Ben tried to be skeptical. “Even if there were constitutional issues involved? The rules say you have to enforce the letter of the law—and damn the result.”
“The rules.” Roush turned his eyes skyward. “Even the most conservative, I’m-opposed-to-judicial-activism jurists in the country apply the rules when and where they see fit, and we all know it. Are you telling me Bush v. Gore was decided based on judicial precedent, or the letter of the Constitution—both of which require judges to stay out of the election process? Nonsense. The Republican members of the Supreme Court saw an opportunity to pick the next President and they took it.” He leaned forward. “I hope you don’t mind, Ben, but I’ve taken the liberty of asking my clerk to do a little checking up on you. It appears to me your whole career has been about applying the rules when it served a righteous cause—and looking the other way when it didn’t.”
“I don’t know about—”
Roush held up his hands. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not accusing you of anything—except maybe being a lawyer who actually cares about his clients. But it seems to me you always keep your eyes on the prize. You do what it takes to see that justice is served. You understand that the rules exist to help people—not the other way around. People come first.” He settled back into his chair. “That’s the kind of Supreme Court justice I’d like to be. You got a problem with that?”
7
Half an hour later, Ben conferred with Minority Leader Hammond in the foyer. Roush had moved on to another senator, Eastwick was at work in his garden, and a few select reporters and photographers had been admitted inside. The place was buzzing like a beehive, swarming with people, disturbing much of the charm and all of the ambience. Nonetheless, Hammond found a semiprivate corner and pulled Ben aside. “So?”
Ben shrugged. “What do you want to know? He’s a charmer. He opposes the death penalty. He’s on what I believe is the morally correct side of many critical social issues, and he’s at least reasonable about the others.” He paused. “Roush is either an incredibly slick con man or the best nominee we could hope for from the current administration.”
“And which do you think it is?”
Ben pursed his lips. “I think he’s the best nominee we could hope for from the current administration.”
“What did I tell you?”
“But I’ve been wrong before. I’m really not that good at judging people.”
“Stop waffling. Can I assume you’re on board?”
“On board what? It’s not like I’m going to convert the Senate Judiciary Committee. I’ll be lucky to get a seat in the gallery.”
Hammond looked at him levelly. “Once the far right is mobilized, and the Christian Congregation begin their inevitable attack ads, he’s going to need all the friends he can get. A voice of support—especially one with a high approval rating from the buckle on the Bible Belt—will be very welcome. I’d like to be able to tell Thaddeus you’ve got his back. What do you say?”
Ben considered for a long time. This would not be a prudent move, especially for someone who was contemplating an imminent Senate race. But when did he ever do the smart thing, anyway? “Tell the man I’ve got his back. Now how can I get a seat for this press conference?”
“Seat?” Hammond took Ben by the arm and smiled. “You’re going to be standing just to the left of the podium, Ben. Let’s get your nose powdered.”
Roush locked the bathroom door behind him, sat on the toilet, put his head in his hands, and breathed deeply. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic out there. He’d never been in the eye of the hurricane before and he didn’t like it. Normally judges don’t attract that much attention. All these people swarming over the grounds, thinly veiled enemies looking for any scrap of information that might be used against him—it was overwhelming. Nightmarish. His asthma was acting up, and he couldn’t have that. By the time the cameras were rolling, he had to be calm and utterly in control.
He hated this business of trying to win over the Senate, one senator at a time. It was as if he were auditioning for the job. Totally inappropriate. But essential, if he was going to survive the tidal wave he had started. The toughest conversation had been with the new guy, Kincaid. He was smart, and so utterly without any political agenda or ambition that he remained free to act according to his conscience—the kind of person Washington feared most. The look that man had given him when he asked if Roush had any secrets! It sent chills down his spine. Or maybe it wasn’t the look. Maybe it was the fact that Roush knew how disastrous it would be if the truth ever emerged.
He and Ray still hadn’t talked, exchanging nothing more than a few casual pleasantries. First, the man is publicly outed on national television; then, the next day, his home is invaded. His private nest. No wonder he was hiding in the garden. Roush would have to think of some way, of any way possible, to make it up to him. He could just imagine the rage that must be boiling behind that gardening apron. When Ray lost his temper—
“Judge Roush?”
“Yes?” Camilla was on the other side of the door. She was the housekeeper three times a week, but on this day her job description had mutated into gatekeeper and bouncer.
“There’s a woman outside the gate who wants to speak with you. She buzzed me on the intercom.”
“Reporter? Politician?”
“Neither. She says she called you yesterday.”
“Just tell her—”
“She insists that you will want to see her—before it’s too late.”
“Did she give a name?”
“No. But she said to tell you—it’s about Savannah.”
Every muscle in Roush’s body stiffened. Every nerve tingled. He stopped breathing.
“If you want, Judge, I’ll just tell her—”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Are you sure? You’ve got so much—”
“I’m sure. It’s nothing serious, Camilla. Just a reporter trying to play on your good nature to trick her way in. I’ll take care of it. You go help Ruth in the kitchen, would you?”
“If—if you’re sure.”
Roush waited until she was gone before he did anything, before he even moved.
Victoria had waited this long to try to contact him. She could surely wait a little longer.
So it had finally happened. What he dreaded most. The one thing that could ruin his plans, his entire future. That was the problem with having your face splashed all over the airwaves. People remembered. People knew where you were.
The front yard was still cluttered with media. He would have to send her through the garden gate. Even that was hardly secluded—a crew was setting up for the press conference. And Ray was back there gardening.
He would have to get this over with as soon as possible. No one could know. Not the press. Not Ray. Not anyone.
His future depended on it. His life depended on it.
8
Ben listened to the pitiful deliberation between Hammond and Roush’s advance crews as they tried to decide where to stage the press conference. They walked all over the grounds, looking for the perfect visual backdrop. Ben favored the small rear herb garden surrounded by stately hedges, but the rest thought the enclosure was too small to accommodate everyone who would want to attend. In addition to that problem, a Ford SUV illegally parked on a dirt road at the far end of the property was visible at that angle. Hammond favored the central garden with the flowering plants, since it was beautiful and would create a positive impression. Roush’s people worried that being photographed surrounded by brightly colored flowers would seem too “gay,” whatever that meant. Perhaps it was an indicator of Roush’s eagerness for the job; Hammond’s crew won. The podium, the nominee, the supporters, and the press were artfully arranged at the south end of the garden among the tulips, pansies, and hanging lilies, just in front of a round-top wooden door covered with green climbing ivy—like something out of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
“Once we’re married, I want
a garden like this,” Christina said, tugging gently at Ben’s sleeve. She had left her work on the Wilderness bill administrative committee midday to attend the conference.
“Christina, please don’t start…”
“I’m not starting anything. I’m just telling you that whether we end up in your boardinghouse or someplace nice, I expect to have a garden. A good one.”
“Then you’d better see if Ray Eastwick can fly out to Tulsa. Because I don’t know from gardening.”
Christina squeezed his arm and smiled. “You don’t know from women, either. But you’re going to learn.”
A few discreet coughs from the President’s representative—a junior staffer from the fund-raising department, about as low-level a rep as the President could possibly send without admitting he no longer supported the candidate—told Ben it was time to begin the conference. At Hammond’s request, and against his better judgment, Ben had agreed to introduce the nominee after a few humorous introductory remarks from the Minority Leader. He couldn’t help but dwell on the irony of it—a Republican nominee reduced to being introduced by two Democrats.
Ben waited for the laughter at Hammond’s jokes to subside before he began speaking. He had never been very good at getting people’s attention. He had read that some politicians seemed to grow larger than life when they stepped behind a podium. Ben was pretty sure he shrank. Here in Alice’s garden, he might as well sip from the bottle labeled DRINK ME.
“You may be asking why I—the most junior of the junior senators—am delivering this introduction,” Ben began. “The answer is simple. This is a time in our nation’s history when we must reach across party lines and remember that we are one nation. The nomination of someone who is actually qualified for the job—eminently so, in this case—is a cause for rejoicing, not mud-wrestling in partisan politics. So I am here, like many of my Democratic brethren, to show that we not only believe that this nomination is appropriate—it is important.”
Enough speechifying. He wasn’t very good at it, anyway. “Judge Roush has a few preliminary remarks, and then he’ll entertain any questions—any reasonable and appropriate questions—you may care to ask.”
Ben stepped back and Roush squared himself behind the podium. Ben noted that he was carrying only one sheet of paper, which suggested that he either intended to devote most of the time to questions or did not as yet understand what would be required of him. These people weren’t going to let him by with a paragraph of platitudes.
“I suppose it may seem a little unusual,” Roush began, “to hold another press conference so soon after the last. But to my great surprise, there seems to be a significant interest in…well, me.”
A few chuckles. Good, Ben thought. Put them off guard with a little humor. Harder to be tough on someone they like.
“At least the media seems to have a consuming interest. The rank-and-file Americans—I’m not so sure. I don’t expect to be invited on Total Request Live anytime soon.” More chuckles. Very nice. Pity he would eventually have to say something serious. “So I invited you to my home to ask me whatever questions might be appropriate. I must warn you, though, when I made my full disclosure in the Rose Garden, I did so in the spirit of honesty and forthrightness—and frankly, to avoid having it revealed in some tawdry way that would inevitably give the impression that I was hiding something. I was not, however, attempting to make my nomination a referendum on gay rights, which would be grossly inappropriate. Nor was I throwing the door open on my private life. My private life is just that, and I see no reason why that should change. There is no precedent for invading the personal privacy of a Supreme Court nominee, and I do not see any reason to start one. Nor will I be willing to answer any hypothetical questions regarding how I might rule on particular judicial or political issues.”
Okay, this part, not so good, Ben thought quietly. The press never like to be told what they cannot do. It almost guaranteed that they would try to do it.
Roush smiled. “I will be more than happy, however, to entertain questions that relate to my qualifications for the job for which I have been nominated.”
He didn’t get any. “Judge Roush,” said an attractive brunette in the front row. Ben thought he recognized her from a CBS news show. “Did you inform the President of your homosexuality during your prenomination interviews?”
Roush sighed, obviously disappointed. “I don’t recall that he ever asked me about my sexual preference. Nor, for that matter, did I ask him about his.” Another light round of guffaws. “Why would it come up? It has nothing to do with my qualifications to sit on the Supreme Court.”
“There are millions of Americans who might disagree with you.”
“Not if they were the nominee, they wouldn’t.”
All things considered, he was handling this rather well, Ben thought. Admirably. Particularly for a political novice.
“Throughout the most recent decades,” Roush added, “we’ve seen a continual erosion of standards in our political discourse. Topics that would’ve been taboo before are now openly explored. Invasions into the sex lives of public figures are rationalized as reflecting on ‘character’ or ‘trustworthiness,’ when in fact they are just excuses to engage in the most scurrilous tabloid forms of reportage. The only way that I can see to stop this trend is to refuse to participate. So I will. And I urge each of you to do the same.”
In the dead center of the throng, a man with more hair spray than hair spoke. “Can you confirm or deny rumors that the President will withdraw his support from your nomination?”
Roush shook his head. “I’m not going to talk about rumors at all. Rumors are not news. I can tell you that no one—including the President—has indicated to me that he will withdraw his support.” He paused, a small smile playing on his lips. “And I personally find it difficult to imagine that he would.”
Roush was right of course, Ben thought. Much as the President might like to pull out of this mess, he couldn’t. It was one thing to oppose gay marriage or gay health benefits; it was quite another to cancel the nomination of a man he had said was eminently qualified for the job simply because he emerged from the closet. Even if it wasn’t illegal, it smacked of bigotry and prejudice. The press would eat him alive.
“Do you think,” another brunette, this time an NBC anchor, asked, “that the Senate will confirm your nomination?”
“I think it would be foolish to make predictions in advance of facts.” He paused, then grinned. “But they should.”
“The Judiciary Committee is mostly Republican—”
“So am I,” Roush replied.
A voice from the back shouted, “Could we meet your partner?”
“No, I don’t think that would be appropriate. The President did not nominate—”
“The President always introduces the First Lady!” a voice in the rear called. “Where’s yours?”
Ben could feel the burning in Roush’s cheeks, but Roush managed to maintain control. “How many Supreme Court nominations have you covered, sir?”
There was a long pause, then: “Four.”
“And how many times have you asked to interview the nominee’s spouse?”
Silence.
“I’ll take that to mean none. So I see no reason to break with precedent. Ray has nothing to do with my legal work.”
“Did he have anything to do with this garden?”
More laughter. “Well, yes. That he did. I suppose there’s no reason for him not to take credit for his extraordinary horticultural efforts.”
Mild cheering and a spattering of applause followed. Ben knew this would be awkward, but the mob could be ignored only so long. “Perhaps a brief introduction would be in order. I think he’s out back, puttering in the peat moss or something.”
Roush turned and grabbed the iron circle that opened the rounded-top door directly behind him, the door that, Ben remembered from his tour, separated the main garden from the enclosed area with the herbs and the fountain.
Roush tugged at the door but couldn’t seem to get it open. “I would assume it was locked,” Roush muttered, “but there’s no lock.” He tugged a little harder, but it didn’t give. Ben got the impression something was jamming it on the other side.
“This is ridiculous,” Roush said, still tugging, trying to save face. “Serves me right for going off-script.” He got another nice laugh, but it didn’t mask his apparent frustration. Ben could see beads of sweat forming on his brow. Finally, he pressed his foot against the adjoining wall and pulled the door handle with all his strength.
The door flew open. Roush lost his balance and tumbled backward, almost knocking over the podium. A second later, another figure fell through the doorway.
The crowd screamed. Ben craned his neck to see who it was, what had happened, but the body fell too fast. All he could tell for sure was that it was a woman—and that she was covered with blood. Once she hit the ground, she did not move, and it was readily apparent why.
Her throat had been cut, deeply. A pair of garden shears protruded from her back.
The press moved six different ways at once. Some panicked and ran, some raced forward for a closer look. Talking, screaming, running. Minicams readjusted their focus from the podium to the fallen figure in the grass. Commentators all talked at once. The network reps shouted into their cell phones, urging their bosses to interrupt the regularly scheduled programming.
And standing in the doorway, just beyond the opening, Ben spotted Ray Eastwick.
9
Ben felt Christina appear at his side. “Do something,” she urged. “These reporters will destroy the crime scene.”
Ben moved forward to block their way, but he could see already that he would be inadequate to stanch the flow of the hundred or so press reps bearing down on him. Fortunately, two Secret Service agents emerged from the wings and stopped the traffic. Ben had to admire their quick-witted professionalism. They were here strictly on a ceremonial security detail, never dreaming they would have to take charge of a murder.
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