Licensed to Thrill: Volume 2

by Diane Capri

  “I’ll bet I can guess what George thinks of all this,” Margaret told me, with a grim smile.

  I simply nodded. Both of us already knew that George is a very active, influential, conservative Republican. He would disapprove of anyone the Democrats chose, regardless of their objective suitability.

  But I didn’t tell Margaret that I’d heard George’s voice raised in anger against Andrews more often in the past few weeks than I’d heard it during our seventeen years of marriage. His opposition was almost violent and completely out of character. Margaret wouldn’t have recognized him, and I barely did, myself. Until now, I’d thought I knew my husband better than he knew himself.

  The news analyst took the break created as they polled the committee to give us a whispered summary of the political climate for the benefit of anyone living in Outer Mongolia over the past few weeks.

  “The Republicans control the House of Representatives. Like a winning football team in the final minutes of the Super Bowl, they are trying to run out the clock on judicial appointments by the Democratic President Benson, whose term ends in less than a year. Republicans want to stall the process of selecting federal judges until they again control the White House and the appointment process.”

  A second analyst added, “But they didn’t foresee the retirement of their most successful judicial ally, the conservative Chief Justice. The Republicans thought they’d have the chance to pack all of the federal courts, and the Supreme Court in particular, with conservative judges. The Andrews appointment threw a serious monkey wrench in their plans.”

  The polling finally finished, Senator Warwick used his prerogative as chairman to complete the final questioning himself.

  “General,” Warwick said now, exaggerating his long, slow drawl, giving the word what seemed like four more minutes. “Why do you think that fellow wanted to kill you this morning?”

  The shooter had said he was trying to kill Andrews and the confession had already been widely played on television.

  “He’s a baby killer,” the man had said, as if that was all the reason anyone needed to justify retaliation by deadly force.

  Without so much as a flinch or a pause, General Andrews said, “Why do you think he wanted to kill me? He shot my secretary. I haven’t any idea why he did that. Do you?”

  The conversation in the room buzzed at louder decibels. It was unlike General Andrews to sidestep any issue. Usually he confronted everything head on, loudly and with opinionated obstinacy. His opinions, frequently stated in other forums before and since his nomination, had been getting him into trouble.

  General Andrews seemed to have opinions on everything. Highly unusual for a general in today’s military, and likely to get a Supreme Court nominee rejected. The thing the public fears most, and his opposition hopes for, is a nominee with an opinion.

  During the days of hearings on Andrews’s nomination, the general seemed to go out of his way to confirm his opinions as controversially as possible, almost in challenge. Although he kept saying “I have no personal agenda to take to the Court,” every time he was asked a direct question on a controversial issue by anyone, he didn’t hesitate to state his views.

  This alone might not have caused Andrews’s nomination to be rejected. Sandra Day O’Connor got confirmed even after she testified that she personally deplored abortion, but would not let her personal views influence her vote. Of course, she was a Republican, George said. To him, that meant you could trust her word.

  But Andrews’s views seemed so outrageous as to be absurd. In the few short weeks since his nomination, Andrews had incensed Democrats and Republicans, conservatives and liberals, men, women, children, scholars, clerics, radicals, gay and straight alike.

  While Warwick attempted to regain order in the room, Margaret asked, “Is there anybody Andrews hasn’t offended so far?”

  “I can’t imagine who that would be,” I said.

  Once he quieted the buzz of the gallery sufficiently to continue, Warwick asked a series of quick questions to which Andrews responded just as quickly.

  “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.

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  CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS

  Judge Wilhelmina Carson

  James Harper

  Suzanne Harper

  Margaret Wheaton

  Ronald Wheaton

  Armstrong Otter

  Dr. Marilee Aymes

  Gilbert Kelley

  Sandra Kelley

  Chief Ben Hathaway

  State Attorney Michael Drake

  Chief Ozgood Livingston Richardson (Oz or CJ)

  Larry Davis

  George Carson

  PROLOGUE

  Tampa, Florida

  Sunday, 3:00 a.m.

  February 18, 2001

  MIGUEL STRUGGLED TO TURN the corner at Seventh Avenue and Sixteenth Street. He grunted with effort as he pushed a heavy plastic trash barrel on wheels, piled high with garbage. The cleaning crew had been working on the streets in Tampa’s Ybor City since the parade ended and the crowd finally dispersed about one a.m. Miguel had a lot of clean up to do before the small businesses along the brick paved streets opened.

  Who would believe these rich Americans could be such pigs? Miguel thought. In his country where people were poor, maybe, but not in Florida, “land of flowers.” In his country, people weren’t tidy like they were here, he’d noticed. Tampa was a clean place. Nice. Miguel wanted to stay here, with his father’s family. He liked Tampa.

  Miguel bent his head to his task, left hand bracing the garbage towering perilously higher than the five-foot barrel should hold. He felt stretched to his limit. He couldn’t see the ground in front of the small wheels that seemed to catch on every crack in the old sidewalk.

  A beer ca
n clattered as it hit the ground. Miguel stooped to pick it up, along with a few candy wrappers that fell off the pile when the barrel stopped rolling. “Pigs,” he spat again, as he leaned his weight into the barrel and got it moving again.

  Watching the ground as he walked, Miguel tried to stay close to the buildings because the sidewalk sloped toward the street and he couldn’t control the trash barrel if the small wheels started downhill.

  He wasn’t in any mood for delay. He had been picking up beer cans, beads, condoms, half-eaten candy and other human trash from the old urine-stenched streets for the past three hours. Miguel was cold and tired. His eyelids felt heavy, scratchy, when he allowed them to close for a few seconds. He wanted to finish his work as quickly as possible and go home. Miguel gave the barrel a mighty shove and smiled to himself as it began to move more quickly.

  Suddenly, the left front wheel of the can struck something on the sidewalk. The force and speed of Miguel’s efforts pushed the barrel toward the building on the right. It bumped into the building and bounced back. The rebound blow caught Miguel off guard and nearly knocked him down. Several beer bottles fell to the ground with a loud crash, brown and green glass shards flying everywhere. One sharp edge caught Miguel’s cheek and he felt the burning scratch as the piece of glass sailed past.

  Wiping the blood off his face with a grimy work glove, Miguel cursed himself for not paying attention. Impatiently, he pushed the heavy barrel, trying to straighten its path again and avoid the problem in the sidewalk. He would clean up the broken glass on the way back, he thought, his anxiety mounting.

  Miguel had been on his way to the large dumpster in back of Maria’s restaurant so that he could dump the barrel and start again. His boss had yelled at him twice already. Miguel didn’t have time to fool around. This was his first week on the job and he was on probation. He couldn’t make his boss angry. He needed this job if he was to stay in this country.

  Miguel put both hands on the middle of the plastic barrel, braced himself with one foot against the building, and pushed harder.

  The trash barrel pivoted on its left wheel. It turned slightly and the right side rolled downhill on the sloped sidewalk. And stopped. Now both front wheels seemed to be stuck by a block of some kind. Miguel wailed in frustration, but the barrel didn’t move.

  Miguel wanted to make as few of these trips to the dumpster as possible, to finish quickly, make his supervisor proud. But he’d piled the barrel too full. A stupid mistake, he realized too late.

  The barrel was close to the building and seemed wedged into a hole or something now. Miguel couldn’t back up. Nor could he see in front of the barrel to try to go around the blockage.

  Miguel shoved the barrel with all of his strength. Instead of rolling over whatever was blocking its path, the barrel tilted wildly and fell forward, spilling its contents across the sidewalk and into the street.

  Shouting a loud stream of Spanish curses, Miguel jumped back as every foul liquid left over from the parade splashed all over his clothes. He swiped ineffectively at the stinky, gooey mess that now covered his overalls. He was drenched through to his tee-shirt and jeans. He could feel the cold as his shirt stuck to his narrow chest.

  Still cursing, Miguel walked around to the side, righted the barrel and moved it off the pile of garbage that now covered everything within a two-foot radius. Miguel found the shovel that was knocked off the hook on the side of the barrel when it fell and began to toss the garbage back into the trash can, cursing with every stroke.

  On the fourth scoop, his shovel hit something solid on the ground, under the slop the barrel had spewed. The stroke of his shovel against the solid lump jarred his arms sending a sharp pain up to his shoulders. Miguel let out a new and more heartfelt stream of outraged curses.

  He bent down from the waist, trying to see what was causing him such a problem without actually touching the disgusting pile. In the vague light from the street lamps, the big lump looked like another pile of garbage. But Miguel thought not. He could see something bright and colorful on the ground. And this pile, even though his trash barrel had been too full, was too high.

  Miguel had run across two previous drunken revelers on his route tonight. Now, he could see that this lump on the ground was a third pirate. Causing him so much trouble, making him late. His boss would be very angry. “Americanos!” Miguel spat, giving the lump a sharp, rough nudge with the toe of his heavy work boot. The lump didn’t move.

  Miguel removed his glove, reached into his pocket for his flashlight. Re-gloved, he stooped down and swept the garbage off the pirate, pushing aside the slop. When Miguel saw the man’s costume, his impatience and anger returned. These Americanos seemed to have nothing better to do than to party themselves into a stupor while hard-working Latinos cleaned up after them, he complained under his breath.

  “Wake up, señor. Wake up,” Miguel said, shaking the man as roughly as he could, given the disparity in their sizes. The drunk didn’t stir. Miguel almost left him there then, to sleep it off, but something about the man didn’t look right. Miguel bent toward him and shook the pirate again, imploring him to wake up and move along. Just then, the angry supervisor came around the corner.

  “Miguel, where the hell are you? We need that can over here, now!” the supervisor shouted in Spanish. He walked toward Miguel, moving quickly. He stopped just before he tripped over the mound on the sidewalk. The supervisor looked down. “What the—?”

  “He won’t wake up,” Miguel said, a sorrowful expression on his face.

  “The hell he won’t,” the supervisor responded. The supervisor had cleaned up after sixteen parades and he knew how to deal with these drunks. He didn’t care who they were in real life. On his watch, they were a menace.

  The supervisor pushed the pirate hard with his boot. The man’s head lolled over loosely, revealing a grey-blonde ponytail bound at the base of his skull with a limp, wet ribbon. Even in the weak ambient light, they could both see the bloody depression in the man’s skull where it had been resting on the heavy piece of concrete jutting up out of the sidewalk.

  “Miguel, this man is dead,” the supervisor shouted. “Who is this guy?”

  Frightened now, Miguel shook his head and lifted both hands, palms up. “I don’t know. I found him here. I don’t know.”

  When the police officers got to the scene, they checked for identification on the body and found none. Miguel, the supervisor and the rest of the crew were interviewed, but they had no more information to disclose. There had been outrageous revelry that night, but these workers hadn’t been part of it. None of them recognized the dead man.

  The police labeled him “John Doe” and sent him off to the morgue.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tampa, Florida

  Friday 7:30 p.m.

  January 26, 2001

  WHEN I OPENED THE front door of our flat Friday night, Jim Harper stood in the hallway with a smile on his face big enough to light up the Grand Canyon. He said, “This is my daughter, Willa Carson, and her husband, George,” introducing us to her.

  Then, quickly, before I had time to pretend that my father’s unannounced appearance at our home with a woman of any kind wasn’t as astounding as, say, the arrival of green men from Mars with ray guns, and as if he was presenting the Queen of England, he bowed slightly at the waist and extended his left arm toward George and me, palm out.

  Dad’s voice held reverence and awe when he dropped his bombshell. “This is my precious one. Meet Suzanne Harper. My new wife.”

  An involuntary gasp sprang to my lips and my hand gripped George’s arm so tightly my fingers left bruises.

  A less sturdy daughter than I, one whose features were unused to strict non-responsiveness, would have collapsed in a dead faint. I’ve lived thirty-nine years, practiced law for about fifteen of them, and I’m now a United States District Court judge. I have the same full range of emotions as other humans, but my job demands that I refrain from displaying them.

&nbs
p; So instead of shouting, “Are you out of your mind?” I smiled and exclaimed and hugged them both. And managed not to vomit.

  I was proud of the way I’d behaved because I hadn’t embarrassed anyone, especially myself.

  Still, the scene’s images, and the rest of the awkward evening that followed, intruded into the silent darkness of Friday night as if replaying in a continuous loop.

  “My wife, my wife, my wife,” I heard as I tossed about on our king-sized bed and raised weary eyelids to glance at the clock every hour while George slept like a hibernating bear.

  Both of our ninety-plus-pound Labradors had jumped up on the bed about four o’clock. Harry draped over my left leg at the bottom of the bed and my struggles to move him were futile. Meanwhile, Bess lay between George and me, her head on my pillow, blowing disgusting dog-breath into my face with every exhale.

  Just as I eventually settled into an uneasy sleep during Saturday morning’s wee hours, the sound machine that functioned as my alarm began its violent roaring, a noise more like Big Sur than the gentle lapping of our own Tampa Bay. The racket jarred me back rudely, into events I’d been trying to escape. But I was literally and figuratively trapped. The dogs didn’t wiggle so much as an eyebrow.

  I opened one bleary eye, saw it was only six o’clock and groaned out loud.

  Gasparilla’s Parade of Pirates, Tampa’s much smaller version of Mardi Gras, would begin in less than two hours. George’s restaurant, which is located on the first floor of our home, would be filled with several hundred guests. No mere hurricane in my private life would stop the party.

  I punched the off button and dragged my leg out from under a comatose Labrador, rose to a sitting position and allowed my sleepy head to drop onto my chest while I waited for the sharp pains of Labrador-crushed muscles to leave my calf.