The Hearing

by James Mills

  Another series of ads claimed Gus had used his position as a federal prosecutor to release a friend’s teenage son, arrested with four other boys after a fatal car crash. In fact, the charges were not federal and the case did not involve Gus. The boy, a schizophrenic, had been sent to a state mental hospital.

  More ads accused Gus, in ten years as a public official, of never having hired a black or Hispanic. In fact 42 percent of his staff had been minority.

  Two reporters, stopped by police while trying to remove a bag of garbage from the sidewalk in front of Gus and Michelle’s unoccupied Montgomery home, later wrote a story saying they had been “pursuing information from an informant” who said they would find “large quantities of empty barbiturate and tranquilizer bottles.” They said they had also been seeking “incriminating” bank and brokerage-house statements. In fact they had found nothing. They never identified their source, who actually had been a staffer from Senator Eric Taeger’s office.

  Some writers denounced Gus for supporting capital punishment, others for condemning it. (He had done both, in different cases.) He had also, in different cases and for different reasons, ruled for and against homosexual rights, for and against affirmative action, for and against school prayer—for and against just about everything. There appeared to be no issue concerning which he had not ruled on both sides, taking each case as it came, judging according to the law, ignoring his personal convictions. Even outside the court, he declined to discuss controversial issues publicly and welcomed as unintended compliments opponents’ charges that he was faceless, a man without opinions.

  The burglar who had fled the Vienna, Virginia, garage at the sight of Michelle’s kitchen knife had found in the one carton he got away with a photocopy of a lurid, handwritten, unsigned love letter to, judging from the context, a married woman with children. The Freedom Federation planted the letter with a supermarket tabloid, and to defend himself Gus was forced to provide handwriting samples. (An attorney had submitted the photocopy to Gus in connection with a bail hearing in a mail-fraud case.)

  In the weeks since he had returned from France, ads vilifying Gus had shrieked from newspapers, magazines, billboards, even from the sky, where smoke-trailing airplanes over the beaches of southern California scrawled out No Gus.

  Celebrities from film stars to prize fighters hit the talk shows to attack Gus and his views, real or imagined. Opponents demonized him as the thin edge of a wedge, the start of a movement to roll back judicial positions established over decades. He was feared and hated for views he had never supported but had not condemned.

  Direct-mail campaigns put anti-Gus flyers in half the mailboxes of America. Recorded voices, connected by computerized dialing machines to hundreds of thousands of telephones, urged all who answered to “protest to your senator.” Ads in professional law journals sought information from anyone who had ever heard Gus speak for or against controversial issues. Hoping to uncover quirky tastes, investigators visited every book and video store in Montgomery. Canvassers telephoned federal judges, Alabama state judges, politicians, prosecutors, prominent defense attorneys, journalists, and businessmen from coast to coast, asking for “questionable statements” they might have heard from or concerning Gus. Similar calls went to Gus’s colleagues, friends, former professors, and Harvard class mates. Opposing senators on the Judiciary Committee demanded that Gus produce more than 47,000 documents relating to his official duties in Montgomery.

  One day, a few weeks after they’d arrived at Blossom, Todd Naeder took Michelle to pick up Gus outside the Judiciary Committee hearing room. Waiting for Gus, she stepped into the back of the room through a door from the public hallway. A woman was testifying, questioned by a tall, elderly man Michelle took to be Eric Taeger, the committee chairman. Michelle was struck by how much everything resembled a courtroom.

  The witness said, “Because I was there.”

  “You were there when he said Judge Parham had called him a nigger?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  A senator next to Taeger said, “Mr. Chairman …”

  Michelle felt her face turn red. She said to Todd, “My husband never used that word in his life. It’s a lie. How can they—”

  Todd touched her arm. “The judge is outside. He’s waiting for us.”

  “But what does she think—”

  Todd practically had to drag her from the room.

  “Your name?”

  “Carl Falco.”

  He looked her in the eyes, smiling. The eyes acknowledged his smile, but the face was brittle. She knew he wasn’t bringing flowers.

  “And you’re with?”

  Carl showed her the badge. Special Agent. Drug Enforcement Administration. Department of Justice. The White House had arranged Carl’s temporary assignment to Gus’s security detail, providing an office for him in the Executive Office Building.

  “Excuse me.”

  She disappeared through an unmarked door. In a minute she was back, holding the door open. “This way, please?”

  Helen Bondell didn’t look like the activist shrew Carl had expected. She was blonde, attractive, warm, relaxed. Carl was impressed. Not many people can do that—look relaxed when the feds walk in.

  He said, “Sorry I didn’t make an appointment. I thought maybe I could just catch you with some free time.”

  “Well, you did. I have all the time you need. What can I do for you?”

  White silk blouse, gold bracelets, slender tanned face that looked as if it’d just come back from two weeks in the Caribbean.

  “Nothing, really. I thought maybe I could do something for you.”

  “That’s a nice change.” She laughed, and the laugh had a tan too. “I don’t often hear that.”

  She raised a hand to her hair. The bracelets tinkled down a long, slender forearm to her elbow.

  Carl said, “Do you know a man named John Harrington?”

  “I know an attorney by that name.”

  “Has a client called Ernesto Vicaro.”

  She looked blank.

  “Does business as Translnter.”

  Still blank, giving nothing away.

  “It’s a South American holding company. Banks, hotels, airlines. Also cocaine.”

  “Oh, that Ernesto Vicaro.”

  She smiled.

  “Right. That Ernesto Vicaro.”

  “I’ve read about him. I think CBS had a special, maybe six months ago?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Harrington represents him?”

  “Well, he represents TransInter. And when you peel the onion you find Ernesto.”

  “I see.”

  She leaned forward, intensely curious, eager to become more informed.

  Lady, you are beginning to insult me.

  “So there’s cocaine, and then TransInter, and then Vicaro, and then Harrington.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” He grinned, kicking a little cynicism into it. “Harrington does more than provide legal representation for Vicaro in his difficulties with the federal government. He also lobbies for TransInter.”

  She leaned back slowly in her chair, adding about two feet to her distance from Carl.

  Carl said, “Recently that involved an attempt to bribe a federal agent.”

  She drew in her chin. Carl thought the slight tremble around her mouth might be genuine.

  She said, “John Harrington tried to bribe a federal agent?”

  “Of course not. Don’t be silly. But someone who works for Harrington, or for his firm, took a shot at it.”

  Don’t give her more than that. If she asks Harrington, he can tell her about the nice young attorney with an ankle problem.

  Carl said, “I believe Harrington works for the Freedom Federation?”

  “I wouldn’t say he works for us. He has clients—other than Vicaro or …”

  “TransInter.”

  “Yes, or Translnter, and sometimes our interests and the interests of one o
f his clients coincide.”

  “The nomination of Gus Parham.” Out of the blue.

  “Yes? What about it?”

  “Ernesto Vicaro has reasons for wanting to influence that process. You want to influence it too. Mr. Harrington—”

  “There’s nothing wrong with—”

  Carl waited. Patient. Hopeful. But she caught herself.

  “Excuse me for interrupting. Please go on.”

  “I just thought you might like to know that when someone speaks to you in the voice of Translnter, they’re speaking to you in the voice of Ernesto Vicaro, who at the moment is busy doing twenty years in a federal penitentiary. That may not be the kind of help the Freedom Federation wants or needs.”

  She said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Icy. Doesn’t like being told what she needs.

  “No offense. Just thought the information might be helpful.”

  “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Want more?”

  “If you’ve got it.”

  “Translnter controls about sixty percent of all the cocaine entering the United States. They would love to have that business become legal—make things a lot easier, safer, and more profitable. Their chief executive officer would also love to be out of the slammer. Neither of those objectives would be furthered by the presence of Gus Parham on the Supreme Court. Follow me?”

  “Crystal clear.”

  “Ernesto Vicaro would do anything to keep Judge Parham off the Supreme Court.”

  “I understand.”

  “Anything.”

  Carl stared at her. She was frozen.

  He repeated it. “Anything.”

  “You’ve made your point.”

  “Thanks for your time.”

  “Thanks for yours.”

  Going down in the elevator, Carl felt it’d been worth the effort. The interview had been Rothman’s idea. It had two objectives. First, slow Helen Bondell down. There might be one or two things even the Freedom Federation wouldn’t do. Maybe Bondell would draw the line at cooperating with a man like Ernesto Vicaro. And second, if she did accept Vicaro’s help—money, contacts, something worse—she’d never be able to say she hadn’t known who he was, who TransInter was, who Harrington was representing. Carl had told her, and she’d heard it. It was all on the recorder in his pocket.

  In her first few weeks at Blossom, the State Department house, while Gus was working and testifying, Samantha spent her time with Michelle. They did a little shopping and sight-seeing, but mostly they stayed home and talked. Every time Samantha related some thought or recollection, she seemed to be holding back. She had a lot on her mind, thir teen years of memories, and Michelle was willing to wait for the right moment to hear them.

  In the moments she wasn’t with Michelle or Gus, Samantha spent a lot of time in the Box, the guards’ name for their cramped office. The house itself seemed cold and sterile, filled with gloomy antiques, but the Box was friendly, warm and cozy. She felt safe there. She talked often to Todd Naeder, and one of the things she’d learned was that everything Louisa had told her was a lie. There had been no love affair, no backseat sex in the limousine. And there was no more friendship between Samantha and Louisa. Samantha hadn’t broken it off, Louisa had.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Todd told Samantha, “it’s not your fault. She doesn’t speak to me either.”

  “But she’s so lonely.”

  “I tried to be her friend and look what happened. If my boss believed what she said, I’d be out of a job now. Leave her alone.”

  The last thing Louisa had said about Todd, a parting shot before she stopped speaking at all, had been that he was lazy, stuck-up, and “unaware.” Samantha thought the unaware business was something Louisa had heard on a TV soap, and Todd was certainly neither lazy nor conceited. He spent more time in the Box than anyone else, and was always ready to fill in for other guards who wanted time off. He was hardworking, friendly, and not at all pushy, like most of the other young men she’d met, especially the rich ones. When she was with him she felt relaxed, taken at face value. She didn’t have to spend a lot of time trying to figure out what he was really thinking.

  Returning from a small shopping center near the corner, Michelle was on Blossom’s front porch, digging in her bag for the key, when the door burst open and Samantha almost knocked her down.

  She headed across the lawn, toward the street, moving with determination.

  “Samantha!”

  Todd Naeder came through the door and started after her.

  Michelle grabbed his arm.

  “Wait. I’ll get her.”

  She dropped her packages and ran after Samantha.

  “Samantha, stop. What’s wrong?”

  Samantha quickened her step. She was crying.

  Reaching her on the sidewalk, Michelle put an arm around her.

  “Samantha, wait a minute. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Samantha stopped, chin thrust forward in defiance and pain.

  Michelle said, “Come back inside and tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I’m going back.”

  “Good.”

  Michelle took a step toward the house, but Samantha pulled away.

  “Not there. I’m never going back there. I’m going back to France.”

  “Samantha, you can’t go back to France. I don’t understand. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m going back to my—” She began to sob. “Where is he? I want to go back to my father. Where is …”

  She put her head against Michelle’s shoulder. Michelle led her back into the house and climbed the stairs to a small sitting room next to her and Gus’s bedroom.

  Michelle sat next to her on a sofa. “What is it, Samantha? What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. I just want to go back.”

  “Why do you want to go back?”

  “I don’t like it here.”

  She looked at Michelle. “I’m sorry. It’s not you or Gus. I’m just—I’m scared here. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what’s happening. Everyone’s always talking about nominations and confirmations. Everything’s so serious and important. My dad’s just a kid like me—nothing was ever very important except staying together, not getting caught by my mom. I don’t know what’s happening here. I don’t know anyone. You’re my mother, but I don’t even know you. Gus—who is he? He scares me.”

  “Why does he scare you?”

  “He’s just … so important. I don’t know. I just want to go back.”

  “He doesn’t want to be scary.”

  “He tried to have me aborted. That’s what the TV says.”

  “He loves you, Samantha.”

  “Why’d you have me adopted? Why didn’t you keep me?”

  “Samantha …” Michelle and Gus had talked about what to tell her about the adoption. How can you explain that to a thirteen-year-old? “It’s a long story. We thought it would be better, we …”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  Michelle didn’t know what to say.

  Samantha was silent. She looked lost, filled with despair.

  “I’m always losing people, aren’t I?”

  She looked up, searching Michelle’s eyes.

  “I lost you and Gus, and then I lost my other mother, and now I’ve lost my other father, and what next? What next, right? I’m going to lose you and Gus again. I’m tired of—”

  She started to sob. Michelle reached out for her, but she pulled away.

  “What’s going to happen to me? What am I doing wrong? Other kids don’t lose their parents. They just get born and that’s that. I don’t know who I am, or where I’m supposed to be, or anything. What’s going to happen to me?”

  “Nothing bad’s going to happen, Samantha. You’re with us now, with Gus and me, and you’re our daughter, and we’re going to see to it that you’re happy.”

  They went downstairs and had lunch. Samantha’s distress did nothing to diminish her appet
ite. An hour later, the pain locked away, back in its place, she chatted with the cook as if nothing had happened.

  16

  John Harrington was waiting for Vicaro. Lawyers never wait for jailed clients. But he was waiting for Vicaro. Who ran this prison, anyway? Vicaro should have been deposited in the interview room long before Harrington arrived.

  Anyway, he had good news, placate the obese bastard. Vicaro’s money had been well spent. Millions contributed toward the most massive political lobbying campaign Harrington had ever seen. And now the polls had begun to swing. That morning the CNN—USA Today poll had shown Parham’s popularity down two points, the first time it’d ever been below 50 percent.

  Harrington smelled the sweat before he heard the iron gate unlock. He got to his feet, put out his hand.

  “Ernie, good to see you.”

  Vicaro ignored the hand, oozed into the metal chair, and grunted, open-mouthed, saliva spraying.

  “Good to see me? You shouldn’t think good to see me. You should think terrible to see me. Maybe someday you’ll be here, be in a worse place than this, and I’ll say good to see you.”

  He was carrying a folded newspaper.

  “Ernie, you know I didn’t—”

  “All I read is this guy Parham. Parham, Parham, Parham.”

  He stopped, staring at Harrington, expecting a response. What response?

  Harrington said, “But all you read is bad, right? You don’t read nothing—anything—good, right?”

  What the hell, he was even starting to talk like the guy. Vicaro spoke four languages—Spanish, English, Italian, and French. Unfortunately, his English sounded as if he’d picked it up on the street.

  “Nothin’ says he’s dead. That would be good.”

  “Well, I have some good news for you, Ernie. The media campaign’s starting to pay off. There’s a new poll, out yesterday, says more than half the people in the country don’t want Parham on the Supreme Court. That’s going to have an enormous effect on—”

  A forearm the size of a pig carcass slammed down on the metal table, sweat flying.

  Harrington shot back in his chair, bushy eyebrows up around the hairline.