Licensed to Thrill: Volume 2

by Diane Capri

  My patience had been stretched to the breaking point by the weeks of bickering. I was sick to death of the constant analysis and conjecture. I wanted the matter to end. Confirm Andrews’s nomination or not, but just finish the damn thing.

  Just before nine o’clock, the Supreme Court nominee’s limousine pulled up to the curb. The Capitol Hill Police personnel assigned to assure his safety surrounded the car and the passenger door opened.

  I glanced up from my work to see the first man step out of the car. It was Andrews’s personal secretary, Craig Hamilton, a pleasant little man almost a foot shorter than me, whom I’d met several times over the past few years.

  As he straightened up and rose to his full height of five feet, he looked around at the crowd. For just a second, I thought I saw something like shock on his face as he faced the angry, chanting mob.

  I thought again of Andrews. Why he subjected himself and his family to this abuse was a complete mystery to me. To what kind of man was the promise of power so seductive that he would struggle against hostile strangers to achieve it?

  Hamilton reached out to accept an opened black umbrella offered by one of the officers standing to his right while I watched, waiting impatiently for the real story to start.

  When Craig Hamilton stood to the side to let Andrews, the nominee, out of the car, I glanced down at my work.

  I heard a loud, quick pop, pop, pop over the noise of the chanting crowd. I jerked my head up to see Craig Hamilton crumple to the ground. He was quickly surrounded by police officers.

  Complete chaos followed instantaneously. My stomach recoiled in horrified impotence as I grabbed the remote control to turn up the volume on the set.

  My other hand flew to the phone to call George, but just as quickly withdrew, as if the receiver was hot to the touch. George wouldn’t be answering his cell phone. He’d be on his feet, rushing to help Craig Hamilton in any way possible. I hoped George wasn’t in Washington, D.C. right now, but wherever he was, my anxiety told me, he was involved.

  The screaming drew my secretary, Margaret, into my chambers.

  “Willa, what’s wrong?” she asked as she hurried over to me.

  She put her hand on my shoulder and looked directly into my face. I realized that the screaming that drew her had been my own.

  I closed my mouth and patted her hand. I nodded to the television set. Margaret watched with me as we saw falling bodies everywhere. I heard no more shots, but they could have been fired. “Just like Jack Ruby,” Margaret whispered, referring to the man who shot Lee Harvey Oswald, right in front of God and everybody, on television after President John F. Kennedy was assassinated.

  Americans have a long history of trying to solve political problems with guns. Presidents Lincoln, King, Ford and Reagan, among others, had all been targets of assassination attempts.

  Being younger than Margaret by thirty years, my thoughts jumped to the attempt to assassinate President Ronald Reagan. The thought that sprang, unbidden, to my mind and flew out of my mouth was, “Just like Jim Brady.”

  Like Jim Brady, Craig Hamilton was in the way between the killer and his target.

  I moved to one of the ugly green client chairs on the front side of my desk, where I’d get a better view of the small screen. Margaret continued to stand. Our gazes were glued to the television set now as the small picture divided into three sections. A commentator was featured in a small box on the top on the screen. Another small box reflected the real time events.

  On the rest of the screen, a replay camera panned the front lines of the crowd. Involuntarily, I drew a quick breath when the camera spotted a man with a gun making his way up to the curb toward the waiting limousine.

  The instant replay showed Craig Hamilton step out of the car. I watched in appalled fascination as the shooter raised his arms while holding a hunting rifle. The rifle recoiled three times as the shooter pulled off the three shots that hit Hamilton’s chest. Watching felt nothing like viewing a Hollywood movie. This was too vivid, too close to home.

  As both a judge and the wife of an influential member of the Republican party, I’m accustomed to seeing people I know on television. But viewing friends and colleagues being shot and trapped in a car by an angry mob was surreal, a familiar scene grotesquely transformed.

  When we saw the shooter wrestled to the ground and taken away in handcuffs in a matter of seconds, Margaret said, “Thank God.”

  The picture returned to the unfolding events. We watched as Craig Hamilton was quickly placed on a stretcher and moved to a waiting helicopter.

  “Please let him be wearing a vest,” I whispered.

  General Andrews’s famous temper would make him want to get out of that car and beat the shooter to a bloody pulp. Apparently, his handlers knew better than to let him do that. So he and his wife remained inside the limousine until the Capitol Police reinforcements marched into the street, up to the car and surrounded the passenger doors.

  We saw countless replays of the shooting, ostensibly for viewers who’d just tuned in. After a while, the breathlessness I’d felt when Craig Hamilton went down began to recede.

  “Will they stop for today?” Margaret asked me about an hour later. “Surely, the hearings can be rescheduled while they have a chance to sort this all out?”

  More comments and discussion continued among the various commentators and official spokespeople as they debated the idiocy of continuing before they knew if the shooter had acted alone.

  At least once before in the current public memory, the assumption had been made that a lone shooter had killed a president, and speculation about that continued to the present time. Had Oswald acted alone? An overwhelming majority of Americans thought not. We might never know. And no one was anxious to repeat the mistake of rushing to a conclusion too quickly.

  I said nothing to Margaret, but I hoped that the hearings would not be rescheduled. These hearings had caused so much disruption in the country and in my life that I wanted them over. Now. Of course, I wanted the matter handled safely and responsibly, but if the hearings were finished, then maybe everyone could go home and calm down.

  While we waited for something more to happen, thoughts raced through my head with the speed of light. I could see the general’s wife, Deborah Andrews, in the back of the limousine with him. She would be terrified. Deborah was a gentle soul, not meant for the line of fire. Long before now, the challenge of living with her husband had driven her to alcoholism and back.

  When Deborah chose to marry the man she called Andy, she couldn’t have known she’d be subjected to the glare of media scrutiny, pummeled by questions, even shot at. What would she do to save her marriage when forces beyond her control seemed determined to wrest happiness from her grasp?

  I thought about my own marriage and knew I’d be no better suited as a human target than Deborah was. Even though we weren’t communicating very well at the moment, I knew George would never put me in any situation that might hurt me, physically or otherwise.

  George considered it one of his missions in life to take care of me. While his protectiveness was stifling sometimes, he tried not to smother me with it.

  “George is perfect,” all my friends tell me. Maybe. George was a banker when I married him. Now he owns and operates Tampa’s finest five-star restaurant, handles our investments, and plays the very dangerous game of national and local politics. All our friends love George because of his courtly ways and outgoing personality, but they haven’t had to try to live with him lately.

  Considering the same question I’d posed about Deborah, I wondered what I would do to save my marriage if forces beyond my control snatched George away, and I pushed the question behind a door in my mind, and closed the door firmly, hiding the thought from view.

  Instead, I focused on what Deborah Andrews must be feeling right now. Was she thinking about the privileges of marriage as she sat in the back of that limousine, waiting to hear whether she’d be marched through the cold rain into the Capi
tol building to sit by her husband as he faced his accusers under the hot television lights?

  The Deborah Andrews I’d known might have coveted marriage, but would never desire the role she was now playing. All the country loved a war hero, but they didn’t have to try to live with him.

  A good marriage improved a woman’s life in every way.

  But a bad marriage was too often lethal.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tampa, Florida

  Thursday 1:00 p.m.

  January 20, 2000

  THE MORNING CREPT PAST, events unfolding too slowly. I left the television’s sound muted, while Margaret and I waited by returning to work, although I checked from time to time for an update on Craig Hamilton’s condition.

  Except for a couple of telephone calls which I successfully ignored from the Chief Judge, the man we call “CJ” and who is the bane of my professional existence, my office was curiously quiet. I was able to make good progress on my orders. The stack in my outbox grew steadily. Margaret provided a tuna sandwich on white with iced tea for me, so I worked straight through lunch, marking time.

  About 2:30 in the afternoon, Margaret, who’d been listening to the radio at her desk, came in and turned the volume up on the television set.

  “After several hours of negotiation, the local authorities have agreed to allow the Senate confirmation hearing to resume,” the analyst repeated.

  Awash with ambivalence, I didn’t know whether to rejoice or curse. The decision seemed foolhardy to me. The general might still be in danger. Why proceed now? On the other hand, I’d been wishing for the end of these hearings and I wanted them to finish. I was willing to take some risks to make that happen, and apparently, so was General Andrews. I put down my pen and gave my full attention to the news.

  A dreadful déjà vu feeling overcame me as I watched General Andrews’s limousine arrive again. If anything went wrong now, if the shooter hadn’t acted alone I couldn’t finish the thought, even knowing that my tension was far less than the stretched-tight nerves those on the scene must possess.

  The analyst continued to whisper. “An almost invisible General and Mrs. Andrews are being hustled out into a thick corridor formed by uniformed police officers holding open, black umbrellas against the pelting sleet.”

  The protective parallel column of policemen resembled a human caterpillar as it slithered up the Capitol building steps and slipped inside.

  The cameras picked up inside the Senate, showing us the Judiciary Committee already seated befitting their ideologies, Democrats on the left, Republicans on the right. The room must have been heated to boiling by hot lights and hot tempers. I could almost feel the electricity in the large room. I peeled off my sweater and tried to get more comfortable.

  “The questioning of a Supreme Court nominee is done by seniority, alternating between the parties,” the analyst told his viewers.

  “More like watching a slow-mo tennis match,” Margaret said, talking back to the television as we resumed our places in the ugly green client chairs again. My gaze was glued firmly to the set, volume up, attention sharply focused. I wiped my sweaty palms against the napkin left over from lunch.

  “If he is confirmed, Andrews will make law in this country until he dies or retires,” the analyst continued. “We are now close to the end of the process. The decision made by this committee, whether or not to recommend a full Senate vote on General Andrews’s confirmation, may change the course of our history for the next thirty years.”

  The tuna sandwich I’d eaten earlier now rebelled in my stomach. I’d wanted the vote to be over, but I worried that a victory for Andrews would be a hellish descent into backroom politics for George and the effective end of my easy-going husband.

  His immersion in this cauldron of political soup had changed him, it seemed, at the molecular level and when he eventually emerged, I worried he’d be someone totally different, someone I didn’t know and might not want to be married to.

  I’d told none of this to Margaret, but she must have noticed when my attention wandered because she pulled me back to the present, saying, “Warwick is about to open the hearings.”

  Senator Sheldon Warwick was the powerful Chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, the senior senator from Florida and my brother’s boss. Warwick was also one of our neighbors. But most significantly to me at the moment, he was my husband’s local political nemesis. Warwick’s mere presence on the small screen set my teeth on edge.

  Margaret turned up the volume on the set, and we heard Warwick’s oratory. “I’d like to express my personal sympathy and the committee’s sympathy to Craig Hamilton’s family and to General Andrews, who narrowly missed being killed this morning.”

  The crowd in the gallery buzzed.

  Warwick didn’t wait for quiet to return, but raised his sonorous voice. “Before the decision was made to resume and finish the hearing today, we were informed that Craig Hamilton was wearing a bullet proof vest at the time he was shot. Fortunately, this has been standard procedure for controversial witnesses and their staff during these hearings. Mr. Hamilton’s doctor reported that he is in severe pain. He suffered two cracked ribs and serious bruising. He is, I’m happy to tell you, expected to fully recover.”

  Margaret and I said simultaneously this time, “Thank, God.”

  The gallery, too, buzzed a little louder with this news and Warwick had to wait a few minutes until he could calm them back down to a quiet roar.

  As he always does to me, Warwick sounded more than a little insincere when he asked formally, for the record, “Would you like to delay today’s questioning, General? The country would certainly understand.”

  The question was posed merely to manipulate the public’s perception, I knew. Warwick, a political animal who would stand for reelection soon, clearly wanted to be perceived as deferential to his party, the nominee and the process. Warwick was a Democrat. The President, a member of Warwick’s party, had nominated Andrews to the court. For these reasons, Warwick meticulously followed protocol and made a clear written record of everything that occurred.

  Nor would he show any disrespect toward a war hero. Warwick was a powerful man, and he hadn’t gotten where he was today by being stupid. Regardless of his personal feelings, and George had told me that Warwick didn’t approve of Andrews, Warwick had behaved perfectly during the hearings and would continue to do so, as surely as most of us behave well when we’re being watched by our bosses.

  Andrews sat ramrod straight, like six feet of tall, cool granite, prepared for another round from his own personal firing squad, prepared to dodge bullets by moving only his lips.

  “Look at that guy,” Margaret said, referring to Andrews. “He’s so stiff he could be carved on Mount Rushmore.”

  Margaret was right. Andrews appeared completely unaffected by what had happened outside this morning. His demeanor was the same straight-ahead, unflinching look I’d seen him display on newscasts during his war service as he addressed the nation with status reports. A look that’s bred into every senior military man, it was an expression designed to quell fears and coerce submission.

  “Thank you, Senator,” Andrews said, anger and passion in his voice. “I’d never allow a fool like that to interfere with the regular process of government. We must continue.”

  His tone made me cringe. There’s a reason I was never in military service myself. I’m no good at following orders and I don’t relate well to people who think they can order me around.

  I wondered again why the President had ever appointed such an inexperienced, unyielding iconoclast to the Court. I could think of at least a dozen more qualified, less controversial candidates, all more compassionate than Andrews. But no one had asked me for my advice.

  High-ranking and influential witnesses had given acrid and bitter testimony against General Andrews for the past nine days. I’d seen much of it, either as it happened, or in summary on the evening news.

  Now, General Andrews would testify,
although he could not be compelled to do so. So far, that seemed like a huge mistake in judgment to me.

  Warwick recited more facts, continuing to make a crystal clear record. “The shooting incident this morning has been investigated and the shooter is in custody. The man has admitted that he tried to kill General Andrews, and he claimed to be acting alone, although his motives remain undisclosed.” Warwick stopped here and took a few seconds to stare at the General with ill-concealed distaste.

  Was Warwick’s demeanor a product of my imagination? Anyone hearing the cold words he continued to dictate into the record could certainly have missed it. He continued, “Authorities do not believe, at this time, that co-conspirators exist. All parties desired to conclude the questioning today and not to delay proceedings any further.” Again, he waited a couple of beats. Or at least, I thought he did. “At the conclusion of today’s hearings, the proper authorities will resume their investigation of the attack on Mr. Hamilton.”

  Warwick polled every member of the committee and General Andrews. “Do you desire to continue these hearings at the present time?” Each answered a formal “yes.”

  Margaret turned to me while the polling was going on. “This is pretty unusual, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “It’s probably foolhardy, too. And the media will be all over this thing like white on rice.”

  “So why are they doing it, then?” After all her years as a federal employee, Margaret inexplicably still believed her government would do things that made sense.

  “No one wants this situation to drag on any longer than it already has,” I told her. Certainly, that was how I felt about it. If Warwick had polled me, I’d have voted yes, too.

  “So the hearings will finish today,” she said.

  I nodded again, saying nothing. The end was in sight. As soon as the reason for George’s involvement in these retched hearings was over, my life might return to normal. I allowed a small glimmer of hope to flicker in my heart.