The Divine Appointment (4 page)

Porter emerged with his right hand thrust at President Wallace in preparation for a handshake. With his starched white shirt, red-and-blue-striped tie, and leather briefcase, Porter looked as though he were going into a courtroom rather than the Oval Office.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” Porter said as he entered.

“Good morning, Porter,” President Wallace replied. “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’ve had my limit.”

“How are the wife and kids?” President Wallace said, resuming his seat behind his desk.

Porter sat in a wingback chair across the desk from the president and set his briefcase at his feet. “They’re doing fine, sir. Thanks for asking. I don’t get to see them often enough, but they are doing fine. And Lauren?”

“Same here. Her schedule is almost as hectic as mine. Running the country sure is time-consuming, isn’t it, Porter?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

Both chuckled softly at the understatement, but the humor didn’t last long. A difficult and stressful decision lay ahead of them, President Wallace knew. History itself would measure their actions—
his
actions—and the weight of that thought dissipated their smiles.

“Sleep much last night, Porter?”

“Not much. Probably about three hours. Yourself?”

“Not much more.”

President Wallace noted the creased forehead and exhaustion on Porter’s face. The presidency was beginning to take its toll on Porter, too; he had aged from the stress and strain of working in the White House. President Wallace relied on Porter.
Perhaps too much
, he thought, realizing this. Porter had no streaks of gray in his sandy blond hair. No additional weight was noticeable through his tailored suit. But he simply looked tired. Haggard, really. Eighteen-hour workdays and crisis after crisis were catching up with him.

“You miss South Carolina, don’t you, Porter?”

“I do sometimes, sir. Beaufort is a lovely place. I hope to one day return there with my family and live in one of her antebellum homes.”

“We’ve got a lot of important things to accomplish before you can enjoy that Low Country lifestyle again.”

“I know, sir,” Porter replied.

“Let’s go over the two possible candidates again,” President Wallace said.

Aware of Justice Robinson’s terminal illness, President Wallace had asked Porter to covertly begin the nomination process some three months earlier. With Justice Robinson’s memorial service being last Friday, President Wallace wanted to nominate someone to replace her within the next few days. Porter and the White House counsel’s office had begun with a list of ten jurists from around the country and had pared it down to two finalists for the president’s consideration: Fredrick Lefler, the chief judge of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Fourth Circuit, and Dunbar Shelton, the chief justice of the supreme court of Mississippi.

“Judge Lefler was appointed to the bench fifteen years ago,” Porter said as he read from his printed report. His briefcase contained a complete dossier on each candidate. “He was elevated to the chief judge’s position five years later. His written opinions have consistently held to conservative social and economic philosophies. He has consistently voted to interpret the Constitution as it was written. Strong supporter of Second Amendment rights—”

“What about Shelton?” President Wallace interrupted.

“You want me to finish the report on Judge Lefler?”

“Later, perhaps, but I want to talk about Shelton first.”

Obediently Porter placed Judge Lefler’s dossier on the corner of President Wallace’s desk and removed the one on Judge Shelton from his briefcase. “He has served on the Mississippi Supreme Court for the last ten years and is as conservative, if not more so, as Lefler. His writings have restricted the reach of affirmative action. Like Lefler, he is a strict constructionist on constitutional issues. He has overturned excessive personal-injury awards. He—”

“I hear what you are telling me, Porter,” President Wallace interrupted again.

He already knew every word in each dossier from memory. But it wasn’t biographical sketches that interested him. It was philosophical and theological issues that concerned him. He wanted to know what each man thought about when he was alone in his own bedroom and stared at himself in the mirror. He rose from his chair and began to pace between the desk and the window that overlooked the Rose Garden.

“But you’re not telling me what I want to know.” President Wallace stopped pacing, thrust his hands in his pants pockets, and peered through the window at the garden that had yet to reach its full bloom. “What I want to know is where do they stand on
Roe v. Wade
, and can they be confirmed by the Senate?”

“I don’t know, sir. I really don’t.”

President Wallace spun around from the window briskly and waved his arms out to the sides of his body. “Don’t give me that, Porter,” he chastised. “You’re my chief of staff, and you worked for me when I was governor of South Carolina. I know you, Porter, and I know that you know the answer.”

President Wallace shook the index finger of his right hand at Porter, and Porter squirmed in his chair. “You know it. You’re paid to know it. It’s your job to know it. President Mitchell knew that Justice Robinson would vote to uphold, if not extend,
Roe v. Wade
before he appointed her. She was the deciding fifth vote two years ago when the abortion issue was last before the court.”

President Wallace rested the palms of his hands on the desk and leaned toward Porter. “I plan to appoint someone who will vote to overturn
Roe
. That’s why I’m here, Porter. That’s why I’m here. Now tell me which one.”

Porter uncrossed his legs and crossed them again in the other direction. He averted his eyes from President Wallace. “You’re not going to like the answer.”

“Tell me,” President Wallace ordered.

Porter crossed his arms in front of his chest as if he were already disappointed with his own words, which had yet to be spoken. He looked directly into President Wallace’s eyes. “Shelton would vote to overturn, but you can’t get him confirmed. You have a better chance at getting Lefler confirmed, but I’m not convinced he would vote to overturn.”

“What do you mean?” President Wallace inquired as he finally returned to his seat behind the resolute desk.

“I mean that Lefler has been very careful over the years in what he has said both publicly and privately about the issue.” Porter uncrossed his arms and gestured with his hands as he continued. “You may find yourself with another David Souter.”

President Wallace took another sip of coffee. It was cold. He set the cup down and pushed it away, to the side of the desk. “And you don’t think we can get enough votes to confirm Shelton?”

“It’s simple politics. Although the majority has only fifty-one votes in the Senate, they’ll stick with Senator Proctor on this one. Those up for reelection this fall don’t want to face their constituents and explain why they voted to move the Supreme Court to the right. I doubt you’d even be able to get Shelton’s nomination out of the Judiciary Committee.”

President Wallace detected concern in Porter’s tone. That made him worry, too.

“Even if we get the nomination out of the committee,” President Wallace mused, “we’ll have a hard time on the Senate floor. Proctor will have one of his lieutenants filibuster the nomination.”

“It will take sixty votes to put an end to the filibuster so that the Senate can even vote on the nomination,” Porter said. “We don’t have that many allies in the Senate.”

President Wallace stood again and paced some more, thinking through the possibilities. Lefler wasn’t right, he decided. It had to be Shelton. “We’ll have to twist as many arms as we can to get Shelton confirmed.”

“We can’t twist enough arms to make it work.”

President Wallace paced some more with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “But we’ve got to make it work. This is why I was elected.”

Porter followed President Wallace with his eyes as he paced. “This is not the only reason you were elected. There are welfare reform and the economy and hundreds of others.”

The president talked to the window again. “I know. All of those things are important. But this is the most important. Transforming the Supreme Court is the most important of all.”

“Is it a political hill worth dying on?”

President Wallace turned and stared at Porter. “I’m not worried about getting reelected, Porter,” he said in a grandfatherly voice. “If I’m supposed to serve another term, then things will work out. But you’re missing the point. I know I was elected for this purpose, for this decision. I was elected for such a time as this, and we’ve got to fight on every political hill until we win.”

“It’ll be a bitter fight.”

“I know. We’ll have to cut as many deals as we can. I’m willing to play as many cards as I have to get the nomination confirmed.”

“Is it that important?”

“It’s that important.”

“Any deal would have to be with Proctor, and my guess is that the stakes would be too high.”

President Wallace sat down and reclined in his chair. He placed his hands behind his head, locking fingers together, and gazed at the presidential seal in the ceiling. He shifted in his seat. He evaluated the choices again, but only one was a real option. He knew that as soon as he said the word, Porter would work to make it happen. That’s what Porter did best. He took care of things. And so Porter would be tasked with getting Dunbar Shelton confirmed to the Supreme Court, whatever it took. President Wallace couldn’t take a chance on Lefler.

“You may be right, Porter,” he conceded. “But I suspect the stakes are higher if we don’t get Shelton confirmed.”

Brentwood, Tennessee

“Has she been dead long?” Lieutenant Mike Brantley asked as he ducked under the yellow crime scene tape between two uniformed officers, and into the town house of Metropolitan Nashville’s latest homicide victim. The town house was part of an upscale complex in the southern Nashville suburb of Brentwood. Although the place was alive with police photographers snapping pictures, investigators dusting for fingerprints, and employees from the coroner’s office examining the corpse, the finality of death struck Brantley as he entered the room where the body was found. It was an eerie feeling he’d experienced more often than he desired during his ten-year career with the Metropolitan Nashville Police Department.

“About eight to ten hours, I’d guess,” Sergeant Lee Dodson responded from his crouched position beside the body on the living-room floor. The dead female was fully clothed, in red satin pajamas. “Her body is stiff. But the coroner should be able to give us a more exact time of death this afternoon.” Dodson exhaled and shook his head. “It’s a tough way to start a Friday.”

Dodson stood as Brantley approached, finished making a few notes in his notepad, and tucked it back into the breast pocket of his blue blazer. The two watched as employees of the Davidson County coroner’s office zipped the black body bag and loaded the victim onto a gurney.

“Do you have an ID on her?” Brantley asked.

“Jessica Caldwell,” Dodson responded, retrieving his notepad and flipping through it. “Twenty-seven years old. Lawyer with McAllister and Finch, downtown.”

Brantley studied the scene from different angles. Nothing was disturbed. Nothing appeared to be missing. The television, DVD player, and other electronic devices were visible and undamaged. A laptop computer was open on the kitchen table. It didn’t appear that robbery was the motive.

“Lawyer?” Brantley responded as he walked and thought. “That should make for a long list of suspects.”

“Not this one. She had only been working there three months. Not enough time to make a lot of enemies.”

“Cause of death?”

“We don’t know yet. Her secretary called the precinct and asked us to check on Ms. Caldwell when she missed an appointment this morning, and no one could get a response by phone or at her door. Two officers on first-shift patrol found her lying on the floor. No vital signs and no sign of forced entry. Medical examiner said it looked like strangulation, but he won’t know for sure until the autopsy is complete.”

As the death-laden gurney exited the town house onto the sidewalk, Brantley turned toward the glass table behind the sofa that was cluttered with photographs. He picked up one that was in a brass frame and stared at the smiling, auburn-haired, brown-eyed woman. “This her?”

Dodson glanced at the photograph. “That’s her. Attractive, wasn’t she?”

“I’ll say.”

“I’ve got a daughter a few years younger. Makes me sick to my stomach. You got any kids, Brantley?”

“Two boys. Ten and twelve.”

“Hug ’em while you can,” Dodson advised. “They’ll be grown before you know it.”

The detectives’ philosophical moment was interrupted by one of the crime scene investigators.

“I’ve got two sets of prints over here, Detective,” said the officer who was dusting the inside doorknob on the front door. “And another set on the outside doorknob.”

“Good work,” Dodson replied as he pivoted toward the front doorway. “Be careful when you lift them. We don’t want any mistakes with this one.”

As he left Brantley looked over his shoulder and spoke to Sergeant Charlotte Crossley, the investigator in charge of the crime scene team. Crossley was sharp. She’d been with the department for fifteen years, and had been the first African-American woman to earn the rank of sergeant.

“Sergeant, run those prints through both the state and FBI data banks and see if you come up with any matches.”

Sergeant Crossley nodded her understanding and continued dusting the coffee table near where the body had been discovered. Brantley glanced around at the team of crime scene investigators who scurried about the interior of the town house searching for any clue that might lead to the arrest of, and hopefully the conviction of, the perpetrator of the murder of Jessica Caldwell.

“Y’all take your time in here, Sergeant,” Brantley instructed. “Dodson and I are going to contact the girl’s family and begin to interview neighbors and coworkers. Let me know if you find anything else.”

Dodson and Brantley left Jessica Caldwell’s town house to undertake one of the most difficult tasks a person could perform: telling parents that their child was dead.

Belle Meade, a suburb of metropolitan Nashville

The unmarked dark blue Ford Crown Victoria containing Lieutenant Brantley and Sergeant Dodson traveled the tree-lined thoroughfares of the exclusive Belle Meade area of greater Nashville before entering a residential area east of the famed Belle Meade Plantation. Their destination was the home of Jessica Caldwell’s parents. Neither man relished the thought of this assignment, particularly Dodson. It hit too close to home. He couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d feel if it was
his
daughter.

“How do you handle it, Dodson?” Brantley asked from the passenger seat when they were less than ten blocks from the Caldwells’ residence.

“Handle what?” Dodson responded.

“You know,” Brantley replied. He dragged out the rhythm of the word
know
. He motioned with his hands, as if Dodson should continue the conversation without any further prompting.

But Dodson refused.

Brantley pressed forward. “How do you tell parents that their daughter has been murdered?”

“Oh, that.” Dodson nodded slightly as he thought through his answer before responding. “It ain’t easy. I can tell you that for sure. Never is. But someone has to do it, and it might as well be me. You can’t let your emotions get in the way. Is this your first time?”

Brantley appeared uneasy. He stared straight ahead and stretched his legs out on the floorboard as far as they would go. “Not my first,” he said, shaking his head. “But I haven’t had to do this very many times. Someone else involved in the investigation usually handled it.”

“You’ll be fine. Just don’t cry.”

Brantley eyed Dodson. “I’ll try not to.”

“This is the place.”

Dodson pointed to a Tudor-style house that rested on a slight rise on the left side of the street. He drove the car into the gated entrance that was flanked by two gray stone pillars. The gate was already open, and Dodson steered the sedan to a parking area adjacent to the wood double-front door.

Jordan Caldwell peered through the large arched window of his dining room at the dark sedan as it approached. He shoved his hands in his pockets and dropped his head. He already knew that his daughter’s whereabouts were unaccounted for and feared that the occupants of the approaching car carried news that he didn’t want to hear.

Jordan looked up again to watch as two men exited the car and began to walk toward his front door. Their official appearance made him sick to his stomach. The passenger was the younger of the two. Dark hair. Dark suit. Starched shirt. His face showed signs of apprehension. The driver had a slightly disheveled appearance, but his hair—brown with gray around the edges—was maintained in a military-style crew cut. His face was firm…determined.

Anticipating the worst, Jordan moved toward the front door. When the bell rang, he opened the door.

Both men displayed badges and credentials for Jordan’s inspection, then returned them to the inside pockets of their jackets.

“Mr. Caldwell,” the younger man said, “I’m Lieutenant Mike Brantley from the Metropolitan Nashville Police Department, and this is Sergeant Lee Dodson. May we come in?”

“What’s this about, Officer?” Even as he asked, Jordan feared he already knew the answer. He and his wife, Heddy, had grown concerned when Jessica’s secretary called their house looking for her this morning. They had tried to reach her at her town house and on her wireless phone, to no avail. “Is it about my daughter?”

“I’m afraid it is, sir,” Lieutenant Brantley responded. “May we come in?”

Jordan stepped back from the door and allowed the two officers to enter. “Please have a seat in there.” He pointed to a sitting area to the right of the front door. “I’ll get Heddy, my wife.”

Brantley surmised that Jordan Caldwell was in his late fifties. Maybe sixty. He was six feet tall, slim, and his hair was mostly gray. There was an air of distinction about the man, even in the midst of a crisis, and that impressed Brantley.

“Nice place,” Brantley muttered to Dodson as he turned to take in a panorama view.

“Yeah.” Dodson sat on a leather settee across the room from the arched opening where they’d entered. “But money doesn’t impress me. It usually leads to problems.”

Despite Dodson’s obvious lack of appreciation, antiques and replicas of rare paintings adorned the interior, and the grounds outside were immaculately manicured. Persian rugs covered the floors. Even the settee on which Dodson sat was covered with Corinthian leather.

“Even so,” Brantley replied, “this place is impressive. The antiques must be worth over a million bucks. Did you say the Caldwells were friends of the governor?”

“That’s right. My friend at city hall told me Caldwell made his money in the highway-construction business. He got a lot of state contracts, if you know what I mean.”

Brantley walked over and stood near where Dodson was sitting. “We better find a suspect quick, then,” he murmured. “The press will be all over us on this one, not to mention the politicos.”

Soon Jordan returned to the sitting room with an attractive, elegant woman. Brantley guessed her to be in her late fifties. She was about five feet four and maintained a shapely figure. Her hair color was similar to Jessica’s, with a few strands of gray. But the one thing Brantley noticed most was the graceful way she entered the room.

“Mrs. Caldwell,” Brantley said as she and her husband entered, “I’m Lieutenant Mike Brantley, with the Nashville Police Department, and this is Sergeant Lee Dodson.”

“Is this about our daughter?” Heddy inquired immediately after the introduction. She glanced back and forth between the two men, as if desperate to read something,
anything
, from their faces.

“I’m afraid it is,” Dodson replied sympathetically. “Why don’t we sit down?”