by Diane Capri
“Jerk,” Margaret murmured under her breath.
Warwick bristled at the laughter, coming as it did, at his expense. His face flushed, he frowned and pounded his gavel repeatedly calling for order. He looked like he might blow a gasket. I could almost see the steam coming out of his ears.
Sitting next to her husband, Deborah Andrews appeared a little green. When the laughter in the gallery eventually died down, Andrews replied more seriously.
Finally, out of patience, Senator Warwick asked his last question. “General, do you have anything further you’d like to say to this committee?”
Andrews’s next words sounded like a prepared statement he had memorized for the occasion. “Senator, I have defended democracy and representative government on the front lines of three wars and several peace keeping missions. My patriotism cannot be questioned. When I returned from the third Gulf War, I received a hero’s welcome.”
He stopped his recitation here, allowing the applause to die down, and then resumed a more normal conversational tone. “This committee has attempted to suggest that I’m not popular with the people. Nothing could be further from the truth, and we all know it. If confirmed, I will perform the duties of my office to the best of my ability. Which is considerable.”
“Man, he is one cool cookie,” Margaret said.
“Being calm under pressure isn’t enough to make him a good justice,” I replied.
George had told me that many of the senators from both parties on the judiciary committee disapproved of Andrews. Mere disapproval, though, would not be sufficient to defeat his nomination, either.
Senator Warwick announced the close of the committee’s business, thanked the general for coming and said deliberations would begin in closed session Monday.
“What happens now?” Margaret asked me before returning to her desk.
“The committee will make a recommendation to the Senate next week as to whether or not to have a full vote,” I told her.
“I guess we’ll just have to wait to see whether Andrews gets confirmed then,” she said in parting.
It was hard for me to believe that the committee would consider Andrews seriously. Selfishly, I hoped for a quick defeat of the nomination and the process to continue with a more suitable candidate.
I tried to concentrate on my work, but my thoughts returned to the Andrews nomination. General Andrews had been a Tampa treasure before his nomination. He’d lived here since he worked out of MacDill Air Force Base as a part of the joint command that directed the course of the third Gulf War. He lived with his wife, Deborah, on Lake Thonotosassa, now that he’d retired. He lent his name to several charitable events.
Until his nomination had revealed aspects of his character that most people hadn’t known, Andrews had vast public support for all his good works.
Even so, George had been against Andrews from the beginning. First, General Andrews is a Democrat. To George and his colleagues, Andrews’s party affiliation alone made him unsuitable for the Supreme Court. George believed absolutely in the GOP, the Party of Lincoln, the Republicans. Conservative and free-market capitalist.
George’s GOP is big, inclusive, supportive and fiercely independent of big government. He didn’t want a liberal Supreme Court to rubber stamp any socialistic policies that might sneak past the legislature over the next thirty years, like increased taxes and entitlement programs.
Almost the second Andrews’s name started to circulate as a potential nominee, George went into high gear against him. George is active in Republican politics and extremely close to the Florida Party Chairman, in the fourth largest state in the Union. George doesn’t hold an office in the Party, but only because he doesn’t want to. My husband’s influence was considerable and he wholeheartedly threw his weight against Andrews.
I looked up to see Margaret standing in the doorway, her purse on her arm, keys in hand. I glanced at my watch, surprised to see it was already six o’clock.
“Have a good night,” I told her. “Willa?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“If the committee recommends Andrews’s nomination and the full Senate endorses it, Andrews will sort of be your boss, won’t he?”
Revulsion flooded my senses. I forced down the bile. “Not really. He’ll outrank me in the federal court system, but he can’t tell me what to do.” I am appointed for life, too. Unless I do something illegal, for which I might be successfully impeached, I will have my job for as long as I want it.
“But he can set law you’ll have to follow, right?” Margaret had been my secretary a long time. She knew more about the law than most law school graduates.
“He’ll have to get the other justices to agree with him first.” I told her.
“Speaking of other judges, CJ called again,” she told me, referring to the Chief Judge.
“He doesn’t have any influence over me, either,” I told her, my resignation so plain in my voice that she said her goodnights and left without further comment. What I’d said about the CJ wasn’t exactly true. He had a lot of influence over administrative matters here in the Middle District of Florida.
Which was why I still labored in the equivalent of the federal court ghetto. All of my colleagues had long ago moved to the new Sam M. Gibbons Federal Courthouse down the street, while I was stuck with the historically significant but horribly rundown Old Federal Courthouse. The only benefit to me was that the CJ couldn’t just drop in whenever he felt like it.
I ignored the CJ’s messages and turned my attention back to my work. There was no reason for me to hurry. Either my home would be dark and empty while George was out politicking tonight, or he’d have his team there, strategizing the defeat of the nominee.
I was bone weary of the whole mess, so after Margaret left I continued working at my desk, where I had complete control of my environment, where I felt safe and secure. The law changed so slowly that it mimicked the movement of mountains. There were few chances for surprises, which was just the way I liked it.
I managed to put the Andrews nomination out of my mind until Friday night. Glad to have made it to the weekend, I walked through the front door of the nineteenth century home George inherited from his Aunt Minnie and immediately felt the urge to leave when I saw how many people were waiting in the foyer.
Our house was built by Henry B. Plant, a local railroad tycoon who also built The Tampa Bay Hotel, now The University of Tampa. Plant called the house Minaret because of the bright steel onion dome on the top, and the name stuck.
George’s five star restaurant occupies the main floor of Minaret and we live in the second floor flat. George’s dining room, formerly the ballroom, comfortably holds about thirty round tables, all of which were full tonight. Prospective diners spilled out into the over-crowded lobby where the frazzled new hostess seemed completely overwhelmed.
I turned on my heel, intending to duck out and enter our flat through the back stairs, when I noticed General Andrews and his entire family waiting to be seated. The shock stopped me in my tracks long enough for his wife, Deborah Andrews, to see me. She gave me a wistful smile I hadn’t the heart to ignore.
Stashing my briefcase behind the hostess station, I made my way toward the Andrews party, where I welcomed the general and Deborah to George’s.
“Willa, what a pleasure to see you again,” Andrews said, as he took my hand and kissed the cheek that I hadn’t moved out of the way quickly enough. Deborah gave me a grateful little hug. I felt her too-fragile bones through the thin summer dress and noticed the deep lines around her eyes I’d missed while watching her on television the day before. Still, she looked happy, pleased to be here.
“You know our children, don’t you?” Andrews asked.
Then he introduced them all to me again, the habit of a gracious man who has more than a little trouble remembering names of people he doesn’t see regularly.
Andrews’s sons were identical twins, Donald and David. I’d met them years ago, when they were still te
ens. They were both in the army, as the general had been until he retired. Both sons resembled their father: tall, dark and slight. Their mousy brown hair and striking cornflower blue eyes were Deborah’s contribution to their appearance.
The daughter, Roberta (“Robbie”) Andrews, and her husband John Williamson, or “Jack,” as he was called, lived here in South Tampa. He was a member at Great Oaks, where I played golf every Saturday. Most South Tampa golfers were members there because it’s the only course nearby. Great Oaks has a very liberal admissions policy: anyone who applies gets in. Which was a good thing for me since federal judges can’t belong to discriminatory societies.
Robbie had her broad back to her family, admiring the antique sideboard George’s Aunt Minnie had left us with the house. Robbie was opening the drawers, examining the brass pulls, just generally being nosy. When her father said, “And you know Robbie and Jack, of course,” Robbie turned and gave me a thin smile. I nodded in their direction.
John was charming, as always. The pronounced white streak on the left of his widow’s peak and his rugged features kept him a shade short of blindingly handsome. Not perfect, but he was a man who turned heads when he walked by. Everyone noticed John, men and women alike. His sweet demeanor added to his allure.
“What brings you all to George’s tonight?” I asked Deborah and her husband, as if I wanted to know, when what I really wanted was for them to leave before George noticed their presence.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tampa, Florida
Friday 6:30 p.m.
January 21, 2000
DEBORAH AND ANDY STOOD close together holding hands, as if they were young lovers, not a couple who had been married over thirty years. Perhaps the rumors I’d heard about Deborah’s alcoholism threatening their marriage were untrue.
Andy looked as ramrod stiff as I’d seen him on television. Deborah wore an old- fashioned blue shift and her hair, a pageboy parted on one side and held in place by an inexpensive plastic barrette, looked exactly as it must have been styled at age six by her mother.
“There’s no better restaurant in Tampa than George’s for a special occasion,” Deborah said with her typical sincerity. “It’s Andy’s birthday.” Her soft drawl was pleasant to my ear.
Deborah was every southern boy’s fantasy wife, if the boy was of a certain age. A quiet woman, born and bred in South Georgia, she was a genuine southern belle who never said a negative word about anyone. It wouldn’t be possible to dislike Deborah, even if I’d had a reason to do so. She was simply too kind for the harsh world she inhabited.
“We also thought we’d celebrate the end of those damn committee hearings,” Andy said to me, as he smoothed his red striped tie over his flat stomach and closed the middle button of his navy sport coat. “I’m glad to be through with that inquisition. Next week the committee will vote and then the full senate. I should be on the job in no time at all.” His confidence was solid as steel. He smiled directly toward me. “We’ll have a chance to work together, Willa.”
The words made my heart stop. Work with Andrews? There were very few things in the world I’d like less, based on what I’d learned over the past few weeks. There seemed to be nothing upon which we might agree. A working relationship between us would be a daily battle that would quickly escalate to a full scale war that would make my daily skirmishes with the CJ seem even more childish.
Craig Hamilton’s shooting proved that at least some of the lunatic fringe believed Andrews was about to be the next Supreme Court Justice, shifting the balance of power on the court to unacceptable levels. The little I knew about the behind-the-scenes work George had been doing told me Andrews’s nomination was far from certain to be confirmed.
Then again, the latest polls suggested public opinion was still solidly on his side.
I searched my conscience for the right response but could come up with nothing suitable. I changed the subject. “I’m looking forward to the Blue Coat tomorrow,” I said, referring to the charity golf tournament held each year in Andrews’s name.
He gave me the same comic look I’d seen him use in response to Senator Warwick’s questions before he responded, letting me know he wasn’t fooled by my tactics, either. “We should have a good crowd and it’s a worthy cause.”
The hostess appeared and we said our goodbyes. She led them into the main dining room. I watched heads turn as polite diners sneaked covert glances at the man who might be the next Supreme Court Justice.
Pondering Andy’s self-deception, I collected my weighty briefcase filled with weekend work and walked up the winding, open stairs to our flat before someone else could stop me.
I pushed open the heavy oak door with my hip and walked into our living room and on through to the den. I dropped the heavy briefcase next to the floral needle-pointed seat cushion of one of Aunt Minnie’s harp-back chairs. I wouldn’t lift the case again until Sunday and I glared at the file I knew was contained inside, Nelson Newton v. The Whitman Esquire Review.
I resented spending my Sunday on a case that, to my mind, was a serious misuse of the judicial process and never should have been filed in the first place. I had tried every way I could think of to settle the matter. Unfortunately, Mr. Newton didn’t need the money and was interested in clearing his name. Name clearing was not an appropriate use of our limited judicial resources.
Litigants who believe it’s the principle of the thing are the bane of my existence. American jurisprudence today is not about the principle of the thing. The system is overworked, overcrowded and overcommitted to handling cases that are about real injustice and real damages. We don’t have time for the principle of the thing. The principle of the thing is to settle your own petty grievances and stay out of my courtroom.
Harry and Bess, our two Labrador retrievers were lying on the kitchen floor, and didn’t bother to raise their heads when I came through the door.
“Can you tell by my footfalls that I’m not a burglar, or what?” I chastised them. Harry looked at me with one yellow eyebrow raised. Bess started to get up, but then she thought better of it and lay back down again.
“Nice to see you, too,” I said, opening the freezer for the Bombay Sapphire to go with cold tonic and sliced lemons. I added ice and took my drink out to the veranda along with my first Partagas of the day. The remnants of a fabulous sunset settled above the waters of Hillsborough Bay.
The Partagas was the last of the limited reserves George bought me for Christmas and I’d been saving it for a special occasion. I looked at it, smelled it, tasted it, and considered whether fifteen dollars was just too extravagant for a cigar that would go up in smoke.
According to the propaganda, Partagas cigars come from the Dominican Republic and are made from Cuban tobacco. Hand-rolled and aged until just the right flavor could be experienced. It was the aging, along with the Cuban tobacco, that made the limited reserves special. I should quit, of course, but I long ago gave up trying to overcome my vices. How many vices I had depended on whom you asked.
I held the cigar between my thumb and forefinger, sipped my drink and thought about whether I really wanted to smoke this last one. George had bought a box of the limited reserves for me when we’d visited the Dominican last winter. The evening he’d given them to me had been a wonderful one.
I closed my eyes and allowed a flood of desire to overwhelm me as I remembered dancing in the moonlight, exquisite port after dinner, great sex later. The erotic vision reminded me of how special my husband was to me, how much I had missed him lately. After all these years, he was still the one. I couldn’t imagine my life without him, and I wouldn’t try.
George came up behind and gently put one hand over each of my eyes. Sounding more like speedy Gonzales, he said, “Ah, my leetle one. How can one so beeyouteeful be so alone?” George’s fun-loving side has faded in the last seventeen years, but a couple of drinks still bring out the best in him.
Eyes still closed, “I used to have a lover, but he left me for a Democrat,�
�� I told him, not so tongue-in-cheek.
George bent down to give me a soul-shattering kiss that effectively silenced my complaints and left me hungry for more.
When he raised his head, he said, “Hitting below the belt, Willa. You of all people should know how important this nomination is. The Democrats have had too many federal court appointments in the past few years. Even suggesting that Andy can replace such a great conservative is just an outrage.”
His Glenfiddich on the rocks firmly in hand, George sat down in the wicker rocker next to mine. He was dressed in a suit and tie, which meant my fantasy of a quiet evening at home was going up in smoke faster than the unlit Partagas. An involuntary groan escaped my lips, still tingling from the kiss.
George leaned over with a lighter and I put the cigar to my mouth. If I couldn’t relax tonight, I really deserved this special treat, I decided.
“Craig Hamilton is recovering. They expect to release him from the hospital tomorrow.” I told him after a silence punctuated with a good deal of puffing.
He bristled. “I’m really sorry for Craig, but I don’t for a minute feel any responsibility, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” He sipped. “If the nuts are excited to violence by the hearings, you can imagine what they might do if Andy’s actually confirmed.”
He was so touchy lately, my least misstatement angered him. I’d become tentative, wanting to avoid the explosions. But I had my own views, too.
“What is your side doing to make sure that nothing worse will happen?”
“What are we supposed to do? Advertise? Tell people to write their senators instead of shooting the guy?”
I didn’t have the energy to debate the issues again, but I did believe the Republicans had been whipping up the fringe, not trying to assure them that the process would work without resorting to violence.