Deadlock

by James Scott Bell

But there was. She knew it.

  4

  Fall storms pummeled the east for four days after that. But on Monday the sky was clear and blue, as if to signal a fresh start for the business of the Court.

  By the time Millie was in her chambers, ready to engage in legal research on an issue of interstate commerce, she felt she was coming out from under a dark cloud. Perhaps the storm of Tom Riley’s reaction would also blow over, and she could get back to business as usual.

  She began the morning at her desk with a new habit. She had a brand new Bible, a gift from Dorothy Bonassi. Each morning for the last two weeks she had opened to the Psalms and let them pour into her. There was no agenda, none of the anxious striving she had experienced during her conversion. It was the living Word of God, and she soaked it up like the desert soaks up rain.

  Today she was on Psalm 19. She read the first verse slowly, whispering the words. “ ‘The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handiwork.’ ”

  She realized she finally believed that. The music of it filled her. And she felt, at last, that she had climbed to another height. Not near the peak, not yet. But up from where she had started, where she had spent years. And she was safe here. She would not fall.

  She closed her Bible and picked up her work. Turning to the draft opinion on interstate commerce that one of her clerks, Paul, had prepared, Millie knew she would make use of the blue pencil. But it would be a pleasure to edit this one. It had nothing to do with the Establishment Clause, and she could use a break from that section of the Constitution, thank you.

  Her other clerk, Rosalind, knocked on her door and entered. Her face had an ashen, faraway look.

  “What is it?” Millie asked.

  “You’d better come,” Rosalind said.

  Both of her clerks had workstations in the antechamber. Paul, the bespectacled Law Review editor from Stanford, sat before his terminal in silence. The glow from the screen reflected off his glasses. He did not look up to make eye contact with Millie. His blank stare made her think of an accident scene, as if he were seeing a dead body sprawled on a patch of asphalt somewhere.

  “Did somebody die?” Millie asked. Perhaps the president? A fellow justice? She felt her heart quicken.

  Rosalind shook her head, her blond hair framing her concerned face, and indicated Millie should take her seat in front of Rosalind’s screen.

  Millie sat and looked at the screen. Big block letters spelled out the Burrow Bulletin. And just below that a headline read “Supreme Court Chief Gets Religion!”

  Millie read the article in silence.

  Gimme that old-time religion! That’s a song you may hear coming from a most unlikely place – the chambers of a certain chief justice of the United States Supreme Court!

  Did I say chief justice? Yes, I did. Looks like the cat’s out of the bag, the chickens have flown the coop, the bloom is off the rose. Somebody stop me!

  The Burrow Bulletin has learned that Millicent Mannings Hollander, the recently enrobed chief of our highest court, has seen the light!

  Not only is she now a professing Christian, but she’s already reversed herself in the first major case of her tenure, soon to be decided! The case involves the Establishment Clause and government interference in matters of religion.

  Insiders tell the Burrow Bulletin that Hollander is going to rule that the government of Ohio can go holy roller and inject God right into their public life! This is a complete reversal of how Hollander has ruled in the past!

  What next? This reporter is betting abortion will be the next domino to fall. With Hollander now the fifth in a conservative majority, the whole balance of the Supreme Court has been thrown off! Never in our history have we seen a Supreme Court justice change so completely in one fell swoop.

  Your intrepid correspondent is in touch with some members of Congress, who are vowing to look into this. One even called it a “fraud” on the American people!

  Stay tuned! In the next few days, you are bound to see the reverberations of this bombshell across the nation!

  Burrowing…

  As if from a distance, Millie heard Rosalind’s voice. “Justice Hollander, are you all right?”

  Millie did not answer. The inside of her head felt like a collapsing building, a chaos of rubble and dust, imploding upon itself. For a long, sickening moment she thought she might stop breathing.

  “Madame Chief Justice?” Rosalind said.

  “I’m sorry,” Millie said.

  “Is it…”

  Millie looked at Rosalind. Her face was like that of a child whose mother has just been accused of a terrible crime. Now she was asking, not wanting to believe it.

  “Rosalind, Paul,” Millie said. “I need to tell you what has happened.”

  Rosalind still looked like the waiting child. Paul, in contrast, was the petulant one. He did not look up from his screen.

  “Paul?” Millie said.

  Finally, he looked at her. His eyes were almost tearful.

  “Please,” Millie said. “Let me tell you both what this is about.”

  The phone on Paul’s desk rang. Millie waited as he picked up and inquired.

  Paul’s eyes shot to Millie while the receiver was still at his ear. Then he put the receiver to his chest. “It’s ABC News,” he said. “They want to have a word with you.”

  5

  For Senator Sam Levering, breaking news was like Prozac – an instant respite from depression. He was, in fact, a news junkie.

  That was why his limo had not only two TV monitors, but also a special remote so he could jump immediately to any of five news outlets – CNN, Fox, ABC, NBC, and CBS.

  This morning he was concentrating on ABC. The reporter was standing in front of the White House delivering his report. The “strange conversion” of Chief Justice Hollander had reached the top of the Washington news food chain.

  When the limo phone rang, Levering knew exactly who it would be.

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” Levering said.

  “What’s good about it?” Francis said.

  “You’ve heard.”

  “Of course I’ve heard. It’s all over the place. You’d think we’d had a terrorist attack with all the reporters.”

  Levering mused that this felt very much like an attack. Surprising, potentially debilitating.

  “What are you going to do about it?” Francis demanded.

  “I’m on it.”

  “Were you on it when you forced Hollander down my throat?”

  Levering felt like cussing out the president of the United States. Instead he said, “I will take care of it.”

  “Get her off the bench,” the president said.

  “She’s a Supreme Court justice,” Levering snapped. “She either has to retire, die, or get impeached.”

  “Choose one,” Francis said.

  Was he serious? “Mr. President, let me assure you. I can deal with Hollander. I will get her to play ball, as they say, or force her to resign.”

  “How?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  “I already did that,” Francis shot back. “I just better not see a rollback on women’s rights, gay rights, every other kind of rights. What a nightmare. You know what they’ll say about me? That I made the worst pick for chief justice ever. Should have seen it coming. This could change the Court for twenty years.”

  “Shall we meet?” Levering said. “I’m free this afternoon.”

  “No,” Francis said. “I’m golfing with the CEO of GE. Just do something and get back to me.”

  Click.

  Levering looked out the window and saw the Washington Monument rising into a fog.

  He poured himself a shot of bourbon and called Anne Deveraux.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  1

  Charlene woke up just before the train hit her.

  The locomotive bore down on her, its horn blaring. She was stuck on the tracks, unable to move. No restraints held her. Her feet simpl
y would not take her away from certain death.

  The nightmare ended, as they most often do, before impact. But the train whistle sounded again, and this time Charlene recognized it. It was the prolonged beep of her fax machine.

  She had fallen asleep on the couch. Last night she could not sleep at all, her stomach in a knot. The decision from the Court of Appeals was late, and there was no word from the clerk when it would come in.

  No matter how much Charlene prayed for sleep, it was denied her. She took that as a sign that God did not want her to sleep, but to continue praying. She did so, starting with prayers for Sarah Mae and Aggie Sherman, then for the case to be resolved in their favor.

  But that was not all. Charlene found herself praying for Millicent Mannings Hollander.

  She had been stunned by the news. A Supreme Court justice coming to know Christ as Savior while actively serving? That was definitely a first.

  But would Hollander’s faith lead her to adopt a different view of the law than she’d had before? What would that do to the balance of the Court?

  Charlene had a sudden wild thought. What if Sarah Mae’s case actually got to the high Court? How would Hollander rule? Graebner and Winsor believed strongly she would be on their side, and Charlene had to agree. But what now? She prayed for God’s will, not her own, and finally fell asleep around four in the morning.

  The fax beeped again. Charlene rubbed her eyes and checked her watch. 11 a.m.

  She jumped up and snatched the page that had just been cut from her ancient thermal-roll machine. The cover page made her heart jerk. It read “United States Court of Appeals, Eleventh Circuit.” Ten pages to come.

  It was the decision.

  The first page was squeezing out slower than cold molasses.

  “Come on, come on!”

  The page was a third of the way out of the machine. Charlene craned her neck so she could look at it. She could only read the caption, the case name, and the introductory gobbledygook that was part of every printed decision.

  “Hurry up!”

  With the first page halfway out, she saw the names of the three judges who had considered the case. She remembered their faces, heard their voices again as they asked questions of counsel. She heard Graebner’s confident answers, and her own stumbles as she tried to remain calm and clear.

  What was the decision?

  When the page was almost out she was at last able to read the first lines of the first paragraph. It gave an overview of the proceedings and the decision of the district court judge. Then the last line of the paragraph came into view: “For the reasons stated herein, we…”

  The first page spat out.

  “Move it!” Charlene railed at the fax machine. Page two was barely showing its top edge as it emerged.

  Charlene gripped the edge with her fingers, as if she could coax it to go faster. The machine kept its own pace.

  Her neck was starting to ache with the craning.

  Finally, the next line came into view, and the first word was reverse…

  Breath left her.

  … the decision of the district court and remand for further proceedings.

  Hot tears came much faster than the fax paper. Sarah Mae had won.

  2

  The media camp outside Millie’s home was like a Russian circus. She herself had become the dancing bear. The story. Not her opinions, but her. It was the nightmare she had never wanted to happen in real life.

  Now she knew what it felt like to be a prisoner in her own home. She’d seen the way politicians had to deal with reporters on their front lawn. Walking out with forced smiles. Trying to get in cars while cameras rolled. Putting up a false front.

  She could never do that. What were her alternatives? Find a way to sneak around town? Ask, respectfully, for privacy? Fat chance they’d give it to her.

  She was not going to watch television. She couldn’t stand hearing her name on the news.

  She was about to burst. Helen hadn’t called since the bomb had exploded. Millie had left a message, but maybe Helen was out of town.

  Millie walked to her front window and peeked through the blinds. The media camp was there on the street. A camera aimed at her from a van seemed to be looking right into her eyes. She quickly drew back.

  Now what?

  The phone rang. It seemed like the millionth time. She let her machine pick it up again. It hadn’t taken long for her private number to fall into the hands of the news outlets.

  Then she heard a familiar voice.

  “Millie, it’s Jack Holden. I’m here at the church. I just – ”

  Millie snatched the phone. “Jack!”

  “I’m so glad I got you. What is going on?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” Millie said. “Just a replay of the invasion of Normandy out in the front yard.”

  “That all?” Jack said. “Then I feel sorry for the other side.”

  His light touch was comforting. She felt herself holding on, trying to stay rational.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve been watching the religious stations,” Jack said.

  “Unless Dan Rather is the pope, no.”

  There was a pause. “A guy who has a network here is calling you a miracle from God. Says Roe v. Wade is finally going to be overturned.”

  “Oh, no.” Millie’s stomach went into freefall.

  “Looks like you’re getting it from both sides.”

  “Why can’t they just let me do my job?”

  Jack said, “Can I read something to you?”

  “Please.”

  “ ‘Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.’ ”

  “I wish I felt blessed,” Millie said.

  “It’s not a feeling. It’s a promise. ‘The God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.’ ”

  “This is good stuff. You got more?”

  “A whole bookful. You have anybody you can talk to back there?”

  “Justice Bonassi. I’ve been meeting with him and his wife. They’ve been great.”

  “That’s a godsend,” Jack said. “I’ve prayed you would find good support.” Then he added, “How are you doing, really?”

  Millie thought a moment. “It’s hard, but I keep remembering what Mom used to say. Just let it roll off your back like a duck.”

  “She was a wise woman.”

  “What I don’t like is that it is such a distraction to the Court’s business. So I hope this blows over soon.”

  “And when it does,” Jack said, “maybe I can come out there. And take you to dinner. That’d give the reporters something to talk about, wouldn’t it?”

  She laughed, suddenly wishing he were here now.

  3

  The barbershop for members of the House of Representatives was in the Rayburn House Office Building. A throwback to someone’s idea of a small-town hair salon, it sported a barber’s pole outside the door and three chairs. Since it had been privatized, the House barbershop had lost more barbers than it kept.

  Sam Levering did not get his haircuts here. The Senate had its own, nicer, salon. His mission in the House shop was to find the House Speaker, Representative Brian Kessler. Kessler’s office had told Levering where he was, though that was no guarantee Kessler would actually be in the chair. House members were notorious for demanding an appointment with the barber, and then being late, often hours late, or not showing up at all.

  But there he was, in the middle chair, being snipped by a short black-haired man.

  “Hello, Brian,” Levering said.

  “Sam,” Kessler said. “You slumming?” A fifty-year-old red-headed freckle face, Kessler was the quintessential boy next door. That was how he kept getting reelected. Only Levering and
a few other insiders knew about certain practices that might have scandalized Kessler’s constituents.

  “Can your man here take a break?” Levering said.

  The barber shot a hard stare at Levering.

  “Can’t this wait?” Kessler said.

  “Knowing you, it can’t,” Levering said. Kessler was always doing three or four things at once. Levering wanted his undivided attention.

  “Ermanno,” Kessler said. “Why don’t you give us a few minutes, huh?”

  With an Italian version of humph, the barber walked out of the shop. Kessler spun around in the barber chair. Levering parked himself in the adjoining one.

  “I want you to start thinking about impeaching Hollander,” Levering said.

  Kessler remained impassive. He was a cool one. One didn’t get the speakership without developing an iron poker face.

  “That’s pretty extreme, don’t you think?” Kessler said.

  “Just start thinking about it, that’s all.”

  “Are you nuts?” Kessler said, his cheeks starting to show the first blossoms of pink. “I don’t like the idea of messing with the Supreme Court.”

  “What if the Supreme Court, by a slim majority, starts messing with our issues?”

  Kessler shook his head. “Sam, you’re talking about the third arm of government. I don’t want to lead our party down that path.”

  “Do you have any idea what might be at stake?”

  Kessler pulled the apron off his chest and leaned forward. “Sam, listen. That’s going way too far. There would have to be a big public outcry for impeachment first.”

  “You watch,” Levering said calmly. “There just might be.”

  “There’s more to this?”

  “I said watch. And be ready.”

  Kessler ran his fingers through his incomplete hairstyle. Soon it would be lacquered down so even a typhoon couldn’t damage it. Levering had always admired Kessler’s hair.

  “Look,” Kessler said, “I’m not going to make any commitments. At the most, I’ll wait and see.”