“Someone might!” He pounded the table. “No wonder all those people laughed every time I said I was looking for you. They thought I—aaarghh!”
“So you’re saying, as long as no one knows about me, it would be okay?”
Loving fairly shouted. “No! I am not saying it would be okay! It would never be okay!”
Trudy sniffed. “Suit yourself. But you’re making a big mistake. You’re missing out on the best time you ever had.”
“Oh, right.”
“And you haven’t had any for a good long time.”
“How would you know?”
“I know. Believe me, I know.”
He pulled at his legs, trying to free himself. “I want you to let me loose, got it? Right now.”
“Your wish is my command.” Trudy produced a key and uncuffed his ankles.
“Thank you so very much. Mister.”
Trudy looked into a nearby mirror and reattached the wig. “But even if we can’t be together, we can still…work together, right?”
“No way in hell.”
“Why not?”
Loving jumped off the bed. “ ’Cause I don’t work with…with…”
“Yes?”
“ ’Cause I don’t do that kinda stuff.”
“What kinda stuff?”
“That…kinky stuff.”
“Good heavens, man, I’m asking to work with you to get in to see Renny, not to nibble your pickle.”
“You stop that kinda talk right now!”
“What kinda talk?”
“That—that—you know!”
“All right, all right. But you’re still going to need me, so I’m coming with.”
“Need you? At a redneck bar? Like I’m really gonna need a—”
“Yes?”
“A Trudy!”
Trudy made a few touch-ups with a mascara wand, then turned and smiled. Loving had to admit she—he, damn it—was gorgeous, even under the circumstances. “I think you’ll find a Trudy is a very useful thing to have in this particular redneck bar. You’re going to need some…distractions. I can provide that. Big-time. And face it, I know the territory. You don’t.”
Loving headed toward the door. His head was throbbing—for more reasons than he could count at the moment—but even if his head were missing, he was still getting out of this place. And he didn’t want any part of…Trudy.
“Why would you help me? What’s in it for you?”
“Maybe I just want to spend some more time with my new tall, dark, and handsome.” Trudy leaned forward to peck him on the cheek. Loving recoiled.
“Don’t even think about it!”
“All right, sweetie. Whatever you want.”
“And don’t call me sweetie!”
“Whatever you want, sugar.”
“Would you stop that!”
“Of course I will, honey-pie. Now, are you going to drive, or shall I?”
35
Within thirty minutes of the close of the day’s hearings, the news of the latest development in the Roush nomination was global. Every podium, every channel, every water cooler seemed obsessed with the same subject. In Ben’s office and every other office in Washington, D.C., the phones were ringing nonstop and the fax machines were in perpetual motion. Ben’s e-mail server was so clogged Jones eventually just deleted all messages and hoped he hadn’t missed anything important. The Christian Congregation scheduled a rally outside the gates of the White House, and Richard Trevor was demanding that the President withdraw Roush’s nomination based on his “decadent character.” In response, numerous gay and lesbian organizations issued statements or scheduled press conferences to support Roush and demand that the President reaffirm the nomination, claiming that the references to character were a screen for homophobia. A pundit on MSNBC noted that Roush’s partner Eastwick had never appeared in the hearing room, despite the fact that he was no longer in custody, and referred to him as the “gay divorcée.”
“Well, that was about the worst thing that could possibly happen,” Sexton said, tsking his lips as an indication of his disgust. The Roush support team had gathered in the conference room in Senator Hammond’s office to concoct some plan for what to do next, while Roush himself was outside making phone calls on his cell.
“Agreed,” Hammond said sadly, running his fingers through his long gray locks. “The man lost the support of his party before the hearing began. Now he’s lost the support of our party as well.”
“I don’t get it,” Ben said. He was pacing in circles around the conference table. “They’re dumping him because he allegedly went to bars? Who in the Senate hasn’t? Because he may have had consensual sexual relations? Who in the Senate hasn’t?”
“The problem is that he’s gay,” Christina said, as she came through the door, a tall stack of styrofoam containers tucked under her chin. They had opted to bring dinner in. They didn’t have time to visit any of the Senate cafeterias, and probably wouldn’t have been left alone for ten seconds if they had.
Christina took a seat and began handing out the meals. “They may call it a character issue. But it’s only an issue because he’s gay.”
“For once, I agree with the redhead,” Beauregard said, speaking while simultaneously scanning the latest tracking polls. “This was a back-door way of making sexual preference an issue. Most Americans aren’t all that comfortable with male homosexual sex anyway. Fox News has been going wild with it—sidebar stories on the ‘gay lifestyle’ and ‘the dark world of sexual fetishes.’ Larry King hosted a debate on whether gay bars should be allowed within a mile of public schools. USA Today has a feature story headlined ‘Are Gays Really More Promiscuous?’ Face it—they scored on us big-time the instant they got someone to say the phrase ‘gay bar.’ ‘Orgies’ worked well for them, also.”
“And I must say, speaking as an image consultant,” Carraway added, “the witness looked great on television. He obviously spent a lot of time considering his wardrobe. Gay or not, he made a positive impression.”
“Even if he was a right-wing flunky?” Ben asked. “Even if he was paid?”
“I’m not sure it matters. Gay sex is not a vote-getter in Middle America. Toss in some threesomes and orgies—” Beauregard shivered. “Ugh.”
“Any word on whether it’s true?” Carraway asked.
Ben shook his head. “Roush keeps repeating his professional mantra: I will not discuss my private life. But honestly—orgies? I can’t believe it.”
“Ben always thinks the best of his clients,” Christina said, by way of explanation. “Not necessarily a good thing.”
“Come on. Roush is a federal judge. How long could he possibly keep something like that quiet?”
“How long did J. Edgar Hoover keep his homosexuality quiet? Like, his entire life? And he had a much higher profile than a federal judge.”
Ben shrugged. “I still can’t believe it.”
“You don’t want to believe it.”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it if it was all consensual. I just…don’t believe it. Doesn’t ring true.”
“I’ve got people looking into this Gottlieb guy,” Sexton explained. “See if we can find some motive for him to fabricate testimony.”
“Maybe he’s jealous of Roush’s success,” Carraway suggested.
“Maybe Roush dumped him,” Christina added.
“Ah.” Sexton smiled. “The Anita Hill counteroffense. After she testified against Thomas at his confirmation hearing, the Republicans did their best to cast doubt on her testimony. Problem was—she had no motive to lie. She hadn’t even wanted to testify. So they started the rumor that Thomas had dated Hill, then dumped her. Suggested that she was insanely jealous because he married a white woman instead of her.”
Christina pursed her lips. “That’s just…revolting.”
“Agreed.” Sexton paused. “I wonder if it would work for us.”
“We’re not going to have an opportunity for any counter-of
fensive,” Ben said. “Not for a while. They still have more witnesses to call, probably of the same ilk. We should start rounding up people who have worked with Roush but have not been propositioned and have not observed any inappropriate behavior.”
“Not that it would disprove what we’ve already heard.”
“Can’t hurt.”
“It could, actually,” Sexton said, batting a finger against his lips, “if it sounds lame. Desperate.”
“What we need is for the nominee to get angry again,” Carraway said. “My polls show the public doesn’t understand why he sits quietly while people say nasty things about him. That outburst at the end of the last session was good, but undermined by the fact that he didn’t actually get to say anything. He needs to show some fire. Tell people off.”
“I disagree,” Ben said. “That would be playing into their hands.”
“Americans respect fire.”
“Not in a legal, or even a quasi-legal proceeding. Makes you look defensive. I’ve talked to hundreds of jurors.”
“When are you going to get the message? It’s not a courtroom.”
“But the same principles apply.”
“Not in the political arena. People will support a sex fiend sooner than they’ll support a wimp. You need to tell your man to fight back, hard and fast.”
“I will not. It’s bad advice.”
The deep breathing made Carraway’s shoulder pads rise. “Kid, don’t question me. I’m the expert here. Just do it.”
“Are you intentionally trying to sabotage this hearing?”
Carraway glared at him.
“I won’t do it,” Ben said firmly. “No.”
Sexton intervened. “Could you at least get him to deny the orgies part? I think that would go a long way.”
“I’ll talk to him. But I’m not optimistic.”
Hammond laid his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Give it a go, Ben. I know how persuasive you can be. Talk sense to the man. He trusts you.” The elderly statesman smiled. “I feel certain you can make him understand.”
“Absolutely not!”
“Just hear me out.”
“I won’t do it.”
“Just a tiny compromise.”
“Not an inch. Not a goddamned inch!”
Ben had taken Roush downstairs into the subterranean chambers that underlined the main Capitol building, the home of unwanted office equipment, the world’s most archaic (and noisiest) ventilation and air-conditioning system, and the private hideaways of the most senior and important senators. Ben didn’t have one; at the moment, he was about ninety-ninth on the standby list. But it was still a good place to stretch your legs and get out of the office, however briefly, without being spotted by the media. Ben had hoped a little exercise might help Roush clear his head.
So far, wrong.
“If we give them an inch, even an inch, we could set a precedent that will haunt every Supreme Court nominee till the end of time,” Roush argued. “People remember the Bork inquiry as the moment when standards began to erode. I won’t have them remember the Roush inquiry as the moment when standards disappeared altogether.”
“I don’t think you need to go into any detail. Just deny the seedy nightlife stuff. Isn’t that what you were trying to do?”
“I lost my temper. It was a mistake. Any response will constitute a tacit endorsement of these scurrilous tactics.”
“You can think of an explanation.”
“Explanation, or excuse?”
“Say you’re doing it to protect Ray’s reputation.”
Roush arched an eyebrow. “Step forward to protect the little lady? I don’t think so.”
Ben paused outside the door to what had once been the hide-away of his predecessor, Senator Glancy. After the murder, even the most eager senators passed on the chance to claim it. The room had been converted into a storage facility for cleaning supplies. “Look, it comes down to one thing. Do you want to join the Supremes or not?”
“Of course I do! What kind of fool wouldn’t? That’s not the question. The question is: How low am I willing to sink to get on the Court?”
Ben grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him squarely in the eyes. “Please reconsider, Tad. Our only hope is that you will step forward and deny as many of these accusations as you can. Because if you don’t—I can’t help you in there.” Ben released his shoulders and looked at him sadly. “You’re on your own.”
36
The next three witnesses all stated that they had seen Thaddeus Roush frequenting gay bars in and around the Annapolis area. Ben didn’t feel that was the end of the world. The constant corroboration, however, would eliminate the possibility in many people’s minds that the stories were entirely false—even though Ben knew from experience that if you could get one person to lie, it wasn’t that much harder to get four people to lie.
The fourth witness at least demonstrated a certain variety. Alice Rodgers, co-owner of a local concert venue, testified that she had seen Roush shopping in a gay adult sex shop. She was there to pick up a gag gift for an office Christmas party when, to her surprise, she chanced across a member of the federal appeals court. She remembered the incident very clearly.
“At first, I couldn’t believe it—I had seen Judge Roush’s picture in the paper just the day before. And there he was. Browsing the dildos and the edible body paint.”
“How long was he…shopping?” Senator Matera asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Ten, fifteen minutes.”
“And you observed him the whole time?”
“Well, I tried not to stare. But you know. It was a bit distracting. Like seeing Cher in a strip club.”
“And did he purchase anything?”
“He did. But I couldn’t see what it was.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Oh, heavens, no,” she said, covering her face. “I didn’t feel it was my place.”
Well, Ben thought, it could be worse. This testimony was not helpful, but it was hardly a criminal act. In a way, he was almost relieved—it could have been so much more damaging.
“But even though you didn’t speak to him,” Matera continued, “you’re quite certain it was Judge Roush.”
“Oh, yes,” Rodgers said. “Absolutely. No doubt about it. Despite his best efforts, I recognized him.”
“Despite…his best efforts?”
“Oh, yes.” She blinked. “Did I not mention? He was wearing a disguise.”
Matera’s head tilted to one side. “A disguise?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dramatic pause. “He was dressed like a woman.”
Ben’s eyes closed.
“He was dressed like a woman?”
“Yes. Wig, dress, padded bra. The whole nine yards.” She paused, and her voice dropped. “Not very good with the lipstick, though.”
“But—” Matera coughed into her hand, then wiped her glasses. “But you’re still sure it was Judge Roush?”
“Oh, yes. I was suspicious from the moment I saw him. Walked like a man, you know? Some things you just can’t disguise. Especially when you’re not that accustomed to wearing five-inch fuck-me pumps.”
The audio censor was able to bleep the offending word, but just barely. Those present in the gallery weren’t sure whether to gasp or laugh. Except Ben. He was certain of his reaction. He wanted to cry.
The worst of it was: Ben knew the woman was lying. If he had no other indication, he could see how tightly Roush was clenching his fists under the table. Yes, this was a lie. A paid lie, financed by some lobbying outfit or under-the-table PAC fund distribution. But what could he do about it?
“It’s now or never,” he whispered into Roush’s ear. “You no longer have a choice. No one will vote for a transvestite Supreme Court justice. You have to deny these charges. Emphatically.”
Roush’s face was stony, but he still managed to whisper his reply. “This is beneath my dignity—and the dignity of the Court.”
Ben pinched the bri
dge of his nose. “Then you deserve what you get.”
“Thank you,” Chairman Keyes said, as he dismissed the final witness. “It seems we still have some time before our scheduled adjournment.” All of which Ben knew to be planned. Keyes thought that if Roush tried to defend himself he would sound like a criminal defendant insisting that he was not guilty. Most people assume the accused are guilty, despite all protestations. He was counting on them doing the same with Roush. Although Ben had tried every trick he knew to get the nominee to speak out, a nagging doubt in the back of his head wondered if Keyes wasn’t right.
“Judge Roush, would you like to make any sort of response?”
Ben didn’t bother interposing an objection. It would only sound as if he were making excuses for the forthcoming refusal to speak.
“I just thought in fairness I should give you a chance to respond to the character issues raised by the previous witnesses.”
No response.
“Earlier you indicated a desire to speak. To deny some of the accusations that have been made.”
“No, sir,” Roush said, his voice slow and quiet. “I wish to protest the progress of the inquiry from judicial matters of relevance to personal matters of no relevance. I will not sink to your level by discussing that which was not properly raised in the first place. I have said before that I will not respond to any testimony relating to my personal life. It is not relevant and it sets a bad precedent. For the sake of the Court, and the future of all men and women nominated to sit on the Court, I must remain silent.”
Keyes tilted his head to one side, then shrugged. “Very well. If you have nothing to say, we’ll proceed to the voting. Would the clerk please—”
“I have something to say.”
A stir rose in the gallery. Keyes lowered his reading glasses. “Mr. Kincaid? My offer was not made to you.”
“Nevertheless, I will be heard.”
“You have not been recognized by the chair.”
“Actually, I think you just did.” Ben pulled the microphone closer to him and eyed each member of the committee in turn. “If you think I’m going to lecture you about what has taken place in this chamber recently, you’re wrong.” He paused, waiting for his words to sink in. “You all know what has happened. You don’t need me to explain it to you. What you might want to explain is why you’ve allowed it to happen.”
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