Capitol Threat

by William Bernhardt

  Leon grabbed Loving by the throat, knocking the Sig Sauer out of his hands. Loving had known glass in the gut wouldn’t stop a pro, but he had hoped it would buy him more time than this. The man had him in a perfect elbow lock that Loving couldn’t break. He tried to jab backward with his elbow, without avail. He tried to shake loose—no dice. Leon pinched harder, cutting off Loving’s air. He was beginning to feel light-headed.

  It was now or never again.

  Loving reeled forward, flipping Leon over his head. Leon crashed into a display counter, sending more glass flying. Loving recovered the gun, but it wouldn’t fire. Probably damaged when he used it as a battering ram against Pretty Boy. He could leap on top of Leon while he was down, but in his heart he knew that, tough though he was, he was unlikely to win a fistfight against a man who killed for a living.

  And that left him with his original option. Run.

  Running was a lot harder now. His leg was aching even more than it had before; all the fighting had inflicted wear and tear on the wound. He forced himself to ignore the pain and keep running. He made it out of the department store and into the parking garage. For once, he actually remembered where he had parked. He found his van and started it.

  The engine coughed, and for a brief moment he panicked, thinking he was going to be stuck, just waiting for Leon to show his ugly face. Come on, damn you! The second time he tried, the engine turned. He backed out and straightened the van.

  Leon was standing in the middle of the lane, not fifteen feet away. And he was holding Pretty Boy’s automatic weapon.

  Loving didn’t have time to think. He lay flat across the seat and floored it. The van shot forward. A spray of gunfire riddled the windshield. Loving kept driving, trying to keep the steering wheel steady.

  A second later he felt the thump. He sat up in time to see Leon’s body fly over the hood and roll off the roof. A second later, the van smashed into a stone pillar, bringing it to a dead halt.

  Hard to steer when you’re lying down across the front seat.

  Still weak, Loving crawled out of the wreckage and hobbled to the side until he could find a wall to support him. He was breathing like an asthmatic, his heart pounding out of his chest. As the adrenaline rush faded, he began to realize just how badly hurt he really was.

  After resting another moment, he flipped open his cell and called the police. Then he hobbled over to the approximate area where he thought Leon’s body must have landed.

  He found the bloody wet spot that indicated the point of impact, but Leon was gone.

  Loving shook his fists at the ceiling. What had Ben gotten him into this time?

  11

  Senator Robert Hammond’s office had the largest and most well-appointed conference room of any save that of the Majority Leader himself, so that was where they all met, even though the number of people who had been chosen to attend was small and select. Thaddeus Roush was the center of attention, and the amalgamation of talent was gathered to make sure his nomination was not derailed by partisan politics, anti-gay fervor, or murder.

  An image consultant named Gina Carraway held color swatches next to Roush’s face. “No, red,” she said finally. “Definitely a red tie.”

  Roush squirmed. “A bit flamboyant, isn’t it?”

  “You wore red in the Rose Garden.”

  “The President’s staff insisted. They even gave me the tie. I typically favor earth tones, myself.”

  Carraway wrinkled her nose. “Won’t play on television. Recedes into the background. You need something bright, something bold, something that emanates confidence.”

  “Maybe a pair of Bermuda shorts,” Ben said—then immediately regretted it. No one was laughing.

  All in all, the mood was somber. In the wake of the disastrous press conference, the general consensus in the political world was that Roush was a dead nominee walking. Many people in both parties had called for him to resign to prevent any further embarrassment to the President, or for that matter, to himself. No one gave his nomination any chance of success. What had initially been seen as a breakthrough advance for gay rights was now looking like a tremendous setback for them. Almost every lobbying group in town had taken a position, and almost all of them were opposed. Even some of the gay rights organizations had removed their support after the murder—support that was fairly tepid in the first place. After all, Roush might be gay, but he was still a Republican.

  “I think we’ve fussed about the man’s tie long enough.” This came from Bertram Sexton, a high-powered D.C. attorney Hammond had recruited to act as Roush’s “advisor” during the confirmation hearings. Sexton had represented various nominees and appointees at congressional hearings almost a dozen times in the past. “We need to craft a good opening statement, then strategize how to control the questioning.”

  “I’m not finished,” Carraway protested. “I have to match skin tones. He’ll need to wear a good foundation during the hearings.”

  Roush twisted his shoulders. “I am not wearing makeup.”

  “If you don’t, you’ll look hideous under the bright lights. You’ve got circles under your eyes and tend toward a five o’clock shadow. Plus, you’re likely to sweat.”

  Roush folded his arms across his chest. “I repeat: I am not wearing makeup.”

  Carraway pinched the bridge of her nose with her long red fingernails. “Bob, I can’t work with this.”

  Senator Hammond smiled, but it was not a happy smile. “Let’s leave it for now. We’ll revisit the issue later.”

  “We will not,” Roush said emphatically. “Are you insane? I am the first openly gay Supreme Court nominee. No way in hell I’m going to be seen wearing makeup. It’s just too…obvious.”

  “Antonin Scalia wore makeup,” Carraway replied.

  “I’m sure Ruth Bader Ginsberg did, too,” Roush grumbled. “But I won’t.”

  “His concerns about makeup raise all kinds of public opinion issues we have to address.” This was Kevin Beauregard, a professional pollster. “Our research indicates the opposition to his nomination is almost evenly divided between those who oppose him because he’s gay and those who are concerned about his possible connection to a violent crime. He’s right to avoid anything that might be perceived as stereotypically gay.”

  Roush raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

  “Oh, you know as well as I do. Probably better. No pastels. Pink shirts are out. We want you to look sharp, distinguished. But not ‘pretty.’ No fussy hair styles. No Dippity-Do.”

  “Am I allowed to shampoo?”

  “Yes, but under no circumstances can you exfoliate.” He sighed. “If I had my way, I’d give you a buzz cut.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “Then you wouldn’t need shampoo.”

  A line creased Roush’s forehead. “I repeat, sir: Not going to happen.”

  “And that thing you do with your wrist—don’t do it.”

  “What thing?”

  “That thing. You just did it. That has to go.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s that thing you do, especially when you get worked up. It’s not exactly a limp wrist, but…uncomfortably close. You have to avoid anything that might seem effeminate.”

  Roush’s face was reddening. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Yes. Can we do something about all the refusals to reply?”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “You won’t talk about your personal life. You won’t talk about your sexual preference, other than to identify it. You won’t talk about Ray. You won’t talk about the murder. You won’t express an opinion on issues that might come before the Court.” He shook his head. “The American public does not like to be told no. Makes you come off very negative. People will suspect you’re hiding something.”

  “My personal life is none of their damn business.”

  “And when do people normally say something is ‘none of your business’? Wh
en they’re hiding something. I’m telling you, Thaddeus—every time you refuse to answer, you lose three percentage points.”

  “I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks. I will not express opinions on political issues or hypothetical cases. It is grossly inappropriate.”

  “Another thing: don’t say ‘grossly.’ It sounds, well, gross. Turns people off.”

  “Are you planning to police my vocabulary now?”

  “Absolutely. Try to avoid the big multisyllabic words. People don’t like it—makes them feel stupid. And it seems kind of pompous. Maybe even a little gay.”

  “My vocabulary is gay?” Under the table, Ben could see Roush’s fists balling up. “Have you people forgotten that I am not running for office? All I need is the votes of nine senators in committee and fifty-one in the full assembly. The opinion of the American public doesn’t matter.”

  “I’m afraid it does. This is already a hot-potato nomination. People are up in arms. Calling their senators.”

  “I can testify to the truth of that statement,” Ben offered. “My phone has been ringing off the hook since the announcement in the Rose Garden.”

  “And it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets any better,” Sexton added. “Thaddeus, you should prepare yourself for the worst.”

  “Moreover,” Beauregard said, “I can guarantee that the distinguished members of the Senate will be taking the temperature back home before they decide how to vote. You’ll have to win over Middle America if you want this position.”

  “Swell.” Roush swiveled his chair to face Ben. “You’re from Oklahoma. Could you please deliver the Heartland for me?”

  “If possible,” Ben said somberly. “But the sad truth is, most of my phone calls are running against your appointment.”

  “That’s to be expected,” Hammond said hastily. “People don’t know you or anything about you, other than your sexual orientation. We can change that at the hearing.”

  “Look,” Roush said, “I’m not planning to put on any dog and pony show. I’m a D.C. Circuit judge, not a damn circus performer.”

  “Another thing that has to go,” Beauregard said, making a tsking noise. “That attitude. Temper, temper.”

  “What, is my temper too gay for you?”

  Ben scooted his chair between them. “Gentlemen, please. We’re on the same team here, remember?”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” Roush grumbled.

  “If you don’t mind,” Ben continued, “I have a few questions of my own.”

  “Like what?” Senator Hammond asked.

  “Like what the heck am I doing here?”

  “Well, I was planning to spring this in private, but—I want you to be Tad’s lead counsel at the hearings, Ben. I want you sitting beside him from start to finish.”

  “What? Me? Why me?”

  Hammond’s eyebrows bounced up and down. “Why not you? You’re a member of Congress and an experienced lawyer.”

  “You’ve already got a lawyer.”

  Hammond shook his head. “Bertram is brilliant when it comes to strategizing the Senate hearing, but he has no experience in criminal defense.”

  “This isn’t a criminal trial.”

  “Damn close. You know as well as I do that they will try to drag the murder of that poor woman into it.”

  “Probably right. But there are other senators—”

  “Actually, there are few senators with genuine criminal defense experience, and none with as much as you.”

  “But at best, the criminal defense aspect will be a small part of the confirmation hearings. You need someone with political savvy. Experience with hearings of this sort.”

  “Bertram will be sitting right behind you.”

  “I should be sitting right behind him.”

  “No, I don’t think so. You’re an Oklahoman and everyone knows it. You’re young, earnest, popular, and as Mom-and-applepie as they come. That’s what I want America to see. Bertram won’t be far away. But when people turn on their sets to look at Tad, I want them to see the fresh-faced kid from Oklahoma at the same time. I want them to think, ‘Well, if Kincaid likes him, a member of the opposition party for heaven’s sake, maybe he’s okay.’ ”

  “I think you’re overrating my influence.”

  “Got nothing to do with influence,” Hammond said. “It’s about image. You’ve got exactly the image Tad needs. Am I right, Gina?”

  She nodded. “He is right. Why are you paying me so much money, Bob? I think you’ve got the image concept down cold.”

  “Thirty years in the Senate will do that for you. But I still like to get a second opinion.” He leaned forward and grabbed Ben by the shoulders. “So whaddaya say, slugger? Your country needs you. Thaddeus Roush needs you. Will you do it?”

  “Have you made a decision?”

  Ben stood in the doorway, a briefcase and coat under his arm. He had just returned from the big powwow in Hammond’s conference room and Christina nailed him before he even had a chance to sit down. “Could I at least hang up my coat first?”

  Christina considered. “I’m not sure there’s time.”

  “Make time. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get through the swarm of press vultures outside?”

  “Yes, because I walked the same path, except two hours earlier.”

  “Show-off.” Ben tossed his coat and case into a chair, then grabbed the loaded message spindle. “This many calls? Since I left for the meeting?”

  “And it’s going to get worse.”

  “Politicians or constituents?”

  “Mostly the latter.”

  “And the general tenor—?”

  “Either they’re mad at you because you backed a gay nominee or they’re mad at you because you backed a Republican nominee.”

  “Swell. Anything else?”

  “Got a call from a friend at the governor’s office. He’s looking into the possibility of withdrawing your appointment.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Probably not. But the fact that he’s considering it doesn’t exactly fill my heart with a rosy glow.”

  “That’s just…lovely.” Ben riffled rapidly through the stack of messages. “Any calls supporting me?”

  “Just one. But you know your mother never likes to stay on the phone very long.”

  Ben stuffed the messages into his pocket. “Any other news?”

  “No, Ben. There is no other news. Every information outlet in the country is obsessing about this story and this story alone. If someone dropped an A-bomb on Boulder, Colorado, they would still only be covering the Gay Supreme Court Justice story. And rerunning that clip of you introducing him to the world, just minutes before he introduces a dead body to the world.”

  “Any opinions on whodunit?”

  “Oh, Ben, you know perfectly well what everyone thinks. Eastwick was seen standing behind the body. On national television.”

  “Has he been arrested?”

  “Not yet. They’re still questioning him.”

  “How’s he holding up?”

  “Pretty darn well, all things considered. Still hasn’t seen fit to hire an attorney.”

  “Any idea what he’s been saying?”

  “No. But since he hasn’t been charged, he must not have said anything tremendously useful.”

  “Any word from the White House on the nomination?”

  “President Blake’s official position is that since Roush himself isn’t accused of anything, there’s no reason to delay the confirmation hearings. The inside skivvy is that the President wants to move things along so that Roush’s nomination can die in time for him to nominate someone else. Heaven forbid his term should end before he has a chance to appoint the ideologue of his choice.”

  Christina crossed her arms, always a sign that she wasn’t going to brook any shilly-shallying. “Now, as to the tiny matter of your decision.”

  “Which one?”

  “I know, there are so many from which to choos
e. I was referring to whether you’re going to represent Roush at the hearings.”

  “You know about that?”

  “I get around.”

  “Hammond just asked me a few minutes ago.”

  “As I said, I get around.”

  Ben drew in his breath, then slowly released it. “I think I’m going to do it.”

  “You think that’s wise?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Right. Stupid question. As if there were any doubt. Gina Carraway is already choosing your tie.” Christina stepped closer and, with an extended finger touched his lips. “I just wish you could make your other pending decisions with the same alacrity.”

  12

  Lieutenant Albertson of the DCPD pounded on his desk. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  “Trying to stay alive,” Loving grunted. “You got a problem with that?”

  “I got a problem with three innocent spectators getting shot and a hooker getting killed. Miracle it wasn’t worse.”

  “The miracle’s that I wasn’t perforated in a hundred places.”

  “That’s your story.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  Albertson took a banana out of a desk drawer and began peeling it. “I really don’t need this right now. I’m in the middle of a very high-profile investigation.”

  “Yeah, so am I.”

  “Probably the same one. Lieutenant Fink has asked me to help him figure out what happened at the Roush press conference.” The police detective inhaled half the banana in a single bite. “Loving—walk with me.”

  “Your wish is my command.” Loving limped beside him.

  They left Albertson’s office and emerged on the busy streets of D.C. Loving knew Albertson from the work they had done on the Glancy case, and he liked to think the man trusted him, at least a little, but at some level the professionals were always suspicious of the amateurs. And when two thugs are so desperate to kill you that they open fire in a shopping mall, he was probably right to be suspicious. Loving still felt wobbly from the car crash, not to mention the bullet wound, but he managed to hold himself together long enough to walk. Outside, he breathed deeply of the fresh air—which was actually not all that fresh, given the heavy traffic whizzing down “E” Street. It was hot, too. All in all, Loving wondered why Albertson didn’t prefer the nice air-conditioned environment of his semiprivate office.