Capitol Threat bk-15

by William Bernhardt

  “I’m lookin’ for a girl—”

  The woman gave him a long look. “You must like them young.”

  “No, I’m lookin’ for a woman. A woman named—”

  “Excuse me.” She turned back toward the class, which appeared to be foundering somewhat without leadership. The chanted mantra had been replaced by private whispering. “Class, listen to me. I want you to use your imagination and go to a happy place.”

  Loving rolled his eyes.

  “I want you to envision somewhere that always makes you happy. An amusement park. The zoo. McDonald’s. The ocean. Imagine that place, then let your mind take you on a vacation there while I talk to the nice man who broke the window.” She bent down and turned up the volume of the boom box slightly.

  “That somethin’ classical?” Loving asked.

  “The Tao of Healing.” She put one hand on her hip. “Now kindly tell me why you’ve burst into my yogababy session.”

  Loving knew he should stay on topic, but he couldn’t resist. “Yogababy?”

  “What, you haven’t heard of it?”

  “I’ve heard of Yogi Berra.”

  “Very amusing. For your information, the yogababies movement is nationwide. Our DVD has sold over a hundred thousand copies.”

  Loving’s eyes wandered to the happy faces and sunflowers painted on the walls and ceiling. “Aren’t these toddlers a little young for yoga?”

  “Absolutely not. Balanced lives begin with balanced children.”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “It’s very good exercise.”

  “So is T-ball.”

  The woman cringed. “And the meditational tools they learn here can benefit them throughout their lives. Why, I have students who started with me when they were two who are in their teens now, still practicing the same asanas I taught them.”

  “The same…”

  “Asanas. Yoga positions.”

  “There’s more than one?”

  Her eyes traveled skyward. “This is beside the point. Could you please explain what you are doing here?”

  “I’m looking for a woman named—”

  She whirled around and clapped her hands. “Students. Unflap your butterfly wings.”

  In unison, the small children wiggled their arms and legs.

  “Now I want you to adopt the shavasana.”

  The children lowered themselves to the floor mats, lying on their backs, and closed their eyes.

  “Shavasana?” Loving asked.

  “It means ‘corpse pose.’ ”

  “Lovely. Look, while the kids are nappin’—”

  “They are not napping,” she said indignantly. “They are meditating.”

  “Whatever. Listen, I’m lookin’ for a woman named Trudy.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Trudy.”

  “Well, that’s odd, ’cause I just followed her down here.”

  “Maybe she’s Nadya’s friend. She was late bringing Chandler.”

  “Is Nadya a blonde wearing a bright orange pullover?”

  “I’m sure I didn’t notice what she was wearing. All the parents drop their children off and then they disappear, usually to the Starbucks across the street. I don’t allow the parents to observe. It destroys the children’s ability to focus, to ascend to a higher plane.”

  “How much higher can they get when they’re…” He glanced at the room and calculated an average age. “…three?”

  “You might be surprised. It’s actually much simpler for these children. Their minds are still pure and unsullied by the cynicism and stress of the modern world. They reach spiritual equilibrium much more readily than you or I.”

  “Well, when will this Nadya—” As if in answer to his question, in the rear of the room, through a windowpane, Loving spotted the blonde he had seen upstairs. “Excuse me.”

  The woman grabbed his wrist. “What about the window!”

  Loving reached into his pocket and threw back one of Ben’s cards. “Send the bill to this address.”

  He raced to the back of the room, trying not to step on any of the tiny yogis trying to get in touch with their inner adults—although actually, he noticed that several of them were sound asleep—and pushed through the rear exit.

  Nadya had walked up the steps to street level and was about to cross the street. “Stop!” he yelled.

  To his surprise, she did.

  Loving ran to her, huffing breathlessly and wondering, once again, if it was safe for him to be seen in the open. “Where’s Trudy?”

  Nadya looked at him strangely, or rather, as if he were very strange. “I don’t know. Who are you?”

  “My name…” He pondered for a moment. Was it really safe to give the woman his name? Or advisable? Sure, kiddie yoga seemed innocuous enough. But Leon had warned him that danger lurked in unexpected places. He had suggested that Trudy could give him the information that he needed. But that didn’t mean she—or her friends—were safe. Maybe he shouldn’t give her any details that would help any other trigger-happy friends she might have track him down.

  He wasn’t quite sure what won out—his sense of honesty or his lack of imagination. “My name’s Loving. I work for Senator Kincaid.”

  “I don’t believe I know—”

  “Don’t sweat it. No one does. I’m lookin’ for Trudy.”

  “Really?” Her nose wrinkled. “Do tell.” She gave him the once-over. “Who would’ve guessed? You seem so—well, I shouldn’t stereotype. Takes all kinds, right?”

  Loving stared at her dully. “Huh?”

  “It’s none of my business—”

  “Look, lady, I’m a private investigator. I’m tryin’ to get a lead on the woman who was killed at Judge Roush’s press conference.”

  All at once, Nadya’s face became serious. “I’m sure Trudy had nothing to do with that.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I just—I just know it’s not something Trudy would go in for.”

  Loving grunted. “I appreciate your vote of support, but I’d still like to talk to her. Could you please tell me where I might meet her?”

  Nadya backed away from him. “No…No, I don’t think I can do that. I don’t think I want anything to do with you. And I don’t think Trudy will, either.”

  “Please,” Loving said, grabbing her hand. “Help me find her.”

  “No.” She shook her hand loose. “And if you touch me again, I’ll scream.”

  Well, I’m handling this masterfully, aren’t I? Loving thought. He released her hand. “Just tell me where Trudy is.”

  Nadya continued retreating. “No.”

  “I know you’re going to meet her later tonight.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do. Where are you meeting?”

  The woman bumped backward into a small Toyota hatchback. “I’m warning you. Leave me alone.”

  Loving noticed that the stack of books she carried contained a small Filofax calendar. He considered making a grab for it, but doubted he would be successful. “Please tell me where you’re going to meet.”

  “I’ll scream! If you don’t stay back, I’ll scream!” She jammed a key into the car door, threw all her belongings in the backseat, then locked the car again. “I’m going to get my coffee now. I have a cell phone. If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll call the police.”

  “Are you meeting Trudy at Starbucks?”

  “No! I’ve got maybe an hour to myself, for once in my life, until I have to pick up my boy. I do not expect to be disturbed.”

  “But all I want to know is—”

  “See?” she said, holding up her cell phone. “All I have to do is punch one button and the police are on their way.”

  “But all I want—”

  “Leave me alone! Me and Trudy both!” Nadya turned and ran down the sidewalk, then disappeared into the coffee shop.

  Loving stood on the sidewalk berating himself for his stupidity. He’d handled that like a prize chump
. If only they’d been sitting around a bar or something—that was more his natural milieu. He understood those people. Neurotic moms who take their tots to yoga class he didn’t know.

  He stared at the Filofax calendar in the backseat, probably containing the vital information about the rendezvous he wanted. He could break the window, but it was a crowded street and that would undoubtedly attract attention, possibly even set off a car alarm. He could wait until Nadya emerged from the coffee shop and try her again, maybe follow her, but that was risky, especially given her excitability. He’d do it if he must, but there had to be a better way.

  All he had to do was figure out what that better way was.

  23

  Ben was not surprised to hear that the first person to question Roush would be Senator Matera, who had decided to grace the committee with her presence once more. The opposition knew what Gina Carraway knew: the biggest audience, and thus the opportunity to make the biggest impression or do the greatest damage, would come on the first day of questioning, before most of the home audience switched their attention back to The View or General Hospital. During the break, Ben visited Senator Keyes’s chambers to try to persuade him to select a more neutral initial interrogator, in the name of “dignity and justice,” but Keyes’s AA told Ben he was “unavailable.”

  The second Ben and Roush passed through the gabled double doors, the bright lights came on and Ben’s sweat glands kicked into overdrive. He still couldn’t believe he had been chosen for this high-profile role—he, the least experienced senator in Congress. Even Beauregard seemed to support Ben’s involvement as Roush’s advisor, despite the information he was getting from his polls. Did that make any sense?

  Christina, just a step behind him, whispered into his ear. “The big red is on. Don’t look.”

  Meaning the big red light, the one that informed the gallery that their image was being broadcast from coast to coast, and for that matter, throughout a sizeable chunk of the rest of the world. They had been coached to never look directly into the camera. As with actors in a sitcom, a direct stare broke the fourth-wall illusion that was the fundamental assumption of television programming, even purportedly nonfiction programming like this. Viewers wanted to believe they were flies on the wall, watching while their subjects were unaware—when in reality no one could forget for a moment that they were being televised.

  After the committee had retaken their seats, Ben pulled the microphone closer. “Before we begin,” he announced, “I want to remind the committee that Judge Roush will not entertain any questions—”

  “You have not been recognized, sir,” Keyes said. “If you wish to speak, you must be recognized by the chairman of the committee.” He paused. “That would be me.” A tittering of laughter from the gallery ensued.

  Ben took a deep breath. “Very well. May I be recognized to speak, Mr. Chairman?”

  “No. You are not a member of the committee, and you are not the nominee. Your function here is simply to advise the nominee.”

  “Nonetheless,” Ben said, undeterred, “in the interests of saving time, I would remind the committee that any questions posing hypothetical cases or probing into his personal life—”

  His voice went dead. Or more accurately, his microphone went dead. Ben’s voice became a whisper of what it had been before.

  Senator Keyes smiled. “I control the microphones, sir. I will turn that one back on when you are recognized to speak. I must remind you again that this is not a courtroom, and you are not here to perform as an advocate. We have rules designed to help us get at the truth with a minimum of fuss, and I will enforce them.”

  Ben sat in his chair and glowered. Two options presented themselves to him, neither of them good. He could continue to insist on making a statement, perhaps instructing Roush not to speak until he had, but that would only make them appear obstreperous and suspect to the television audience. Or he could cave and let Keyes bulldoze by, at the risk of looking a total wimp to the television audience and setting a precedent that would make him worse than useless for the remainder of the proceeding.

  While Ben pondered what to do, Senator Keyes recognized the distinguished senator from Wyoming to lead the questioning of the nominee. Looks like the die is cast, Ben thought. I’m a wimp on national television.

  “Judge Roush,” Senator Matera said, pulling the microphone closer, “I’ve reviewed the cases you’ve handled on the Tenth Circuit and I have a few questions.”

  “I expect you do,” Roush said, smiling. The power returned to the microphone just after he began speaking. “But first I believe my advisor Mr. Kincaid wanted to remind the committee of a few of the ground rules. And,” he said, looking directly at Keyes, “this is my time, so I would appreciate it if the wind didn’t suddenly go out of the microphone’s sails.”

  Bless you, Ben thought, as he took the mike. “As I was saying before: no hypothetical cases, no questions about political positions or issues, no prying into personal matters.”

  “Why, Mr. Kincaid,” Senator Matera said, flashing a smile that could have belonged to a woman thirty years younger, “you’re taking away all the fun stuff.” Laughter filled the gallery, easing much of the tension. She was good, Ben realized as he gazed across the dais at her twinkling eyes. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

  “Judge Roush, let me ask you a question I think won’t bother even Mr. Kincaid. As I said, I’ve been reviewing your record,” which of course meant her staff had been reviewing his record and had provided her a summarized coverage, “and it appears to me you fancy yourself something of a judicial activist. Why do you—”

  “Excuse me,” Roush said, interrupting, “but I’d like to correct that.”

  “Judge,” Matera said, still smiling, “I haven’t asked you a question yet.”

  Roush spoke over the laughter. “Maybe not, but you’ve made a statement that is patently incorrect. I am not a judicial activist. To the contrary, I am a judicial conservative. If I had to label myself with a single judicial philosophy, it would probably be fundamentalist positivism.”

  “Well…you’re using words too big for a simple country girl like myself. Perhaps you could explain the difference.”

  “The theory of judicial activism—and here I use that phrase as it is used in legal and academic circles, not as it is bandied about by politicians—is that a judge can interpret the law so as to advance political beliefs that are not currently enshrined in established law. A fundamental positivist recognizes that society does change over time and that occasionally the law requires modification, but nonetheless considers it a judge’s foremost duty when interpreting the law to ensure continuity. To follow precedent. To recognize that the law must be a knowable, predictable entity.”

  “So you don’t think judges should usurp the role of legislators?”

  “Certainly not. I don’t know anyone who does. That’s a charge leveled by critics who don’t like a decision. Rather than simply acknowledging that intelligent people can still have different opinions, they blame ‘activist judges’ and imply that they have done something illicit or improper, something judges aren’t supposed to do.”

  “And what exactly are judges supposed to do?”

  “Enforce the Constitution, and the lesser laws to the extent that they do not conflict with the Constitution.”

  “And nothing more.”

  “Nothing more.” Roush smiled. “Believe me, that’s plenty enough to keep a man busy.”

  Ben eyed Senator Matera carefully. She had a way of looking out the corner of her eyes that reminded him of Brer Rabbit in the Disney cartoon—the look of the trickster. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “Well, then,” Matera continued, “how do you feel about these so-called penumbral constitutional rights?”

  “For starters,” Roush said, “I think it was a terribly poor choice of language. When Justice Brennan wrote that a woman’s right to choose was a constitutional freedom that could be found in the penumbra of
the Constitution, he implied to some readers that it wasn’t really there.”

  “That is what the word ‘penumbra’ means, isn’t it? Something on the outside, like an aura. But not contained within the entity itself. One of my clerks was kind enough to bring a dictionary.”

  “Exactly my point. I don’t think that’s what Justice Brennan meant. I think he meant to say that there are rights squarely embedded in the Constitution that are not expressly delineated.”

  Matera wagged her head. “I must tell you, Judge, this is sounding very activist to me.” More laughter. She may not say much, Ben thought, but she does know how to entertain.

  “With respect, ma’am, I disagree. A firm tenet of the fundamental positivist’s judicial outlook is the fact that the world changes. We all know that. Tempus mutantor. The founding fathers could not have anticipated developments like the automobile, television, the Internet. The increased ability of the government to oversee, and potentially control, our lives. The widespread technological innovations that have made invasion of privacy so easy. That being the case, we have two choices. We either admit with resignation that the Constitution is no longer relevant—or we look to the core values that underlie the Constitution and apply them to new issues as they arise. The individual’s right to privacy was clearly one of the fundamental concerns of the Constitution. You can see it in the First Amendment, the Second, the Fourth—almost everywhere, especially in the Bill of Rights. The founding fathers never contemplated that a government would attempt to ban abortion; women had quietly been obtaining abortions since the first European settlers came to this country. All Justice Brennan did in Roe v. Wade was apply the fundamental principle of privacy to a new issue.”

  Matera peered down through her glasses. “I take it then that you support Roe v. Wade?”

  Ben grabbed the mike. “No specific cases, remember?”

  Roush smiled. “It’s all right, Ben. I can answer that. The truth is, as a judge, I neither support nor fail to support any individual decision. I review the facts of an individual case and apply the law. So long as there are no other intervening considerations, I apply precedent.”