Capitol Threat bk-15

by William Bernhardt

  Roush shook his head, still greatly amused. “And I thought I had problems.”

  Keyes tapped his microphone, as if to make sure it was working.

  “This hearing is called to order,” Keyes said, with what Ben estimated to be approximately three times his usual Texas accent. “Would the nominee please do us the favor of rising?”

  Ben leaned sideways and whispered into Roush’s ear: “Show-time.”

  18

  Thanks to the concerted efforts of Senator Hammond and Bertram Sexton, Ben felt as if they were well-prepared for what would soon take place—or at least had the illusion of being prepared, perhaps the best that could be hoped for under the circumstances. Senator Keyes, he knew, was taking his marching orders from the White House. They wanted the nomination killed, but Keyes, as chairman, had to remain impartial and nonpartisan. His main go-to girl would be Senator Matera of Wyoming, a staunch ultra-Republican woman in her fifties who didn’t mind playing the attack dog, and had a fiercely independent constituency that remained loyal to her—and possibly even liked her more—when she was at her worst. Her opposite number was Senator Dawkins from Minnesota, a Democrat who did not plan to run for reelection and thus was free to challenge the Republican majority whenever they acted inappropriately—for whatever good it might do. Each of the eight Democratic senators had prepared or been given prepared questions that would elicit favorable testimony: discussions of some of Roush’s best opinions, his charitable work, his sterling judicial record. Ben had remarked at how much the whole proceeding resembled a trial; an enormous amount of work went into the preparation, yet everything remained uncertain.

  The sergeant-at-arms held the Bible while Roush raised his right hand. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do,” Roush replied.

  “Point of order,” Senator Matera said, raising a finger in the air. “Does the nominee attend a church?”

  Senator Keyes appeared surprised, although Ben thought that very unlikely. “Well, I…I don’t have a record—”

  “Neither do I. How do we know an oath to God means anything to him?”

  “Well,” Keyes sputtered, “I think we can assume—”

  “I don’t think we can assume anything. The man has acknowledged that he participates in a—an atypical lifestyle, contrary to the laws of God.”

  Ben and Keyes both spoke simultaneously, but Keyes had the advantage of the raised platform. “Perhaps we could just ask a simple question regarding the man’s religious beliefs.”

  “Excuse me?” Ben said, grabbing the microphone in front of Roush. His voice echoed throughout the chamber, reminding him that he was being watched not only by the hundreds in the room, but the thousands, perhaps millions, viewing the hearing on television. A cold chill shot down his spine. “I—I—” He took a deep breath and started again. “I’ve been told that you have a passing acquaintance with the Constitution, Senator. Have you read the First Amendment?”

  Keyes smiled avuncularly. “I’m allowing you to speak freely, aren’t I?” A small titter of laughter arose in the gallery.

  “I was referring to the separation between church and state.” In fact, Ben knew that Roush did not attend church regularly and he rather suspected the man was an agnostic. Pegging silence on the Constitution, however, seemed wiser than absolute honesty. “This line of questioning is entirely inappropriate.”

  “Well, we have a right to know if this oath he took that called for him to swear to God means anything to him.”

  The oath was probably unconstitutional itself, but since they’d been using it for two hundred–plus years, Ben doubted they would change it now just to make him happy.

  “He took the oath,” Ben said, “so he’s governed by the penalties of perjury and contempt of Congress. That’s all you need to know.”

  “It’s not enough for me,” Matera interjected. “The oath a new Supreme Court justice takes also invokes the name of the deity. I believe the American people have a right to know if that name holds any importance to him.”

  “I’ll second that,” Senator Potter, the youngest member of the committee, said.

  “I object,” Ben said. “This is grossly—”

  “You are not in a courtroom, Senator Kincaid,” Keyes said. “You may call for a point of order, but objections are not a part of our procedure.”

  Thank you so much for the hand-slapping on national television. “You can call it anything you want, but this inquiry into religion is improper and you know it. This has been stage-managed to create an unfavorable impression of the nominee—”

  “Now let’s not get paranoid, son.”

  “I object to that remark, too.”

  “And I will remind you again that this is not a courtroom.”

  “Tell me about it,” Ben muttered. “No judge on earth would allow a stunt like this in the courtroom.”

  Keyes pounded his gavel. “Senator Kincaid. I find your lack of respect for this assemblage appalling. I think you owe us all an apology.”

  “I’ll second that, too,” Potter echoed.

  “I didn’t raise this issue,” Ben said firmly. Despite his tendency toward nervousness, the fact that he was being observed by millions, and the fact that Senator Hammond was wincing and Christina was motioning for him to shut up, the words were flowing easily. Maybe hearings weren’t that different from courtrooms after all. “Don’t blame me for a stunt you prearranged with the distinguished flunky from Wyoming.”

  A loud murmur from the gallery followed. Keyes pounded his gavel. Matera grabbed her mike. “I will have the distinguished…whatever you are in your current capacity, Mr. Kincaid, know that I’ve been in the Senate almost twenty years, and I am no one’s flunky.”

  “I only hope,” Ben rejoined, “that will prove to be true.”

  Keyes was still pounding. “Could we please proceed with the matter at hand? The witness has sworn the oath and understands that he is subject to the criminal penalty of contempt of Congress. Let’s move on. Does the nominee have a preliminary statement?”

  Ben settled back into his chair and passed the microphone to Roush. He only hoped Tad did better with it than he had. “I do, Mister Chairman.”

  Roush spoke in a cool, clear voice, rarely looking at his notes, speaking with a calm earnestness and apparent spontaneity—just as he had done during the hundred or so times they had rehearsed the speech. Even though he was sitting right beside the man, Ben watched him in the video monitor to gauge his performance, a trick he had learned from Gina. Roush looked good; his strong cheekbones photographed well and his smooth facial lines gave him a pleasant on-camera expression. Most important, at least from Gina’s perspective, he did not look effeminate.

  Despite the constant emphasis on image, it was the content of Roush’s statement that concerned Ben. As the pollster had told Roush earlier, it was laced with too many taboos, too many things he would not do: He would not comment on specific issues or potential cases. He would not discuss his political or—he added this extemporaneously—religious beliefs. He would not provide details about his personal life. This not only potentially created a negative impression, it was like dropping bait in a fish pond. Ben knew with certainty that one of the Republican senators would attempt to quiz him on each of the supposedly forbidden subjects, if only to put him in the position of having to refuse to answer on national television. Taking the Fifth, however justified the cause, rarely endeared anyone to the audience.

  “It is paramount that the judiciary retain its independence from the political spheres, both the legislative and the executive branches of our government, as contemplated by the doctrine of separation of powers enshrined in the U.S. Constitution. Similarly, the public and the private realms are distinct, and always must remain so. The political and the legal worlds are distinct, and it was the framers of the Constitution’s fervent and express desire that they always remain so. It is its independence that
gives the judiciary its true power, the ability to perceive issues clearly and without interference, without prior judgment or bias, to apply the law as it is and not as one might wish it to be. Since the days of Marbury v. Madison, the Supreme Court has—”

  Senator Matera interrupted. “You’re talking about accountability, aren’t you?”

  Roush hesitated, obviously unsure whether to continue with his prepared statement or to respond to the question.

  Matera filled the gap. “When you talk about the importance of maintaining independence, you’re talking about activist judges doing whatever they want without accountability to the American people.”

  Roush stuttered. “I—I assure you—”

  “I mean, that’s how we ended up in the mess we’re in today, with thirteen-year-old girls having abortions and the Ten Commandments being removed from courtrooms. It’s all about activist judges who aren’t accountable to anyone.”

  Ben leaned into the mike. “Ma’am, this is supposed to be an opening statement. The questions come later.”

  Senator Matera was not chastised. “I can’t let a statement like that one pass without comment. The American people know that I am firmly opposed to any godless judges who support the homosexual lifestyle and the homosexual agenda. I am certainly not going to sit still while any such person is enshrined in a position of great power where he will not be accountable to the American people.”

  “I must protest—”

  “Immorality breeds immorality. Do you think it’s a coincidence that just after the man announced his decadent lifestyle choice, a woman turned up dead?”

  “This is absurd,” Ben said, but it didn’t prevent him from experiencing the sinking sensation that the hearing was already getting away from him. What could he do to stop this? He felt powerless, desperate. The buzz from the gallery was almost as loud as he was. Matera was ignoring him, steamrolling him. “At this time, Senator, it is inappropriate—”

  “Where do you get off lecturing me on procedure, young man? You don’t even know the difference between an objection and a point of order.” A little awkward laughter from the gallery. “You don’t set the agenda in this chamber.”

  “It is traditional to allow the nominee to make a statement.”

  “That doesn’t make it an entitlement. That’s all we need—a homosexual activist judge creating another entitlement.”

  “I second that,” Potter interjected.

  Ben clenched the mike tightly. “This is outrageously inappropriate.”

  “I wasn’t put on this dais to improve the décor,” Matera continued. “I’m here to represent the people, and I will not be silenced or otherwise prevented from doing so. The American people are angry about what this man has done and they do not want to see it proceed any further.”

  It was clear he would have no success appealing to her reason, so Ben turned his attention to Keyes. “Mister Chairman. Point of order.” He gave each word its own emphasis. “Are you planning to allow the nominee’s opening statement to be interrupted with questions?”

  “Well…perhaps it would be best to let the man make his little speech,” Keyes conceded, now that the damage was done.

  “Thank you.”

  “Senator Matera, I would take it as a personal favor if you would reserve your remarks until it is your turn to question the nominee.”

  Matera folded her arms across her chest. “If you wish, Mister Chairman. But I refuse to sit still and listen to this self-serving godless diatribe.” She stood and walked out of the Caucus Room, leaving almost everyone present gaping in her wake.

  Keyes appeared surprised and shaken, even though Ben suspected the whole drama-queen scene had been planned and scripted, possibly even rehearsed. They had been one step ahead of him from the outset—well, more than one, actually.

  Keyes waited until Matera was outside, then added, “Regret-table. But I suppose some members of the committee feel that certain remarks are of such egregiousness that they demand explanation. Judge Roush, please continue.”

  He did, but Ben knew no one was listening. Matera’s scene-stealing stunt had totally upstaged him. The remainder of Roush’s opening speech would be only empty words, soon forgotten. All anyone would remember, all that would be discussed and replayed on the news shows, would be Matera’s outrage and walkout. She had effectively guaranteed that Roush would have no “honeymoon” period—he would be perceived as stumbling from the outset, which would only hasten the failure of his nomination.

  And Ben, his astute legal advisor, had done nothing to stop it. Hadn’t even slowed it down.

  19

  Loving hated driving in Washington, D.C. It seemed there was no good time, just one endless rush hour. Traffic was never like this in the small Oklahoma town where he grew up. Even in Tulsa it was never like this, not even on the Friday afternoon before Christmas vacation. He was almost creamed by a semi as he tried to merge onto Interstate 66. He took the Key Bridge exit and traveled straight across the Potomac, then veered right onto “M” Street. Eventually he fought his way to Thirty-first, a main drag through one of the most upscale parts of Georgetown. Personally, he preferred the bars and honky-tonks of rural Oklahoma to the endless shopping emporia surrounding “M” and Wisconsin. Did everyone in this town own a cell phone? Were they permanently attached to their ears? Might as well dangle them from the end of a pierced earring.

  When he was in the vicinity of his destination, Loving parked his minivan and crawled into the back. Since Ben had decided they were relocating to D.C., at least until his senatorial term expired, Loving had taken the time to drive his official P.I. van up from Oklahoma so he could use it when needed. The tinted windows were completely opaque; he could see out, but didn’t want anyone seeing in. A dark sheet hung between the front seats and where the rear seats used to be; he’d removed them to create a nest and to make more room for his surveillance equipment.

  He opened the cabinet bolted to the side wall of the van. This was his private stash: digital camera, pencil-thin flashlight, twenty-power binoculars, bottled water, peanut butter sandwiches, and a lifetime supply of beef jerky. He also had a fan he used to keep cool during stakeouts. He wasn’t sure he needed any of this equipment at the moment, but he ate a sandwich, just so the trip wouldn’t be wasted. Then he slid outside the van and disappeared into a nearby alley.

  He had become all too familiar with the network of alleys that seemed to unite most of commercial Georgetown; they were useful, but never ceased to send a chill or two up his spine when he entered. They were dark and oppressive, even in the daytime, and it would be all too easy to get trapped in them—as he had learned a few days before when he was fleeing from Leon and Pretty Boy.

  He walked through the alley until he emerged at the opposite end and his ultimate destination, the address Leon had given him.

  Loving pressed himself against the stone wall of the alleyway, carefully inching forward in tiny increments toward the street. Perhaps he was being excessively cautious. On the other hand, after two killers have tried their darnedest to blow you away, then one of them sits in a coffee bar and suggests there’s probably still someone gunning for you, maybe there’s no such thing as excessively cautious. The stinging sensation in his leg where the bullet creased it reminded him that wariness might be prudent.

  He’d feel better about this if it were nighttime. Skulking about in the shadows was his specialty; he’d had a lot of practice. But Leon had made it clear that if Loving wanted to bump into this “Trudy,” four in the afternoon would be the optimum time. Broad daylight. Heavy Georgetown traffic. A line of high rises that provided a never-ending succession of potential snipers’ nests.

  The street was smoggy to the point of choking with a sheet of cars whizzing by, not to mention the buses announcing their passage with hydraulic brake squeals and noxious fumes. How many different bus lines did this town have, anyway? Judging from the traffic, he put the number at somewhere around a hundred billion. A wonder
there was anyone left to drive a car.

  Loving plunged across the street, weaving a serpentine pattern through traffic, dodging cars and, at least in his mind, imaginary Leons who might be gunning for him. He made it to the opposite side and raced to the front door of the office building.

  Except when he arrived, he realized it wasn’t an office building. Big enough to be one, but it wasn’t. Trinity Baptist Church of Georgetown, read the lettering on the door.

  Loving did a double-take. This place looked nothing like a church, at least not from the outside. It was a five-story brownstone with barely any windows, much less any made of stained glass. He supposed space downtown was at a premium, and even churchgoers had to make do with what they could find. Inside, he saw more signs of churchliness, even though it wasn’t Sunday. Religious posters—HAVE YOU BEEN WASHED IN THE BLOOD?—and tract displays hung over the functional, if unexciting, airport-beige carpeting. He spotted two large double doors and peeked inside. He found a cavernous room larger than most auditoriums, with an immensely high ceiling; he speculated that it probably reached to the top of the building. The altar at the front was decorated with flowers and a podium and flanked on either side with huge movie display screens. High-tech preaching, from the looks of things. A lot bigger than anything they’d had back in Loving’s hometown.

  Loving would have loved to stop and gawk, but he recalled that Leon told him that Trudy wouldn’t be found in the business operation proper—she’d be in the basement. That was starting to make a lot of sense to him. What better front for a criminal operation than a church? Or maybe the church was legitimate, but rented its basement to raise extra cash. Either way, it was likely to escape the scrutiny of law enforcement eyes. Very clever, in a satanic sort of way.

  Keeping careful watch to make sure no one spotted him, Loving began searching for the way to the basement. He moved sideways down the main corridor, keeping his face to the wall as if he were intensely scrutinizing something, while searching for a stairway that led downward. He spotted a heavy reinforced door with a black nameplate that looked as if it might fit the bill. Just before he reached it, however, two women emerged from opposite ends of the adjoining hallway.