by James Mills
When he’d first found out about the clinic, he had thought that if he went there and talked to the doctor, the doctor might remember if the child had been a boy or a girl. That was crazy. How could the doctor remember? Gus had never been able to ask Michelle. Even if she knew, he could never inflict on her the pain that question would bring. His parents’ siblings and most of his cousins were men, and since it was the man’s genes that determined sex, Gus had decided to believe the child had been a boy. Michelle had become pregnant at the beginning of March, so the child’s birthday would probably have been early December. They would have named him after his father, Stephen. Every year Gus thought about him on the fifth of December, a likely birthday. Stephen Parham, born December 5—a child Gus had never seen, but the only person he had ever loved as much as he loved Michelle.
He knew how strange that was, celebrating the birthday. But he told himself the boy had actually lived, he wasn’t someone Gus just made up, so why didn’t Gus have the right to celebrate his birthday? Was that so wrong? If he’d died one second after birth, they’d have had a funeral, remembered his birthday, every year they’d go to the cemetery with flowers.
Someone tapped on his window. A cop. A lane had been cleared. Gus wiped his eyes and eased the car forward.
For years he had quietly noted every milestone in his son’s life, the days when he would have started preschool, kindergarten, first grade. He had read someplace that chil dren who die continue to grow in heaven, and when we see them there we will see them as adults. That was crazy, but—was the boy now thirteen years old in heaven?
Was that wrong, to think like that, some kind of sickness, an obsession? He was haunted by the fact that it was he who had pressured Michelle, talked her into ending the pregnancy. He had acted not just against the child but against Michelle herself. He hadn’t wanted a marriage like his parents’, he hadn’t wanted to marry under pressure, he hadn’t wanted the pregnancy—so he had destroyed their child.
In Sunday school, when he was nine, Gus had heard how God told Abraham to sacrifice his only son, Isaac. At the last moment, with Abraham’s knife raised, God had called it off, and Isaac lived. Now Gus knew what it was to lose a son, but for him there had been no reprieve. Stephen was dead, sacrificed by Gus on an altar of selfishness.
Gus eased the car past the protesters, now separated by a row of cops from another group that was shouting slogans back at them. It struck Gus how much alike the two groups were—nice looking, impassioned, unbending in their rage. Gus was glad that as a judge he never had to be in the middle, never had to decide which of them was right. The law was in the middle, not him.
He made it to his office, splashed water on his face in the men’s room, apologized for being late, and then tried to listen to the woman tell him how she’d stabbed her husband in the throat with a pair of scissors because she’d caught him in bed with their nine-year-old daughter.
Gus was in his chambers during a lunchtime recess when his secretary told him he had a call from a Mr. Steve Borgman in Washington.
“I’ll take it.”
Gus had been in law school with Borgman, who now worked for a Washington law firm.
“Gus?”
“Steve, how are you?”
“Great. Michelle?”
“Very good.”
“Listen, I have something to run by you. Confidential.”
“Sure.”
“I have a partner here knows I know you, and he’s asked me to get your informal, unofficial reaction to something.”
“What is it?”
“This partner has a friend called him from the White House counsel’s office, mentioned confidentially that they expect Hoskins to resign before the end of the summer. They’re drawing up a list of possible nominees to replace him, and—”
“Hoskins?”
“Supreme Court.”
“Oh, right.”
“He wondered if you’d agree to have your name on the list.”
“You’ve made a mistake, Steve.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“No one’s gonna nominate me for the Supreme Court.”
Years ago his Supreme Court dream had been buried beneath reality.
“It’s not like they’re offering you the job, Gus. There’s probably hundreds of people on the list. They write down everyone.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you cleared that up.”
“Can I say you agree? To be on the list?”
“Sure. I agree to be on the list. If it’s true, I’m honored.”
“But Gus, it’d be best if you didn’t tell anyone. This is a long shot.”
“You can say that again. No one but Michelle.”
“Supreme Court!”
“Easy, honey. It’s not gonna happen. It’s like a ticket for the Florida state lottery.”
So they forgot about it. Well, Gus tried to forget about it, but the old dream, resurrected by Borgman’s phone call, wouldn’t leave him alone.
Weeks later they read in the paper that Hoskins was resigning.
“So it’s true,” Michelle said.
Gus was silent.
The next month, Michelle read in the New York Times that a decision had been made, a former senator from Rhode Island. Everyone liked him. He’d been a federal judge. A couple of days later it turned out he’d written a Law Journal article fifteen years earlier knocking affirmative action. Now no one liked him at all.
Every day names floated across the op-ed pages, and every day political sharpshooters blew them away. Weeks went by.
Then, finally, in early summer, a winner. He was from Idaho, son of a farmer, a former judge who’d been legal counsel to a half dozen public-service groups before taking a job as professor of constitutional law at the University of Idaho. Someone at the White House described him as “a down-to-earth man with a heart for public service and one of the top constitutional minds in the country.”
Before the week was out, a Washington Post columnist reported that twelve years earlier the nominee had been a member of the governing council of an Episcopal church whose priest had been charged with sexually abusing a teenage boy over a period of two years. “If he didn’t know about it, he should have.”
Back to Idaho.
The next morning, a Sunday, Gus was washing his car when the phone rang. Steve Borgman again.
“You remember I told you I had a partner had a friend at the White House, wanted to know could they put your name on a list of possible nominees?”
“Yeah, I remember that.”
“The White House friend would like to talk to you personally.”
“What’s his name?”
“Philip Rothman. He’s chief counsel.”
Rothman was in the papers almost every day. A short, chubby, balding man, he had a soft face and a reputation for bloodthirsty ruthlessness that would have shamed a shark.
“What’s going on, Steve? Really.”
“He’ll tell you.”
Half an hour later, Rothman called. Gracious, but all business. No phony charm. For the first time, it struck Gus that people really were considering him for nomination to the Supreme Court. It made his voice shake. The dream became a longing.
Rothman said, “Frankly, you weren’t on our short list. But we’ve thrown that out, and we’re looking at a few peo ple we might not have considered that seriously before. You might say we’ve altered our criteria a bit.”
“Sexual abuse will do that.”
Gus almost bit his tongue. This was the chief White House legal counsel, and he’s making jokes.
“Exactly. So the President’s chief of staff, Lyle Dutweiler, and I would like to talk to you. Can you make it to Washington? Dinner tonight?”
Gus wondered if there was a chance Dave Chapman would be there. He hadn’t seen him in years.
A government limousine picked Gus up at National Airport, drove him through a White House gate. The Washington heat was stifling. He was led to a small dining room wi
th silver, crystal, and two white-jacketed Filipino waiters. Gus noticed, with a touch of disappointment, that the table was set for three.
Rothman, waiting for him, had a solemn expression constantly threatened by a smile, which he did his best to suppress. He said, “I’d like you to meet Lyle Dutweiler, the President’s chief of staff.”
Six hours earlier Gus had been washing his car, and here he was having dinner in the White House. Dutweiler said, “We appreciate your coming on such short notice.” His eyes were like scalpels, dissecting Gus, going for the soul. He didn’t want another mistake. “I was a judge once myself, and I know what your day must be like.”
So why didn’t they nominate Dutweiler? He have a secret? The face smiled, but the scalpels kept slicing. He was skinny, six-three. His tie was ugly, his collar too big.
Gus said, “I’m pleased to be here. Puzzled, but pleased.”
Dutweiler said, “I guess this comes as a bit of a shock.”
“A bit.”
Dutweiler took those eyes off Gus long enough to glance at Rothman.
Rothman said, “You’re relatively invulnerable. You’re a hero in your state, and to some degree beyond that. People remember the Ernesto Vicaro case. The bullets and photograph.”
Gus kept quiet.
“You have no published articles or speeches anyone can take apart. Your decisions on sensitive issues are pretty much down the middle. You’re young, but that means there’s not that much to attack.”
Silence. Eyes.
Dutweiler said, “So we have a couple of questions.”
“Okay.”
“First question, is there anything you know that you think we may not know?”
“You mean like child-abusing priests?”
Dutweiler smiled. “That’s what we mean.”
“No.”
“Second question. We don’t want to take anything for granted. Washington’s not everyone’s cup of tea.” He glanced at Rothman then back at Gus. “So. Do you want the nomination?”
They watched him, but neither spoke. Were these guys for real? Neither had the phony charm of rich lawyers and winning politicians. Was that the trick? Reverse charm?
“Just like that?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘just like that,’” Rothman said. “This meeting is the tip of a very carefully scrutinized iceberg.”
“But you’re—”
They stared at him, recording every twitch, watching the sweat flow from every pore. They had lab coats and clipboards.
Rothman said, “It’s not exactly a fait accompli, Gus. The President’s waiting to see what happens here. But—”
Dutweiler interrupted. “We have to know your response. None of us wants the President to call you, and you say no. If you’re inclined to say no, tell us now.”
Would he buy a used car from these guys?
He took a sip of wine. It was white, cool. Much lighter, much drier than the yellow wine Michelle’s dad made. He put the glass down. “This is going very fast.”
“We understand.”
More silence. Waiting.
“I need to think. I’d like to discuss it with my wife.”
This was a tougher decision than money-filled Samsonites versus a couple of .357 hollowpoints.
“Of course. May we take that as a tentative yes?”
“I have to think.”
Rothman and Dutweiler exchanged glances. Neither had even looked at his food.
Had he blown it, failed the test? Can’t make his own decisions, has to clear it with the old lady? Michelle had been raised in the red-clay heat and reality of homemade wine and wood-decked pickups. Counterfeits, vanity, things of the air—she smelled them coming. He needed to talk to Michelle.
Dutweiler’s eyes suddenly fixed on the door. Rothman’s head spun, and the waiters flattened themselves against the wall. Gus turned.
“Gus, how are you?”
Dave Chapman was across the room in two strides, taking Gus’s hand.
“It’s been too long. How is Michelle? Lyle told me you came up here on about twenty minutes’ notice. That’s really nice of you.”
“It’s good to see you, Dave.”
Chapman looked heavier than the last time Gus had seen him, both physically and in spirit. The familiar exuberance was there, but it’d been lowered a couple of notches. He looked fatigued, less buoyant.
Waiters appeared with a fourth chair, a silver coffee urn, cognac, cigars.
Chapman sat down quickly, refused coffee. He was in a hurry. The room filled with silence. After a moment, he said, “Lyle? Phil? If …”
Lyle and Phil cleared out, and the waiters went with them.
When they were alone, Chapman said, “How are you, Gus? Really. How’s Michelle?”
“Fine. Michelle’s fine. Everything’s ticking along really well. What about you? It’s hard to tell from the media.”
“You can’t tell anything from the media. But it’s okay. I was really happy to hear you’d agreed to come. I wanted to see you. Not just for the nomination. You have to see people you knew before you were canonized, when you were still a human being. It looked like we’d be able to have dinner, but—you can’t imagine, Gus.”
“I guess not.”
“And in case you’re wondering, it wasn’t me who put your name on the list. Your name got on the list all by itself.”
Gus was silent.
Chapman put his hands flat on the table, and when he glanced up, into Gus’s eyes, he looked embarrassed.
“Gus, I have to be frank. I wanted to see you because there is one thing I have to say. It’s sounds corny and maybe phony, but I have to say it.”
“You’re not going to say anything phony, Dave.”
“Gus, you’re supposed to be on this Court. I just know that. Some critical cases are approaching the Court, and they’ll change more than law. They’re going to change our culture, they’re going to change what our country is. Shaping the Court that will shape our country is one of the most important things I’ll do as President. I want you on the Court, Gus. Remember the dinners we used to have, our conversations?”
“I remember.”
“You still believe all that?”
Gus smiled. “I’m not sure I would still want to support everything I said then. I was twenty.”
“You know what I mean, Gus.”
“Yes, Dave, I still believe all that. Everything I said. Especially about the courts. The country’s changed direction.”
“When the earlier candidates had to be withdrawn, Gus, it was because I’d relied too heavily on the opinions of other people. I know a lot about them, but I didn’t know them. With you I have my own experiences and opinions. I know you, Gus. I want you on the Court.”
“I don’t know what to say, Dave.”
“I don’t want you to say anything. I want you to think about it. Because if you accept, there won’t be any backing out. Not by me, anyway. You will not be withdrawn no matter what anyone says or threatens. This is it, Gus. You’re the one.”
Chapman stood and put out his hand. “Give my love to Michelle.”
Gus took the hand.
Holding it, squeezing hard, Chapman said, “I am asking you personally, alone, between the two of us, to accept the nomination. For the country.”
Chapman released Gus’s hand, turned, and walked out.
Dutweiler entered, followed by Rothman.
“Interesting conversation?”
“Yes.”
Dutweiler said, “Do you have anything you want to tell us?”
“I have to talk to my wife.”
“You mean you didn’t say yes? The President asked you to be on the Supreme Court and you told them you’d think about it? Is that what you said? You really said that?”
“Not exactly, Michelle. I wanted to discuss it with you. Some wives, they’d be happy about that.”
“I am happy. I just can’t imagine it. ‘Supreme Court? Well, I don’t know. Let me run i
t by the wife.’”
They were spending the night at her parents’ place, sitting on the porch in the twilight. Her mother and father were at a movie.
Gus said, “I’m only thirty-eight, Michelle. This is for life. We’d have to move to Washington. You want to live in Washington?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”
“It’s like Jupiter, only less hospitable.”
“You like being a judge. You can’t be any more of a judge than on the Supreme Court.”
“That’s me, Michelle. That’s not you. You’d miss this ranch. I’d miss this ranch. Not to sound corny, but this is where I first found out I’m alive. I’m not sure what would happen if we went to Washington.”
They were side by side, bodies touching, on a wooden swing suspended by chains from the ceiling. He gave the floor a light kick with his foot, and the swing rocked gently in the breeze from the ceiling fan. A porch swing. A ceiling fan. This was the nineties in the United States of America? They were going to leave this, go to Washington? People killed themselves in Washington. White House people.
He had dreamed about the Supreme Court. But it’d been his dream, it wasn’t her dream, it wasn’t their dream.
“Look at it this way, Gus. If we don’t go, will you ever have peace? Will we ever have peace? Will we ever stop wondering?”
Finally, it was the peace thing that made up his mind. Michelle was right. He had to know. They had to know. If they hated it, he could always resign.
7
Gus and Michelle rented a small two-story brick bungalow in Vienna, Virginia, a forty-minute drive from Washington. An accountant lived across the lawn on one side, a young attorney on the other, and an engineer with the Department of the Interior across the street. At night it was so quiet you could hear neighbors cough and tree leaves rustling in the breeze. Michelle liked that. It made her feel secure.
And then, two weeks after the nomination, had come the video.
John Harrington, the attorney who had been in Montgomery for the Vicaro case, had invited Gus to his Washington office and, with more curiosity than caution, Gus had gone. He’d watched the video, taken it home, showed it to Michelle. Lying on the bed, recovering from the shock of seeing her daughter for the first time, she’d said, “Where did he get it?”