Ben’s heart almost leaped out of his chest. For the first time, he allowed himself to believe confirmation was just marginally possible.
The murmur in the chamber was audible, but the clerk continued calling names as if he did not hear it. In the course of the next five minutes, five Republican senators voted yes. No one had abstained. The vote was almost even, the nays only slightly ahead.
“Senator Wellington.”
“Yes.”
“Senator Wyatt.”
“Yes.”
The chamber and gallery alike held their breath. The vote was fifty yeses, forty-nine nos.
“Senator Yarmouth.”
There was an understandable pause. He appeared to be staring at the tote board as he spoke.
“Well, under the circumstances…I vote yes.”
Ben’s eyes widened with stunned surprise. A loud hue and cry ballooned up from the gallery, but the Vice President banged his gavel, cutting it off.
“Accordingly,” the Vice President announced, “the yeses number fifty-one, while the nos are forty-nine. The Senate therefore does advise and consent to the nomination of Judge Thaddeus Roush to the Supreme Court. We are out of session.”
He banged the gavel again, and this time there was no stopping the whooping and laughing and crying, the ecstatic outcries and disgruntled grumbling. One hundred senators and six hundred spectators spoke at once, all of them amazed at the historic event they had just witnessed.
Senator Hammond pushed his way down the aisle to Ben. He grabbed his hand and began shaking it with great force. Tears were in his eyes. “Damn it,” he said, smiling, “I knew you were the right man for this job. I knew it!”
Ben shrugged. “We got lucky.”
“In politics, there’s no such thing.” He pulled closer so he could be heard above the growing tumult. “Listen to me, Ben. You have to run for reelection. You have to. We need a man like you in the Senate.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Will you run?”
“I have to admit, it hasn’t been quite as horrible as I thought it might be.”
Christina came running down the aisle, pushed several senators out of her way, and threw her arms around Ben’s neck. “I never doubted you for a minute,” she said, hugging him tightly.
“Then you were the only one,” he whispered in her ear.
“No, I wasn’t.” She looked toward the gallery where, amid the noise and the tumult, Thaddeus Roush stood in the front row looking down at them. A throng of people were trying to get to him and offer their congratulations, but for the moment he was holding them at bay.
Even though Ben couldn’t hear, he didn’t need to be a lip-reader to know what Roush was saying: “Thank you.”
Ben nodded back at him. “It was my pleasure.”
“I talked to Lieutenant Albertson on my cell,” Christina told Ben. “He’s working on a subpoena to search Haskins’s home, office, and the place he’s been renting since he came to D.C. And he’s sending a security detail to pick him up from—”
Her eyes turned upward again. Ben followed her gaze. In the front row, just to the left of Judge—soon to be Justice—Roush, Margaret Haskins still sat, her hands covering her face.
But Judge Haskins was gone.
60
Loving practically had to promise his firstborn child before Trudy would let him leave the hospital. All that talk about his delicate condition—it was almost as if they were married. Which wasn’t likely to happen, at least not in this universe. Still, Loving had to admit, his association with her—him—had loosened him up a little bit. Made him perhaps a little more accepting. Helped him see the value in people very different from himself. Trudy had saved his life. After that, minor details such as gender and wardrobe choice seemed pretty minor.
Loving was waiting covertly in Haskins’s front yard when his Cadillac came careening around the corner and down the circular cul-de-sac. Haskins’s eyes were wild; his movements were frenetic. Sweat dripped from his face.
As soon as he left his car, Loving stepped out of the bushes.
“Evenin’, Judge.”
Haskins froze as if he had hit an invisible wall. “Who—who are you?”
“Name’s Loving. I’m here to make sure you don’t do nothin’ you shouldn’t.”
“Like what?” Haskins snapped.
“Like destroyin’ evidence.”
“What makes you think there’s any evidence here?”
“Well, you were drivin’ in an awful big hurry.”
“You have no proof. You just came because that damned Kincaid said all those horrible lies about me.”
“The Skipper has been wrong, once or twice. And if he’s wrong today, fine. But I think I’ll keep an eye on you, just the same.”
“You can’t do that. You’re not with the police.”
“No, I’m not. But the police have obtained a search warrant and they’re on their way. I’m just babysittin’. Till they get here.”
Haskins tried to push past him. Loving blocked his way.
“You have no right to be here.”
“You know, I ’spect you know a heck of a lot more about rights and stuff than I do, bein’ a judge and all.” He looked at the man levelly. “But I’m still not gonna let you destroy evidence.”
Haskins rushed forward, tackling Loving. Loving’s feet hit the porch steps and he tripped, falling backward. Haskins caught him with a punch to the jaw on his way down, then rushed past him.
Ow! Loving wasn’t sure which hurt more—the slug to his face or his head thudding against the concrete sidewalk. As if he hadn’t taken enough pounding lately. For an old geezer, Haskins had a darn good right arm.
He pulled himself up and rushed to the front door. Haskins had locked it, but hadn’t had the time to secure the dead bolt. Two good body slams with Loving’s strong right shoulder and the door began to crack. Two more and he was inside.
He found Haskins in the living room, crouched by the sofa, clutching a gun in both hands.
“Don’t make me shoot,” the judge said, his voice trembling.
Loving held his place, barely five feet in front of Haskins. The man shook from head to toe. Judging from his wild-eyed expression, he had taken complete leave of his senses. Loving had no confidence that he was in control of his trigger finger.
“You don’t wanna do that,” Loving said, holding out one arm.
“Stay back!” Haskins cried, shaking the gun back and forth. “I will shoot! Why shouldn’t I? I’ve got nothing left to lose.”
“Lemme tell you somethin’, friend—everyone’s got something left to lose.”
“Not anymore. I’m ruined. I’ve lost my job, my reputation. My freedom.”
“You still got a wife who loves you, right?”
Haskins hesitated, his gun wavering.
“How’s she gonna feel when she comes home and finds out you plugged someone in the living room? What’s she gonna think about you then?”
Haskins’s face contorted with pain and desperation. His hands quivered even more wildly than before.
“Margaret…always believed in me,” he said, his voice choking. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.” He stared at the gun in his hands. “Like now.”
Loving took a step forward. “Look, just gimme the gun. We can work out all the details later. I’m sure—”
Outside, they both heard the sound of sirens approaching.
“Oh, no. Oh, no.” Haskins’s voice was barely a whisper. “They really are coming. They’re going to lock me up and humiliate me and—and—”
“Whoa,” Loving said, taking another step closer. “Let’s stay calm here. The police are just comin’ to help.”
“No one can help me now. My life is over.”
Loving watched as Haskins slowly turned the gun barrel away, toward his own face.
“Hang on there,” Loving said. “You don’t wanna do that. Think about your wife. Think about—”
�
�Prison,” he muttered, staring at the gun. “Instead of the Supreme Court. Prison. Public disgrace. Margaret.” His eyes grew even wider. “I’m sorry, Margaret. I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t!” Loving shot forward, but he wasn’t fast enough. Haskins put the gun inside his mouth and pulled the trigger.
“No!” Loving turned away just before he fired. The scattered remains of Haskins’s head rained down, blood and brain tissue showering the room like a filthy rain.
The front door opened and two police officers rushed inside, their weapons drawn. “What the hell happened?” one of them asked.
“A tragedy,” Loving muttered. “A damned tragedy. Or maybe the end of one.”
Loving sat on the front porch of Haskins’s rented home, hands on his chin, disgusted with himself.
“Don’t take it so hard.”
Loving turned and saw Lieutenant Albertson standing behind him.
“There was nothing more you could have done. The man thought his life was over, ruined. So he took the easy way out.” Albertson frowned. “Hard thing for a good Catholic boy to say, but I’m not so sure he did the wrong thing.”
Loving didn’t attempt a response. “What’s in the Baggie?”
Albertson held up the plastic evidence bag he was carrying. “A pair of garden gloves. Found them hidden in the bedroom closet. They’ve been washed, but a luminol bath has already revealed microscopic traces of blood, and my expert says it’s the victim’s type. We’ll do DNA typing on the blood, if there’s enough, but there’s no real doubt in my mind. He must’ve found the gloves in Roush’s garden and put them on to avoid leaving prints when he killed the woman. When you wouldn’t let him get to them, he knew the game was up. He was going down for murder.”
“So he shot himself in the face.” Loving felt a mixture of disgust at the thought of what Haskins had done, and disgust at himself for not preventing it.
At the far end of the driveway, Loving saw another patrol car silently pull up, lights swirling. A moment later, a plainclothes police officer helped Margaret Haskins out of the car.
“Man, I do not want to be here for this,” Loving said, pushing himself to his feet. “Do you need me for anythin’ more?”
Albertson shook his head. “I know where we can find you. Thanks for your help.”
Loving took a deep breath, then marched down the driveway, his head hung low. “Yeah. Anytime.”
61
Ben knew he had better things to do—most of his senatorial duties had waited on the back burner while he was obsessed with the Roush confirmation—but he couldn’t help himself. He was addicted to the CNN coverage of the whole affair. The Roush confirmation vote had been dramatic enough, but coupled with the discoveries about Judge Haskins and his subsequent suicide, it became an even more major news event. Pundits bickered about every aspect of the case, whether it held hope for a more bipartisan approach to judicial confirmation or evidenced a gross eroding of standards. Everyone weighed in on the subject—everyone except the President, who had remained silent. Ben’s final speech in the Senate had been replayed and sound bit almost nonstop, and after the twentieth viewing or so, Ben finally stopped wincing every time he saw himself on the screen.
“Ready to go?”
Christina stood in the office doorway wearing a bright blue tea-length dress with a brilliant opal brooch.
“You look stunning,” Ben said.
She curtsied slightly and fluttered her eyelashes. “Well, I try.”
“Where have you been?”
“In Senator Hammond’s office. We’re still working double shifts, trying to get that Wilderness Bill out of committee. We think there’s a chance. If anyone can do it in the current political climate, it’s him.”
Ben placed his hands on her hips and smiled. “How is it we work together every day but still don’t see enough of each other?”
She returned the smile. “Well, part of the problem is that we live in separate apartments.”
Ben coughed into his hand. “Yes, well, umm…one thing at a time. May I escort you to the Capitol steps?”
“I’d be honored,” she replied, offering him her arm.
The President was present on the East Wing balcony, feigning pleasure that his nominee had been confirmed, but what pleased Ben most was to see Ray Eastwick in attendance. He was seated in the front row behind the podium, just beside Roush, the seating sending an unequivocal message to every spectator or viewer. He wondered if they’d made up—or had even had time, given all that had happened so quickly. He felt certain the wounds would heal, eventually. They were two intelligent, successful men; they knew better than to waste their lives sulking when they could be celebrating life to the fullest.
And today was a great day to celebrate.
On cue, Roush took his position, put his hand on a very large Bible, and gazed across at the Chief Justice of the United States.
“Please repeat after me.”
Roush closed his eyes, said a silent prayer, and began. “I, Thaddeus Ronald Roush, do solemnly swear to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States…”
The newly appointed Justice Roush’s remarks were brief, so in less than half an hour the entire ceremony was over. Ben was anxious to congratulate Roush, but so were about a thousand other people, so he patiently waited his turn. Now that the excitement was over, he was back to being a less-than-one-term junior senator from Oklahoma, and as such did not get cuts to the front of the receiving line.
“He’ll make a fabulous Supreme Court justice,” Christina said. “I can tell already.”
“And what makes you so sure?” Ben asked. “His probity? Honesty? Integrity?”
“I was more focused on that pin-striped suit he’s wearing. What a snappy dresser! I’m always impressed by a snappy dresser.”
“I assume that’s what attracted you to me.”
“Mmm. No comment.”
Ben heard a buzzing sound from her purse. She took her cell phone out and reviewed the screen.
“Gina’s Instant Messaging me. Seems the police have learned even more about Haskins’s victim. She’s been linked to at least five different heists. And they’ve uncovered the name of her partner on that museum job, the one she killed. Jerome Charles.”
A synapse fired inside Ben’s brain. “Where was he from?”
Christina continued to scroll through the message. “Doesn’t say where he’s from. But they’ve disinterred the body from a Beaumont cemetery and—”
Ben’s head jerked around. “Where?”
“Beaumont. South Texas.”
Ben pressed the heels of his hands against his head. “No,” he gasped.
Christina’s eyebrows scrunched together. “What is it?”
“How could I have been so stupid?”
“Ben, you’re creeping me out. What is it?”
“I’ve got to get out of here.”
“You’ve—Ben! What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as I know. As soon as I know for sure.”
“But where are you going?”
Ben kissed her on the cheek. “To have a very serious talk with Ray Eastwick.”
62
Ben had to wait almost two hours. It wasn’t enough for him to talk with Eastwick; he needed to talk with the man in private. Eventually, after all the well-wishers had finished well-wishing, while Roush was still chatting with the press, Ben managed to pull Eastwick away. They reentered the Capitol building, found the nearest empty conference room, and locked the door.
“Ben—what’s this all about?”
“I need to talk to you, Ray. And I thought you’d want to do this in private.”
“Why? I have no secrets from Tad.”
Ben just hoped that was true. “You two getting along better?”
One corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Yes, thank you. It seems there’s nothing quite like being appointed to the Supreme Court to buoy a man’s spirit. Even when you only slip past t
he Senate by the hairs of your chinny-chin-chin. We finally sat down and had a heart-to-heart.”
“And?”
“Well, I’m not going to suggest that everything’s all perfect now. But I think I understand a little better what was going on in his head. It really was a spontaneous act—revealing his sexual orientation at the press conference. Outing me. Outing us. I’m not saying I think it was smart, or even acceptable. But I’m beginning to understand.”
“I’m glad.” Ben wished he didn’t have to go any further, but he knew he did. “Ray, I have to ask you about something.”
“Then get to it. What is it you want to know?”
“The day of the press conference. In your garden.”
“Yes?”
“You…saw the woman. The woman who was killed?”
“Yes. I’ve never made any secret of that. I told the police I saw her. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is, I think you more than just saw her. I think you knew who she was.”
“I’ve already told you I knew she was the woman Tad had the affair with. The woman who had the abortion. I just…sensed it. The moment I saw her.”
“No. I think you knew she was the murderer of Jerome Charles. That’s the real reason you became so agitated when you spotted her on the premises, isn’t it?”
Eastwick peered deeply into Ben’s eyes. “What makes you so sure?”
“Something you told me the first time we met.” Ben pulled out a chair. “Sit down, Ray. We’re going to be here awhile.”
Senator Hammond pushed open the door and leaned into Ben’s office. “Coming to the victory celebration?”
Ben barely looked up. “I’d like to.”
“Then what’s stopping you, son?”
“I’m not sure what to do.”
Hammond stepped inside. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem is, I know something. About someone I admire. And I’m not sure what to do about it.”
“I take it this something you know is something bad.”
“Very bad.”
Hammond pulled up a chair. “Well, son, I’ve been around a long while, and in my experience, no matter how bad it is, the best approach is to confront the person straight on. Just come out with it. Put it on the table.”
Capitol Threat Page 35
