whispered. “Dr. Graham Frazier.”

Tag nodded his understanding of her words but kept his arms folded across his chest. He refused to allow himself to become too comfortable. Dr. Frazier was a nice-looking man. Tall and professional in appearance. He had dark hair and wore a nice suit. Tag tried hard to block out the words that were spoken by Dr. Frazier. He tried to think about anything other than what Dr. Frazier said.

But the more Tag tried to block out Frazier’s words, the more he found himself listening. It was a weird phenomenon. After ten minutes without success, Tag gave up. He lowered his hands to his lap and simply listened.

Dr. Frazier referenced a passage from chapter seven in the book of Matthew. Tag contemplated searching for the passage in the Bible that rested in the rack on the back of the pew in front of him, but he refrained.

“Friends, we’re all going to face God one day,” Dr. Frazier said, walking from one side of the stage to the other with an open, leather-bound Bible in one hand. “And he’s going to ask us why he should allow us into heaven. Some are going to respond by saying they did great and wonderful things for mankind while they were on the earth. Others will say that they kept God’s commandments and followed all the rules. And still others might say that they were in church every Sunday.”

Dr. Frazier stopped walking and gazed over the crowd in the direction of Tag and Anna.

Tag shivered. It seemed that the preacher was looking directly at him.

“And God’s response to all of these will be, ‘Sorry, you can’t come in because I never knew you.’”

Dr. Frazier rested his right hand on the podium. His expression turned sympathetic as he scanned the crowd again. “Friends, listen to me closely. There’s only one way to get into heaven, and it’s not hard. In fact it’s very easy and simple. And that’s to ask Jesus Christ to come into your heart as your Lord and Savior.”

Dr. Frazier’s words resonated with Tag. He had heard them before as a child but had never really understood them. As an adult, he had refused to believe them. He had wanted to go his own way. Do his own thing.

And now, he still refused to believe those words. What Dr. Frazier said wasn’t logical, Tag told himself. There couldn’t be only one way—one door—into heaven. That didn’t make any sense.

As Tag rationalized, Dr. Frazier concluded his sermon. The congregation stood and sang again.

A few people walked to the front of the church and whispered with Dr. Frazier. He noticed Anna fidgeting beside him. She rocked back and forth and gripped the back of the pew in front of her. She looked pale.

“What’s wrong with you?” he whispered.

Anna took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “I’m fine. I just want to go down there and talk to Dr. Frazier.”

Tag was surprised by her response, and it made him nervous.
I won’t allow it
. “Are you crazy?” he said aloud. “You can’t go down there! And if you did, you’d leave me here by myself. And you can’t do that.”

Anna stopped rocking and released her death grip on the pew in front of her. The color returned to her face. A minute later Dr. Frazier prayed and the congregation began leaving.

“We hope you’ll come back again,” two or three people said to Tag and Anna as they exited.

“We will,” Anna replied, but Tag nodded politely and kept walking. Soon they were back in Anna’s car and she was driving. The pace of the vehicle wasn’t as hectic and dangerous as it had been during the trek to the church.
At least they’d make it home safely
, he thought wryly.

“What’d you think?” Anna asked. They were approximately halfway between New Hope and their house.

“It was okay, I guess. But I don’t think I want to go back. I saw what it was about and it’s not for me.”

Tag saw the dejection on Anna’s face. Her being down in the dumps had never bothered him before, but this time he felt a little wrench in his gut.

“But you keep going,” he said quickly. “You seem to like it.”

“I’d like it a whole lot more if you went back with me. Will you at least think about it before saying no?” she pleaded.

“I’ll think about it.”

He didn’t tell her that, frankly, he’d thought about it all he was going to. He was never going back to that church.

The Hart Building, Washington DC

Porter McIntosh was back in his seat in the front row of the gallery area in room 216. It was 9:00 a.m. eastern time on Monday, the last week of July. When he’d left this room ten days ago, he’d hoped never to return—at least not for another confirmation hearing. And he certainly didn’t expect to be back here regarding Judge Shelton’s nomination. Things simply happened in Washington.

But this time was different from the last. He and President Wallace had a different plan from the one they’d had when Porter was here before. Previously they were exclusively focused on getting Dunbar Shelton confirmed to the Supreme Court. The new plan was more ambitious, and extremely risky. But if everything worked exactly right, they could change the landscape of not only the Supreme Court, but of the Senate for years to come.

Before he entered he looked for Stella Hanover on Constitution Avenue, in front of the Hart Building. He knew she would be there. The street was blockaded again. The various news organizations reported that thousands of pro-choice activists were expected to rally in front of the building. As was often the case, the news media was wrong. Dead wrong. There weren’t merely thousands, but tens of thousands of protestors. And Stella was leading them.

The pro-life supporters came back as well en masse. Porter estimated that there were fifty thousand people stretched for blocks on Constitution Avenue in either direction. The chanting and shouting from both sides could be heard inside the building.

Porter wore his best suit, fresh from the dry cleaner’s, and a Columbia blue tie with red stripes. He refused all requests for an interview. It was like breaking a picket line to get into room 216 through all the reporters. It was just as thick inside. Porter was pleased. The more reporters present at the hearing, the quicker Judge Shelton’s testimony would be disseminated to the nation and the entire world.

Judge Shelton sat alone at the mahogany table in front of Porter. Victoria—still wearing her cast—and the handlers were on the front row. The room overflowed with news reporters, photographers, and TV cameramen. There was barely room to walk. And the noise was indescribable. Hundreds of camera shutters clicking at the same time and hundreds of people talking simultaneously made it nearly impossible to think. But Porter noticed that it didn’t seem to bother one person in the room—Judge Dunbar Shelton.

Judge Shelton always looked very stoic, but Porter was particularly impressed with him that day. Porter knew that Judge Shelton had recently served as a pallbearer at the double funeral for Myron and Dorothy Carlson. That day had to be difficult for the judge, Porter thought. Certainly Judge Shelton must have run the gamut of emotions—from anger to sadness—the day of the funeral.

But today the judge was focused on the task at hand, with all his personal emotions laid aside. Such resolve and discipline impressed Porter immensely.

Behind the dais were the righteous senators. All eighteen of them and their respective staffs. Their demeanor was much less pleasant than it had been two weeks ago when this process had started. Their attitudes and scowling faces didn’t bother Porter in the least. He was anxious for the new session to begin.

At last Senator Montgomery banged his gavel and the noise in the room fell to a low murmur. Porter shifted in his seat and crossed his legs as the hearings reconvened.

Senator Montgomery spoke first. “As you all know, we’re here today to reconvene the confirmation hearings on the nomination of Judge Dunbar Shelton to the United States Supreme Court.” Senator Montgomery’s voice was worked up and angry. His scalp appeared red beneath his thinning white hair. He stared at Judge Shelton.

“We’re here because of this memo,” Senator Montgomery said. He waved what had become known around Washington and in the national media as “the Shelton Memo.” “And particularly what you, Judge Shelton, said in this memo. Do you understand that?”

Judge Shelton was calm and unflappable. He sat tall and proud in his chair.

“I do, Senator. And I’ll be glad to address that now, if you would like.”

“You’re going to get plenty of opportunity to talk about this memo, I promise you. But first I want to talk about where I think we are.”

Here we go
, thought Porter.

Senator Montgomery began a five-minute monologue that would ultimately lead to a question. He droned on about how very important the precedent of
Roe v. Wade
was, and that it shouldn’t he overturned under any circumstances. He talked about how the Constitution clearly contained an absolute right for a woman to have an abortion.

Porter grew tired of the senator’s monologue. He shifted in his seat again and crossed his legs in the other direction. He studied Judge Shelton, who never flinched. If anything, he appeared more resolved.

Finally Senator Montgomery asked his question. “Judge Shelton, do you understand that you are still under oath?”

“I do, Senator.”

“I’ve read your memo. Several times, in fact. I’ve read the constitutional provisions you cite and the Supreme Court cases you referenced. And I must say that I disagree completely with your conclusions. Please explain to me how you arrived at the conclusion that
Roe
is unconstitutional.”

“Let me first say that I wrote that memo over thirty years ago when I was in law school. They are the words of a student. But what the memo demonstrates is that my philosophy has always been that the Constitution should be strictly construed.”

“But do you now believe that
Roe
should be overturned?” Senator Montgomery asked impatiently.

“As I said in my earlier testimony, I believe it would be inappropriate for me to answer a question like that. I cannot provide hints, forecasts, or previews—”

Senator Montgomery angrily cut off Judge Shelton in midsentence. “Stop playing games, Judge Shelton.” His voice roared through the room. “You cannot hide behind the Ginsburg rule when you’ve already written on the subject. Even Justice Ginsburg conceded that point. Now answer the question. Do you believe that the Constitution contains the right of a woman to have an abortion?”

Judge Shelton sat on the edge of his seat and bent forward to where his mouth was very near the microphone. Very deliberately he spoke, as if he wanted to make sure no one misunderstood his words.

Porter held his breath as the historic words that no Supreme Court nominee since 1973 had had the courage to utter were spoken eloquently by Judge Dunbar Shelton.

“Senator Montgomery, I do not believe that the Constitution contains a provision for the right of a woman to have an abortion. In fact, I’m convinced of it. And if I get the opportunity, I will vote to overturn
Roe v. Wade
.”

Even though the place was overflowing with people, Porter could have heard a pin drop in room 216. It was precisely the moment he and President Wallace had hoped it would be. The die had been cast, and President Wallace and Porter didn’t fear the consequences.

Arlington, Virginia

Jill Baker’s flight from Nashville touched down at Reagan Washington National at 1:27 p.m. eastern time. She rented a white Ford Taurus and checked into the Hampton Inn on Jefferson Davis Highway in Arlington. There were two double beds in the room, and she tossed her luggage and her laptop on the one nearer the door. She decided to sleep on the other. Then it was time to get to work.

Jill’s first order of business was to find Holland Fletcher. She located a large telephone book for Metropolitan DC in the bottom of the nightstand and called the
Washington Post
headquarters from the telephone in her motel room. The operator at the
Post
connected her to Holland Fletcher’s extension.

“Fletcher,” he said.

Jill sat on the edge of the bed that contained her luggage. Both beds were covered with floral bedspreads. When she sat down, she realized that the bed wasn’t comfortable. She hoped she could quickly get what she needed from Holland Fletcher so it would be a short stay.

“This is Jill Baker. We spoke last week about Jessica Caldwell.”

“Ms. Baker. Yes, I remember. What can I do for you?”

“I’m in town and wondered if we could get together.”

There was a pause. “You’re in DC?”

“Flew in this afternoon.”

“All the way from Tennessee?”

“All the way. It’s part of the United States, you know. We do have airline service in Tennessee.” When Jill heard Holland laugh out loud, she smiled at her own wit.

“I know,” Holland said. “I wasn’t trying to be funny. I just wasn’t expecting you.”

“Can we get together? I want to ask you some questions about Jessica Caldwell and Tiffany Ramsey.”

“I’m not sure how much I can answer for you, but I’d be glad to meet. Where are you staying?”

“I’m in the Hampton Inn near Reagan Washington National.”

“I’m familiar with the area. There’s a Subway restaurant on Crystal Plaza Arc not far from there. I haven’t had lunch, and I’m starving. You think you can find it?”

“I’ll ask the front desk.”

Holland entered the Subway on Crystal Plaza Arc at 3:30 p.m. The establishment was decorated with yellow paint, yellow tables, and wallpaper depicting an old New York City subway scene. It looked the same as any other Subway restaurant he had seen. He looked around for a woman who might be Jill Baker but didn’t see anyone. There were only a few people in the restaurant at this time of the day, and they appeared young enough to be high school kids.

His stomach dragged him to the counter and he ordered a club sandwich on white bread with everything. He paid for his meal and sat in the booth in the back of the room. He was midway into his sandwich when he saw an attractive, slender, black-haired woman enter through the front door. She looked about his age and he guessed she was Jill Baker. And if Tiffany Ramsey was an eight, then Jill Baker was at least a nine. Maybe a ten. She scanned the crowd and their eyes met. She started walking toward him.

“Are you Holland Fletcher?”

Holland covered his full mouth with his hand. “Sorry. I just took a bite before you came in. I’m Holland,” he said and extended his right hand.

“I’m Jill,” she replied and shook his hand.

“Are you hungry?”

“No, I’ve already had lunch, but I’ll get something to drink.”

Jill glided to the counter and Holland watched her. Faded blue jeans, tennis shoes, and a loose-fitting T-shirt. She was probably five feet eight inches tall. Her sleek black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, making her beautiful face all the more visible.

Holland hurriedly stuffed the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and chewed fast.

Jill returned with a bottle of water and sat across from him. Holland wadded the wrapping paper from his sandwich into a ball and slid it and his tray to the back of the table.

“So, you’re a writer with the
Washington Post
.”

Holland sucked on the straw in his extra-large disposable cup and tried to chase down the last of his sandwich. He swallowed hard. “
Investigative
reporter.”

Jill’s eyebrows rose. “Investigative reporter. Really. That sounds interesting.”

“It can be. Obviously you’re a criminal-defense lawyer.”