SCOTUS: A Powerplay Novel

by Selena Laurence

  “Okay,” she said simply, mostly because she couldn’t deny him anything, even if she’d wanted to.

  They went inside, each of them seemingly lost in their own thoughts, and once they’d sat down in the living room, he looked at her for a moment.

  “I need to know,” he said, his deep voice low and rough. “And I guess it doesn’t matter now, and I should have left it all behind me years ago, but I didn’t—for some reason I can’t. I need to know what they said to you. What argument did they use that convinced you to leave me?”

  Her breath caught, and she physically had to hold herself back because all she wanted to do was run—far and fast—to avoid the humiliation of revisiting that moment in her life. But he was here now, with such sorrow in his voice and such despair in his eyes, and she had to let it all out. Finally put the last of the ugliness on display so they could both move on.

  “They started the campaign a few months before the end of that school year. Asking lots of questions about how we were going to live, where we’d live. And I began to notice that they seemed so unimpressed that you were going to Yale Law, they kept focusing on what I’d be doing—who would I be friends with? Which school would I transfer to? And bit by bit, I realized that they were working up to telling me that they weren’t going to pay for my tuition once we moved to Connecticut.”

  Teague shook his head in consternation. “So it was the money?”

  “No!” Her answer was sharp and fast. “You think I would have left you for their money?” Her stomach hurt, and she could feel her face flush.

  He just watched her.

  “I made it clear sometime in April that we didn’t need their money. I knew between the two of us and student loans, we’d be fine. But next there were questions about your family—remarks about your mother not having a college education, about who your father had been. When that didn’t work, they finally hit me the one place they knew would really hurt. They talked about what would happen to our children. My mom had all these stories about mixed-race kids, all the bullying and prejudice they faced. She kept it up, Teague, week after week. She’d call, email, leave me messages, and every time, she’d slip in something she’d heard about another little child who’d been mistreated because they were part black.”

  “Jesus,” he said, his face twisting in disgust.

  “You know how I felt—feel—about kids. I’ve always wanted them. I used to dream about what our children would look like—your eyes, beautiful mocha skin, my hair.” She sighed, because even now she could picture them—perfect little mixtures of her and Teague.

  “So they convinced you that our children would suffer? Be miserable because society would never accept them?”

  She nodded. And now, listening to him say it, it sounded…well, ridiculous. This wasn’t the 1950s. America was full of people of all races and combinations. Her children with Teague would have been among millions of Americans who were a mixture of the world’s people.

  “Jesus, they’re vicious.”

  She nodded her head vigorously. “They were, but I was a fool, Teague. I knew better, and I folded like a deck chair.”

  His hands clenched, and his jaw was tight. “You were twenty years old. Barely more than a kid yourself. They used your tender heart against you, Dee.”

  She sighed, not knowing what else she could say.

  “Thank you for telling me the truth. It helps to finally understand what happened.”

  “It doesn’t make it okay. No matter how young and softhearted I was.”

  “Probably not,” he said, standing and looking down with eyes that searched hers for answers she didn’t have. “But it helps. And it gives me some closure that I think I’ve needed for a long time.”

  “Good,” she choked out. “I want you to be able to put it behind you. I want you to be happy.”

  “I’m trying,” he answered; then he gave her a sad smile and walked out the door. And most likely out of her life.

  Chapter 10

  Deanna knocked on the partially open door of Brice’s office. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yeah, come on in, I’m almost done with this.” He gestured absentmindedly to a chair as he clicked on various things on his computer, his eyes narrowed at the screen.

  Deanna sat down and idly looked at his diplomas and awards on the wall. He was a top-notch journalist, perfect pedigree, award-winning. And, in all fairness, a decent boss. He didn’t monitor her too closely, but was available to bounce ideas off. It made no sense why she didn’t like him. It was a gut reaction that she couldn’t control, but sometimes she felt bad about it.

  “Okay.” He clicked one more time, then turned to give her a smile. “Sorry, Matt Jenner in sports needed some input on a feature piece.”

  She returned his smile.

  “I wanted to check in on what’s happening with the Supreme Court nomination.”

  “Well, we have the second round of committee hearings tomorrow. He’ll be answering in-depth questions about some of the more politicized issues, like right to choose and the death penalty.”

  “What about the research on his background? Have you found anything that’s not already public knowledge?”

  Deanna shifted uncomfortably, her palms going damp, but she kept her expression schooled and answered in a confident, casual tone.

  “Unfortunately, no. He seems to be just what he says—a kid from a poor neighborhood who was smart and worked his ass off getting the right education and experience.”

  Brice looked at her skeptically. “I know you’re new here, but I can’t believe you’re naïve enough to believe that. This is Washington. No one is what they say they are.”

  She gritted her teeth. “What do you want me to do, Brice? I follow the same code of ethics as every other journalist in this building. I’m not about to leave those along the side of the road while we race to sensationalist headlines.”

  His lips tightened, and he tapped a pen on the top of his desk.

  “What about his brother? I heard he had an older brother who was a gangbanger, died in prison when Roberts was still in high school?”

  Her heart thumped faster and harder. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry and raw.

  “That’s confirmed by everything I can find. He wasn’t a nice guy, but he’s been gone a long time and was quite a bit older than Roberts. I don’t think anyone is going to blame Roberts because his half brother was a criminal.”

  “Still…” Brice answered, one eyebrow raised.

  She sighed. “Okay, I’ll dig into it more, look at his prison records, find out the details about his trial and conviction.”

  He finally smiled. “Good. That’s what we need here—tenacity. Even if it seems like everything’s on the up-and-up, we have to pursue every possible lead. Make sure to dig hard on the mother too—never know what a poor single mother might have done to feed her family.”

  He gave her a tight smile, and her stomach lurched in disgust. She had no way to respond to that and keep her job, so she simply stood and walked out his office door, the words “disgusting pig” rolling through her mind.

  Deanna took her seat in the confirmation hearing room and set up her iPad and portable keyboard. Her heart beat a tad too fast as she looked around the room, the senators ensconced on the dais at the head of the chambers, the table for Teague and the various staff from the White House, Judiciary Committee, and Teague’s own legal counsel facing the dais.

  She could see only the thinnest sliver of Teague’s profile from her seat, but it was enough to remind her of how incredibly handsome he was, and how impressively he held his own in an adversarial environment.

  “Mr. Roberts,” an older senator from West Virginia began, the country accent he was famous for twanging through the microphones. “The senate was very relieved to see that you weren’t harmed in your recent assault.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Teague replied.

  “I have to admit, I’m in awe of your capacities. I don�
��t know that I’ve ever met

  someone who could single-handedly dispense with not one but two assailants, one of whom was armed.” The man paused, a scowl crossing his face. “But then, I’m not sure we’ve ever had a nominee who had a sibling that was incarcerated. You came from what many would describe as a tough neighborhood. Am I right?”

  Teague’s answer was terse. “That’s correct.”

  “I’m wondering if you could tell us a little more about your younger years?” the senator asked. “Specifically if you yourself were ever involved in any gang activities like your brother? Is that where you learned to fight? The nation is fascinated with you, Mr. Roberts. Please enlighten us.”

  Deanna’s face heated as her fists clenched in fury. How dare he? How dare this smug, prejudiced man who’d never had a door closed to him in his life question Teague’s morality, turn his self-defense into something to shame him and delegitimize his nomination. It was all she could do not to stand and shout down the old bastard.

  “Actually, sir,” Teague said mildly, “what growing up in my neighborhood in Chicago did was teach me how to run fast.” The audience and several of the senators laughed quietly. “I spent most of my childhood under the protection of my older brother or at a charter school in a better neighborhood. I’d never been in any kind of hand-to-hand fight until I began boxing when I started college. I train at a boxing gym four days a week. You might want to try it. It’s a great way to stay in shape and can come in handy when you’re attacked on a dark side street.”

  Even though it was prohibited, there was a smattering of applause when he finished, and she could see him flash a quick grin at the White House staff who sat at the table next to him.

  The questioning moved on to meatier topics, and Deanna relaxed a touch. He was safe for now, but she hadn’t missed the cruel gleam in the senator’s eye. Teague wasn’t out of the woods. Not by a long shot. There were still plenty of people who didn’t want to see him on the Supreme Court, and she feared they’d stop at nothing to see him miss his chance.

  Teague shook out the newspaper his secretary had left on his desk. Who is Supreme Court nominee Teague Roberts? the headline read.

  He looked at the photo of him walking out of the confirmation hearings the day before. He wondered if Deanna had decided what photo to run with the article. If so, she’d done a crappy job of it. His face was half-hidden in the shadows of the Capitol building and his tie was askew—no doubt he’d tugged on it as he walked out of the hearing, not even conscious of what he was doing.

  His eyes scanned the article, recognizing Deanna’s distinctive style immediately. She talked about his education, his experience, questions the opposition senators had about his age and lack of previous judicial appointments. Nowhere did it mention the dustup over his “late” brother’s incarceration or Teague’s childhood in one of Chicago’s most infamous neighborhoods. It was practically a puff piece, and Teague couldn’t help but wonder if she’d written it out of guilt, trying to somehow make up for what she’d done by going easy on him now.

  It pissed him off, which was irrational because she had the one piece of information that would ruin his nomination. He should be happy she wasn’t using it. She could make a much bigger name for herself if she let that cat out of the bag, but she was obviously sticking to her promise.

  But damn, did she have to coddle him too? Wasn’t there some middle ground so it didn’t look like she was favoring him but also didn’t expose him?

  Maybe he was asking too much. He really should be satisfied that his secret was safe, his nomination proceeding relatively smoothly.

  He tossed the newspaper aside, clicking his computer to life as his schedule for the day lit up the screen. He looked at the meetings with clients and a luncheon for a local civic organization that his firm donated money to each year. He pulled up the file for the first meeting he had, reading through the notes that his paralegal had prepared.

  Why the hell hadn’t Deanna’s article talked about his class action suit on behalf of the ACLU? It had been controversial as hell and ended up in front of the Supremes. No one should be writing about him as a nominee without including that case.

  He looked back at the computer screen.

  And then he’d turned around the next year and represented a huge petroleum corporation in a wrongful death suit that involved an oil spill that was nearly as damaging as the Exxon Valdez a few decades earlier.

  How could she not be describing contradictions like that when she was analyzing him as a nominee? He’d chosen each of those cases carefully in order to lay a foundation for a Supreme Court nomination, but you had to do the analysis to figure out why he’d chosen what looked on the surface to be very opposing viewpoints on constitutional law.

  Deanna was perfectly capable of doing that level of analysis. She’d simply chosen not to, and that made him livid. He was no one’s charity case, and just because he didn’t want her to torpedo his nomination didn’t mean he wanted her to give him a pass.

  He picked up the phone and pressed the button for his secretary.

  “Yes, bossman?” she quipped.

  “Get Rory on the line and tell her that I want her to take my ten o’clock meeting. Then reschedule the two p.m., and let Davis know that I won’t be at the luncheon. I’m leaving. I won’t be back today.”

  To his secretary’s credit, she didn’t miss a beat, merely acquiesced to his odd requests and hung up.

  Teague sighed, stretched, then stood and grabbed his jacket off the back of the door. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t stop himself. He’d be damned if he’d take a pity pass from her. Screw that.

  Deanna’s phone had blown up while she was in the weekly staff meeting. It was nearly lunchtime, and as she sat at her desk and picked up the blinking, chiming device, her stomach growled.

  The first text read: Saw your piece this morning. We need to talk.

  She furrowed her brow, not sure who the text was from. She’d had two articles in the morning edition—the one on Teague, and another about a nonprofit doing work with immigrant women’s health care.

  The second text was from the same number as the first: And don’t try ignoring me, I’ll wait at your apartment if I have to.

  Her heart fluttered because she could think of only one person that demanding who also knew where she lived.

  She was about to read the third missive from anonymous and angry when the phone rang in her hand.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m waiting outside. It’s lunchtime.”

  “I take it you’re the one who’s been blowing up my messages for the last two hours?”

  “We need to talk,” he said without answering her.

  “If it’s about the other night, I think we said everything. If it’s about the article this morning—well, honestly, I don’t know what you could have to complain about.”

  She heard a car horn blast next to him outside. “Just come on down. You owe me that much at least.”

  Her face burned. Yes, she owed him that, and in fact, she owed him virtually anything he requested. It was a burden that she’d carried for twelve years, and it appeared that seeing him again wasn’t going to lessen the strain.

  “I’ll be down in five minutes,” she said quietly before ending the call.

  When she reached the sidewalk outside her office building, Teague stood waiting, one hip leaned against an Uber car.

  He swung the back door open and swept his arm out, gesturing for her to get in.

  “Where exactly are we going?” she asked, standing a couple of feet away, staring at him.

  He took one large step forward until they were nearly nose to nose. She could hear his breath—rapid and hot. His eyes blazed, but she wasn’t sure whether it was from anger or lust.

  “Get in the car, Dee. We’re going to finish this one way or another today, and I’m not going to do it in the back corner of some restaurant.”

  She swallowed and nodded once sharply, cl
imbing in the backseat of the Prius. As the car worked its way through the DC lunchtime traffic, she couldn’t help but sneak glances at his stony profile. He was tense, his jaw clenched, eyes hard as chips of ice.

  Her core clenched against her will, because even pissed off and demanding he was a turn-on—a thousand watts of male heat. Her mind wandered, like it had every few minutes for the last few days, thinking about the way he’d touched her in the train under the National Mall. His tongue, his fingers, his skin. Her blood simmered, her breath rapid and hard to control. She struggled not to look at him, but when she broke down and glanced his direction, she found him staring resolutely ahead, no sign in his expression of what he was thinking.

  They entered the smaller residential streets of Adams Morgan, passing row houses and small apartment blocks before stopping in front of a well-maintained brownstone. Teague was out of the car before she could ask any questions, and held the door open for her to exit, his expression still stoic and closed. She slid out slowly, pretending not to notice Teague’s hand that he held out to assist her. As he closed the car door and the Uber drove away, she crossed her arms and looked at him.

  “Are you going to let me in on where we are now?”

  “Someplace we won’t be interrupted,” he grunted before striding to the door and unlocking it. He turned and looked at her where she still stood on the sidewalk, feeling less and less like she owed him this or anything else.

  He sighed. “My house,” he said. “Will you please get inside?”

  She huffed out a breath and marched in, giving the universe a little silent prayer as she did that she would be able to survive whatever was coming next, because one way or another, she knew it was going to be significant and intense, and she wasn’t sure she was prepared to handle any of that with this particular man.

  Teague tossed his suit jacket on the back of a chair sitting in the foyer, then strode to the left into the kitchen.

  “You want something to drink?” he asked Deanna, assuming she’d followed him.