by Joseph Flynn
Worth believed you did for yourself whenever possible. The shortest distance between two points was never a line that ran through any sort of unnecessary staffing. Much less a bureaucracy. Many of the people in the GOP and in True South regarded him as something of an eccentric. More than a few on the ideological right doubted his commitment to several of their most cherished causes.
Neither of those concerns had slowed his nearly instantaneous rise in his party’s hierarchy. Worth was by far the richest man in Congress. Educated as an engineer at the Colorado School of Mines, he’d made his first bundle in the decidedly unglamorous but essential field of copper mining. He’d also gone on to Stanford’s Graduate School of Business. The joke, though, was that somewhere along the line Worth must have studied at the King Midas School of Alchemy because everything he touched turned to gold.
Worth also scared the hell out of a lot of people in Washington. They feared that he might be the harbinger of a new breed in national politics: the hands-on billionaire. Someone who was not content to throw his money at professional candidates and have them do his bidding. But someone who had the smarts, drive and most of all money to get in the game himself and exert direct control. Caesars in the making.
“Good morning, Mr. Justice Crockett,” he said, extending a hand in welcome to his guest. “We’ll be meeting in my home office, if that’s all right with you.”
Crockett shook hands and smiled. “That’s just fine, Mr. Majority Leader.”
Worth led Crockett into a room with a gleaming oval cherrywood table at which sat Speaker of the House Peter Profitt and House Whip Carter Coleman. Both men stood and shook Crockett’s hand. He and Worth sat opposite the two leaders of the House. The seat at the head of the table remained empty.
Worth’s explanation for that was it would be for the next Republican or True South president. The implication was clear. He, more likely than anyone else, would fill it eventually. The host offered a choice of drinks to his guests: spring water or sparkling spring water.
Lemon slices were available for those preferring a bit of zest.
Crockett accepted his libation with good grace, and then he got right into his reason for asking to speak with the others. “In a few minutes, Chief Justice MacLaren is going to speak to Ellie Booker on PBS and its website. He called me and the other justices this morning to inform us of what he’s going to say. When I asked if I might share the news with interested parties, such as yourselves, he said to feel free.”
Worth nodded, wearing a thin smile. “Such a small lead time won’t give us any chance to issue a pre-emptive response. So he’s not losing a bit of advantage. Assuming, Mr. Justice, that you’ve heard the news only recently and brought it to us as quickly as you could.”
Crockett nodded. “I did take the time to shower, shave and relieve myself.”
The others gave polite chuckles and Worth said, “Well, I don’t think we can fault you there.”
“All right then, here’s what the Chief is going to say,” Crockett told them.
As he laid out MacLaren’s plan, watching the apprehension grow in the faces of Profitt and Coleman but not Worth, he thought of his own reasons for bringing the news to these men in person. The first, of course, was that he wanted Craig MacLaren’s job should fate or personal choice remove him from his preeminent seat on the court: Crockett wanted to be chief justice.
He also wanted to help shape the court when other associate justices retired or passed on. He wanted to be the one the next president turned to first when seeking advice on nominees. If he could swing both ends of his calculations, he might wind up being the most powerful and important man in Washington for a very long time.
He’d briefly thought of running for president himself, but he came to realize he’d never pass muster with the True South voters. Despite his Tennessee roots, he’d likely be called a SINO, Southerner in Name Only. Besides that, handicapping the opposition, he didn’t think he’d be able to beat Oren Worth.
The man’s personal fortune, used as a source of campaign funds, would be an insurmountable advantage for Worth. Beyond that, Crockett thought that Worth wanted the job more than he did. In Worth’s mind, his senate seat and majority leader position were just stepping stones to the Oval Office. Truth be told, Crockett preferred the Supreme Court. The appointment was for life, eliminating the need to ever grub for votes again, and nobody in either the executive or legislative branches could reverse a high court decision.
They could only propose and pass laws that conformed to the justices’ decisions.
There was a real sense of personal satisfaction in that.
Of course, even a chief justice could be impeached, but the chances of that were …
Well, let the leaders of Congress in the room see just how hard it was going to be for them to impeach a president they all despised.
Hearing the last of what Crockett had to tell them, Worth clicked on the television in the room to hear it again from the chief justice himself.
Burbank, California
Eugene Beck switched hotels after talking with Mira Kersten. He didn’t necessarily think anyone was closing in on him. It was simply good tradecraft. A moving target was harder to hit than a stationary one. Harder to spot in the first place. He took a room at the Marriott near Bob Hope Airport in the San Fernando Valley after contriving a different appearance than the one he’d showed to Ms. Kersten.
He had no trouble believing her assertion that Edmond Whelan was the man who hired him to steal the embryos. Hell, Whelan’s name was in the clinic’s records. Just a little bit of plowing through public records revealed the man was Mira Kersten’s ex-husband. Bad blood between former spouses was as common as butter on popcorn.
Whelan wanting to retrieve his genetic building blocks was also easy to understand.
Beck confirmed what Mira Kersten had told him about Whelan’s occupation. He found a biographical profile in the New York Times. The guy was chief of staff to House Whip Carter Coleman. More than that, Whelan was identified as a former protégé of Thomas Winston Rangel, a deep thinker, at a policy palace called The Maris Institute.
The picture of Whelan accompanying the Times story made him look a bit like a grown-up version of Opie Taylor from The Andy Griffith Show. Mostly it was the eyes that were different. They were a lot more wised up. Beck didn’t have any doubt this prick could want someone dead, if it would serve his purpose.
Using a data base in the international security firm that had been his nominal employer when he went globetrotting to kill America’s enemies, Beck found Whelan’s unlisted home address and phone number. He also located Whelan’s work schedule in Representative Coleman’s office. That information was supposed to be off-limits to private-sector firms and individuals, but the Chinese and the Russians weren’t the only people who hacked the U.S. government.
What ticked Beck off was discovering that Whelan was out of the office.
A note on the guy’s calendar said he was taking personal time.
Wasn’t that too damn precious for words?
Your taxpayer dollars at rest. Shit.
Beck was sitting in front of his laptop trying to figure out how to find the bastard when a Google Alert popped up on the screen. Subject: James J. McGill. The president’s husband remained a subject of interest for Beck. He really didn’t have any intention of killing the man; he just couldn’t stop thinking about him.
The guy was something of a modern marvel, if you looked at his years in Washington. He’d kicked a senator’s ass on a basketball court. Basically told a Congressional committee to go fuck itself and got away with it. Pounded a half-ass militia leader into pudding in front of his troops just outside the U.S. Capitol.
The man was all sorts of a badass, and lucky enough to marry the president, too.
Getting the upper hand on someone like him, one on one, might be a real challenge. The kind of thing to engage the imagination of someone with Beck’s training and temperament. Would
he be able to humble McGill man to man?
Beck’s first thought was, of course, he could.
McGill had to be ten years older than him, at least. Must be pushing fifty if not older. No matter how hard you trained or what natural ability you started with, time slowed everyone down. Hell, Beck thought he had to be fractionally slower than he was a few years ago. Going up against McGill would be a good test to see just how much he’d lost.
The question was, how could he set things up so the man’s Secret Service agents didn’t just gun him down before McGill had to handle his own self-preservation.
The Google Alert told him that McGill would be accompanying the president when she appeared for her trial in the Senate on Monday. That being the case, Beck figured McGill must have left L.A. and be on his way back to Washington, if he wasn’t there already. Beck thought that was cool, a man standing by his woman that way.
He’d bet McGill would be staring daggers at those prick senators looking to do Patricia Grant in politically. You mess with my wife, you’re going to be some sorry SOBs. He could see McGill’s eyes telling them that without ever saying a word.
The irony here was the more Beck felt admiration for McGill, the more he wanted to test himself against him. He also thought a political animal like Whelan would have to hustle his ass back to DC to see the possible fall of a president. That being the case, the two guys he wanted to meet being in the capital, there was only one thing left for him to do.
He booked himself a nonstop flight from Bob Hope to New York City on Jet Blue. There were no direct flights from Burbank to Washington. But DC was just a hop from the Big Apple.
The White House — Washington, DC
Patti and Galia were already waiting in the Oval Office with an iBook set up on a coffee table in front of a silk sofa. McGill entered and took a seat to his wife’s right; the chief of staff sat to the president’s left.
A moment before the interview began to stream, Patti told McGill, “I passed the word along to Jean Morrissey. I’ll want her in on the discussion once we hear what the chief justice has to say.”
“Makes sense,” McGill agreed.
“Have you heard that Jean’s been seeing Byron DeWitt socially?”
McGill shook his head. He asked, “Did that start before or after she announced her candidacy to become president?”
Patricia Grant didn’t know.
Galia said, “Before.”
McGill nodded. “Maybe there is a hint of genuine feeling then.”
Before that discussion could go any farther, Ellie Booker appeared on the screen, “Good morning. I’m Ellie Booker. I’m here at the Washington home of Craig MacLaren, the chief justice of the United States.”
The picture widened to include MacLaren sitting in an armchair opposite Ellie.
“Good morning, sir.”
The chief nodded. “Good morning, Ellie.”
“You informed me recently that you have something you’d like to share with the American people regarding President Grant’s upcoming trial in the United States Senate. Well, sir, we’re now sitting before a camera that will broadcast what you have to say to the entire country and stream your words on the Internet to the whole world. Please let everyone know what’s on your mind.”
McGill took Patti’s hand, offering both comfort and strength.
The chief justice paused to take a breath and then began. “As you know, Ellie, I will be presiding over the president’s trial which will start just two days from now. There’s no matter short of a declaration of war that’s more important for our legislative branch to consider than the impeachment, trial and possible removal from office of our country’s chief executive.
“Everyone involved should take their responsibilities with the utmost seriousness. That includes the members of the House and the Senate … and me. The roles and responsibilities of our legislators are clearly defined. They examine any charges alleged against the president, decide whether the alleged offenses rise to the level of the high crimes and misdemeanors as contemplated by the Constitution and then vote whether to impeach and convict or not.
“The House of Representatives has already decided to impeach, and now a number of its members will act as the prosecution team in the trial to be held in the Senate. That’s where I come in. I am to preside at the trial. The problem with that is the Constitution provides no clear guidelines as to what judicial authority I have in the proceedings.
“For example, at the impeachment trial of President Andrew Johnson, a Democrat, in 1868, Chief Justice Salmon Chase claimed the authority to decide procedural questions. The Senate’s Republican majority overruled him twice, rendering his power over the proceedings nil. In the 20th century, during the Senate trial of William Clinton, a Democrat, Chief Justice William Rehnquist, a Republican, also decided he could rule on procedural questions. The Republican majority in the Senate neither objected to his position nor overruled him.
“So what I’m looking at here are two conflicting precedents that have one thing in common: partisan preference. Senators will show deference to a chief justice of their own party but not to a chief justice of another party. Now, party loyalty is all well and good when it comes to wrangling over and compromising on the details of writing legislation, but there’s no place for partisan politics when it comes to deciding the fate of a president, a person voted into office by Americans living from border to border and coast to coast.
“Given our current political realities, I have no doubt that if I were to claim authority to rule on procedural matters during the upcoming Senate trial of President Patricia Grant, my fate would be that of Chief Justice Chase not Chief Justice Rehnquist. I supposed I could resign my position as the presiding officer at the trial or even my seat on the Supreme Court in protest, but doing that would not further the interests of justice, as I see it.
“All that being said, I’m here today to say that I’ve chosen to assume other roles vital to our democracy during the president’s trial. I will become an expert witness and a reporter on the proceedings. I will inform all of our fellow citizens whether the behavior of the Senate and the prosecution team from the House conforms with the norms of justice seen in any other American courtroom. If the rights of the accused are observed, I will praise all involved; if the proceedings veer in the direction of political animus seeking political advantage, I will condemn this behavior and articulate it in fine detail.
“Either way, I will make my findings clear to every American and all other interested parties around the world, and I will do so each day of the trial.”
Ellie let a long moment of silence pass.
Then she said, “So, basically, sir, you are putting Congress on notice. Telling them they’d better play things straight.”
“Yes,” MacLaren said, “I suppose I am.”
Buenos Aires, Argentina
FBI Special Agent Abra Benjamin took a phone call from Deputy Director Byron DeWitt in her hotel suite. He said, “Didn’t wake you up, did I?”
“What, you thought I was up partying on my first night here?”
“Jet lag or travel fatigue was what I had in mind,” he said, “and as I remember, you’re not really a morning person.”
True enough, Abra thought, she could be bitchy in the morning, and Byron knew as much from waking up in the same bed on several occasions. But it was more than a matter of her circadian rhythm bothering Abra just then. Hearing from Byron while she was still lounging in bed made her realize she wasn’t going to have the pleasure of his company between the sheets ever again.
He was going to marry that damn Jean Morrissey; she just knew it.
Byron was going to become the next James J. McGill. God! For a woman driven by ambition, it was galling to see a former boyfriend skyrocket to the top of the heap. Even so, she wouldn’t help her own cause by being surly with him. He’d always behaved decently to her, even after they’d ended their sexual relationship.
So doing her best to stay on
his good side could only help.
But she’d be damned if she would ever vote for Jean Morrissey.
“Are you still there, Special Agent?” DeWitt asked.
“Yes, I’m here, Mr. Deputy Director, and I’m sorry that I’m behaving badly. I’m not jet-lagged; there’s only a one-hour difference between Washington and B.A. I’m also not tired, because I slept well. I’m just a terror in the morning most days, as you rightly remembered.”
“I try to recall only the good things,” DeWitt said.
The fact that he was still being a nice guy only made Abra more angry that he was going to marry someone else. Still, her yearning to rise high in the world muted any impolitic response.
“A wise choice, sir, I’m sure. How may I be of service?”
DeWitt asked whether she was well situated and had started to look for Tyler Busby.
“I’m pretty sure I got hit on by the pimp servicing Busby’s needs last night, assuming the Bureau sent me to the right hotel. The one with the other flawed ladies.”
She gave DeWitt the details of her encounter with Billy Midnight.
“That’s great,” he said. “So what’s your next step?”
The question was no sooner asked than there was a knock at the door to the suite. It was neither loud nor insistent but it was clearly audible with the door to the bedroom open. Even DeWitt could hear it.
“Room service?” he asked.
“Didn’t order any. I left a do-not-disturb message with the front desk.”
“Call hotel security,” DeWitt said.
“Maybe I’ll just shoot through the door,” Abra replied.
“You don’t have a gun … I hope.”
“I still know how to take care of myself.”
The knock at the door sounded again, a bit louder and more imperative now.
