Deadlock

by James Scott Bell

  Winsor sipped his coffee, thinking. “Do you presume to know God’s will?”

  “I think in the case of abortion it’s pretty clear.”

  “It must be nice to see the world in black and white,” Beau Winsor said. “Those of us who live in the gray areas actually envy you sometimes.”

  She saw in his eyes then a quick flash of vulnerability. It was brief, passing, but real. She had never seen anything at all like it in him before. And, she was sure, he would not allow her to see it again.

  Winsor took a leather wallet from his suit coat, removed a crisp ten-dollar bill, and placed it on the table. Then he stood up.

  “My offer is good until four o’clock this afternoon,” he said. “I advise you to take it. If you don’t, I will hold nothing back. I will see to it that you never see a dime. You know where to reach me.”

  He turned and walked away.

  3

  “Won’t you sit down?” Jack Holden asked.

  “No, thank you,” Millie replied. “I will not be long.” They were in his office less than an hour after the service had ended. Millie had walked around town, sore in more ways than one, waiting for the congregation to disperse.

  “That’s too bad,” Holden said. He seemed oblivious to her feelings. “I was hoping to have a chance to talk with you a bit. How about something to drink? Coffee? Dr. Pepper? I have a fine Dr. Pepper, 2002. A very good year.”

  Millie chafed at the attempted humor. “This is not a social visit.”

  Jack Holden’s face stayed friendly, but concerned. “I’m starting to get that feeling.”

  “I’ll just ask you straight, then. What did you mean by your sermon?”

  “Didn’t you like it?”

  “I did not. And I did not appreciate being put on the spot like that in front of my mother.” A thought struck her. “Did she put you up to it?”

  “Justice Hollander, would you mind telling me what you found objectionable?”

  “You can’t guess?”

  “Was it scripturally unsound?”

  “It had nothing to do with Scripture.”

  “Then it would be unsound!”

  “I don’t find that funny. You stood in the pulpit and directed a sermon at me. You took advantage of my situation, my accident, and delivered what was tantamount to a lecture for one. Well, I found it highly offensive and unethical.”

  The pastor swallowed. He looked like he’d been hit with a hockey stick. Good. He needed to be.

  “You took something highly private,” Millie continued, “and made a whole sermon about it. You even mentioned a book I was reading. If you wanted to shine a spotlight on me in front of this whole town you did a pretty good job of it. Is that your idea of Christianity? To embarrass people, stick needles in them?”

  “This was not – ”

  “That is all I have to say. I will assure you, for the sake of my mother, that I won’t talk about what I’ve said here with anyone. I will show you a courtesy you did not show me.”

  She turned toward the door.

  “Justice Hollander.”

  “There is nothing more to discuss.” She put her hand on the doorknob.

  “Sixth Amendment,” Holden said.

  Millie whirled around. “Excuse me?”

  “Does not the accused have the right to a trial?”

  “I am not amused.” Though she was surprised that he would be quoting the Constitution at her.

  Holden stood and walked to the front of his desk. “I am not trying to be amusing, Justice Hollander. I would only like the chance to say something in my own defense.”

  “I am really not interested in discussing this further.”

  “You at least owe me that.”

  She was about to say she did not owe him anything. But now she was curious. What could he possibly say that would justify his offense?

  “I’d just like to show you something,” Holden said. He went to a filing cabinet by his bookshelf, pulled out the top drawer. Millie saw a line of manila folders.

  “These are my sermon files,” Holden said. “I plan my sermons months in advance. I know what subjects I’ll be preaching on. About six weeks before a sermon, I start my research, jot notes, find material, and throw that into the folder. Four weeks out I start writing the rough draft.”

  He pulled out a folder and slid the drawer closed.

  “This is my folder for today’s sermon,” he said, approaching her. “On the tab I have today’s date.” He took out some papers. “And this is my rough draft. I’d like you to take a look at it, if you would.”

  Reluctantly, Millie took the draft from Holden.

  “You’ll notice the date at the top of the draft,” he said. “I wrote this three and a half weeks ago.”

  Millie started to read. Her head began to tingle and she felt her cheeks storing embarrassed heat. As she scanned the rest of the page, and the page after it, she saw, almost verbatim, the sermon he had delivered this morning.

  “You see,” Holden said, “six weeks ago I knew my subject was going to be death. But I had no idea you would be here today, just as I had no idea you would be in an accident.”

  Millie heard herself stammer. “But my book. You mentioned my book.”

  “Book?”

  “The one I was reading in the square. On Death and Dying.”

  “You were? Oh, yeah, you had a book. Was that what it was?” Holden walked to the bookshelf and pulled down a dog-eared paperback. “Here’s my copy.”

  For a moment Millie stood there, feeling exposed and without control. For ten years on the Supreme Court, she had been able to control virtually everything, because of her dogged preparation. She never made an argument unless all the facts were clear to her.

  The facts had not been clear this time. She had made a huge assumption. Had there been a convenient prairie dog hole outside she would have gladly held court there.

  “I must apologize,” she said.

  Holden said, “No need. If I had a dime for every time I was misunderstood, this building would be made of crystal.”

  In spite of herself, Millie smiled. “I’ll just run along.”

  “Wait.”

  Millie looked at him, wondering what he could possibly want.

  “You feel up to shooting some hoop?”

  4

  Anne Deveraux flipped open her phone. “This better be good.”

  “It is.”

  “Ricks?”

  “It ain’t Yasser Arafat.”

  “Detail me.” Anne shot a cigarette into her mouth. She was sitting on the balcony of her apartment, ripping through the New York Times and Washington Post via laptop. She wore loose jeans and a gray T-shirt, what she called her Sunday best.

  “Our girl went to church with Mom this morning,” Ricks said.

  “Big deal.”

  “That’s not all.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “She went back later to meet the guy.”

  “The minister?”

  “Same one she was talking to before. She went back to the church and met the guy at the front door. Then they go inside.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “That’s where I left them.”

  Anne looked down at the street. From her fifth-floor perch the people looked like dolls. She felt like moving them around. “All right,” she said. “Stay on it. Just don’t stick out like a sore thumb.”

  Click.

  Anne leaned back in the canvas chair and ran her mind around Dan Ricks. There was nothing to worry about. She knew she could trust him, because he feared her. She knew he feared her because she never entered any relationship without the power to inspire fear.

  Except one.

  That relationship was not with one of the so-called power guys in D.C. They were really cupcakes when it came right down to it. They would go all soft and crumbly in the face of a woman like Anne. The sex would be great the first night, but after that feelings of inadequacy would creep in un
der the macho shell, and soon the guy would be goo. One time she’d picked up a lobbyist for a tobacco company, and right as he was fumbling with her buttons she started singing Pat Benatar’s song “Hit Me with Your Best Shot.” That was cruel, she knew, but also telling. The guy was out her door within five minutes.

  The older power brokers held no allure for her. Guys like Levering. She respected them, of course, but was not interested in trophy status.

  She was twenty-eight and beginning to think the single, professional life would be her lot. Not a bad thing. She didn’t want kids. She didn’t even know if she wanted a long-term relationship.

  When she met Ambrosi Gallo, though, things changed.

  Anne checked her watch, and noted she had three hours to get over to Dulles to catch her flight to New York. She wished it was sooner. She wished she was on the plane right now, the sooner to be in Ambrosi’s arms.

  Anne actually lit her cigarette now, and then felt something weird, something in her gut.

  She’d always had great instincts. Had to. To survive. When her parents died helicoptering over the Grand Canyon, her step-dad at the stick – that might have messed up any other sixteen-year-old. But Anne had already overcome her stepfather’s abuse, and she chose to get even stronger. Eventually got into Harvard. Made her way into the citadels of power. Her instincts were impeccable.

  She took another deep, wonderful drag on her cigarette, and checked out the street again. Same activity. Same going and coming. Same -

  Then she saw him. On the corner just below her balcony. The way he was dressed cried out homeless person. But even from five floors up she could read him. He had a scraggly beard, a dark face. His eyes were wide. And he was looking directly at her.

  She went cold. Had to be a coincidence. He had to be looking at something else. From down there, he couldn’t zero in on her. She paused a moment, waiting for him to turn away. He didn’t.

  So she did. She looked at her laptop again. Took another puff on her cigarette. Told herself to relax.

  But she couldn’t relax. She felt the guy’s eyes on her. Angrily, she looked back down at the corner. She was going to give the guy a glare that would melt rock.

  But the man was gone.

  5

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Millie said. The sun was hot on the half-court asphalt behind the church. Her ribs and legs were still tender, but here she was. About to shoot a basketball with a Christian minister. If Helen could see her now…

  “You sure you want to try this?” Jack Holden said.

  “Yes,” Millie said. “But no quick moves.”

  “I won’t even play defense on you.” He was in his shirtsleeves, the little bead necklace exposed. “A Supreme Court justice lofting them in Santa Lucia? This is historic.”

  “How did you know I played?”

  “I read a story about you once. Said you liked to play ball after court. I think that is so cool.”

  Holden flipped the ball to Millie. The ball felt good in her hands. It had a thin veneer of dirt on it, giving her a good grip. She approached the free-throw line, set herself, and shot. The ball hit the back of the rim and bounced out. But no pain in her ribs.

  “Good thing we’ve got all day,” Jack Holden said.

  Cheeky fellow, she thought. “I do have other things to attend to, Mr. Holden.”

  Holden recovered the ball and passed it to Millie. “More important than b-ball?”

  “Amazing, but true,” she said, even as she spun the ball in her hands, readying herself to shoot.

  “Tell you how we can make it more interesting,” Holden said. “How about we play a game of Horse? I win, you decide to let the Bible back in public schools.”

  It was a joke, obviously, but still cut a little close. “You want to tear down the wall of separation right here?”

  “I’ll give you two out of three, how’s that?”

  Millie held the ball. “You are not what I expected,” she said.

  “Is that a compliment?”

  A warm breeze from the desert caressed Millie’s face. “I don’t know yet.”

  “Shoot,” he said.

  She did. And missed.

  Holden ran for the ball, limping slightly, and returned it to her. “Before you make up your mind, I actually have a confession to make.”

  Millie waited for him to explain. She was growing more curious about this man by the second.

  “I did in fact give my sermon a little extra today when I saw you.”

  “Extra?” Millie said.

  “Extra oomph,” Holden said. “You know, energy. Like when an actor is out there doing Hamlet and discovers Spielberg is in the audience.”

  “It was for my benefit, this oomph?”

  “Yep. Before I tell you why, though, I need to tell you the second part of my confession.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Yeah, the worst part, too. I’m a lawyer.”

  Millie tried to keep her face from showing stark surprise. “Well, I won’t hold that against you.” This was getting really interesting. “Where did you go to law school?”

  Holden bounced the ball a couple of times. “Yale.”

  Another stunner. “Who was your Constitutional law professor?” Millie asked.

  “Larry Graebner.”

  “Graebner! You’re kidding.”

  “Life’s funny, ain’t it?”

  More than funny. Incredible. “How on earth did you go from Yale to this?” She hadn’t meant it to sound condescending, though it did.

  Holden, if he was at all offended, didn’t show it. Instead, a faraway look came to his eyes, with a tinge of sadness. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  She found, suddenly, that she wanted to know what it was. “Go ahead,” she said.

  “Not now. We’re about to play Horse.”

  “Please,” she said. “I really want to hear it.”

  Holden took a deep breath and said, “Okay, but only in the interest of full disclosure. I guess if I’m going to change the course of legal history through basketball, it’s only fair you know where I’m coming from. Let’s grab some shade.”

  They walked to a bench under the church eaves. Holden spun the ball in his hands as he talked.

  “After Yale I landed with a big-time civil litigation firm in New York. I was, as the saying goes, on top of the world. I had a wife and daughter, an apartment on East 86th. Season tickets for the Knicks. Bought all my suits at Bergdorf’s. And, idiot that I was, I had an affair. With a temp in the office. A nineteen-year-old actress. My wife found out about it and, bam, left me, took my daughter. I tried to find them, but Yolanda, that was my wife’s name, was good at what she did, which was to avoid me.”

  He reached into his shirt and held the bead necklace in his hand. “My daughter was six when she made me this. It’s the only thing of hers I have left.”

  Millie almost reached out to touch it. The whole story felt ineffably sad.

  “Anyway, I dealt with it by using drugs. Cocaine, mostly. It was the eighties, after all. The city was covered in snow. It didn’t take long for the firm to boot me out. You know those stories they tell junior high school kids to keep them off drugs? All true. At least it was in my case. The low point came when a drug dealer shot me, tore a big hole in my leg. I almost bled to death.”

  A shadow passed over Holden’s eyes, covering everything for a moment.

  “Long and short of it, I got out of the hospital and had serious thoughts about ridding the world of one more loser. Me. Still couldn’t find my daughter. So I had nothing left. I found myself holing up in a thirty-dollar-a-week hotel in Newark called the Nazareth. I kid you not. The Nazareth Hotel. And one night that first week, when I was thinking about the best way to kill myself, some of the guys in the lobby were watching Billy Graham on TV. I sat down to listen. And I got hit with a laser beam, right here.”

  Holden pointed to his chest.

  “I mean, it was like somebody opened me
up and poured hot liquid into me. I know this is a cliché, but he sounded like he was speaking right to me. Like he knew exactly what I needed, down to the letter.”

  He paused a moment, seeming to gather fragments of memory. “Next thing I know I’m crying, I mean bawling like a baby. The other guys, old geezers mostly, are asking me if I’m having a heart attack. Funny thing is, that’s exactly what it was. An attack on my heart. And when Billy Graham gave that invitation, I got down on my knees on the cheap linoleum of the Nazareth Hotel and prayed for forgiveness of my sins.”

  Millie remembered hearing testimonies as a little girl. For some reason, they never really reached her. They were usually laden with emotion and Millie always filtered them through a sieve of cold objectivity. She could not recall ever being moved.

  Now, for some strange and uncomfortable reason, she found she was moved by Holden. He was not embellishing or ranting or spouting preacher-talk. He told his story from a deep place inside him and, through some miracle of human connection, it touched her.

  “Skip ahead a few years,” Holden said. “I went into the ministry. Started pastoring a church upstate in Syracuse. Did that for a time, and felt called to rescue work.”

  The term sent a chill through Millie. Rescue, the anti-abortion term for doing things like shutting down family-planning clinics. She’d written an opinion once denying protesters the right to cross a certain buffer zone near such clinics.

  “I ended up in prison,” Holden said. “Now that was funny.”

  “Funny?” Millie said.

  “Big-time Yale lawyer in the joint for pro-life civil disobedience. Larry Graebner must have had a conniption fit.” Holden sighed quietly. “I finally got out and my lawyer had some news for me. He’d located my ex-wife and daughter. Only my daughter was dead.”

  Millie’s chest tightened.

  “Drug overdose,” Holden said. “Fourteen years old.” Holden looked down at his hands. “So I sued God.”

  His tone was even, unemotional, as if he were reciting the facts of some mundane petty theft case. Then he looked up at her. “I wanted to sue God, tell him what I really thought about him. Disprove him. To myself. I was going to walk away from the ministry.”