by Diane Capri
“General, do you still support a woman’s right to choose, as defined by the U.S. Supreme Court in Roe v. Wade?”
“Why should any more unwanted children be brought into the world?”
“And you oppose prayer in public schools?”
“We need prayer at home, where it belongs. Church and
State must remain firmly separated.”
Warwick looked down at his notes, shook his head as if he was having trouble believing the next series of questions that had been prepared by the committee. Then, he asked, “Do you openly advocate that the Supreme Court should make the law, not just interpret the Constitution?”
Margaret sputtered, “That’s outrageous!”
Andrews replied, “This country needs help. The founding fathers died over two hundred years ago. And if they lived here now, they’d be making some changes, too.”
Warwick waited a couple of seconds, then asked, “You are opposed to gun control, is that right, General?”
“Why not let the drug dealers kill each other? Save us all some money.”
These opinions, contained in Andrews’s public appearances over the years, had galvanized the conservatives against him early in the process. But he didn’t stop there.
Paradoxically, Andrews confounded his liberal supporters when he stated far right views as well. Indeed, Andrews’s opinions seemed incapable of classification. Neither side could completely support or reject him.
“You opposed allowing those with homosexual orientation to serve in the U.S. military?” Warwick asked.
“We don’t need the morale problems caused by social and sexual experimentation programs in the military.”
“And, the volunteer army, sir, you’re opposed to that as well?”
“It’s every man’s patriotic duty to serve. I would reinstate the draft, given the chance, yes.”
“How about allowing women to serve in combat, General?”
“Definitely not. Women in combat put our troops in mortal danger. I would not allow it.”
With each controversial answer, the absurdity of Andrews’s appointment was underscored. Warwick had to bang his gavel repeatedly and gestured the security officers to roam the aisles to restore order.
CHAPTER THREE
Tampa, Florida
Thursday 3:30 p.m.
January 20, 2000
ONCE HE COULD BE heard over the din, Warwick pressed on. “You favor the death penalty, is that right?”
“Prison doesn’t deter crime, but death makes damn sure that particular felon won’t commit another crime.”
“You oppose welfare and any form of financial support for the homeless?”
“Those people would be fine if they’d just get a job and support themselves.”
I shook my head in disbelief. Commentators had been airing these sound bites of old Andrews speeches over the past few weeks, so none of these opinions were a surprise. But they had drawn the ire of the people and generated angry protests, pitting many special interest groups against him and eroding support for the lame duck, President Benson, who had chosen Andrews. This one nomination, by a previously popular president, might be enough to hand the next election to George’s party.
“You’d think they would have coached him more thoroughly, wouldn’t you?” Margaret said. “I guess he’s just too stubborn to listen.”
The pundits had dubbed Andrews the Archie Bunker of the Supreme Court. To those of us paying attention, he’d become a laughing stock.
“He could actually be confirmed, you know,” I told her. “No joke?”
“These Senators answer to the voters. They might not want to take the chance of rejecting him. If Andrews was running for President, even George thinks he could win. These people you see on television are vocal activists. But mainstream voters seem to like his no-nonsense, straight forward style,” I told her, allowing my amazement to shine through my words.
To a society that watched cable television, confrontational news, reality shows and read the tabloids, Andrews was viewed by many as refreshingly honest.
On top of that, Americans have had a long and justified love affair with military men. That pro-military brand of patriotism had flourished. Many young Americans had died protecting the country and everyone, regardless of ideology, supported our troops.
Americans hadn’t had an opportunity to put a military hero in high office since Eisenhower. Some people thought it was time to do it again. But Andrews was no Eisenhower.
Margaret whistled. “Emotions are running pretty hot. He’s lucky someone hasn’t tried to kill him before.”
Her comment shot straight through my composure. Worry had shortened my fuse to the ignition point.
“Don’t say that!” I scolded her, too sharply.
Margaret, a life-long Democrat and supporter of the President, startled me when she said, “Well it’s true. Why in the hell did Benson appoint such a jackass?”
Uncontrollable violence injected into the process was the thing I worried about constantly. Having George involved in this dirty political game, even quietly, was frightening beyond anything he’d ever done before. We’d had several arguments about it, but they had only polarized us further and made us both miserable.
The commentator was whispering again now, bringing viewers up to date. “Andrews’s nomination was controversial from the start. Many court watchers have told us that Andrews was always an unsuitable candidate to replace the ultra-conservative Chief Justice when he retired. Although Andrews has a law degree, he’s never practiced law and never served as a judge in any jurisdiction.”
I felt even more ashamed of my outburst a moment ago when Margaret came to my defense.
“So what?” She blurted. “That doesn’t disqualify him from any federal appointment. After all,” she said to me, “you’d never been a judge before your appointment, either.”
I appreciated her loyalty and put an apology into my tone. “But at least I’d been a lawyer, Margaret. Andrews has never done that much.”
Senator Warwick continued, just as emotionally unruffled as Andrews, but physically more rumpled. Not many older men can stay crisp under the glare of hot lights, and Warwick wasn’t one of the ones who could do it.
“He’s not entitled to wear that uniform now that he’s retired, is he?” Margaret asked me, referring to Andrews, who was dressed in full regalia, medals and ribbons covering half his broad chest.
“No,” I acknowledged quickly as I turned the volume up a little higher, attempting to silence her comments so that I could hear.
Senator Warwick’s bald head gleamed with sweat now, but he was not deterred by the heat or the tension. He continued to rapid-fire questions at Andrews for another two hours, and Andrews just as adroitly shot back his answers. Instead of answering one of Warwick’s questions, Andrews made a comic face that showed he thought Warwick was the one being outrageous. Court watchers in the gallery laughed.
“Jerk,” Margaret murmured under her breath.
Warwick bristled at the laughter, coming as it did, at his expense. His face flushed, he frowned and pounded his gavel repeatedly calling for order. He looked like he might blow a gasket. I could almost see the steam coming out of his ears.
Sitting next to her husband, Deborah Andrews appeared a little green. When the laughter in the gallery eventually died down, Andrews replied more seriously.
Finally, out of patience, Senator Warwick asked his last question. “General, do you have anything further you’d like to say to this committee?”
Andrews’s next words sounded like a prepared statement he had memorized for the occasion. “Senator, I have defended democracy and representative government on the front lines of three wars and several peace keeping missions. My patriotism cannot be questioned. When I returned from the third Gulf War, I received a hero’s welcome.”
He stopped his recitation here, allowing the applause to die down, and then resumed a more normal conversational tone. “This com
mittee has attempted to suggest that I’m not popular with the people. Nothing could be further from the truth, and we all know it. If confirmed, I will perform the duties of my office to the best of my ability. Which is considerable.”
“Man, he is one cool cookie,” Margaret said.
“Being calm under pressure isn’t enough to make him a good justice,” I replied.
George had told me that many of the senators from both parties on the judiciary committee disapproved of Andrews. Mere disapproval, though, would not be sufficient to defeat his nomination, either.
Senator Warwick announced the close of the committee’s business, thanked the general for coming and said deliberations would begin in closed session Monday.
“What happens now?” Margaret asked me before returning to her desk.
“The committee will make a recommendation to the Senate next week as to whether or not to have a full vote,” I told her.
“I guess we’ll just have to wait to see whether Andrews gets confirmed then,” she said in parting.
It was hard for me to believe that the committee would consider Andrews seriously. Selfishly, I hoped for a quick defeat of the nomination and the process to continue with a more suitable candidate.
I tried to concentrate on my work, but my thoughts returned to the Andrews nomination. General Andrews had been a Tampa treasure before his nomination. He’d lived here since he worked out of MacDill Air Force Base as a part of the joint command that directed the course of the third Gulf War. He lived with his wife, Deborah, on Lake Thonotosassa, now that he’d retired. He lent his name to several charitable events.
Until his nomination had revealed aspects of his character that most people hadn’t known, Andrews had vast public support for all his good works.
Even so, George had been against Andrews from the beginning. First, General Andrews is a Democrat. To George and his colleagues, Andrews’s party affiliation alone made him unsuitable for the Supreme Court. George believed absolutely in the GOP, the Party of Lincoln, the Republicans. Conservative and free-market capitalist.
George’s GOP is big, inclusive, supportive and fiercely independent of big government. He didn’t want a liberal Supreme Court to rubber stamp any socialistic policies that might sneak past the legislature over the next thirty years, like increased taxes and entitlement programs.
Almost the second Andrews’s name started to circulate as a potential nominee, George went into high gear against him. George is active in Republican politics and extremely close to the Florida Party Chairman, in the fourth largest state in the Union. George doesn’t hold an office in the Party, but only because he doesn’t want to. My husband’s influence was considerable and he wholeheartedly threw his weight against Andrews.
I looked up to see Margaret standing in the doorway, her purse on her arm, keys in hand. I glanced at my watch, surprised to see it was already six o’clock.
“Have a good night,” I told her. “Willa?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“If the committee recommends Andrews’s nomination and the full Senate endorses it, Andrews will sort of be your boss, won’t he?”
Revulsion flooded my senses. I forced down the bile. “Not really. He’ll outrank me in the federal court system, but he can’t tell me what to do.” I am appointed for life, too. Unless I do something illegal, for which I might be successfully impeached, I will have my job for as long as I want it.
“But he can set law you’ll have to follow, right?” Margaret had been my secretary a long time. She knew more about the law than most law school graduates.
“He’ll have to get the other justices to agree with him first.” I told her.
“Speaking of other judges, CJ called again,” she told me, referring to the Chief Judge.
“He doesn’t have any influence over me, either,” I told her, my resignation so plain in my voice that she said her goodnights and left without further comment. What I’d said about the CJ wasn’t exactly true. He had a lot of influence over administrative matters here in the Middle District of Florida.
Which was why I still labored in the equivalent of the federal court ghetto. All of my colleagues had long ago moved to the new Sam M. Gibbons Federal Courthouse down the street, while I was stuck with the historically significant but horribly rundown Old Federal Courthouse. The only benefit to me was that the CJ couldn’t just drop in whenever he felt like it.
I ignored the CJ’s messages and turned my attention back to my work. There was no reason for me to hurry. Either my home would be dark and empty while George was out politicking tonight, or he’d have his team there, strategizing the defeat of the nominee.
I was bone weary of the whole mess, so after Margaret left I continued working at my desk, where I had complete control of my environment, where I felt safe and secure. The law changed so slowly that it mimicked the movement of mountains. There were few chances for surprises, which was just the way I liked it.
I managed to put the Andrews nomination out of my mind until Friday night. Glad to have made it to the weekend, I walked through the front door of the nineteenth century home George inherited from his Aunt Minnie and immediately felt the urge to leave when I saw how many people were waiting in the foyer.
Our house was built by Henry B. Plant, a local railroad tycoon who also built The Tampa Bay Hotel, now The University of Tampa. Plant called the house Minaret because of the bright steel onion dome on the top, and the name stuck.
George’s five star restaurant occupies the main floor of Minaret and we live in the second floor flat. George’s dining room, formerly the ballroom, comfortably holds about thirty round tables, all of which were full tonight. Prospective diners spilled out into the over-crowded lobby where the frazzled new hostess seemed completely overwhelmed.
I turned on my heel, intending to duck out and enter our flat through the back stairs, when I noticed General Andrews and his entire family waiting to be seated. The shock stopped me in my tracks long enough for his wife, Deborah Andrews, to see me. She gave me a wistful smile I hadn’t the heart to ignore.
Stashing my briefcase behind the hostess station, I made my way toward the Andrews party, where I welcomed the general and Deborah to George’s.
“Willa, what a pleasure to see you again,” Andrews said, as he took my hand and kissed the cheek that I hadn’t moved out of the way quickly enough. Deborah gave me a grateful little hug. I felt her too-fragile bones through the thin summer dress and noticed the deep lines around her eyes I’d missed while watching her on television the day before. Still, she looked happy, pleased to be here.
“You know our children, don’t you?” Andrews asked.
Then he introduced them all to me again, the habit of a gracious man who has more than a little trouble remembering names of people he doesn’t see regularly.
Andrews’s sons were identical twins, Donald and David. I’d met them years ago, when they were still teens. They were both in the army, as the general had been until he retired. Both sons resembled their father: tall, dark and slight. Their mousy brown hair and striking cornflower blue eyes were Deborah’s contribution to their appearance.
The daughter, Roberta (“Robbie”) Andrews, and her husband John Williamson, or “Jack,” as he was called, lived here in South Tampa. He was a member at Great Oaks, where I played golf every Saturday. Most South Tampa golfers were members there because it’s the only course nearby. Great Oaks has a very liberal admissions policy: anyone who applies gets in. Which was a good thing for me since federal judges can’t belong to discriminatory societies.
Robbie had her broad back to her family, admiring the antique sideboard George’s Aunt Minnie had left us with the house. Robbie was opening the drawers, examining the brass pulls, just generally being nosy. When her father said, “And you know Robbie and Jack, of course,” Robbie turned and gave me a thin smile. I nodded in their direction.
John was charming, as always. The pronounced white streak on the left of his
widow’s peak and his rugged features kept him a shade short of blindingly handsome. Not perfect, but he was a man who turned heads when he walked by. Everyone noticed John, men and women alike. His sweet demeanor added to his allure.
“What brings you all to George’s tonight?” I asked Deborah and her husband, as if I wanted to know, when what I really wanted was for them to leave before George noticed their presence.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tampa, Florida
Friday 6:30 p.m.
January 21, 2000
DEBORAH AND ANDY STOOD close together holding hands, as if they were young lovers, not a couple who had been married over thirty years. Perhaps the rumors I’d heard about Deborah’s alcoholism threatening their marriage were untrue.
Andy looked as ramrod stiff as I’d seen him on television. Deborah wore an old- fashioned blue shift and her hair, a pageboy parted on one side and held in place by an inexpensive plastic barrette, looked exactly as it must have been styled at age six by her mother.
“There’s no better restaurant in Tampa than George’s for a special occasion,” Deborah said with her typical sincerity. “It’s Andy’s birthday.” Her soft drawl was pleasant to my ear.
Deborah was every southern boy’s fantasy wife, if the boy was of a certain age. A quiet woman, born and bred in South Georgia, she was a genuine southern belle who never said a negative word about anyone. It wouldn’t be possible to dislike Deborah, even if I’d had a reason to do so. She was simply too kind for the harsh world she inhabited.
“We also thought we’d celebrate the end of those damn committee hearings,” Andy said to me, as he smoothed his red striped tie over his flat stomach and closed the middle button of his navy sport coat. “I’m glad to be through with that inquisition. Next week the committee will vote and then the full senate. I should be on the job in no time at all.” His confidence was solid as steel. He smiled directly toward me. “We’ll have a chance to work together, Willa.”
The words made my heart stop. Work with Andrews? There were very few things in the world I’d like less, based on what I’d learned over the past few weeks. There seemed to be nothing upon which we might agree. A working relationship between us would be a daily battle that would quickly escalate to a full scale war that would make my daily skirmishes with the CJ seem even more childish.
