Levering paced to the window, looked out at the dull Washington day, and then turned back to Anne. “How bad is this?”
A wave of relief washed over Anne. He was in damage control mode, and she was his machinery. Things were getting back to normal.
“Worst case the press picks it up, gets this guy to talk to them,” Anne said. “They play it up from some sort of sympathetic angle. Here’s a lowly street person and one of the most powerful men in the country. Then they press you to affirm or deny, you deny, and they get to your driver, or this Helen Forbes Kensington, and one of them cracks. Then you’ve got a situation where everybody knows you’re lying to the cops and the country.”
“Great,” Levering said. “For a moment I thought it was bad.”
Anne waited for instructions. She had a few ideas of her own, but wanted to get the word from the senator first. Give him a feeling of being in control.
Silence stretched on. Levering became motionless at the window, his back to Anne. He kept his hands clasped behind him, his fingers wiggling as if to indicate brain function. Then, without turning around, he said, “We’re sure he’s homeless?”
“Yeah.”
“If we went further with this, what would be the downside?”
Anne knew what he meant. Early on in their association, when they were dancing around each other, testing limits, they had come to a meeting of minds. Levering’s goal was the presidency, and no effort would be spared in his getting there. Any obstacle would be removed. The only limitation would be the downside risk.
The means for dealing with situations beyond the norm had never been explicitly stated. Anne had been the one to suggest they base their relationship on “plausible deniability.” Levering would never issue directives that could later come back to haunt him. Anne would be given a free hand, so long as Levering didn’t know the details.
What surprised Anne at the time was how easily they both had accepted the parameters.
Anne calmly replied, “The cops know this guy is a potential witness against you. On the other hand, he isn’t much of one. It’s a really weak case. I don’t think the public would buy it.”
“But there’s a chance,” Levering said. “I mean, I’ve got a little bit of a reputation in that area.”
Boy howdy. “This guy might take off, hit the road. They’re not going to hold him.”
“How do we convince a crazy homeless person to leave town?”
“I’ll handle the details.”
“Right,” he said. “I don’t want to know anything specific.”
“Of course,” Anne said. Then she added, “When you get to the White House, you will need a chief of staff.”
Levering smiled wryly at her. “You have anyone in mind?”
“Maybe.”
He nodded. “You make this little problem go away, and the job is yours.”
5
The plane rose into fog, a gray netherworld. Millie took a deep breath and looked out the window.
In so many ways this day should have been a relief. She’d spent precious hours with her mother, seen her before she died. That wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t had her accident. And she was going back to Washington to assume the job of a lifetime – chief justice of the Supreme Court.
So why the feeling that her whole life was about to change?
She put on the earphones the flight attendant had passed out earlier and clicked the dial until she got classical music. The recording was right in the middle of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 9, The Ode to Joy.
She put her head back, letting the music wash over her. Then she looked outside again. Bright sunlight streamed through her window as the ascending plane topped the fog. Suddenly, there was clear sky, the bluest of blues, and soft clouds seen from above, like an angel’s playing field.
The music swelled.
Inside her something opened up. There was a flooding in, an expansion, as if she were a sail filling with wind. And it terrified her.
She put her hands on the earphones, pressing them in, making the music even louder to her ears, as if she could crowd out all thought, all sensation.
But she could not. For one brief moment of almost unendurable intensity she felt like a door was opening, and thought she might go crazy.
Part Two
*
Whenever you put a man on the Supreme Court
he ceases to be your friend.
HARRY S. TRUMAN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1
By mid September, Washington was buzzing again.
Anne Deveraux could feel it in the air, the way a ballplayer must feel when the new season is about to begin. Time to play hardball.
First order of business in the new season involved two games at once. One was keeping Dan Ricks, sleaze reporter, off balance. The other was using him for the essential information on Millicent Mannings Hollander. Her hearing before the Senate Judiciary Committee, which would vote on her nomination to be chief justice, was coming up. Should Hollander suddenly veer off her liberal course, she and Levering would be ready to leak embarrassing material.
So she was ready for the first pitch. But Ricks was late.
He had insisted on meeting her in the parking garage of the Marriott. He joked about it being like the scene in All the President’s Men, that he was Deep Throat and she was Woodward and Bernstein. But Anne was convinced it was not really a joke with Ricks. He loved this cloak-and-dagger stuff. He thought he was into big-time investigative journalism, when really he was a weasel in a coat and tie.
Anne checked her watch. 12:30. Lunchtime. That was the other absurdity about this. If he wanted to do the Deep Throat thing, why had he chosen the afternoon?
Maybe the guy was just nuts. But if he was any later, Anne was going to make sure he was dressed down, too.
She thought of calling Ambrosi, but remembered him telling her never to call him on his cell. She could understand. What if she got him while he was whacking some guy? I thought I told you never to call me at the office! Funny.
The stifling air smelled of gas and tires. Anne sat back in her car and listened to rock music. She closed her eyes and immediately heard a tap at the window.
It was Ricks.
“You took your sweet time,” Anne said.
“Traffic,” Ricks said. He was sweating. His forehead looked like it was speckled with rock salt.
Anne opened the door of her car and got out, making Ricks do a little backwards dance. “You could have called,” she said.
“Hey, I’m here,” he said, a little too aggressively for her taste. He held a ratty briefcase, the kind with a foldover flap. He opened it and pulled out a file folder. He did not immediately hand it to Anne. “You have something for me?” he asked.
“Anxious, aren’t we?”
“Just doing business.”
Anne reached in through the open window of her car and snatched an envelope. It was filled with cash. She had counted out the five thousand herself.
“Perfect,” Ricks said, taking the envelope. He handed Anne the file.
“Detail me,” she said.
“Everything’s in there we talked about. I have a copy on disk.”
“Copy?”
“Sure.”
“You aren’t supposed to have a copy of any of this. That wasn’t part of the agreement.”
“Way I remember it, we didn’t have anything in writing.”
“Writing? Listen, you work for me, you do what I tell you to do, you get paid, and you shut up.”
“Hey – ”
“This is for Senator Levering, not for your rag.”
“We didn’t say anything about that.”
“It was understood.”
“By you maybe.”
Ricks had wet pit stains starting to show through his light brown coat. Anne thought she could smell him. Or was it exhaust fumes?
“This is extremely sensitive material,” Anne said. “If any of it should get out without
our authorization…”
“Not to worry, okay? Let’s just call it insurance.”
“Insurance?”
“Sure,” Ricks said. “As long as we’re all on the same page, I’m happy, you’re happy.”
Anne waited for him to say something else. Instead he smiled. She could not stand smugness, especially from a guy like Ricks. “Don’t think you can mess with me,” she said. “That wouldn’t be very smart.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat or something?” Ricks said.
“Gee, you are a good investigative reporter.”
With a slight recoil, Ricks said, “I’ve been threatened by better people than you and your boss. I don’t rattle.”
Anne wondered if she should tell him about her boyfriend, about his way of rattling people. But no. Let it be a surprise if need be.
“Besides,” Ricks said, “you need me.”
“What would I need you for, Mr. Ricks?”
“I got poop that’s a scoop. News you can use and won’t make you snooze.”
“Just what is it?”
“I get paid for my scoops, don’t you remember?”
“Not interested.”
“Okay,” Ricks said. “I’ll give you something because I like you, Anne. I see a little of me in you.”
Anne almost gagged. “What have you got?”
“Oh, just a little something from Mr. Burrow.”
That got Anne’s attention. Biff Burrow was the owner and operator of the Burrow Bulletin, the Web’s most popular political gossip site.
“You know Burrow?” Anne said.
“Know him? We are like two peas in a pot.”
“Pod,” Anne said.
“So you want to know what’s up or not?”
“Go ahead.”
“What’s all this about a homeless man who saw your boss and Millicent Mannings Hollander doing a grope session?”
Anne told herself to stay cool. “Are you serious?”
“He asked me about it,” Ricks said. “The cops ever question you about this?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re holding out on me?”
“What’s Burrow going to do with this information?”
“Nothing yet. He wants to talk to the guy himself. But the cops are not saying anything. And now you’re not saying anything. Looks like a job for Superman.” Ricks opened his coat, as if to display a giant S on his chest.
“This is so absurd,” Anne said. “Burrow is crazy.”
Ricks’s teeth disappeared behind his lips. “Remember this,” he said. “You owe me.” He turned and walked away, almost bumping into a Mercedes. That would have left a stain, Anne thought. On the car.
2
The Judiciary Committee of the United States Senate convened on a hot September Monday in room 226 of the Dirksen Senate Office Building. Millie sat at the witness table, alone, a solitary microphone in front of her. Beyond that, as if across a wide expanse of sea, sat the nineteen members of the committee. Behind her were the media and interested others, filling the austere chamber. A camera was set up behind Senator Hal Killian (D-Wisconsin). It would be the unforgiving eye that piped Millie’s face across the country.
She tried not to look at it. Her hands, one on top of the other in front of her, trembled slightly. She breathed in and out, in and out. This was it, the last wall of fire she would have to walk through before becoming chief justice of the Supreme Court.
Committee chairman Sam Levering gaveled the proceedings to order at 10 a.m. He gave Millie a quick nod, just as if nothing had ever happened between them.
Levering read from a prepared statement.
“The Constitution empowers the president to nominate the chief justice of the United States, with the advice and consent of the Senate. That is clear-cut, straightforward language. It does not advise that the process become a protracted ordeal of unreasonable delay and unrelenting investigation. Yet somewhere along the way, Senate confirmations became lengthy, partisan, and unpleasant. They have done enough harm, and that must not happen again.
“I am very glad to welcome Associate Justice Millicent Mannings Hollander, nominated by the president to assume the chief justice position of our highest court. She has served the Supreme Court for ten years with distinction, and I can only hope that my colleagues will move quickly on this nomination. That would indeed be news.”
Levering paused to smile for the cameras and the gallery. The ranking minority member, Senator Chuck Gelfan (R-Iowa), scowled. He was known as a relentless questioner with the sense of humor of a board. He had been on the committee during Millie’s first hearing, ten years ago, and had thrown a number of verbal darts. She had managed to avoid them, but soon enough it would be round two. Gelfan looked like he couldn’t wait.
“Justice Hollander has not prepared a statement,” Levering said, “so I will begin by swearing in the witness.”
Millie stood, raised her right hand, and was given a solemn oath by the man who had tried to grope her.
Levering began the questioning. “Good morning, Madame Justice.”
“Good morning, Senator,” Millie said.
“First,” Levering began, “tell us how you’re feeling. The entire country was concerned when you had that unfortunate accident.”
Smooth as silk. Innocent as a lamb. Millie leaned forward a little. “I am doing quite well, thank you. Almost one hundred percent.”
“That’s great news. Just great. We all welcome you back to Washington.”
Senator Gelfan glared at her.
“I have only a few questions,” said Levering. “Your judicial philosophy is well known. As chief justice, will you remain the bedrock of common sense and decency you have always been?”
What was she going to say to that? No, Senator, I plan on running a crap game behind the bench. “I hope so, Senator.”
“Will you continue to uphold the principles we hold dear?”
“I will always try to do so.”
“Then I have no other questions,” Levering said. “Senator Gelfan, you may proceed. I would like to remind my colleagues that we’ll keep the questions to five minutes each this round.”
The older senator picked up a paper and began to read what his staff had prepared for him. “Over the past three decades this country has seen an erosion of the dignity afforded human life, most specifically unborn human life. Madame Justice, will you continue to align yourself on the side of those who would allow the taking of unborn human life?”
A few groans came up from the gallery. Senator Levering winced. Millie had been expecting the question, but not her reaction. A sharp pain twisted inside her. Could the cameras see? She fought for calm.
“Senator Gelfan,” Millie said, “as you know there are cases dealing with that issue that are, or will be, granted review. It would not be ethical for me to comment beforehand on how I might rule.”
Gelfan lowered the paper and directed a choleric gaze at Millie. “This is a question of supreme importance to the majority of Americans. Don’t you think they have a right to know what the next chief justice might have in mind?”
“Senator, what all Americans have a right to is an independent judiciary, free of political influence.” That had come out sharply, and she was glad. A little fighting spirit to steady her nerves.
“Do you continue to believe the Court’s decision in Roe v. Wade was rightly decided?”
“I…” She stopped suddenly, and there was that pain again. It stitched up from her stomach and burned to the top of her head.
“You were about to say?” Senator Gelfan said, like a cat pouncing on a wounded sparrow.
“My past decisions… are a matter of record.”
“That’s not what I asked you,” Gelfan said. “My question was, as you sit here today, do you continue to believe that Roe v. Wade was decided correctly?”
“Senator…”
; “It’s a simple yes or no question, Justice Hollander.”
Levering leaned into his microphone. “Point of order – ”
Like an angry pit bull, Gelfan whirled on the chairman. “I am asking the questions – ”
“Point of order!”
“ – and I do not – ”
“This is not an adversarial proceeding.”
“ – appreciate the interruption.”
Millie sat back, feeling almost surreal, as if she were disembodied and given a seat in the gallery to watch this circus. But she was grateful for the slight pause.
“As chairman, I will have my say,” Levering said. Gelfan leaned back in his chair, his weathered face pinched into a scowl.
“When my predecessor was in this chair,” Levering said, referring to Gelfan, who was chairman when the Republicans controlled the Senate, “and certain nominees came before us, those of us on this side of the aisle were lectured, over and over again, not to ask questions on specific issues. Not to make these hearings into litmus tests. I now find it quite troubling that, with the shoe on the other foot, my good friend from Iowa wants to change this policy. I will make this short and sweet. Madame Justice, do you believe it would violate your oath and your ethics to answer specific questions about specific issues that may come before the Court?”
“Yes,” Millie said. “I do believe that.”
“Senator Gelfan,” Levering said.
The Iowa senator was being handed a sheet of paper from an aide. He looked at Millie. “But you may answer questions about your judicial philosophy. That is not improper, is it?”
Millie took a deep breath. “With all due respect, Senator, my judicial philosophy is evident in my opinions.”
“Then I will ask you this. Is that judicial philosophy evolving?”
“Evolving?”
“Changing in any way. Surely the American people have a right to know that.”
Millie squinted into the lights. She had always been of the “living, breathing Constitution” school, the idea that changes in society mandated changes in how one viewed the law. For one thing, it sounded right. Who could be against flexibility when it came to justice?
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