Deadlock

by James Scott Bell

  “The House won’t stand for this,” the source told the Exposure. “Nor will the American people. Millicent Mannings Hollander will be gone from the Supreme Court before the first snow falls.”

  2

  Detective Don Markey took a sip of battery-acid coffee and reached for the small Bible he kept in his metal government-issue desk. Markey tried to read at least a little bit from the Word every day. His colleagues knew his practice, and had stopped razzing him about it. His nickname, “Preacher,” had been dropped in favor of the whispered sobriquet, “Goose.” As in Wild Goose Chase.

  Markey knew he took more chances than others on the force, looked under more rocks, around more corners. He even went through more dumpsters. He was relentless when he got a hunch, and for the most part his superiors let him go.

  Markey took another sip of bad coffee from a Styrofoam cup and opened his Bible. He had been reading through Proverbs, seeking wisdom. Crying out for it. The whole Levering situation was bothering him to no end.

  Elijah’s disappearance smelled. The odds that he had left town on his own were small. Homeless people found places to call home and tended to stick to them unless they had a very good reason to leave.

  The timing was suspicious, too. No sooner had he put a little heat on the senator’s chief aide than Elijah was gone.

  He only had a hunch, no hard evidence, so what could he do but ask for wisdom?

  He had been quietly reading for five minutes when the phone rang.

  “Markey,” he said.

  “Hey,” said Phil Crane. Phil was another D.C. detective. “You need to get down here. I’m out at Key Bridge.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Just come down here. We have a body. Dragged out of the river.”

  “Why do you need me?”

  “You’ll see.”

  It took just under twenty minutes for Markey to get there. The scene was taped off and a lone medical examiner waddled around a couple of uniforms, examining a body.

  Phil was standing by the body’s feet. They were bare, puffy, white. A blue-black ring encircled each ankle. Markey did not see the face as the ME poked at it with something that looked like a knitting needle.

  “Know who it is?” Markey said.

  “Nope.”

  “Why’d you want me down here?”

  “Because he looks like a homeless guy, no ID, ratty clothes.”

  Markey stiffened. He bolted toward the ME and put his hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey!” the ME said.

  “Sorry,” Markey said, looking down. There could be no doubt. The bloated face belonged to Elijah.

  3

  When she could stand the silence no longer, Millie walked, unannounced, into the chambers of Thomas J. Riley.

  His clerk, whose name was Russell something, looked as if a terrorist had walked in. His lips moved in a soundless expression of something like shock.

  “I’ll let myself in,” Millie said.

  Riley looked up from his desk with a bit of the same expression as his clerk. He held his pen in midair as Millie plopped herself down in a chair. She saw on his desk the Latin phrase he loved to quote: Vincit omnia veritas.

  “We have to talk,” she said.

  Riley looked at the clock. “I’m preparing for argument.”

  “I have to know something.”

  The justice lowered his pen.

  “I have to know if any leak has come out of this chamber,” she said.

  “Leak?”

  “Information. Inside information.”

  “I don’t follow you.” He seemed cagey, like he must have been back in the courtrooms of Wyoming.

  “Tom, we’ve been through a lot together over the years,” Millie said, her throat tightening. “I hope that counts for something, even though we look to be on opposite sides now.”

  “Go on,” Riley said.

  “Someone got to the media with my conversion.”

  “You think it was me?” Riley tossed the pen on the desk.

  “Maybe not intentionally – ”

  “At all!” he snapped.

  Millie paused, sudden regret in her heart. This was a man who had been like a father to her, a mentor, an inspiration. That they were even having this conversation was tragic in a deeply personal way. But she had to ask the questions. She had to clear the air in the Court, or she could not hope to lead it.

  “If you are telling me you had nothing to do with it,” Millie said, “that’s good enough for me.”

  “I’ve said all I’m going to. Now if you’ll excuse me we both have work to do.”

  Millie felt dirty somehow. Like filth had been dumped into these hallowed halls, and everyone was walking in it. That saddened her most of all. That the Court, the institution she loved with all her heart, should have come to this.

  “I’m sorry,” Millie said, rising. “I just hope we can find a way to be civil with each other.”

  Riley held his pen but did not move it. His eyes bore into her. “Millie, I don’t like this any more than you do. But what is happening here is, in my view, a disaster. Impeachment! Do you understand what that means?”

  “Of course, I – ”

  “I’m not sure. And I’m not sure there aren’t grounds. Your religion is going to influence your decisions.”

  Millie rocked back, a little stunned but not surprised. Tom Riley had made his reputation by getting to the meat of the issue instantly. And this was the issue. She knew it.

  “It already has on Establishment,” Riley continued. “Will it continue on into other areas? If it is, you are not the same justice the Senate confirmed.”

  “Tom, we both know a judge has to get to the meaning of the law as closely as possible while recognizing his biases.”

  “Answer the question, please,” Riley said.

  “It’s not that simple, is it?”

  “Let me give you a hypothetical then. You have always upheld a woman’s right to choose. You know we have cases in the pipeline that will test that. Are you going to rule like a Bill Bonassi now?”

  A ripple of anger spread through Millie. “Why is everybody trying to nail me down?”

  “Because if you change your mind on that issue, the country will be torn apart.”

  This truly was the heart of the issue. Millie had known Tom Riley for ten years, had joined him on most decisions, and knew he took the long view of the law. With abortion rights being the central moral question for society, Riley had long argued – and she had agreed – that its threads must be handled gently or there could be social upheaval. If Millie held a different view now, it was possible that the Court could radically alter its past decisions by way of a new 5-4 slant. That was what Riley was asking.

  “I haven’t seen a specific case yet,” Millie said. “The time will come, I’m sure.”

  “Come on, don’t duck this. Do you still believe that right is Constitutional?”

  Did she? All of the arguments from her days in law school, on the Court, in briefs and at orals, came rushing back to her. For a moment it all seemed a jumble, a thicket she had no hope of fighting through.

  “I’ll word my question another way,” Riley said. “Do you believe a fetus has the rights of a person?”

  “Tom, until I get a case – ”

  “Let me help you. You know that verse in the Bible, the one we always see in amicus briefs. It’s from the Psalms, I think. It says something to the effect that God knits babies in the womb. And there are other Bible quotations about God knowing people before they exist. I suspect that’s what Bill Bonassi believed.”

  Millie’s head was starting to feel the grip of some huge fist. “I find this offensive, Tom.”

  “Are you telling me you are the same today as you were last term? Or any previous term?”

  “I am a different person in some ways – ”

  “At the core, Millie. You have had a religious conversion. Are you saying that won’t affect you at all?”

&nb
sp; “I don’t know!”

  “And if it does, what will that do to our reputation?”

  Millie’s stomach twisted. Riley’s logic was solid, as always. His ability to foresee the consequences of laws made him one of the most insightful of the justices. His insight cut like a knife.

  “One thing has not changed,” Millie said. “I care just as much about the Court as you, Tom. And I am not going to let politics influence what I do here. I will fight this bogus impeachment business. And I will continue to do what I think is right as a judge.”

  “I am going to fight back,” Riley said. “I – ” He seemed then, for the flicker of a moment, to break down. But his face clamped back any emotion. “That’s enough,” he said.

  Millie wanted to say something, but could find no other words. She stood and walked out. The loneliness Millie felt on the way back to her chambers was overwhelming, a cavernous feeling of loss. Even Rosalind, her clerk, seemed to have put up, if not a wall, a veil. And Paul had resigned. At least Rosalind had said she didn’t want to leave Millie in the lurch.

  “Ready for argument?” Rosalind asked. “I have the briefs and bench memo ready.”

  “Thank you, Rosalind.”

  The young woman nipped at her bottom lip with her front teeth. “It didn’t help, did it?”

  “What didn’t help?”

  “Talking to Justice Riley. I saw you go in.”

  “No, not much.”

  The clerk nodded, concern on her face. Millie put a hand on her shoulder. “I know it hasn’t been easy on you,” Millie said. “And I am truly sorry. But I want you to know how grateful I am that you’ve stayed. It means a great deal to me.”

  Rosalind nodded.

  “Come on,” Millie said. “It’s time to get to the bench.”

  4

  Hardball.

  Sam Levering played hardball, played to win, always had. He was never sorry, though sometimes he felt a little pang when an opponent went down in flames. He felt a little sorry for Millie Hollander. The photos that the smarmy reporter took, and the insinuations about her love life, were almost below the belt. Almost. But it had to be done. And he still had Anne Deveraux to take the fall if worse came to worst.

  There was also something arousing about hardball. Whenever he hit one out of the park, as he’d just done with Hollander, he found his libido returning to youthful levels. At such times he wanted two things. A drink and a woman. The former would be sour mash whiskey. The latter could be just about anyone. Tonight it was a blonde named Sondra.

  The Capitol building’s nearly one hundred “hideaway” offices were virtually unknown by the public, roped off from tourists with snapping cameras. Marked only by door numbers, many of the hideaway offices had gilded crystal chandeliers, floor-length mirrors, fireplaces, and frescoed walls. They were ostensibly for members of Congress to escape the demands of their regular offices. But Levering had discovered the real use was far more personal. LBJ, when he was Senate Majority Leader, had made legendary use of them for his “hideaway honeys.” What was good enough for a president, Levering reasoned, was good enough for him.

  And room S-326-A, where Daniel Webster had once stored his wine, was his favorite.

  Sondra – she must have been about twenty-five – giggled as Levering led her inside.

  “Shh,” he said. “It’s past ten. The walls have ears.”

  “So do you,” she said, playfully biting Levering’s right lobe.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “But keep it down.” The Capitol police were sometimes nosy.

  Levering kept a bottle of bourbon in a cabinet near the window. The little minx did not drink anything except wine, but the bottle at dinner seemed to have done the trick.

  As he poured himself a bourbon, Sondra snuck up behind him and kissed his neck. She giggled again. That could get old, he mused. Better to drink and get down to business.

  His cell phone bleeped in his pocket.

  “Oh, no,” Sondra said like a pouting coquette.

  “I’ll turn it off, honey,” Levering said. “Just let me take it.”

  He flipped the phone open.

  “Levering.”

  “This is Detective Markey.”

  Something like steam heat – part anger, part alcohol, part unfulfilled desire – flushed Levering’s face. “How did you get this number?”

  “Sir, I have to – ”

  “I don’t want anybody calling this who isn’t – ”

  “Sir, if I may – ”

  “I’m gonna have a little talk with your commanding officer, boy, you better believe it.” Levering waited for an audible show of contrition.

  “We found him,” Markey said.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Elijah. The homeless man who was a witness to what really happened that night with Justice Hollander.”

  The steam was coming out of Levering’s nostrils now. “Listen!”

  “You’d better listen, Senator. You know this man.”

  “I don’t know anything about him. I told you that.”

  “We’ve made a positive ID from the prints.”

  “I’m hanging up now – ”

  “It’s your son, Senator.”

  An invisible hand gripped Levering’s throat. He held the phone to his ear, as if pressing it against his flesh would erase what was just said.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Senator,” Markey said. “The body is that of Tad Levering.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  1

  “They found him!” Anne squeezed the cell phone like an arm wrestler.

  “Whoa,” Ambrosi said. His phone crackled. He was probably between big buildings in the city.

  “In the river,” Anne said.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “He was the senator’s own son.”

  Pause. “So? What do you want me to do about it now?”

  “I don’t know what I want.” And she didn’t. The walls were closing in around her.

  “Your boss going mental?” Ambrosi asked.

  “Oh, yeah. He was on edge before. But this…”

  “Look, maybe I can help. The both of you.”

  “Help?”

  “I have a sense of pride here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I did a job for you. You didn’t like the results. Okay. Happens. You got access to fifty thousand?”

  The sudden shift to money talk jolted Anne. “Of course. But why?”

  “Let me do another job for you. This one will be clean.”

  “What sort of job?”

  “A biggie.”

  He seemed to Anne to be smiling.

  “Tell me,” Anne said.

  “I been following the whole thing about the justice. What’s her name?”

  A prickling came to Anne’s neck. “Hollander.”

  “I could take care of that.”

  Unthinkable. Absolutely unthinkable. Anne opened her mouth to tell him so. Then stopped. Unthinkable, yes, but in an incredibly exciting way.

  “I can’t let you do it,” Anne said.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Too risky. There’s all sorts of security. Especially now.”

  “Hey,” Ambrosi said. “You don’t remember what Al Pacino said? Somebody told Al he couldn’t whack this guy. Al says if history teaches us anything, it’s that you can kill anybody. He’s right.”

  “Look, we better get off now,” Anne said. “When can I see you?”

  “After.”

  “After what?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  2

  In the moonlight, the back acre of Bill Bonassi’s property looked like the realm of a ghost story. There were no colors, only differing shades of light and dark.

  Millie and Bonassi sat on the verandah. Millie wondered if this would be the last time she did so as chief justice. Tomorrow, according to new reports, the House committee would release its report, and recommend that
the members vote to impeach Millicent Mannings Hollander.

  “This is only the beginning of the fight,” Bonassi said, trying as always to encourage her. Usually it worked.

  Not tonight. Tonight she felt it all slipping away. As if, out in the shadows of the huge lawn, the forces of darkness were gathered to declare victory.

  “But the fight is dirty!” Millie said. “They had someone taking pictures of me at the hospital! While my mother was dying some sleazy photographer was snapping away. And the alcohol story! Bill, is it un-Christian to want to claw their eyes out?”

  “Righteous anger is allowable, I should think.”

  “How can they do this to the Court?”

  “They can because they want to scorch the earth. If the Court gets burned up, so be it. You’re a threat to them now. They’ll say anything, do anything.”

  “I want to talk. I can’t stand this. Let’s call a press conference.”

  “I’m preparing a statement,” Bonassi said calmly. “It will emphasize that an impeachment is nothing more than an indictment, and that anyone accused in this country is innocent until proven guilty. We seem to forget that sometimes.”

  “But when do I get to speak?” Millie asked.

  “Right now the dogs are barking. They won’t hear you.”

  “But when?”

  “We’ll know when.”

  Millie let out a labored breath. Her chest was tight. “I wish I had your faith, Bill. I’m still not there.”

  “Faith takes time. Instant faith is not very hearty. The Bible says it’s the testing of your faith that develops perseverance.”

  “Why?” Millie said. “Why is this happening?”

  Bonassi laced his fingers together. “That question is most often answered after the fact. You look back, and you see what God’s pattern was.”

  The word plucked an inner chord in Millie. “My friend, the minister in California, said something like that. God weaving a pattern for the good of those who love him.”

  “Ah, yes,” Bonassi said. “Romans 8:28. The reverse paranoid text.”