The Hearing (5 page)

In Sunday school, when he was nine, Gus had heard how God told Abraham to sacrifice his only son, Isaac. At the last moment,
with Abraham’s knife raised, God had called it off, and Isaac lived. Now Gus knew what it was to lose a son, but for him there
had been no reprieve. Stephen was dead, sacrificed by Gus on an altar of selfishness.

Gus eased the car past the protesters, now separated by a row of cops from another group that was shouting slogans back at
them. It struck Gus how much alike the two groups were—nice looking, impassioned, unbending in their rage. Gus was glad that
as a judge he never had to be in the middle, never had to decide which of them was right. The law was in the middle, not him.

He made it to his office, splashed water on his face in the men’s room, apologized for being late, and then tried to listen
to the woman tell him how she’d stabbed her husband in the throat with a pair of scissors because she’d caught him in bed
with their nine-year-old daughter.

Gus was in his chambers during a lunchtime recess when his secretary told him he had a call from a Mr. Steve Borgman in Washington.

“I’ll take it.”

Gus had been in law school with Borgman, who now worked for a Washington law firm.

“Gus?”

“Steve, how are you?”

“Great. Michelle?”

“Very good.”

“Listen, I have something to run by you. Confidential.”

“Sure.”

“I have a partner here knows I know you, and he’s asked me to get your informal, unofficial reaction to something.”

“What is it?”

“This partner has a friend called him from the White House counsel’s office, mentioned confidentially that they expect Hoskins
to resign before the end of the summer. They’re drawing up a list of possible nominees to replace him, and—”

“Hoskins?”

“Supreme Court.”

“Oh, right.”

“He wondered if you’d agree to have your name on the list.”

“You’ve made a mistake, Steve.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“No one’s gonna nominate me for the Supreme Court.”

Years ago his Supreme Court dream had been buried beneath reality.

“It’s not like they’re offering you the job, Gus. There’s
probably hundreds of people on the list. They write down everyone.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you cleared that up.”

“Can I say you agree? To be on the list?”

“Sure. I agree to be on the list. If it’s true, I’m honored.”

“But Gus, it’d be best if you didn’t tell anyone. This is a long shot.”

“You can say that again. No one but Michelle.”

“Supreme Court!”

“Easy, honey. It’s not gonna happen. It’s like a ticket for the Florida state lottery.”

So they forgot about it. Well, Gus
tried
to forget about it, but the old dream, resurrected by Borgman’s phone call, wouldn’t leave him alone.

Weeks later they read in the paper that Hoskins was resigning.

“So it’s true,” Michelle said.

Gus was silent.

The next month, Michelle read in the
New York Times
that a decision had been made, a former senator from Rhode Island. Everyone liked him. He’d been a federal judge. A couple
of days later it turned out he’d written a
Law Journal
article fifteen years earlier knocking affirmative action. Now no one liked him at all.

Every day names floated across the op-ed pages, and every day political sharpshooters blew them away. Weeks went by.

Then, finally, in early summer, a winner. He was from Idaho, son of a farmer, a former judge who’d been legal counsel to a
half dozen public-service groups before taking a job as professor of constitutional law at the University of
Idaho. Someone at the White House described him as “a down-to-earth man with a heart for public service and one of the top
constitutional minds in the country.”

Before the week was out, a
Washington Post
columnist reported that twelve years earlier the nominee had been a member of the governing council of an Episcopal church
whose priest had been charged with sexually abusing a teenage boy over a period of two years. “If he didn’t know about it,
he should have.”

Back to Idaho.

The next morning, a Sunday, Gus was washing his car when the phone rang. Steve Borgman again.

“You remember I told you I had a partner had a friend at the White House, wanted to know could they put your name on a list
of possible nominees?”

“Yeah, I remember that.”

“The White House friend would like to talk to you personally.”

“What’s his name?”

“Philip Rothman. He’s chief counsel.”

Rothman was in the papers almost every day. A short, chubby, balding man, he had a soft face and a reputation for bloodthirsty
ruthlessness that would have shamed a shark.

“What’s going on, Steve? Really.”

“He’ll tell you.”

Half an hour later, Rothman called. Gracious, but all business. No phony charm. For the first time, it struck Gus that people
really were considering him for nomination to the Supreme Court. It made his voice shake. The dream became a longing.

Rothman said, “Frankly, you weren’t on our short list. But we’ve thrown that out, and we’re looking at a few peo
ple we might not have considered that seriously before. You might say we’ve altered our criteria a bit.”

“Sexual abuse will do that.”

Gus almost bit his tongue. This was the chief White House legal counsel, and he’s making jokes.

“Exactly. So the President’s chief of staff, Lyle Dutweiler, and I would like to talk to you. Can you make it to Washington?
Dinner tonight?”

Gus wondered if there was a chance Dave Chapman would be there. He hadn’t seen him in years.

A government limousine picked Gus up at National Airport, drove him through a White House gate. The Washington heat was stifling.
He was led to a small dining room with silver, crystal, and two white-jacketed Filipino waiters. Gus noticed, with a touch
of disappointment, that the table was set for three.

Rothman, waiting for him, had a solemn expression constantly threatened by a smile, which he did his best to suppress. He
said, “I’d like you to meet Lyle Dutweiler, the President’s chief of staff.”

Six hours earlier Gus had been washing his car, and here he was having dinner in the White House. Dutweiler said, “We appreciate
your coming on such short notice.” His eyes were like scalpels, dissecting Gus, going for the soul. He didn’t want another
mistake. “I was a judge once myself, and I know what your day must be like.”

So why didn’t they nominate Dutweiler? He have a secret? The face smiled, but the scalpels kept slicing. He was skinny, six-three.
His tie was ugly, his collar too big.

Gus said, “I’m pleased to be here. Puzzled, but pleased.”

Dutweiler said, “I guess this comes as a bit of a shock.”

“A bit.”

Dutweiler took those eyes off Gus long enough to glance at Rothman.

Rothman said, “You’re relatively invulnerable. You’re a hero in your state, and to some degree beyond that. People remember
the Ernesto Vicaro case. The bullets and photograph.”

Gus kept quiet.

“You have no published articles or speeches anyone can take apart. Your decisions on sensitive issues are pretty much down
the middle. You’re young, but that means there’s not that much to attack.”

Silence. Eyes.

Dutweiler said, “So we have a couple of questions.”

“Okay.”

“First question, is there anything you know that you think we may not know?”

“You mean like child-abusing priests?”

Dutweiler smiled. “That’s what we mean.”

“No.”

“Second question. We don’t want to take anything for granted. Washington’s not everyone’s cup of tea.” He glanced at Rothman
then back at Gus. “So. Do you want the nomination?”

They watched him, but neither spoke. Were these guys for real? Neither had the phony charm of rich lawyers and winning politicians.
Was that the trick? Reverse charm?

“Just like that?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘just like that,’” Rothman said. “This meeting is the tip of a very carefully scrutinized iceberg.”

“But you’re—”

They stared at him, recording every twitch, watching the sweat flow from every pore. They had lab coats and clipboards.

Rothman said, “It’s not exactly a fait accompli, Gus. The President’s waiting to see what happens here. But—”

Dutweiler interrupted. “We have to know your response. None of us wants the President to call you, and you say no. If you’re
inclined to say no, tell us now.”

Would he buy a used car from these guys?

He took a sip of wine. It was white, cool. Much lighter, much drier than the yellow wine Michelle’s dad made. He put the glass
down. “This is going very fast.”

“We understand.”

More silence. Waiting.

“I need to think. I’d like to discuss it with my wife.”

This was a tougher decision than money-filled Samsonites versus a couple of .357 hollowpoints.

“Of course. May we take that as a tentative yes?”

“I have to think.”

Rothman and Dutweiler exchanged glances. Neither had even looked at his food.

Had he blown it, failed the test? Can’t make his own decisions, has to clear it with the old lady? Michelle had been raised
in the red-clay heat and reality of homemade wine and wood-decked pickups. Counterfeits, vanity, things of the air—she smelled
them coming. He needed to talk to Michelle.

Dutweiler’s eyes suddenly fixed on the door. Rothman’s head spun, and the waiters flattened themselves against the wall. Gus
turned.

“Gus, how are you?”

Dave Chapman was across the room in two strides, taking Gus’s hand.

“It’s been too long. How is Michelle? Lyle told me you came up here on about twenty minutes’ notice. That’s really nice of
you.”

“It’s good to see you, Dave.”

Chapman looked heavier than the last time Gus had seen him, both physically and in spirit. The familiar exuberance was there,
but it’d been lowered a couple of notches. He looked fatigued, less buoyant.

Waiters appeared with a fourth chair, a silver coffee urn, cognac, cigars.

Chapman sat down quickly, refused coffee. He was in a hurry. The room filled with silence. After a moment, he said, “Lyle?
Phil? If …”

Lyle and Phil cleared out, and the waiters went with them.

When they were alone, Chapman said, “How are you, Gus? Really. How’s Michelle?”

“Fine. Michelle’s fine. Everything’s ticking along really well. What about you? It’s hard to tell from the media.”

“You can’t tell anything from the media. But it’s okay. I was really happy to hear you’d agreed to come. I wanted to see you.
Not just for the nomination. You have to see people you knew before you were canonized, when you were still a human being.
It looked like we’d be able to have dinner, but—you can’t imagine, Gus.”

“I guess not.”

“And in case you’re wondering, it wasn’t me who put your name on the list. Your name got on the list all by itself.”

Gus was silent.

Chapman put his hands flat on the table, and when he glanced up, into Gus’s eyes, he looked embarrassed.

“Gus, I have to be frank. I wanted to see you because there is one thing I have to say. It’s sounds corny and maybe phony,
but I have to say it.”

“You’re not going to say anything phony, Dave.”

“Gus, you’re
supposed
to be on this Court. I just know that. Some critical cases are approaching the Court, and they’ll change more than law. They’re
going to change our culture, they’re going to change what our country
is.
Shaping the Court that will shape our country is one of the most important things I’ll do as President. I want you on the
Court, Gus. Remember the dinners we used to have, our conversations?”

“I remember.”

“You still believe all that?”

Gus smiled. “I’m not sure I would still want to support everything I said then. I was twenty.”

“You know what I mean, Gus.”

“Yes, Dave, I still believe all that. Everything I said. Especially about the courts. The country’s changed direction.”

“When the earlier candidates had to be withdrawn, Gus, it was because I’d relied too heavily on the opinions of other people.
I know a lot
about
them, but I didn’t
know
them. With you I have my own experiences and opinions. I
know
you, Gus. I want you on the Court.”

“I don’t know what to say, Dave.”

“I don’t want you to say anything. I want you to think about it. Because if you accept, there won’t be any backing out. Not
by me, anyway. You will not be withdrawn no matter what anyone says or threatens. This is it, Gus. You’re the one.”

Chapman stood and put out his hand. “Give my love to Michelle.”

Gus took the hand.

Holding it, squeezing hard, Chapman said, “I am asking you personally, alone, between the two of us, to accept the nomination.
For the country.”

Chapman released Gus’s hand, turned, and walked out.

Dutweiler entered, followed by Rothman.

“Interesting conversation?”