by Diane Capri
Craig Hamilton’s shooting proved that at least some of the lunatic fringe believed Andrews was about to be the next Supreme Court Justice, shifting the balance of power on the court to unacceptable levels. The little I knew about the behind-the-scenes work George had been doing told me Andrews’s nomination was far from certain to be confirmed.
Then again, the latest polls suggested public opinion was still solidly on his side.
I searched my conscience for the right response but could come up with nothing suitable. I changed the subject. “I’m looking forward to the Blue Coat tomorrow,” I said, referring to the charity golf tournament held each year in Andrews’s name.
He gave me the same comic look I’d seen him use in response to Senator Warwick’s questions before he responded, letting me know he wasn’t fooled by my tactics, either. “We should have a good crowd and it’s a worthy cause.”
The hostess appeared and we said our goodbyes. She led them into the main dining room. I watched heads turn as polite diners sneaked covert glances at the man who might be the next Supreme Court Justice.
Pondering Andy’s self-deception, I collected my weighty briefcase filled with weekend work and walked up the winding, open stairs to our flat before someone else could stop me.
I pushed open the heavy oak door with my hip and walked into our living room and on through to the den. I dropped the heavy briefcase next to the floral needle-pointed seat cushion of one of Aunt Minnie’s harp-back chairs. I wouldn’t lift the case again until Sunday and I glared at the file I knew was contained inside, Nelson Newton v. The Whitman Esquire Review.
I resented spending my Sunday on a case that, to my mind, was a serious misuse of the judicial process and never should have been filed in the first place. I had tried every way I could think of to settle the matter. Unfortunately, Mr. Newton didn’t need the money and was interested in clearing his name. Name clearing was not an appropriate use of our limited judicial resources.
Litigants who believe it’s the principle of the thing are the bane of my existence. American jurisprudence today is not about the principle of the thing. The system is overworked, overcrowded and overcommitted to handling cases that are about real injustice and real damages. We don’t have time for the principle of the thing. The principle of the thing is to settle your own petty grievances and stay out of my courtroom.
Harry and Bess, our two Labrador retrievers were lying on the kitchen floor, and didn’t bother to raise their heads when I came through the door.
“Can you tell by my footfalls that I’m not a burglar, or what?” I chastised them. Harry looked at me with one yellow eyebrow raised. Bess started to get up, but then she thought better of it and lay back down again.
“Nice to see you, too,” I said, opening the freezer for the Bombay Sapphire to go with cold tonic and sliced lemons. I added ice and took my drink out to the veranda along with my first Partagas of the day. The remnants of a fabulous sunset settled above the waters of Hillsborough Bay.
The Partagas was the last of the limited reserves George bought me for Christmas and I’d been saving it for a special occasion. I looked at it, smelled it, tasted it, and considered whether fifteen dollars was just too extravagant for a cigar that would go up in smoke.
According to the propaganda, Partagas cigars come from the Dominican Republic and are made from Cuban tobacco. Hand-rolled and aged until just the right flavor could be experienced. It was the aging, along with the Cuban tobacco, that made the limited reserves special. I should quit, of course, but I long ago gave up trying to overcome my vices. How many vices I had depended on whom you asked.
I held the cigar between my thumb and forefinger, sipped my drink and thought about whether I really wanted to smoke this last one. George had bought a box of the limited reserves for me when we’d visited the Dominican last winter. The evening he’d given them to me had been a wonderful one.
I closed my eyes and allowed a flood of desire to overwhelm me as I remembered dancing in the moonlight, exquisite port after dinner, great sex later. The erotic vision reminded me of how special my husband was to me, how much I had missed him lately. After all these years, he was still the one. I couldn’t imagine my life without him, and I wouldn’t try.
George came up behind and gently put one hand over each of my eyes. Sounding more like speedy Gonzales, he said, “Ah, my leetle one. How can one so beeyouteeful be so alone?” George’s fun-loving side has faded in the last seventeen years, but a couple of drinks still bring out the best in him.
Eyes still closed, “I used to have a lover, but he left me for a Democrat,” I told him, not so tongue-in-cheek.
George bent down to give me a soul-shattering kiss that effectively silenced my complaints and left me hungry for more.
When he raised his head, he said, “Hitting below the belt, Willa. You of all people should know how important this nomination is. The Democrats have had too many federal court appointments in the past few years. Even suggesting that Andy can replace such a great conservative is just an outrage.”
His Glenfiddich on the rocks firmly in hand, George sat down in the wicker rocker next to mine. He was dressed in a suit and tie, which meant my fantasy of a quiet evening at home was going up in smoke faster than the unlit Partagas. An involuntary groan escaped my lips, still tingling from the kiss.
George leaned over with a lighter and I put the cigar to my mouth. If I couldn’t relax tonight, I really deserved this special treat, I decided.
“Craig Hamilton is recovering. They expect to release him from the hospital tomorrow.” I told him after a silence punctuated with a good deal of puffing.
He bristled. “I’m really sorry for Craig, but I don’t for a minute feel any responsibility, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” He sipped. “If the nuts are excited to violence by the hearings, you can imagine what they might do if Andy’s actually confirmed.”
He was so touchy lately, my least misstatement angered him. I’d become tentative, wanting to avoid the explosions. But I had my own views, too.
“What is your side doing to make sure that nothing worse will happen?”
“What are we supposed to do? Advertise? Tell people to write their senators instead of shooting the guy?”
I didn’t have the energy to debate the issues again, but I did believe the Republicans had been whipping up the fringe, not trying to assure them that the process would work without resorting to violence.
Saving that debate for later in the weekend, I braced myself for bad news and asked instead, “Why are you all dressed up?”
“I’m meeting Jason downstairs for dinner in a few minutes. You might want to join us.” He must have sensed my instinctive refusal because his tone softened and he added, “You don’t see Jason very often and I don’t know when he’ll be in town again.”
Jason Austin’s mother, Kate, took me in when my own mother died and my stepfather couldn’t face life without mom. I was only sixteen then, a time that seemed light years ago.
Did I want to have dinner with George and Jason? I was ambivalent about the idea. I literally felt my head wagging back and forth, like the cartoons I watched as a child, as if I had an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, while I considered my answer.
It’s true that I don’t see Jason often, and I do enjoy his company, the angel pointed out. But he makes me tired, the devil responded. Jason’s brand of brilliance is a struggle to be around and I didn’t really feel up to it tonight.
Conversations with Jason involve only important matters; he thinks his work is vital to the world; the trivial has no place in Jason Austin’s life. Even trivial things like family. Jason lives in Jason’s world. The rest of the 270 million people in this country live somewhere else.
If he wasn’t the closest thing I had to an older brother, I wouldn’t have been able to stand him.
Jason also happens to be the chief counsel to the Senate Judiciary Committee the committee responsible for Andrews’s
confirmation hearings. I’d seen him on television yesterday, sitting at the right hand of his boss, Senator Sheldon Warwick.
Part of my ambivalence was that I knew Jason was here to discuss politics with George and I’d had enough of that. I needed a break.
Still, the angel won the argument. Before George left, I told him I’d shower and join them downstairs. Otherwise, I’d be dining alone in my flat, again. I’d been alone enough lately. Obviously, my husband wasn’t going to return to me, so it was up to me to join him.
I savored my cigar, finished my drink and undressed as I headed in toward the shower. I glanced longingly at my oversized bathtub. When we renovated Aunt Minnie’s house, we added closets to replace the old wardrobes, and expanded the bathrooms and bedrooms. We replaced the plumbing, but I insisted on keeping the mammoth, claw-footed tub.
I loved that tub. It was a place to soak my cares away.
But I knew that if I got into the tub that night, I’d never get out. So I took an invigorating ginseng gel shower instead and tried to convince myself that I still had some energy left.
I dried my hair (two minutes), put on my face (three minutes) and slipped into a wine silk pantsuit with a cream chemise and low-heeled sandals (one minute). No jewelry. George says I’m fast, for a woman.
As I looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror, I noticed I could have used a little more concealer for the shadows under my eyes. I reached for the tube, but then threw it back in the drawer. No amount of makeup would conceal those circles.
Glancing at the clock on my way out, I saw that it was just barely nine o’clock. Maybe I’d get to bed before midnight, with any luck.
I stopped on the landing to lock the door and then turned around to look into the foyer of the restaurant below. Peter, George’s Mater d’, stood near the exit, chatting with a departing couple. Peter appeared enraptured by whatever the portly gentleman was saying while he simultaneously gave his attention to the man’s equally well-fed wife. Both gazed at Peter as if they wanted to take him home and fatten him up.
Tampa’s oldest five star restaurant has been trying to woo Peter away from George for years. A Kentucky restaurant even sent Peter a racehorse for Christmas last year. He rejected all offers. He was devoted to George and Minaret. Peter would never work anywhere else. Of course, I think Peter is already employed at the epitome of his chosen field. Not that I’m biased.
I walked slowly down the stairs, watched the guests, and looked anew at Aunt Minnie’s tastefully decorated foyer. When she lived here, the house was her private home and these were her secretaries, breakfronts and sideboards. Even the small butler’s table and the upholstered loveseats in the center were hers. The soft blue fleur de lis wallpaper duplicated hers in gilded excellence.
Would Aunt Minnie be pleased to have her beautiful things returned to usefulness or horrified that strangers came into her home for lunch and dinner seven days a week?
It didn’t matter. Without the restaurant, we couldn’t afford to keep the house. Aunt Minnie, to the extent her ghost might still be with us, would just have to cope, I thought, as I made my way toward the dining room.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tampa, Florida
Friday 9:05 p.m.
January 21, 2000
I PASSED THROUGH THE foyer and waved to Peter over the heads of the departing oversized guests. The restaurant owner’s wife has certain obligations that I preferred to ignore tonight, but when I was present here, I had to play the role. Most of the time, I enjoyed it.
Standing in the doorway to the main dining room for a few seconds, I was able to draw strength to pass the gauntlet of diners between here and George and Jason’s far corner table.
When I surveyed the room, I noticed a number of familiar faces, not all of them welcome ones. Inhaling courage, I stepped cautiously into the fishbowl, feeling a little like a criminal in a line-up, knowing all eyes would be cast my way, making judgments.
At the Andrews’s table, no one seemed to be having a very good time. Deborah threw me a beseeching glance. I hardened my heart, smiled encouragement, and kept going.
Further on, I nodded to Senator and Tory Warwick, who were eating alone at a window table overlooking the garden. My initial thought was: Why are they here?
Tory had on a red, low-cut dress by a certain designer she’s favored since her breast implant surgery enhanced her figure a few months ago. I hoped she would behave herself tonight.
Senator Warwick himself looked very stylish in a grey cashmere suit, pink silk tie and the black, reverse calf, bench made shoes that are his trademark. The first time I’d seen the shoes, I’d wanted a pair for myself, until I found out what they cost. They looked like comfortable Hush Puppies to me, but Jason assures me there’s a huge difference. I suspect most of the voters think they look like Hush Puppies, too, which may be the point.
“The fact is you have to be rich or have a well-employed, working spouse to be able to afford the job of civil servant,” Jason had told me. Although we both knew that politicians act like champions of the poor and average income people because more of those folks vote.
I passed a few more tables and only had to stop briefly to speak to one other local couple before I finally reached George and Jason. I felt like I’d just crossed Times Square on New Year’s Eve, or Ybor City’s Seventh Avenue on any given Saturday night, weaving through close crowds, seeking a safe haven.
Jason stood up and leaned over so he could give me a light, polite, southern hug. Kind of a lean across the body and a small pat on the upper back. This pseudo hug is the southern equivalent of the New York cheek-to-air kiss, I guess. It took me the longest time to get used to the gesture when we moved here from Detroit years ago. Jason is no more southern than I am. Maybe since a southern Democrat controlled the White House, the hug had become a politically correct Washington thing.
“Hey, Willa, you look great, as always,” he lied.
I wondered when Jason had learned to lie so smoothly and why he was lying to me now. Was he so oblivious to my troubled appearance? Or did he simply not care? I thought I knew Jason well. Maybe not. Maybe none of us really knows another. Or ourselves for that matter. With renewed objectivity, I examined him closely.
Jason is a solid, dependable-looking man. He’s average: average height (5’10”), average coloring (brown hair, hazel eyes) and an average dresser (Brooks Brothers). Actually, on the dressing thing, he could get the same suits at Stein Mart for half the price, if he had more imagination.
“Thanks,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. Then, seeking to encourage more candor, I told him, “You look as tired as I feel. Don’t you ever get a break?”
He failed to take the opportunity I offered. “When I accepted the job, the title sounded so good, I just thought it would improve my resume.” More lies. Jason had never leapt without looking in his life and I knew he hadn’t done so when he accepted the job of chief counsel to the senate judiciary committee at Senator Sheldon Warwick’s request. My radar, already up and humming, sharpened considerably.
Jason had worked as Warwick’s aide for the previous ten years. The chief counsel position was a promotion, of sorts, and for a politically ambitious man like Jason, a very powerful post. His ability to participate in and influence the selection of judges who might serve on the courts of the United States for the next twenty years was more than just a resume builder.
Before we could sit down again, Frank Bennett, one of our local television anchors, approached our table. Ignoring the kick I gave him under the table, George invited Frank to join us. It seemed everyone who had gathered in Tampa for tomorrow’s Blue Coat golf tournament had planned dinner here first. But then, George’s was the best restaurant in town. Where else would they go? Maybe for the first time ever, I wished George owned a waffle house.
Once we were all seated, Jason asked, “How’d you get the night off, Frank? It’s a busy time for you reporters, with the nomination and the assassination attempt and
all.” His tone implied annoyance, or maybe something closer to anger.
“I covered all that at six,” Frank responded. “I’m working on the President’s trip to Tampa later tonight. I thought if I came over here, you or George might give me something I can use for the eleven o’clock news.” Frank looked around, then said, “It was just luck to find all the main players in the Andrews debacle in the same dining room.”
Luck had nothing to do with it. The local media, like everyone else, knew Washington-based Tampa residents had planned to play in the Blue Coat charity golf tournament tomorrow. But someone must have tipped him off that all of them were sitting in this one dining room. I don’t believe in coincidence.
“Wait a second,” I said. “Why is the President in town? Didn’t anybody stay in Washington this weekend?”
“Apparently not. They just moved the judiciary committee here, I’d say.” Frank glanced around the room and let his gaze rest pointedly on General Andrews’s table and then Warwick’s.
George and Jason exchanged a look I couldn’t decipher and George said, “You’d better not have a camera in here, Frank,” with the sternness he usually reserves for misbehaving Labradors.
“Of course not.” Frank managed to sound wounded before he grinned. “I got the footage when everyone crossed the bridge as they arrived. The camera crew is still over there, waiting for the departures. Where we can bombard them with questions.” He stopped a beat for effect. “We wouldn’t think of bringing a camera in here.”
“This is private property, Frank,” I reminded him.
“Is it? I thought it was a public restaurant.” Frank said too sweetly, before he turned to Jason. “Hasn’t anyone told your boss that he and the nominee are on the same team? Warwick and the other Dems seem to be going out of their way to make George’s team the winner here.”
