Licensed to Thrill: Volume 3

by Diane Capri

  Oh, convertibles can be noisy. The tops get worn and have to be replaced periodically. In the old days, they used to leak. But now the only real drawback is that you can’t have rain gutters over the windows. Given the amount of rain we get in Florida in the summer, that can be a serious drawback for people who frequent drive-through windows.

  But otherwise, is there any choice really between a stodgy old Rolls Royce and the least expensive convertible? Sport utility vehicles? Give me a break.

  My spirits lifted with every minute we spent outside, as Greta and I headed across the Plant Key Bridge toward the Bayshore. The sun sparkled on Hillsborough Bay while two dolphins, swimming side by side, raced Greta and me the length of the bridge. They won. It was glorious. I’ve always loved mornings. It’s just that George and I usually sleep through them.

  The short drive from Plant Key to Great Oaks golf course took me east on Bayshore Boulevard and into the old Palma Ceia section of town where the large, plantation style clubhouse and a beautiful thirty-six-hole golf course was nestled in the center of South Tampa.

  In another month, early morning golf would be pleasant. But now, in January, the temperature was just a little cool. Our tee time was seven forty-two. We would finish our eighteen holes before noon. We play a scramble, which means all four golfers hit the ball at every hole and then we choose the best ball.

  In theory a scramble speeds up play and all teams achieve a good score. For a social event like this one, it was a good idea. But in reality, four golfers have to have a conference over every hole and the decisions that eventually get made are not always quick or conflict free.

  The event was already going strong when I arrived and let the valet park my car. I went into the locker room to collect my shoes and met my friend and playing partner, Mitch Crosby, outside. Mitch and a few other golfers had gathered around waiting for General Andrews, the guest of honor, to give the opening speech.

  According to the posted schedule, our group would be the fifth foursome off, after General Andrews’s, our local State Attorney Drake’s, Senator Warwick’s and the Mayor’s foursomes. I was glad two foursomes would be between us and Drake. He was one of the most obnoxiously ambitious men I’d ever met. Two foursomes ahead of us, we’d never have to make small talk with him.

  We were standing around, trying to stay warm, when one of the waiting golfers said, “Where’s George, Willa? I thought he’d come out for the opening. He’s usually here.”

  Pride kept me from admitting that I had no idea where my usually solid, supportive husband had gone.

  “Maybe he went jogging.” I said the first thing that popped into my mind without thinking that George hates jogging and everyone knows it. Everybody laughed.

  “Sure,” one of the guys joked. “What’s her name and how long has George been seeing her?”

  They laughed again at my expense, while I squirmed. The teasing continued until someone raised a topic that turned the conversation and removed George’s whereabouts from the spotlight, allowing my bright red face to settle back down to its normal pale pink tone.

  Taking advantage of the reprieve, I spoke to my playing partner. “I can’t believe I agreed to team up with those two today, Mitch. What was I drinking when you got me to consent to this?” I asked him. I continued to sip the coffee I’d brought from home, which had finally cooled enough not to burn the hair off my tongue.

  Mitch and I were playing today with Dr. Marilee Aymes, one of my personal favorites. The fourth member of our group, though, was Christian Grover, a local lawyer who causes me an everlasting stomachache, and everybody knows that, too.

  “I thought maybe your consent had something to do with that pretty blue egg on your forehead. Like you were deranged or something,” Mitch grinned. “What happened to you?”

  “I had the misfortune to be near Tory Warwick’s flying Waterford last night,” I said, as I gently patted the lump. “And it’s purple. Matches my shirt.”

  “Flying Waterford is a natural hazard around her, all right. I should have recognized the imprinted pattern. Lismore, isn’t it?” Mitch gave me a glance filled with mock concern as he wiggled his eyebrows.

  “Smart ass,” I smiled.

  We kept up like this as we checked our bags and cart, found our specially marked balls and prepared to tee off as soon as we were given permission. The other foursomes were milling around, too. The opening ceremony was already a half-hour late.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tampa, Florida

  Saturday 8:30 a.m.

  January 22, 2000

  FINALLY, SOMEONE APPROACHED THE microphone and said we’d begin without the opening remarks today because General Andrews hadn’t yet arrived. They moved the general’s foursome back in line and the second group hurried to tee off.

  Rumors that General Andrews was with President Benson, who might be joining us, quickly buzzed through the waiting golfers. But by the time our foursome was set to start, neither General Andrews nor the President had arrived.

  In two separate carts, we waited our turn at the first tee. Marilee Aymes, a sixty-something cardiologist here in town, sat with Grover. I could hear her lighting into him before we even got started.

  Whatever bad karma had given me these two as playing partners, it was worse for both of them. Unlike oil and water, it didn’t appear they could be mixed into suspension of hostilities, even for a good cause and a relatively short time.

  “Grover, have you ever played with these clubs before?” Marilee chided him. “They look like something you bought off an infomercial advertised by Suzanne Sommers.”

  “Just because I’m not a golfer, Dr. Aymes, doesn’t mean I’m an idiot,” he responded. “Who would buy golf clubs from Suzanne Sommers? With her chest, there’s no way I could get the same angle on the ball.”

  Mitch put his hand up over his mouth to cover his smile. I grinned openly. The day promised laughter, something I’d missed lately. This tournament might turn out even better than I’d hoped.

  Up at the tee, Mitch hit his first drive of the day about 220 yards, long for him and a good start for the team. I went next, then Marilee and finally Grover.

  We were required to take everyone’s tee shot once each nine holes. I prayed Grover would be able to hit his ball more than fifty yards at least once. He went up to the tee, stood looking over the ball and the fairway and finally, finally, hit the damn thing about three feet.

  Mitch and I stifled our groans, got back into our cart and started off to find his ball, stopping on the way to pick up mine. As we headed down the cart path, we heard Marilee saying, “That’s just great, Grover. Maybe we should get you some breast implants if you think it would help.”

  “I didn’t think it was bad for the first ball I’ve ever hit,” he said with mock innocence.

  “You mean you’ve never played golf before in your life?” Marilee, a scratch golfer, was appalled. She’d sooner dine with gators.

  “Nope. And I wanted to play with the best, so I paid extra to get teamed up with you,” he grinned again.

  I think I heard growling from Marilee, but maybe it was the cart engine. Mitch laughed out loud.

  A few times in the first six holes, I shared a cart with Marilee Aymes, attempting to smooth the open hostility between her and Grover. Marilee was unpredictable and fun, but many people found her an unsuitable companion. Which was one of the reasons I liked her, even if her behavior was often outrageous.

  On the fourth fairway, our talk turned to General Andrews and his nomination. All of Tampa had been discussing nothing else for weeks.

  Marilee was angry over Craig Hamilton’s shooting. “These anti-abortion nuts are getting to be a real problem, Willa. I’ve cut down my volunteer work at the free abortion clinic in the projects to one day a month. It’s so unsafe now,” Marilee told me.

  “You’re a cardiologist. Why are you volunteering at the abortion clinic?”

  Marilee’s tough exterior exuded indifference, but I knew
her better than many people. Volunteering at a clinic was exactly the kind of thing she often did, but abortion was definitely out of her area.

  “Somebody’s got to do it,” she said. “I mostly do the counseling and help out with the medical stuff if there’s no one else. Some of these patients are so poor they can’t feed themselves and the kids they’ve already got. I sympathize with them.”

  “It’s a tough issue. I don’t think I’d ever be able to get an abortion and I thank God I’ve never needed one,” I told her.

  “Amen,” she said, in the first vaguely religious comment I’ve ever heard her make.

  We reached the seventh hole with Grover never having hit another ball as well as his first three-foot drive. Marilee’s patience stretched to the breaking point. When the drink cart came around, we took a break for cold water and sodas. It was about ten o’clock in the morning, maybe.

  Grover ordered two beers and Marilee ordered scotch.

  Mitch and I struggled not to laugh.

  Mary Rose Campbell, the pretty, young drink cart driver who doubles as the club’s barmaid told us that General Andrews had never arrived. They’d tried calling him for the past two hours, but got the answering machine. Someone had been sent out to his home to find him.

  “No one can figure it out. Why, General Andrews hasn’t missed a Blue Coat in ten years. What do you think happened to him?” Mary Rose said in her whispery little voice. She bent over to give the guys a good view of her rump while she dug down in the ice chest looking for Grover’s beer.

  Whether to tweak Marilee or because he really is grossly rude, Grover punched Mitch conspiratorially in the arm and said, “Don’t you want to order a beer, too, Mitch? Sure improves the scenery.”

  Before anyone else could react, Marilee hauled off and punched Grover right in the jaw, knocking him onto the grass.

  Howling, he grabbed his face and shouted that he’d sue her for battery.

  It was the second time in less than twenty-four hours that I’d seen a mature woman act like an immature child. My mouth fell open in amazement.

  “Kiss my grits,” she said. She jumped into their cart and sped off.

  Mary Rose Campbell seemed to have a great deal more sympathy for Grover’s sore jaw, so we left Grover with her and the drink cart.

  Mitch and I rode all the way to the eighth tee, but we couldn’t hold back any longer. The morning had turned into a comic farce that lightened all of our spirits probably even Grover’s. We laughed so hard we were holding our sides and trying not to wet our pants.

  Marilee returned quickly with my brother, Jason, in her cart. When they drove up, she said, “Here’s my new partner.”

  Then, she walked right up to the tee and hit the ball over 280 yards.

  Jason leaned over and said, sotto voce to Mitch and me, “She just swooped into the clubhouse and grabbed me. Is now a good time to tell her I’ve never played golf before?”

  Mitch’s turn was next and he gathered enough composure to hit the ball in the right direction and then join Marilee in her cart. I managed about 150 yards and Jason, who I think was kidding about never having played golf before, at least made contact with the ball. Marilee snorted when Jason’s ball landed about fifty yards out and took off with Mitch toward her ball, which was clearly the farthest drive.

  That left me with Jason and Jason with Mitch’s clubs. What a day. And we had eleven holes to go. The purple egg on my head started to throb as I took the wheel and headed off down the cart path.

  “Did General Andrews ever show up?” I asked Jason.

  “No, and we’re all pretty worried about it,” he said. “He doesn’t answer his telephone and no one has seen or heard from him. They sent someone out to his house, but Andrews lives all the way out at Tampa Green, so it will take a while to get there.”

  “Does Warwick know of any reason Andrews wouldn’t show up? It’s not like him to skip an event he’s been sponsoring for years.” I was a little worried, but not overly so. “Andrews told me last night he’d be here.”

  Jason looked away from me and denied having any inside information, which I took to mean that he knew something he wasn’t at liberty to divulge.

  I respected Jason’s confidential capacity as counsel to the Senate Judiciary Committee, but Andrews’s private sponsorship of a golf tournament shouldn’t have been an issue in his confirmation. There was no reason for secrecy.

  “Are they worried about a repeat of yesterday’s shooting?” I pressed him.

  Jason seemed to consider his answers carefully.

  “I don’t think so. The local cops wanted to give him police protection, but the general refused. He’s refused all extraordinary security measures, even though we’ve told him it’s standard procedure for any nominee.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Andrews says a U.S. Army Four Star General can take care of himself. It would be nice if he’d start doing it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve all counseled him on how to get his nomination approved. But he just won’t cooperate. He makes it damned difficult for the party to support him, even if he was the President’s choice.” Jason sounded disgusted, whether for the nominee, the President or the process, I wasn’t sure.

  “Despite what you told Frank Bennett last night, does the party want to support the President on this one?” I asked him. During the hearings, it seemed to me there was little about the process that was supportive, of the President or anyone else, but particularly General Andrews.

  Jason looked at me shrewdly. “What have you heard from George about that, Willa?”

  The question startled me. George was very highly placed in Republican circles but his influence with Democrats was non-existent. George thinks all Democrats are ideologically incompetent to sit on the Supreme Court, as he’d made plain to everyone he’d spoken to during the past few weeks, often to my complete mortification.

  “What would George know about the Democrats’ strategy? He’ll barely talk to your boss on the street and he threw him out of our house last night.”

  One of the many subjects George and I disagree on is politics.

  George is on top of all the issues, fully cognizant of the nuances of each. He’s the only man I know, besides maybe Frank Bennett, who can identify all 100 senators and most congressmen by sight.

  I, on the other hand, used to be able to identify both Florida senators and Sonny Bono. Since Sonny died, I’m down to two.

  Jason shrugged, maybe a little too casually. “I’m sure you’re right. It’s just that there are so many rumors floating around Washington and George knows everything that happens. I thought maybe he’d told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  I was really getting exasperated. If this cloak and dagger is how all of Washington works, no wonder they never get anything done.

  Jason pretended to consider the question, stalling until we got to the ball and he could get out of the cart near the others so he wouldn’t have to answer. When he tried to get into Marilee’s cart afterward, I made it impossible. Unless he wanted to acknowledge that he was trying to ditch me, which would tell me something, too.

  “I’m not going to let this drop, Jason, so you might as well tell me now,” I said with the courtroom sternness I reserve for lawyers about to spend the night in jail for contempt.

  “You know, you’ve always been so supremely stubborn.” He said it fondly. I think. “How much do you know about the history of Supreme Court appointments?”

  “Very little. Why?”

  “It’s fascinating, really. For instance, did you know that when Taft was President, he was promised a Supreme Court appointment by Teddy Roosevelt in exchange for political support?” Jason asked. “Then, Roosevelt didn’t live up to the bargain, so Taft asked President Harding to appoint him Chief Justice and Harding did it.”

  “You’re right, Jason. That’s just fascinatingly irrelevant. What does that bit of history have to do with Andrews?”

  St
rategies that worked in my courtroom were less effective on the golf course, but I had no way to force Jason or any other private citizen to tell me anything.

  As if to underline my impotence, he ignored my question and asked one of his own. “Do you know how the selection process works?”

  “Not really.”

  “When a Supreme Court Justice resigns, retires or dies, the President asks his chief of staff for nominees. The chief works with the Attorney General and White House Counsel on a list of potential candidates.”

  Hoping this was going somewhere, I murmured encouragement.

  He continued, “A tentative choice is made and then the Chief of Staff asks key party senators for their views. The President usually talks to the opposing party whip, to judge the opposition.” He must have sensed I was chafing with impatience. “It is a highly political process.”

  I gave him a small grin along with a dose of sarcasm. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “The point is that the normal process wasn’t followed in Andrews’s case. None of us knew about his nomination until it happened.”

  I must have looked puzzled still, so he spelled it out for me. “The senators are not happy about that. It discounts their power. And it means none of their favorites got a chance.”

  “So the contentiousness, the hostility, is some sort of play-ground squabble between the big boys over who’s more important?” I asked, not bothering to hide my disgust. The only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys and the size of their battles.

  Jason sighed. “Partly. But it’s more than that.”

  He waited a couple of seconds, as if he hadn’t already made up his mind how much to tell me. “The rumor is that the President appointed Andrews because of some secret deal between them. President Benson’s part of the deal was just to make the appointment. Which he did.”

  Jason took my arm to draw my glance toward him, briefly, before he told me something I should have guessed long ago. “The President doesn’t want this nomination confirmed. Andrews will be too unpredictable once he gets on the bench.”