Licensed to Thrill: Volume 3

by Diane Capri

  It made sense, in a politics-as-usual way. If President Benson didn’t want Andrews confirmed, that explained why the members of his own party had felt free to show open hostility to Andrews instead of closing the ranks to protect him.

  “And what about Warwick? Where does he fit into all this?” I asked.

  “Exactly where you’d think,” Jason said, sounding indignant now, as if I should know that Warwick was above all reproach. “He’s furious with the President. But he can’t show that on national television.”

  Almost like a cartoon light bulb going off in my head, I finally got it.

  “So Warwick’s joined forces with George and the Republicans to defeat the nomination?” My incredulity was plain.

  “Politics makes strange bedfellows, Willa. You know that.” Jason was resigned and tired of talking about it. “Are you happy now that you know the whole story?”

  The throbbing purple egg on my forehead seemed to mock me, pounding home my naiveté. “I don’t know if I’m happy or not. It sounds like politics at its worst to me. What possible reason could there be for the President to ignore the best interests of the country and appoint Andrews in some sort of horse trade?”

  “That would depend on what the trade was, wouldn’t it?”

  Now Jason just sounded tired. I noticed deep circles under his eyes suggesting he’d had another sleepless night.

  It didn’t occur to me to wonder what he’d been doing all night. He was resigned to see this thing through, but he didn’t like it. Nor did I.

  The rubber chicken lunch, served on the patio, was all the more unappetizing because Senator Warwick delivered the keynote speech.

  The mayor’s foursome won the tacky and cheap blue sport coats that were the first prize, along with bragging rights for the next year. Our group finished ten over par; not a stellar score for a scramble and we had no hope of winning, even after we applied Grover’s big handicap.

  As I exited the locker room a few minutes after the final awards were handed out, I felt all of the jocular energy in the club had shifted to something much more somber. The few people who remained were gathered around in small groups. The buzz of conversation was quiet, but anxious. I looked around for someone who could tell me what had happened, but everyone I knew well enough to trust had already left.

  I glanced up and saw the television in the bar area, usually tuned to a sporting event, running a cable news bulletin, but I couldn’t hear what was being said over the din of the crowd.

  Men had bowed their heads. They were speaking to each other, with worried frowns on their faces. I saw a couple of women near the service station, including the pretty bar maid, Mary Rose Campbell, crying.

  “What is it?” I asked someone standing next to me. I touched his arm and felt alarmed, absorbing the impact of the unnamed disaster through my senses. “What’s going on?”

  A man I recognized as a part of the Mayor’s winning foursome, still wearing the tacky blue coat that was his trophy just an hour or so before, turned his now ashen face toward me and said, “General Andrews was found dead about eleven-thirty this morning.”

  I rushed out to my car and turned on the radio, where I hoped to get accurate information that I could understand. The story was to the point, but contained enough detail to make me realize that some investigation had been done before the information was released:

  Tampa’s first Supreme Court nominee, General Albert Andrews, is dead. The general apparently committed suicide, despondent over the course his confirmation hearings had taken and the shooting of his long time secretary, Craig Hamilton, Thursday.

  Police Chief Ben Hathaway announced just a few minutes ago: “It appears that General Andrews shot himself early this morning. His body was found in his fishing boat on the small lake in back of his Tampa Green home.”

  Of course, the general was upset over the turn the hearings had taken. But enough for a man who’d fought and survived three wars to kill himself? How could this be true?

  Tears sprang to my eyes as I thought instantly about Deborah’s hopeful face when I first saw her last night. She and Andy had seemed so happy together then, before he’d made such a spectacle of them all and she’d looked so stricken.

  How must she feel now? Wouldn’t a wife see this coming? Had she?

  A tear made its way down my cheek and I brushed it away.

  Judges don’t cry, I reminded myself, even in private.

  And how could I be crying for Andrews anyway? I hadn’t even liked the man.

  I pulled over to turn down one of the side streets off the Bayshore and sat for several minutes. Exhaustion settled in on top of the pain in my head, to say nothing of the pain in my heart, the exact source of which I still hadn’t located.

  I sat there a long time, trying to deal with the news and listening to the radio for more information.

  Finally, the driver of a city garbage truck behind me laid on his horn, jarring me back to the present. The truck appeared huge in my rearview mirror.

  He leaned his head out and shouted, “Hey, Lady! Get out of the way! Can’t you see? I got to get those trash cans!”

  I looked blankly in front of me and saw the trashcans plainly, for the first time. I pulled slowly back onto the road.

  During the short drive home, I heard the Andrews suicide story repeated on three different stations. No one knew any more than what Chief Hathaway had said at the press conference. I didn’t notice the scenery I passed the rest of the way.

  At Minaret, I left Greta with the valet and went up the stairs two at a time, running on adrenaline. I burst into the living room calling for George. Harry and Bess came bounding toward me, but George was nowhere to be found in any of the ten rooms of our flat. Granted, I looked quickly. But I’m sure I would have found him if he was there: there just aren’t that many places to hide.

  I went back downstairs and into the Sunset Bar, where neither the bartender nor the waitress had seen George all day. I checked the kitchen, the dining rooms and the outdoor dining areas. There were a few late lunchers, but no George. Finally, I found Peter in the office tallying up the sales for the morning.

  “Have you seen George?”

  “Not today. I thought he was with you.” I must have looked confused, because he followed up, “Not to play golf, of course. I just thought he had gone out to the club early this morning when you did. When I got here, his car was gone and so was yours.”

  Deflated and worried now, I walked slowly back to the Sunset Bar and sat at my favorite table overlooking the water where George and Jason and I sat last night. Being able to sit outside and watch both the sunrise and sunset is one of the best things about living on Plant Key. Now, I barely noticed the view.

  Where could George have gone?

  I reviewed my efforts to find him.

  Unusual for him to be away early in the morning. He sleeps late every day because he’s up so late at night. Being absent on Saturday for the lunch business was something he’d never done since he opened the restaurant. George thinks the owner needs to be visible, even though everyone loves Peter.

  Ordered a Sapphire and tonic with lemon on the rocks, and sat thinking about where George could be, how Andy could possibly have committed suicide, and why.

  An hour later, still no answers.

  The drink made me sleepy. I’d looked everywhere and couldn’t find George. There was nothing else I could do at the moment. I walked slowly through the restaurant, still looking around, then back upstairs.

  When I got into our bedroom, the heavily lined, floral damask drapes were drawn. The room was dark and there was George, snoring as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

  I was so relieved to find him, safely alive, that I didn’t feel the tears on my face. I lay down on top of the sheets and, worn out, fell fast asleep, too.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tampa, Florida

  Saturday 5:30 p.m.

  January 22, 2000

  A FEW HOURS LATER, I awoke dis
oriented and foggy. I turned over to reach for George and he wasn’t there.

  Not again.

  My eyes popped opened, immediately awake.

  I hopped out of bed and walked into the hallway, slipping into my pink silk robe as I went toward the kitchen. George was seated at the table having coffee.

  “Hello, sweetheart. How’d you sleep?”

  Just like he hadn’t been gone all day; without a word as to where he’d spent his time. Instead of focusing on how relieved I was to see his sleep-rumpled self in his green summer cotton bathrobe and white silk pajamas, I lost it.

  Almost vibrating with relief, masquerading as tension and anger, I said, much too sharply, “Where the hell have you been?”

  “What do you mean? I left you a note.”

  “Oh, really? Where’d you leave it, in the refrigerator?”

  Sarcasm now, too. My relief sounded suspiciously like rage. It didn’t seem to bother him, though.

  “No,” he said with exaggerated patience, like he was dealing with a mentally deficient person. He put his coffee cup down softly. “I left it on the table beside your pillow.”

  I whirled around and marched back into our bedroom, over to my side of our king-sized bed, and looked down at the pedestal table holding my reading glasses, an alarm clock, a small crystal lamp and, damn damn damn, a handwritten note on one of George’s personal monogrammed cards propped up against the telephone.

  In his strong, almost indecipherable scrawl, it said:

  “Darling, Gone to breakfast. See you after the Blue Coat. Good luck. I love you.”

  I read it. Then I picked it up between my thumb and forefinger as if it was some sort of nasty laboratory specimen.

  It was his paper, his writing. The note had been about eight inches from my face when I woke up both this morning and just now.

  I’d missed it.

  I’d gotten all upset for no reason.

  I hate to eat crow. I just hate it.

  I carried the note with me back into the kitchen where George was still calmly having his coffee and reading today’s New York Times.

  “Find it?” he asked, just a little too sweetly. I could almost see the canary feathers on his lips.

  “I found it. I’d like to say I didn’t find it, but it was there. Next time, how about leaving notes on the kitchen table where you know I’ll be sure to look?” If I have to eat crow, I’m certainly not going to be gracious about it. “Let me share the paper.”

  Like Mark Twain, I, too, have been through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened.

  We drank coffee and read the paper. For about half an hour, I pouted silently, feeling very put-upon, which is why it took so long for me to remember to ask George if he’d heard about Andrews’s death.

  I asked him just as he was sipping hot coffee and he almost choked.

  “What? How? When?” He shouted when he’d quit coughing.

  “I don’t know exactly when. I heard it on the news on my way back from the club. Why don’t we turn on the television? There’s bound to be more information by now.” I said, talking to his retreating back as he moved toward the television in the den.

  By the time I joined him there, George had located the story on one of the all news channels. Each stated that General Andrews had been found at home, an apparent suicide. Chief Hathaway’s earlier statement repeated.

  Nothing new except the very last sound bite: “A source close to the investigation told us the general left a suicide note, but we have not confirmed.”

  Rehash of Thursday’s shooting of Craig Hamilton outside the capitol building followed. Since Thursday, authorities had confirmed that the shooter had indeed been trying to kill General Andrews, the reporter said. The shooter’s late night interview replayed. His face, eerily normal looking, appeared on the screen, while he explained his homicidal behavior in a calm and rational manner that chilled me to the bone.

  “I expected him to come out of the car first. I’m sorry I hurt Mr. Hamilton. It was the general I was after. He has no right to kill unborn babies. No murderer will sit on the Supreme Court. Never.”

  George flipped quickly through channels, shaking his head, distraught. “What is this country coming to? Why is it that people think they can just kill someone they don’t agree with? Why don’t people trust the process?”

  “Jason says the whole process is the problem,” I told him.

  “What?” He sounded startled.

  I told him what Jason had said to me about Andrews’s appointment: that it was the result of an under-the-table deal, some sort of Faustian bargain between the President and Andrews.

  “That’s true, Willa, but it’s not unprecedented. And most people have no idea how behind-the-scenes politics in judicial appointments work anyway. I meant people should trust the confirmation process.”

  “Well,” I said evenly, “that didn’t seem to be going so well, either. Citizens were worried enough about the process to protest, picket and shoot at Andrews.”

  I shivered again as I glanced at the shooter’s placid face, still on the television screen.

  I told him what I’d heard the television analysts say when Margaret and I watched the last day of hearings in my chambers. “More than two thousand names of law school faculty members who spoke against Andrews were listed in the Congressional Record, even more than spoke against Bork when he was defeated.”

  George gave me a weary look. “I know,” he said. “I’ve seen countless advertisements in the papers addressed to senators by citizens against Andrews.”

  Gently, I laid my hand on his back, helpless to make him feel better. “Sweetheart, the process wasn’t working. People were protesting, but their voices seemed to remain unheeded. Every day in my courtroom I hear about tragedies like this. People just don’t have unlimited patience to wait while the wheels of the process grind along so slowly. ”

  George hung his head, his arms resting on his thighs. “But Andrews should have known better. He should have waited. Supreme Court Justices aren’t confirmed by sound bites. Even if he wasn’t confirmed, there’s no disgrace in that. There’s a long history of nominees who weren’t confirmed. More than twenty percent aren’t. Not being confirmed is no reason to kill yourself.”

  He was blaming himself. Perhaps he should have expected something like this, but like me, he hadn’t.

  “Maybe Andy just didn’t like his odds,” I suggested. “Maybe he couldn’t face defeat.”

  My suggestion didn’t seem to make George feel better.

  No further information about Andrews’s death was to be had on any station. When the stories degenerated to the brawl in George’s restaurant last night, with witnesses describing the verbal volleys between Warwick and Andrews, and George’s more physical approach, George finally turned off the set and we sat together on the upholstered love seat in the quiet room, Harry and Bess lying near the door.

  After a while, George turned toward me, took my hand and gazed steadily into my eyes. What he said next, his calm demeanor and lucid comments, gave me the same chill I’d felt when the shooter explained his motives.

  “You know he didn’t kill himself, don’t you? There’s no way Andy would have done that. Someone murdered him.”

  Fear sucked away my breath. “George, you don’t know that. If they say it was suicide, they believe it.”

  He looked down and played with my wedding ring, twisting it around on my left hand. “No. If they say it was suicide, they want the public to believe it. That doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  My heart pounded harder and I wanted to draw my hand away, make him stop talking about this. “Why would you think he didn’t kill himself? You’ve barely talked to Andy in years.”

  “Because I know Andy and I know he would never, never kill himself.” He dropped my cold hand, as if it was too hot to hold.

  “Goddamn it!” he shouted.

  Then, he threw the remote control across the room and stalked out
while I stared after him, completely bewildered.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tampa, Florida

  Saturday 7:00 p.m.

  January 22, 2000

  I WALKED OVER AND picked up the remote off the floor. It’s amazing how tough those things are, I thought. It didn’t even crack.

  I heard George slamming drawers in his dressing room and then leave by the front door.

  He left? He just left?

  I couldn’t believe it. My legs dropped me down on the loveseat again.

  Who was this man inhabiting George’s body? My George never lost his control, but I had seen this stranger lose it twice in the last twenty-four hours.

  George had put so much of himself into this fight, felt so strongly about it, spent so much energy and time on it. I had hardly seen him in the past few weeks and when he was home, he was so preoccupied that he either spoke of nothing else, or didn’t speak at all.

  But I know George didn’t plan to win the battle by losing the general. For once, what he affectionately calls my Mighty Mouse routine, my desire to fix everything that comes my way whether people ask for my help or not, failed me. As much as I loved George, and wanted to help him, there wasn’t anything I could do to fix this. I had no choice but to wait it out and hope that when the dust settled, George and I could find each other again.

  The dogs didn’t know what to do, either. Both of them came over and put their heads in my lap. I rubbed their ears as I tried to comfort us all.

  After a while, when I finally acknowledged that George wasn’t coming right back, I turned to my all purpose solution for whatever emotional disturbance ails me: my work.

  Donned black jeans and a cream T-shirt and went into my study to wrestle with Newton v. The Whitman Esquire Review while I did what wives had done for centuries, what Deborah Andrews had done for decades: I waited for my husband to come home.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tampa, Florida

  Saturday 9:00 p.m.

  January 22, 2000

  THE NEWTON FILE HADN’T gotten any smaller since I’d left my briefcase next to Aunt Minnie’s chair yesterday. I told myself that the only way to get started was to start, although it was hard to muster any enthusiasm for the project. Concentration was tough because I listened for George to return.