“Thanks. Nelson was showing the strain.”
“I can’t blame him. Blake is by far the most difficult of the judges on the president’s short list.” Quinn closed the folder of assignments and tossed it on the cluttered desk. Neatness had disappeared under the churn of numerous problems. “Do you think any of them have a chance of getting the nomination?”
To the U.S. Marshals, who knew the judicial personnel across the country better than the president who appointed them and the congress who confirmed them, a Supreme Court nomination was a race they handicapped with the skill of veteran court watchers.
Marcus considered the names for a moment, then shook his head. “No.” The names on the list so far were good judges, but not the great ones. They were the political appeasement candidates, on the list until the scrutiny of the press gave the president something he could use as cover for not nominating them. The real candidates would be in the next set of names that surfaced.
Marcus adjusted his jacket around the shoulder holster, checked the microphone at his cuff, then did a communication check on the security net. He tried to get himself mentally prepared for the long coming evening covering the justice. “I swear Deputy Nicholas Drake ate bad sushi for lunch on purpose. Tell me again how I got elected for this honor rather than you?” he asked while he scanned the room, reviewing where they were at with a check of the status boards. As usual, they were having a conversation but their attention was on anything but each other.
“You’re better looking.”
Marcus grunted. “Sure. That’s why I get asked for your phone number.” His partner Quinn Diamond attracted attention without trying. The man looked like he had just stepped off his Montana ranch. There was something untamed about him and women seemed to know it. His face was weathered by the sun and wind, he could see to the horizon, and his gaze made suspects fidget. He called women ma’am and wore cowboy boots whenever he could get away with it. Marcus enjoyed having him as a partner; life was never dull. They had tracked fugitives together, protected witnesses, and kept each other alive. Quinn didn’t flinch when the pressure hit.
“Actually, Marcus—I’m afraid I kind of blew it the other night,” Quinn admitted.
Surprised at the sheepish tone of voice, Marcus glanced over at him. “How?”
“Lisa.” Quinn reached into his jacket pocket and took out a folded cloth. He flipped back the folded velvet to show a sealed petri dish. “She sent me a petrified squid.”
It was so like his sister Lisa, Marcus had to laugh. “Sounds like a no to me,” he remarked dryly. Was this what Kate had stumbled into? A tiff between Quinn and Lisa? It didn’t fit Kate’s reaction, but it was certainly an interesting development.
“Where did she get this thing?”
“A forensic pathologist—I imagine that was one of the more tame replies she considered sending you.”
“All I did was ask her out.”
“Quinn, it is painfully obvious you did not have sisters.” Marcus took a moment to explain reality. “Two years ago you asked out Jennifer—she’s now engaged. Last year you asked out Kate—she’s now serious with an FBI agent. This year you asked out Lisa. You just told her she’s your third choice. Rachel might forgive you; Lisa will never let you forget it.”
“Can I help it if you’ve got an interesting family?”
Even a friend like Quinn wasn’t going to be allowed to hurt his sister. “Flowers will not do; you’d better get creative with the apology.”
“I’m still going to get her to say yes.”
“I wish you luck; you’re going to need it.” Quinn would be good for Lisa. He was one of the few men Marcus thought would understand her and the trouble she got into because of her curiosity. Marcus was beginning to feel a bit like a matchmaker having just subtly pushed Kate and Dave together less than a month ago. “Tell you what. I need to free some time late tonight to meet with Kate. Swap the time with me and I’ll talk to Lisa for you.”
“And tell her what?”
“Only your good points.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
Marcus grinned. “I’ve already told her the bad.”
The security net gave the five-minute warning to the start of the evening program. Judge Carl Whitmore would speak first, and then it would be his Honor Justice Roosevelt. Marcus would be glad when the evening was over. “Come on, Quinn, we need to talk to Dave about press access to Justice Roosevelt after the keynote speech.”
“Please—give me crowd control; anything but his Honor. I love the man, but he likes nothing better than to rile the media for the fun of it.”
“He’s appointed for life; his life is boring without controversy.”
“You mean he’s too old to care if someone decides they want to kill him.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re going to owe me for this one. The last time his Honor held one of these media question and answer sessions, I had to expel a heckler and I ended up all over the evening news.”
* * *
The Jefferson Hotel served chicken kiev, rice pilaf, and steamed asparagus for the main course at the banquet. Judge Carl Whitmore was too nervous to eat. He politely ate a few bites and moved food around on his plate before finally pushing his plate aside.
Soon after the dinner plates were cleared away, the man beside him rose, moved to the podium, and gave a warm welcome to the guests. He began an introduction that Carl knew would take at most two minutes to give. Carl reached for the folder he had forced himself not to open during dinner.
The introduction finished.
Carl took a deep breath and rose to his feet. He shook hands with the man who had introduced him. Polite applause filled the room.
He slipped off his watch and set it down on the edge of the podium, removed the pages of his speech from the folder and arranged them neatly to the left of center on the podium, and then took a final moment to slip on his reading glasses.
Shari had written a note at the top of the first page with a bright pink felt tip pen—Remember to smile—and she had dotted the i in her name with a small heart. That fact, as much as her note, made Carl smile as he lifted his head, faced the bright lights, and smoothly began his prepared remarks to the twelve hundred guests in attendance.
Bless her heart. What would he ever do without her?
Carl had been given such loyal friends. He had gone to law school with her father. Shari, her brother Joshua, and her parents William and Beth, had flown out from Virginia to be here for this speech. The hour of his greatest disappointment was also the hour he learned how rich his life really was.
The president’s short list of judges had become known Tuesday, and his name had not been on the list. There had been early rumors that he was being considered, and those rumors had taken on substance when the FBI quietly began checking his background. Carl had begun to let himself hope. He was a bachelor, his life was the law, and to serve on the Supreme Court was his lifelong dream. His disappointment was intense. But in the audience were four people who understood, who shared his disappointment, and were determined to lift his spirits. He had been blessed in his friends. He had the important things in life.
He began the speech he had waited his lifetime to give—a perspective of conservative thought in judicial law.
* * *
The lights had partially dimmed as the speech began. Shari Hanford was grateful, for it helped hide the fact she had started to twirl her fork, reflecting her nervous energy.
Even though she had not written this speech, she had worked on minor refinements and knew it word for word. Fifteen years in politics, the last ten of them as a speechwriter, and she still couldn’t get through listening to a speech without holding her breath. She knew how important this was to Carl. If something she had suggested didn’t work . . .
She gave up trying to hide the obvious and reached for a roll left in the basket on the table and tore it in two. Maybe it would settle her stomach. She regretted e
ating the chicken kiev; she should have been smart like Carl and waited to order room service later.
She would much rather be the one giving the speech. When she was at the podium, the nerves gave way to the process of connecting with the audience, adjusting the presentation: the inflections, the timing, the emphasis necessary to persuade people to her point of view.
Her brother Joshua looked over at her and gave her a sympathetic smile. Normally he would be kidding her about her nerves, but not tonight.
Carl began page two of his prepared text. His presentation had been flawless so far. Shari rested her elbow on the table, her chin against the knuckles of her right hand, and ate the bread as she watched him, feeling his passion for the law come through in his words. She didn’t understand why he was not on the Supreme Court short list. Someone at the Justice Department had really fumbled the ball in not recommending him.
Lord, I still don’t understand why he was passed over. The quiet prayer was a running conversation that had been going on for days. It’s an enormous disappointment. Didn’t the hours invested in prayer mean anything? It’s not like I expect every prayer to be answered, but the big ones—
This was the dream of Carl’s life. Why build up hope with the FBI background check and then yank it away? Surely there could have been an easier cushion for delivering an answer of no. I have watched this man love and serve You all of my life. He could make a difference to this nation like no one else on the short list. He would be a great justice.
Her pager vibrated, Shari jerked, and her water glass rocked. It was her emergency pager; she had left her general pager upstairs. Her heart pounding, she pulled it from her pocket. Her job demanded the two pagers; prioritizing people clamoring for her attention was a necessary part of her life.
Only the VIPs in her life had this number, and most of them were sitting at the table with her. She read the return number. It was John Palmer, the governor of the Commonwealth of Virginia. Her boss and longtime friend, he was not one to page unless it was urgent. And for him to call, knowing Carl’s speech was tonight—
She rubbed her thumb across the pager numbers, feeling torn, then reluctantly acknowledged she couldn’t ignore it for twenty minutes. She reached for her handbag and retrieved her cellular phone. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she whispered to her mom, slipping away to call John back. Her movement attracted notice from the tables nearby and she cringed, hoping Carl hadn’t noticed. The last thing she wanted to do was interrupt his speech.
Opening the side door, she slipped out of the ballroom. To her surprise she found herself in what appeared to be a back hallway—across from her was an open door to a utility room. The hallway was empty, narrow, even somewhat dark. She had obviously come out the wrong door. Shari hesitated, then shrugged off her mistake, glad not to have to worry about the press being around. She dialed John’s number.
She had worked for him for over ten years. She added elegance to his communications, his message. She was working long hours as his deputy communications director to get him reelected. What was wrong?
Shari paced the hall toward the windows as she waited for the phone to be answered, then paused and closed her eyes as fatigue washed over her. The Fourth of July campaigning had been four days of nonstop travel, crisscrossing Virginia. She had been home a day to pack and then she had met her parents and brother to fly out here to Chicago for the three-day conference. It was supposed to be a rest break for her, but it wasn’t happening. Her body clock was off, leaving her wide awake at 2 A.M. and fighting sleep at noon. She struggled to suppress her fatigue so it wouldn’t show in her voice.
Her pager went off again. She scowled. There was apparently a crisis breaking in Virginia and she was halfway across the country in Chicago. She had known getting away in the middle of an election was a bad idea.
Normally she thrived on diving into the problems and being in the center of the storm. Joshua called it her hurricane mode: dealing with incomplete information, immediate deadlines, impending catastrophes—she found being in the center of the action a calm place to be when she was the one controlling the response. That wasn’t the case tonight, she was too far away. She lifted the pager to look at the number and see who else was demanding her attention.
It was like getting physically battered.
Sam. He hadn’t called her directly in almost five months, not since she’d slammed the phone down on him last time. She rarely lost it so eloquently, and she had done it in style that evening.
Sam Black. The man she had let get deep into her soul and curl around her heart; he was like a black mark she couldn’t erase. She had loved him so passionately and today just the sight of his number was enough to bring back a flood of emotions to paralyze her. It had not been a gentle breakup between them, for dreams had imploded and expectations had been crushed. It had been intense, painful, and a year later it still haunted her.
Sam was another prayer God had not answered.
She wanted to swear, did slap her hand against the wall and pace away from the windows. She was trying to solve her growing dilemma about prayer while stuck on a phone walking the halls of a hotel in Chicago.
She hated not having her prayers answered.
You’re spoiled, she told herself with a wry smile. And God still loves you anyway.
She looked again at the pager. Sam had the ability to be cordial, even friendly when they spoke, and the best she could do was chilly politeness as the embarrassment of what could have been washed over her and the sound of his voice brought back all her hopes. She chose to ignore his page even as she wondered why he would feel the need to call.
The phone was finally answered. “Sorry about the delay, Shari. Thanks for calling back so quickly.”
She briefly wondered how John had functioned before caller ID. “Not a problem. What’s happening?”
“How would you like Christmas about six months early?”
She could hear the smile in his voice. “What?”
“Carl is going to make the short list. Your brief helped, Shari.”
Her heart stopped momentarily. “You’re serious.” She had labored over that brief presenting Carl’s qualifications for the court; she knew Carl’s past cases better than his own law clerks; she knew the man. It was the best position paper of her life. John had passed it through to Washington—one voice in a sea of voices.
“I just got off the phone with the attorney general. They’ve recommended Carl to the president. The attorney general expects a positive decision to happen tonight.”
She closed her eyes, knowing she needed to apologize to God. “John, you couldn’t have given me better news.”
“Keep him near the phone tonight?”
“Of course! I’ll make sure we’re prepared to celebrate when the call comes.” She rubbed her forehead, gave a soft laugh. “Talk about a reason for an ulcer—Carl makes the list and then we wait some more. The president makes his choice in ten days.”
“At least you’ll be pacing for a good reason.”
It was a running joke between them, her habit of pacing when she thought, talked, waited. “Any other major issues?”
“Nothing that won’t wait another day.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow then.” She closed the phone after saying thanks once again.
Carl was going to make the short list. Her high heels sank into the carpet as she spun around, feeling like she would burst keeping such a secret for even a couple hours. Lord, thank You! And I’m sorry for thinking it didn’t matter to You. She had to at least tell her brother Josh. They could order a special room service dinner for Carl—lobster, maybe. After the call came, they could invite a few of his friends to join them.
Lord, the anticipation is so strong I can taste it.
Carl might actually be sitting on the Supreme Court when it opens its next session. The image of that was incredible.
She pulled open the side door to the ballroom so she could slip back inside.
&n
bsp; “Oh. I’m sorry!” Shari pulled up at the sight of men in suits carrying guns. They turned, the three nearest her, blocking her line of sight into the rest of the room. This was definitely not the ballroom.
None of the doors in the back corridor were marked. She had obviously gotten turned around as she paced and talked on the phone. She had walked in on men carrying guns. Her heart rate escalated, about the same instant the three men near her actually relaxed. Their assessment had been swift.
The man on the right removed his hand from inside his jacket. She wanted to give a nervous laugh as she realized he had instinctively put his hand on his gun. This was clearly not turning out to be her night. She had been introduced to foreign dignitaries and hosted senators for dinner and never fumbled as much as she had in this one evening.
“No problem,” the man nearest her said as he smiled, disarming her panic with a charm that made her blink. His entire demeanor softened with that smile. Tall, edging over six feet, the seams of the tuxedo strained by muscles, a gaze that pierced. He would have been a threatening figure without that smile, but it changed everything. It was like getting hit with a warm punch when his attention focused on her.
She had come in the side door of what was obviously a security control center, and now stood behind two long tables where cables and power cords from PCs and faxes snaked down to the floor. The room was actually quite busy, at least twenty people present; most had paused what they were doing at her entrance and quiet had washed over the room.
“That door should have been locked; it wasn’t entirely your mistake,” the man commented, stepping around the tables and over the wires to join her. His black jacket hung open, his shoulder holster visible. She instinctively knew he was one of the men in charge. There was a confident directness to his look and words. His hand settled under her elbow and without being obtrusive about it, steered her back out of the room. She felt the power in that grip checked to be light. “You came two doors beyond the ballroom.”
She was acutely embarrassed, but he was being nice about it. “I’ve always been directionally challenged. I didn’t mean to go somewhere I didn’t belong.”
The Guardian Page 2