“Suppose she was lesbian back in college,” Gage rejoined. “That would put her ‘friendship’ with Dash in a very different light.” His gaze was vigilant, as though searching Chad’s face for clues. “Chief Justice is not just a legal position; it’s a moral one. Our constituents expect a justice—or a senator— to exemplify those values …”
“By conducting a witch hunt.”
“It’s not a witch hunt.” Gage’s voice rose, the sign of tension. “It’s an inquiry about ethics. Even if we can’t prove they’re lovers, Dash was Masters’s law clerk.”
How, Chad wondered, could he hope to fend off hearings. “That was over three years ago …”
“It’s part of a pattern,” Gage snapped. “Employee, friend, maybe more. And you want us to act like ostriches.”
Chad reined in his temper. “Five judges on the en banc panel,” he said evenly, “voted with Caroline Masters. They’re not all part of some homosexual cabal—they’re simply wrong.
“That’s our argument: the opinion is wrong, and speaks for itself. Let the full Senate have an up and down vote, without hearings and innuendo. We can beat her on the merits.”
I’m giving you fair warning, Gage thought with mounting anger. Get yourself out of the way.
“Chad,” he said with exaggerated gentleness, “you’re a proud man. You have your own notion of integrity, and I admire that. But do not fuck with this.”
For the first time, Chad hesitated. “You’ve got my vote,” he answered, “and I’ll speak against her on the floor. No one will be able to fault me—or you.”
“But they will, Chad. They will. They’ll fault us both. The pro-life forces hate Masters on abortion, the groups who give us money to watch out for them hate her on campaign finance reform, and the folks who worry about moral decline wonder who and what she is.” Gage’s voice remained quiet. “For them, what we do here is defining—the Court is hanging in the balance—on both issues, and on countless others. It’s defining for us, as well. Put the future of the Court aside, and there’s still one more question to be answered: Does Kilcannon run the Senate, or do we?
“If you help him protect this woman, you’re disloyal. I’ve counted votes, Chad: if you side with the Democrats, you may keep me from getting the fifty-one votes I need to recommit Masters to your committee for more hearings. But I’ll make you do it, in front of God and everyone—including our supporters. They won’t forgive you. And that could be the end of you in presidential politics.”
The baldness of this threat induced in Palmer a surprised and contemplative stare. “If we make this a public burning,” Chad finally answered, “it could do that to us both. Remember Anita Hill? Suppose we come up dry, and turn Masters into Joan of Arc …”
“Not if you handle it right,” Gage interrupted. “You’re not presiding over a kangaroo court, but a serious inquiry into the moral and ethical fitness of a judge …”
“‘Serious’?” Palmer shot back. “Paul Harshman’s ready to wave a bloody shirt. And we’re probably days away from an abortion. What does Harshman say if the fetus turns out as hopeless as most doctors think it will be? What will the American people say? And what will Kilcannon say about us then?” Pausing, Palmer leaned forward. “This could blow up on us all, Mac. Including the Republicans on my committee, and any senator you convince to vote for recommitment. For everyone’s sake, leave this lesbian stuff alone.”
Gage fought to stifle his own doubts, show Palmer a calm resolve. “And if I don’t? Are you prepared to oppose me?”
Palmer’s gaze was veiled now. Gage was fascinated by the sense that he was watching a man unwittingly endanger his career and the future of his family; the moment induced contempt for Palmer’s hypocrisy, and a measure of pity. Then Palmer looked up at him with his customary directness. “If you’re prepared to risk losing, Mac. So I suggest we both take a day to search our souls …”
Palmer’s intercom buzzed.
He glanced at his phone in irritation, then picked it up. “I’m with Mac Gage,” he said.
Palmer’s caller seemed undeterred. As Gage watched, his rival’s face turned pensive. “How many days?” Palmer asked. After another pause, he put down the phone, his expression grave.
“Justice Kelly,” he told Gage, “has entered a stay in the Tierney case, barring an abortion until—but only until—the full court decides whether to hear Martin Tierney’s petition. And whether to grant a further stay, barring an abortion, until the petition can be heard on the merits.”
Gage felt a rush of satisfaction. “That stretches things out, doesn’t it. And highlights the stakes for the Court.”
“And for us,” Palmer answered. “It also gives us our day to reflect.”
“A stay of our own?” Gage’s smile was grim. “All right, Chad. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Clayton Slade hurried into the Oval Office. “If it’s about Justice Kelly,” he told the President, “I’ve heard.”
Kerry shook his head. “Chad Palmer called. He’s getting worried. He thinks Gage will call a vote on recommitment to Chad’s committee, and maybe win. Which means open-ended hearings.”
Clayton looked unsurprised. “What’s the pretext—a seminar on the horrors of late-term abortions, with color photos of the end result?”
Kerry winced. “Partly,” he answered. “But our friends have found a new tack—Caroline’s ethics. Specifically, her relationship to Sarah Dash.”
Clayton grunted in disgust. “I could have told her that. In fact, I tried to.”
Kerry smiled without humor. “But did you tell her she’s a lesbian? Ironic, isn’t it.”
“That’s their angle?”
“Oh, they’ll start with a simple ‘friendship.’ But what they’re trying to float is a lesbian affair.”
Clayton sat heavily. “That,” he said at length, “could be a problem.”
NINE
“MR. PRESIDENT,” Frank Lenzner told Kerry the next morning, “there’s a sensitive matter we need to raise with you. No one here wants to take you by surprise.”
From his tone of voice, the editor of the New York Times was as reluctant as his words implied. Kerry was silent: ever since Lara’s abortion, some subconscious part of him had awaited such a call. The fact that it came from Lenzner, and outside normal channels, confirmed that this was not a standard inquiry.
“What is this about?” Kerry asked.
“It concerns Judge Masters.” Another silence afforded Kerry a moment to experience both relief and apprehension. “Most of the reporting has been done by Julia Adams. Can we include her?”
Was it the lesbian rumors, Kerry wondered; for the two days since the Internet report, they had spread just below the surface of mainstream journalism. “Of course,” he answered.
Kerry heard a click as Adams picked up a second line. “Good morning, Mr. President,” she said briskly. “Thank you for speaking to me.”
“I’m delighted. I think.”
Adams did not respond to this. With a trace of nervousness, she said, “We believe, and are about to print, that Caroline Masters has a daughter.”
For Kerry, a split second of surprise was followed by rapid calculation. “Based on what?”
“A confidential source. This person told us that the FBI had uncovered ‘rumors’ that, when Masters was just out of college, she gave birth to a child on Martha’s Vineyard.”
Adams was fencing with him; her opening seemed to assume that Kerry was not surprised. “You don’t print rumors, Julia.”
“We found the nurse within an hour,” Adams replied bluntly. “An hour or so later we found records confirming that Masters was a patient at the Martha’s Vineyard hospital. The date coincides with the birth of her sister’s supposed daughter, Brett Allen. According to our source, she’s actually Masters’s daughter.”
That assertion, Kerry knew, was not in the FBI notes which Palmer had suppressed—the principal reason, along with Palmer’s intervention, that the
FBI had not known to match the rumor to the timing of Brett Allen’s birth. “Why,” Kerry asked, “does the Times think this story—even if true—is news?”
“Any number of reasons.” Now Adams’s tone matched her persona; tensile and aggressive, she was among the most thorough of the Washington press corps. “Arguably, Judge Masters misled Congress. And you.”
Kerry stood. He had little time to choose his course, but long experience in politics, and his own preferences, told him he should not dissemble. “Okay,” he said evenly, “let’s go off the record. What I’m about to tell you, you can’t use, unless and until I say you can. Agreed?”
Adams hesitated briefly. “Yes.”
Kerry began to pace. The sunny morning, casting light on the White House lawn, seemed deceptively mild; any misstep might dwarf the bitter controversy already surrounding Caroline Masters. “I did know,” he said simply. “Judge Masters told me, before I nominated her. When I decided to proceed, she asked me to protect Brett Allen.
“She acted with complete integrity. And I agreed that this was private, completely irrelevant to her fitness to be Chief Justice. I still do.” Kerry’s voice, though quiet, was forceful. “So if the idea that she deceived me is your rationale for damaging her—or her daughter—you’ll have to find another one.”
“There’s also Senator Palmer, Mr. President.”
It was unraveling quickly, Kerry thought. “What about him?”
“According to our sources on the committee staff, he restricted access to the files. No one saw the memo.”
Which implied, Kerry thought, that the source was not the staff; if so, the FBI was among the dwindling possibilities. “What difference does it make?”
“A big difference,” Adams retorted. “Because it suggests that Palmer knew as well. Perhaps, like you, before the FBI found out. Perhaps because you told him.”
Kerry felt a rising dismay—he did not want Chad dragged into this. “What’s your point, Julia? That Chad Palmer’s a decent man? That’s hardly breaking news.”
“No. But it is news when a Democratic president and a potential Republican nominee agree to withhold from the Judiciary Committee information that many other senators would find relevant. To say the least.”
Kerry strained for a tone of patience. “I can’t speak for Senator Palmer, even off the record. What does he have to say?”
Adams hesitated. “We haven’t reached him yet.”
“Then let me suggest another way of looking at this. You’re implying that, somehow, Chad Palmer ‘conspired’ with me to suppress something—which makes that ‘something’ news. But does it matter to you what we were supposedly suppressing, or whom it hurts if you report it?” Kerry’s voice became sharp. “It’s become far too easy for the media to find some reason to expose a public person’s private life. This ‘conspiracy’ you imagine is a rear-guard action against indecency—in this case, yours.”
“Mr. President,” Adams said with unwonted sharpness, “are you telling me that this story doesn’t serve your political interests?”
The first seeds of suspicion began to grow in Kerry’s mind. “If I wanted to leak this,” he rejoined, “why would I ask you not to run it?”
At this, Adams laughed. “Perhaps because you’re right about us. You already know we will.”
“Fuck,” Chad Palmer murmured into the telephone.
“The FBI,” Kerry told him. “Who else could have done this?”
“Who else?” Chad responded coolly. “Anyone who knew.”
Once more, Kerry felt unsettled. “It sure as hell wasn’t me.”
“Then take her down, dammit. That’s the only way to kill this story.”
Kerry stared out the window. “It’s already too late to kill it, I’m convinced. And withdrawing her would look like I was caving in to the forces of reaction.”
“We surely can’t have that,” Chad retorted. “So instead you’ll hang me out to dry—the pro-life senator who conspired with the Antichrist. Which might also serve your long-term interests.”
Torn between defensiveness and regret, Kerry hesitated. “I didn’t give you up,” he insisted. “The Times doesn’t even know we talked.”
“Don’t they? Doesn’t it strike you that they’re awfully well informed?” Chad’s voice became flat. “I’m not going to lie to them. And it would be stupid to try.”
Kerry reflected. Chad Palmer was a resilient man, both confident and fatalistic, but today he seemed weary. “Not everyone in your party,” Kerry told him, “will want to pillory her for this.”
“No,” Chad snapped. “They’ll pillory me, if Mac Gage has his way. I’ve betrayed our brotherhood for a libidinous pro-abortionist. Speaking of whom, Mr. President, is she prepared to go through this?”
“We’re trying to reach her at home. No one answers.”
“I wonder why.” Pausing, Chad’s tone combined resolve with resignation. “Time for me to face the firing squad. But you’d do yourself a favor by arranging one for her. Because the only way for me to atone for my sins is by helping Gage defeat you.”
This was what Kerry had feared. “I understand,” he said. “But let’s see how it looks when this is out.”
“I know how it’ll look,” Chad said with a trace of bitterness. “What I don’t know yet is who leaked it.”
Before Kerry could respond, Clayton walked into his office. “Masters,” he mouthed, “line two.”
“She’s on the other line,” Kerry told Chad. “I’d better go.”
“So should she,” Chad answered crisply, and hung up.
Kerry pushed the flashing button. “Caroline?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President.” Caroline’s voice was arid. “But I’ll have to call you back. Right now I’m talking to my daughter.”
TEN
CAROLINE HAD imagined this moment a thousand times— with dread, hope, despair. But what she had not appreciated was the depth of her inadequacy.
“Are you my mother?” Brett asked.
“Yes,” Caroline said softly. “I am.”
Brett sounded stunned, as though awaking to her feelings of confusion and betrayal. “When they told me, I knew it must be true. It explained so much about both of you. But I didn’t even know who to call—you, or Betty.” Her voice turned quietly bitter. “You remember her, ‘Aunt Caroline.’ The woman formerly known as Mom.”
On the other end, Caroline closed her eyes. “I’m sorry …”
“Sorry.” Brett’s voice tremored with emotion. “I’ve just found out the basis of my entire life—twenty-seven years—is a lie. That my father isn’t my father …”
“He was dead, Brett. Before you were even born …”
“My mother is my aunt, my aunt’s my mother, and the three of you cooked up this Gothic nightmare and then lied and lied and lied to me.” Brett stopped—holding back tears, Caroline guessed. “I had to hear the truth from some reporter. Why didn’t any of you respect me enough to tell me?”
Through her grief and shame, Caroline felt a deep anger toward the unknown person who had called the Times. “Sometimes I wanted to …”
“Sometimes? I didn’t even see you for twenty years.”
“You already had a mother. And a father.” Caroline stopped, feeling anew the anguish of her sacrifice. “Giving you up was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I couldn’t trust myself to see you and not want you, couldn’t trust myself not to tell you. I never imagined that the New York Times would do it for me.” Fighting her own bitterness, Caroline felt it turn back on herself. “I was selfish,” she finished. “As selfish as trying for the Court, knowing this might happen.”
“But you did try.” Her daughter’s voice betrayed a quiet anger. “It’s why they’ve done this to me, isn’t it.”
“Yes.”
“So what do you plan to do, Caroline? Now that our mutated ‘family tree’ is public knowledge.”
Caroline paused, trying to pick through the maelstrom of her own em
otions. Her dream of becoming Chief Justice, she acknowledged bleakly, was so strong that even this act of cruelty had not quite killed it. But she did not want Brett dragged through this battle any further. “Of all the things I’ve thought about,” she answered, “that hasn’t been one. I expect I should withdraw …”
“Why?” Brett asked sharply. “For me? Haven’t you ‘protected’ me enough?”
Caroline flinched. “It’s not just you, Brett. There are a lot of reasons. They’ll accuse me of dishonesty—”
“Then that’s your problem,” Brett interrupted. “But it’s a little late to be worrying about my feelings, isn’t it?
“You wanted this, Caroline. Whatever you are to me, and whatever else you’ve done, I’m here because you also wanted me.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to unravel this. But I refuse—absolutely refuse—to be any part of the reason that the people who hate you drive you out. That would be no help to me.”
Caroline felt twenty-seven years of blocked emotion breaking loose inside her, as palpable as her need to cry alone.
“I love you,” she managed to tell her daughter. “I always have. But you really should call your mother …”
“Sit down,” the President said coldly.
Eyes vigilant and wary, his oldest friend sat across from him, saying nothing.
“Are you going to try to tell me,” Kerry asked, “that the FBI leaked this to the Times?”
Clayton’s own gaze did not waiver. “That’s not a question you should be asking, Mr. President. You might become responsible for knowing the answer.”
At once, Kerry understood the reporter’s skepticism, her inference that he was playing a cynical game. His feelings of anger and betrayal made it difficult to speak. “Don’t you see what’s been done to these people—all of them?”
“Fuck these people.” Clayton’s words, though harsh in content, were spoken in a monotone. “This isn’t about Caroline Masters—or Chad Palmer. It’s about whether you succeed.”
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