“It’s like riding a mule,” Levering said. “Nothing to it if you hang on. How about a drink?”
“Do you have 7-Up?”
“I was thinking Perrier-Jouët ’95.”
“Sounds French and imposing.”
“It’s only the finest champagne this side of the moon.”
“Why not?” A bit of celebration was in order, wasn’t it? A chief justice appointment didn’t happen very often.
The senator fished the bottle of champagne from the ice bin. “What shall we talk about? The Takings Clause?”
She laughed a little, and it felt good. “If that’s your passion,” she joked.
Levering removed the cork and poured the champagne into two flutes. “I am a man of many passions,” he said, handing her a glass. He clinked his against hers. “To our new chief justice.”
“Perhaps,” Millie said.
“So shall it be written,” Levering said. “So shall it be done.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“Yul Brynner in The Ten Commandments.”
“Ah yes. Pharaoh. Is that how you see yourself?”
Levering slid back to his seat which did, indeed, look like a throne. “I see myself as a man of the people, Millie. May I call you Millie?”
“Certainly.”
“But some of us are called by fate to positions of great power. You. Me. Yul Brynner.”
Millie smiled. “Didn’t he drown in the Red Sea?”
“Not Yul,” Levering said. “A survivor, like me. In this life we have friends and enemies, Millie. The trick is to know your enemies, treat ’em like friends, then stick ’em when they’re not looking.” He said the last with a wink, but Millie felt he was deadly serious.
“Where are we going tonight?” Millie asked.
“Thought we’d drive around a little,” said Levering. “Take in the city lights. Talk. We’ll end up somewhere.”
He drank the rest of his champagne, then poured himself another glass. Millie had the distinct feeling Levering had had a few drinks before picking her up.
“Tell me about yourself,” Millie said. If this was going to be a date, she was going to treat it like one.
“You’ve read the papers,” Levering said.
She waved her hand dismissively. “Indulge me with a summary.”
“The particulars are I’m divorced, have a…” He hesitated. “A son.”
She perceived in him a desire to talk, and waited patiently. It was the first time she had seen any sort of vulnerability in his face.
“You’ve read about my son, I’m sure,” Levering said. “He ran off some time ago, joined a religious thing. We – his mother and I – tried to get him out of it. He went back to it about five years ago, and I haven’t spoken to him since. How’s that for confession?”
“I’m sorry,” Millie said, wishing she could say more. But she was not used to intimate talk with men. Or women, for that matter. Not even Helen.
“No need to be,” Levering said. “You have a personal religion, Millie?”
The question caught her off guard. “I believe in the law,” she finally replied.
“Well said. Hey, take a look at that.” He pointed out the tinted window. Millie recognized the lights of the Jefferson Memorial. It was, for her, the prettiest of the major memorials in the city.
And then Levering was on the seat next to her. “A little more champagne?” he offered.
“No, thank you,” Millie said.
“May I be so bold as to give some advice to a Supreme Court justice?”
“All right.” She could smell his cologne now, mingling with the scent of perspiration.
Levering leaned toward her a little, unwavering in his gaze. “I think you need to live a little.”
Millie swallowed. “Oh?”
Levering put his hand on hers. “We’re cut from the same cloth, you know.”
Millie tried to gently pull her hand away. Levering held on.
“From the people,” Levering said. “We worked our way up the hard way. I know all about you, Madame Justice.”
She wondered what he meant by that, and by the half smile on his face. For a moment she thought he would try to kiss her. But he leaned back, reached behind her to the bar, and poured more champagne for himself.
“You grew up poor, like I did,” Levering said. “You pulled yourself up by your bootstraps and made it. Boalt Hall Law. Editor of the Law Review. Number one in your class. You were slated for greatness from the start. So was I.”
The limo approached the Lincoln Memorial. Millie saw the flocks of tourists dotting the stairs, and Lincoln presiding over it all.
“And now,” Levering said, “here we are.”
He squeezed her hand again. Millie felt her face heating up. How silly this all was. That she should be acting like a little schoolgirl.
Levering leaned over and kissed her neck.
Alarms went off through her body. Part of her, the rational part, told her to take it easy. This was a harmless development; she could handle it. But the other part, made up of instinct and feelings she hardly knew, cried out at full volume.
She smelled alcohol on his breath as Levering reached his hand behind her neck and pulled her toward him. She pushed back.
“Stop it.” Millie slid away from him. “Take me home, please.”
He backed away. “Let’s take a walk.” He grabbed the limo phone and told the driver to pull over.
“Senator Levering, take me home.” She said it firmly, but knew he had no intention of doing so. Now what?
The limo pulled into a crowded parking lot. The driver opened the door, offering his hand to Millie. She decided to get out. Maybe she could catch a taxi.
Levering stumbled out behind her. The air was crisp for early summer. A tour group ambled past them heading toward the Lincoln Memorial. Levering staggered a bit as he watched the raucous teens.
“They don’t even know who we are,” he said. “And couldn’t care less.”
Millie started to worry that someone would recognize the senator, a group leader perhaps, and before long she’d be staring at herself on the cover of the National Exposure. She shuddered.
Levering grabbed her hand. “Come on, let’s walk.”
She tried to extricate her hand from his, but he pulled her toward a grassy area. The thin sliver of moon seemed like a sardonic smile.
“Please let me go,” she said. “I really want to go home.”
He turned toward her. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said. “I’m on your side. I’m your friend.”
“Friendship is fine,” Millie said. “I don’t mind that.”
“But I need more.” In the gloom she could barely see his face, but it looked sorrowful. For one moment she thought of him not as a senator, but a boy. The look quickly faded as a smooth smile returned.
“Don’t you want to give it a try?” Levering said.
“Give what a try?” she asked.
“This. Us. Just give it a try. You’ll like it.”
He moved quickly, grabbing her around the waist and pressing his face on hers.
She broke his hold and stumbled back. “Stop.”
His arms shot out again and pulled her toward him. He kissed her mouth. She struggled in his embrace, but he was strong.
It was all so surreal. She was no longer a judge on the highest court in the land, but simply another woman being pawed by a drunk in the dark.
She slapped him.
It landed clumsily, not with the loud pop that a Bette Davis might have managed. And when he smiled at it, she turned and found herself running, stupidly, the heels of her shoes poking holes in the soft grass.
10
Charlene’s prayer tonight was not a song. It was a crying out.
This is our case, Lord. You’re not yanking it from me now, are you?
Four hundred thousand, of which Charlene would get over a third, was not pocket change. But this case was not about mon
ey. It couldn’t be.
It was dark outside her apartment, almost moonless. She had an indescribable feeling of evil hovering not just here, but over the whole country. And she had to do something about it.
She fell to her knees with her hands on the old sofa she’d nabbed at a yard sale while still a law student. Back then she’d been full of confidence. Now, with only the sound of crickets drifting in through the screened window, she felt confused and alone.
When she had gone into law, she thought she could make a difference in the world. Use the law to make the country a better place to live.
She had drifted away from her Christian roots by the time she’d enrolled at LaBlanc. It was not a prestigious school, but it allowed her to complete her degree at night. The curriculum was no-nonsense bar exam preparation. During the day she worked two jobs – as a waitress at Shoney’s and as a tutor for elementary students.
Stress was a constant companion. Charlene juggled tasks like a plate spinner, ever at risk for a crash. Then Ty Slayton came into her life.
He was a ruggedly handsome fireman. It was as if he had arrived at her own fire, the one raging in her life, and offered rescue. She fell for him like a collapsing roof.
When she got pregnant, the collapse was complete. Ty Slayton pressed her to get an abortion. That was his condition for continuing the relationship.
It was the turning point for Charlene. She knew she could not abort. She knew she carried life. And she knew God had created that life in her.
The very night Ty had given her his ultimatum, Charlene asked God to take her back. She felt no sense of his presence, but knew in her mind she had made a decision she would never back down on again.
When she miscarried two weeks later, she wondered if it was a punishment from God. Well then, so be it. She would make it up to him one day.
That day came when Charlene read in the paper about a local sixteen-year-old girl who had tried to commit suicide. Twice. The first time it was with a razor to her wrists. The second was an attempt to jump off a bridge into a rocky gorge. This girl, Sarah Mae Sherman, had been pulled back by a Christian minister right before she jumped. A miracle.
While reading the story, Charlene had an overwhelming sense of God’s leading. She prayed for an hour. And two days later Pastor Ray Neven had shown up in her office with Sarah Mae Sherman.
Now she wondered if she were being punished again. Sarah Mae’s case had been yanked from her. Why? What did God want from her?
He couldn’t want her to give up. He needed her. He needed this case. She was going to get it back.
Charlene grabbed the phone and called Aggie Sherman.
“It’s late,” Mrs. Sherman said.
“We can get more money,” Charlene said.
The silence on the other end of the line was heavy. Then Aggie Sherman said, “Well?”
“Never take the first offer. We keep going forward. Start the trial. There will be a bigger offer before the trial ends.” This was not a certainty, only likely. But it would get the trial going. That was the main thing.
“How much?” Aggie said.
“More than they’re offering now.”
“I don’t know.”
“Aggie,” Charlene said, “I’ve put my heart and soul into this case for you and Sarah Mae. I won’t let you down.”
Another long pause. “Get us the biggest settlement you can. Then take it.”
Yes, Charlene Moore sang in her thoughts. We’re going all the way.
11
Slowing down from a fast walk, Millie realized she had not been in this park for years. She’d done quite a bit of sightseeing when she’d first come to the Court. But very quickly her life had developed a routine that made simple excursions to monuments and tourist sites difficult.
She glanced back and did not see the senator. Had he been too drunk to follow?
Over the course of her judicial career, the one thing Millie Hollander had avoided was publicity. If a judge was making headlines, either through judicial opinion or personal transgression, she wasn’t doing her job.
She was angry at herself for allowing this to happen. She should not have let her guard down, even for a moment. She was not cut out to be with men in any romantic situation, nor they with her. She’d made that decision years ago, after Marty Winters. She should have stuck with that decision.
As she reached the sidewalk on the edge of the park, looking for the roof light that would indicate a taxi, she noticed a figure slowly making his way toward her, from the right.
He was dressed thickly, as if in several layers of clothes. His hair and face were caked with dirt. Even in the dim light she could tell that this was one of the city’s homeless.
She turned her back and started to walk slowly away from him. Her body buzzed with an adrenaline surge. Was this what it felt like to be mugged? She had been so long in an ivory tower, and suddenly she felt ashamed. Her judicial decisions affected people like this, all people, really. But how much did she know about what went on in their daily lives?
She glanced back and saw that the man, in a slow but steady shuffle, was following her.
Millie’s nerves crackled. She looked desperately to the street and saw a taxi coming her way. She put her arm up, more frantically than she wanted to, and waved stupidly at it. It passed by. She saw people sitting in the back. A man and a woman. They appeared to be laughing.
She turned. The homeless man was only a few feet away now. For one moment she could not move.
“You still have time,” the man said.
He took another step toward her, and she could barely make out his eyes. They were wild yet full of some crazy earnestness. Pleading almost.
“You still have time!” he shouted, jerking forward.
Fear engulfing her, Millie stumbled backward. Her shoe caught the edge of the curb. Her body lurched into the street.
She heard the squeal of tires, and suddenly light seemed all around her, coming from every angle, blinding her. And then every part of her body felt as if it had exploded as she was hit by a force that lifted her up for a sprawling moment. Then she felt herself falling, and the ground, unforgiving, slamming her head. And then the light turned to darkness.
CHAPTER TWO
1
No one would have faulted her for staying seated at her age, but Ethel Hollander had to kneel. Tonight she knew she had to pray on her knees.
She and fifteen prayer warriors were at the church for the weekly prayer meeting. It started late, usually around nine o’clock, so Allard Jones could make it. He worked in Bakersfield, an hour north of Santa Lucia, and never wanted to be left out. Allard, like Ethel, had helped build Santa Lucia Community Church.
The building was built by a congregation of twenty back in 1964. It was simple and boxy outside. But inside there was a history as full of warmth and life as anything the Lord had created.
Ethel Hollander had over fifty years invested in this church congregation. She’d seen the good times and the bad. The old building went down in the earthquake of ’57. They built it right back up. And when they broke ground for the new building in ’64, they’d given the shovel to Ethel Hollander.
If someone had asked her what held the church together, Ethel wouldn’t have hesitated to say prayer.
She knew Pastor Holden agreed. He was such a man of prayer. He hadn’t been here long but he was already, in her mind, the best preacher they’d ever had. And he had a line on prayer, like his soul was attuned to things in a special way.
It had to be, in part, because of what he’d gone through. Ethel knew only part of the story. He’d come to the valley to be restored. He was just over fifty, but he’d had enough tragedy for two lifetimes.
That was why he prayed.
And tonight, Ethel needed those prayers. All day she had felt that something was wrong with Millie.
Ethel prayed for her daughter daily. Somehow she had ended up on the United States Supreme Court, and Ethel was certain Go
d had intended that for some great good. Ethel held on to that belief, even though the last ten years seemed to move Millie further away from Christ. She knew that only God’s miraculous hand could change her daughter’s heart.
So each day without fail, Ethel uttered the same prayer, that her daughter would find her way back to the God she had grown up with.
Yet tonight she felt Millie was in trouble. What sort of trouble she could not name. But when she had that feeling she always prayed.
The prayer meeting lasted till almost midnight.
2
Millie heard someone whisper her name.
She was in total darkness. Her first thought was that she had gone blind. But somehow she knew it was not blindness, just lack of light. She reached out, looking for a wall or a switch. She felt nothing but air.
For some reason she felt she had to scream. She tried, but no sound came out. What was this? Paralysis seized her. Had she lost sight and voice?
And then she heard her name again.
The voice that whispered sounded neither like a man nor a woman. It was seductive, in a way that was both irresistible and deadly.
Was she dead?
No, couldn’t be, for she was walking. Not walking, really, but being moved. Upright, as if on some belt made of air. Weightless.
And powerless. Powerless to stop her thrust forward into deeper darkness. Powerless to resist the force – it was a force, she knew that now – drawing her.
Then she felt a slimy thing around her ankles.
She could not scream or recoil, only feel a slithering like a wet snake. No, a pair of wet snakes. Then another pair and another, on both her ankles and her legs.
She opened her mouth, but all was silent.
Then she realized that they were not snakes, but fingers. Fingers on horrible hands that writhed upward from some abyss, grasping at her, trying to pull her down.
This was no nightmare. This was a reality beyond dreams, beyond comprehension, yet fully existent, woven from the cords of every terror she had felt in her life.
Deadlock Page 4