by Diane Capri
I was a public servant and Newton was a member of the public. Open access to the courts gave him the right to be in my courtroom for the small filing fee, a concept I normally supported; but cases like Newton’s forced me to reexamine.
I’ve never been able to divorce my desire to serve the judicial system from the practical effects of its failures.
In this case, Newton had the right to sue, but he was manipulating the process for his own ends. When litigants did that, and it happened all too often, my patience barked at the end of a very short leash.
I glanced at my watch. It was getting late, but George hadn’t returned.
Dragging my attention back to the file, I examined the exhibit lists, reviewed the trial briefs and then the proposed jury instructions submitted by both parties. Somewhere along the way, finally, I was able to lose myself in the work.
Before I knew it, I’d worked right through dinner and George had never come home.
I called down to the kitchen and ordered a late night snack to be sent upstairs, which is one of the great perks of living over a restaurant. While I waited, I turned on the news. Nothing new was reported on General Andrews’s death or anything else of interest.
Following my meal, I soaked in my tub for a while, read a recent novel and then my eyelids became too heavy and I finally admitted to myself that I was too tired to wait anymore.
When I turned out my bedside lamp at about one o’clock, I closed my eyes and thought about George.
Why was he acting so strangely?
Worried about him, about us.
I could still visualize him on the first night we met, when George became the center of my world and changed my life forever.
I was just seventeen, a gawky, unsure freshman at the University of Michigan. He was a senior and, for some reason, became interested in me. We’d both attended a screening of The Thin Man, the old William Powell and Myrna Loy classic, shown on campus by the film society. In the days before videotaped movies were widely available, viewers had to wait to see their favorite stories, and this one was a rare treat.
I was consumed by the old movies I’d watched with Mom during the long weeks of her final illness. The Thin Man had been one of her favorites and experiencing it again made me feel closer to her. The story is a comedy that never failed to make me laugh and recall our happier times together.
George approached me after the film, asking if I’d like to get a coffee. Oddly, I wasn’t nervous. George made me feel so comfortable and relaxed and, inexplicably, at the same time, my body fairly hummed with sexual tension. The feelings were delicious and I reveled in them. A sexy, good-looking man showing interest in me was, at that time, a new experience.
We discussed the movie for hours that night, and we identified more than forty films that we both loved. George looked so much like William Powell, well, I guess we just got caught up in the moment. He always claims he was smitten by love at first sight, but George never had to kiss the Blarney Stone to be full of charm.
Still, he’d rescued me from myself at a time when I badly needed rescuing. My mother had died the year before and I felt adrift trying to find my way in the world. George’s arrival always seemed sent from heaven. Mom would have loved him, just as everyone else does.
Even then, I’d believed he was perfect for me. Of supreme importance to my teenaged self was that he was taller than I. At five feet eleven, I’d towered over most boys in high school. I walked around with my shoulders hunched to look shorter. Like a big-footed puppy, I hadn’t grown into myself yet.
After that first night, we became inseparable. Going to the movies became one of the many passions we shared. George was then, and is now, an excellent lover. He’s funny, intelligent, kind. He’s always been my best friend. Since we met, I’ve never preferred the company of any other person as much as I loved being with my husband.
I had always enjoyed the fantasy of the two of us cocooned in ourselves, joined against the world outside. Until recently, that illusion had thrived.
Now, our marriage had turned into a fishbowl of thick, murky water that obscured my senses.
For the first time ever, I could feel the knots in my stomach as I worried about George and I was afraid for us.
George was a political player, but he’d gotten so invested in this battle. His recent behavior was completely different from his usually detached manner of dealing with life.
He’d spent long nights with the party chairman, working with Jason whenever possible. Even, I found out today, working closely with Senator Warwick, a man whose ideology and personality George detests. I’d heard him on the phone, many times late into the night, talking to all of the senators he knew personally, urging them to vote against Andrews.
Now, after everything that had happened, I actually suspected he’d attempted to meet with the President. This sounded farfetched, except that George knew President Benson. Politics is like any other world. If you stayed in it long enough, eventually everyone you knew in your younger days rises to positions of power and influence by processes of aging and attrition.
My scratchy eyes objected to one more waking moment. I closed them just to rest.
What I didn’t understand was why defeating the Andrews confirmation mattered so much to George. He believed Andrews was not suited to the job, and we’d talked for hours about why. But a lot of people aren’t suited to their work — like my boss the Chief Judge for instance — and it never seemed to bother George.
The strain had turned George into someone I didn’t recognize. And maybe he felt a little guilty. If Andrews did kill himself, George would feel at least partly to blame because he’d tried so hard to defeat Andrews’s nomination. George desperately wanted to win the fight against Andrews, but not at the cost of the man’s life. Surely.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tampa, Florida
Sunday 6:05 a.m.
January 23, 2000
THERE IS A SCIENTIFIC explanation for why time seems to pass more rapidly as we age. According to this theory, we humans measure time against our experience. The older we get, the more experiences we have and thus the shorter a year seems in comparison. Or ten years.
This is a great theory and it’s probably even true, but it doesn’t explain why time passes so slowly when you want terrible things to be over.
Awakened too early, groggy and heavy-eyed from lack of restful sleep. My mind had churned all night and I felt as if I hadn’t slept at all.
Felt the weight of George’s body on the bed next to mine. He’d come home some time during the night and was snoring soundly. I eased out of bed, thinking that if he got enough sleep, he might return to his old self today.
I stood there, looking at this man who, in many ways, had become a stranger to me. This guy looked like George, for the most part. He wore George’s silk boxers just now, the ones I gave him for Valentine’s Day with the red hearts on them. But he was obviously someone else. This man had been short-tempered and consumed by politics; he’d ignored his restaurant and our dogs; and he’d barely held a reasonable conversation with me, or anyone I knew, for several weeks.
My George is patient, kind, loving and full of that old concept: honor.
My George sleeps in pajamas.
I crept out into the kitchen and put on the coffee, whispering to Harry and Bess to be quiet as I let them out the back door and picked up the newspapers off the porch. We get three newspapers every day, the two local ones and The Wall Street Journal. On Sunday, we also subscribed to the New York Times.
By the time Harry and Bess got back, my coffee was done. Cuban, strong and sweet, my caffeine of choice. I took my papers and coffee mug, the green one George had given me that said I Hate Mornings, out to the veranda and sat at the table overlooking the bay, the dogs at my feet.
The sun was just starting to peek through the horizon again. Sunrises are truly glorious miracles even though I prefer to sleep through them. This morning, I tried to appreciate the pinks, ora
nges and blues in the sky. That’s hard to do when your eyes are closed.
The headlines were much as I expected. ANDREWS COMMITS SUICIDE. Barring some terrorist airline hijacking, the death of General Albert Randall Andrews would be front-page news everywhere today.
Everything above the fold dealt with Andy’s death and, for the first time, they had printed the note he left in his study before he went out to the boat to kill himself. The unwelcome tears that had seemed so near the surface for the past few days sprang to my eyes as I read the note. I told myself my vulnerability was due to exhaustion as I blinked the tears away, replaced my unusual sensitivity with stronger curiosity that felt more comfortable, and read the note again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tampa, Florida
Sunday 6:50 a.m.
January 23, 2000
GOODBYE MY DARLING DEBORAH. Please take care of our children. Make sure they understand how much I’ve loved them all. I can’t continue under such traitorous attacks, especially from friends and colleagues. I’d planned to serve my country once again as a Supreme Court Justice. Now, this Old Soldier’s career is over.
All three papers carried essentially the same story on the front page, which had been picked up from the local papers by one of the wire services.
I read through the stories with the critical eye I normally reserved for legal briefs. General Andrews was found dead after suffering a gunshot wound to the head early yesterday morning. His body was discovered in the fishing boat that was tied to the dock behind his Lake Thonotosassa home. Andrews habitually fished each night, the report said, and his home was so remote from others that no one heard the gunshot.
The operating theory was that General Andrews had placed his revolver to his right temple, holding the gun in his right hand, and pulled the trigger.
Andrews was survived by a wife, two sons, one daughter, a son-in-law and no grandchildren.
The papers rehashed the low points of the recent confirmation hearings. They speculated that the contentious hearings and the potential vote against him were the reasons for the general’s suicide.
Senator Warwick was quoted: “It is a tragedy that the Republic should repay him for his decades of service by publicly humiliating him to the point where he felt he had no choice but to take his own life.”
There was more in this vein for about six column inches, which I dismissed as the worst sort of public grandstanding, particularly when I knew Warwick’s real views on Andy’s appointment. Honest politician. Now there’s an oxymoron.
The local papers carried a number of stories and columns about Andy’s contribution to the community, his charitable activities and his commitment to education. There was even a story on the sports page about yesterday’s Blue Coat golf tournament. I was mildly amused to see that one of the teams had been disqualified, my group had come in fourth and our designated literacy program would get $2,500 prize money.
I’d refilled my coffee mug several times and the sun was moving quickly toward the yardarm, as the pirates who once sailed these waters are believed to have said, when George finally joined me in his bathrobe. He brought his own coffee he detests mine and rubbed his stubbled face across my cheek before he sat down across from me at the table.
While he was sleeping, I had decided to act like nothing untoward had happened between us, so I just said “Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?”
“No, not really,” was all he said in reply. He looked out on the water and appeared to be concentrating on some inner conflict, but he didn’t say what it was and he didn’t talk any more.
Determined to wait him out, to let him explain things to me when he was ready, in his own way, I went back into the house to make more coffee before I finished the papers.
When I came back with two carafes on a tray, one for him and one for me, George said, “Do we have anything planned for today? I’d really like to go out to see Deborah, if that’s alright with you.” He lowered his voice so that it was hard to hear him over the gentle lapping of the waves below. “I’d like you to come, too.”
It was the first time George had asked me to do anything with him in quite a while. I felt the grip of fear that I’d been unwilling to acknowledge begin to loosen. This was George, my beloved. He was coming back to me.
I reached over to kiss his rumpled self, holding his scratchy cheeks in both hands. He tasted just as he always had, and he returned my kiss as longingly. We’d made it, I thought. We’ve gone through the dark place and come out on the other side.
“Of course, I’ll go with you. But,” I stopped, not quite sure how to word my thoughts delicately and unwilling to destroy the renewed warmth between us with bickering.
“What?” he asked me gently.
“We haven’t really known Deborah for several years,” I said, tentatively. I didn’t need to remind him of the harsh words he’d said while throwing them out of the restaurant the last time we’d seen Andy alive.
George winced. “I’m sorry about that now. Andy and I were close once. I respected him then and I’ve always liked Deborah. I need to pay my respects.” He spoke quietly, almost to himself. “You don’t have to come along, but I’d like it if you would.”
“Of course I’ll go with you. It’s the right thing to do, anyway. I’m not sure we’ll be welcome?” I put a little lilt in my voice, to make it a question. He didn’t respond. “But I suppose we just come back if we’re not wanted.”
He gave me a weak smile that pierced my heart one more time.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tampa, Florida
Sunday 3:30 p.m.
January 23, 2000
LAKE THONOTOSASSA IS AN old community about fifteen miles east of downtown Tampa, out in the country. The Andrews house was built on land leased to him by a local University in a sweetheart deal several years ago. It was a good public relations gesture to practically give the ten-acre estate to Andy when they were trying to get him to agree to become president of the university after he retired.
Andrews declined the presidency, but he kept the land. Rumor was that he paid a fair price for it when his memoirs were published last year.
We had to park George’s silver Bentley about half a mile down the two-lane road and walk up to the house. Media vans were parked along the public road, as close to the driveway as they could get without actually trespassing.
As we approached the driveway, Frank Bennett, who seemed to be everywhere these days, spotted us. With a photographer behind him and microphone in hand, he requested a statement he could broadcast on the evening news.
“I don’t think this is the time, do you, Frank?” George asked him. “Besides, we don’t know anything. We’re here to pay our respects, that’s all.”
Frank looked at me beseechingly, but I backed George up on this one. I didn’t feel overly friendly toward Frank after Friday night. There was no reason to make a bigger circus out of such a tragic event.
I don’t believe the public has a right to intrude on grief, depriving loved ones of privacy they need when they’ve suffered the ultimate loss in death. Even when the deceased was a Four-Star General and a Supreme Court nominee.
But Frank wouldn’t give up. His camera was rolling; he started talking. “Tell me this, Judge Carson. Do you believe General Andrews committed suicide?”
I opened my mouth to say that was a police matter when the gremlin inhabiting George’s body resurfaced.
“No, Frank, she does not. That’s unthinkable.” The tenor of his voice was harsh, offensive. “General Andrews was a war hero and one of the bravest men alive. He would not kill himself.” George turned to take my arm. “Now turn that damn thing off and have a little respect, will you?”
Frank didn’t have time to close his gaping mouth before George turned us sharply and escorted me quickly through the gaggle and up the long driveway.
The Andrews’s driveway was rough and uneven, but lined with orange and live oak trees. Spanish moss hung down fr
om the branches and a dense blanket of kudzu covered most of the ground. Someone had cut the kudzu vine back on either side of the driveway to keep it from smothering the entire area, but any surface was fertile for the vine that strangles everything it touches. I stepped lively, imagining all the snakes that must be living under there.
We walked the length of the quarter mile distance, all the way up to the house, past limousines, army vehicles and every imaginable type of car and truck. That current status symbol of the middle aged white American male, Harley Davidson, was also well represented. Who would ride a Hog to a condolence call?
Eventually, we reached the front door of the Andrews’s Georgian-style home. George rang the bell and in less than thirty seconds, someone I didn’t know managed to open the oversized oak door. The room teemed with people wedged as close together as brick pavers. We struggled to plow our way through. Whether we’d even be able to find Deborah, let alone speak with her, seemed doubtful.
The room and the whole house for that matter was filled with both familiar and unfamiliar faces. Some were dressed in various military uniforms, and others donned dark clothing to show respect for the dead and comfort the bereaved. From experience, I knew that the bereaved couldn’t be comforted by anything a mourner wore, or anything one said, for that matter. Only the passage of time made such loss somewhat bearable.
We stood a little uncomfortably in the living room for a few minutes until George spotted Police Chief Ben Hathaway across the room, heading in our direction a little too purposefully for my comfort.
Ben is a big man and I always have the impression that he won’t be able to stop his forward momentum in time to avoid walking right over whoever is in his way. That quality made the sea of mourners part for him as he pushed forward. Hathaway is not only tall, but heavy. Yet, he maneuvers like a ballerina. He’s clever. And secretive.
Ben has been a cop too long to betray his true intentions, which made me even more wary of him.
“Hello, George,” he said, extending his hand. “Willa,” as he nodded toward me. “This certainly is a mad house, isn’t it?”
