Capitol Threat bk-15 Page 3

  Speaking of whom…

  Ben stared up into the vivid blue eyes of his law partner, Christina McCall, currently serving as his chief of staff, who was seated on his desk, hovering over him. Her strawberry blond hair encircled her head like the flaming halo of the Angel of Retribution; her arms were akimbo, her brow was creased, and she had called him “Benjamin J. Kincaid,” a certain sign that she meant business.

  “You have to make a decision. Now.”

  “I—I don’t see the urgency.”

  “That’s why you have a chief of staff. So what’s it going to be? Decide!”

  “Look, I’m a United States senator—”

  “Which is precisely why you can’t dither about the way you usually do. Decide!”

  Ben tried to push his chair back, but the wall blocked his escape. “It’s only been a few months since the governor appointed me to fill out the remainder of Senator Glancy’s term. I don’t even know if I like it, much less whether I want to run for reelection. Well, I don’t know if it’s really reelection when you weren’t elected the first time, but I still—”

  “Stop.” Her eyebrows knitted together. “You thought I was talking about deciding whether to run for a full term?”

  “Everyone has been hounding me for a statement. The press, the governor, Senator Hammond—”

  “I don’t give a damn about that.”

  Ben blinked. “You don’t?”

  “Well, I mean, I do—but I already know what your decision will be.”

  “Is that so. Perhaps you’d like to enlighten me.”

  “Nope. Violates the Prime Directive.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Forbids interference with the natural development of a dithering personality.”

  “Then what are we talking about?”

  She thrust the back of her left hand into his face. “This!”

  The sizeable diamond glittered in his eyes. “Oh, that. Well, gosh, we’ve only been engaged for, um…”

  “Thirteen weeks, two days, and roughly four-and-a-half hours.”

  “Yes. Exactly.” He pressed his hand against his brow. “I thought it was understood that we’d get married after this term ended and we were back in Tulsa.”

  “And that was acceptable when I thought we were talking about one abbreviated term. But I’m not waiting around another six years! I’ve been waiting for you half my life as it is!”

  They both heard the chuckles emanating from the back of Ben’s office. “Could you be kinda less subtle, Chrissy? I’m not sure Ben gets your drift.”

  Loving. Ben’s barrel-chested investigator, currently serving as Senator Kincaid’s research aide, though most of his research didn’t involve library books. “Something I can do for you?” Ben asked.

  “Just remindin’ you it’s time to take off for the Rose Garden. Don’t want to miss a chance to visit the White House.”

  “I was thinking I might skip it.”

  “Skip the White House?” Christina and Loving both erupted at once.

  Ben shrugged. “There’s so much security. I can just stay here and watch it on C-SPAN.”

  Christina gripped him by the shoulders. “Benjamin J. Kincaid. When the leader of the free world invites the junior senator from the State of Oklahoma to the Rose Garden to hear firsthand who he’s nominating to the Supreme Court of the United States, the junior senator doesn’t go couch potato on him.”

  “He invited everyone in the Senate.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You have to go.” She paused. “Especially if you’re thinking about running for another term.”

  Ben sighed. “Oh, all right. But I won’t enjoy it.”

  “You’re breaking my heart.”

  “I’m s’prised it’s taken the President so long to make the nomination,” Loving offered. “This whole thing’s been orchestrated from the start.”

  Ben wasn’t sure what was stranger: the statement itself, or the fact that Loving had used the word “orchestrated.” “Huh?”

  A low, subguttural snigger. “You don’t really think the late Justice Cornwall died of a heart attack, do you?”

  “Spare me your conspiracy theories.”

  “When a man in a position of power in his early sixties dies of a ‘heart attack’ ”—Loving made little snicker quotes in the air as he said the words—“you can be certain the Powers-That-Be are making a play.”

  “The Powers-That-Be? And who is that? The Trilateral Commission? The Freemasons? The Thirteen Old Men Who Rule the World?”

  Loving stepped closer and spoke in hushed tones. “Microsoft.”

  Ben rolled his eyes. “Give me a—”

  “Think before you scoff, Skipper. Everyone knows Microsoft is in bed with the Chinese.”

  Christina stared at him. “We do?”

  “Who else uses icons to convey meaning, huh? Do you know how widespread the Windows operating system is? In twenty years, the English alphabet will be extinct.”

  Ben frowned. “And this relates to the late Justice Cornwall because…”

  “He was well known to be a staunch anticommunist.”

  “I would like to think everyone in our government—”

  “In the new era, Americans will all be illiterate computer jockeys. Easily conquered by the Marxist-Maoist-Microsoft consortium.”

  “And this is all being engineered by that pinko fink Bill Gates?”

  Loving guffawed. “You know, Skipper, for a senator, you’re not very well informed. There is no Bill Gates.”

  “There isn’t?”

  “Bill Gates is a virtual character created by Microsoft technicians and played by a succession of actors. Honestly, do you think he looks like a real person? I don’t even know where you’d go to buy a pair of glasses like that.”

  Ben pushed past him. “On second thought, I will go to the Rose Garden. I’m desperate to go to the Rose Garden. Anywhere I might find a small morsel of sanity. Come—”

  He collided with Jones, his administrative assistant, currently serving as his administrative assistant. “Boss! Are you taking appointments yet?”

  “Do I ever stop?”

  “Christina told me not to let anyone in your office till she came out.”

  Ben gave Christina a long look. “Indeed. Well, it’ll have to wait. We’re going to see the Presid—”

  “Senator Kincaid!” Ben was all but flattened by a large woman in a sundress who pushed past Jones and slammed Ben back into the doorway. She slapped her hands against his chest. “I have to talk to you.”

  “This is the U.S Senate! Don’t we have…guards or something?”

  The woman ignored him. “I’m Geraldine Pommeroy.”

  Ben ran the name through his mental Filofax. “I talked to the chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee about that furlough for your son—”

  “I don’t have a son. I have four daughters.”

  “Four…daughters. Oh—there’s a Senate page position opening up in—”

  “They’re not old enough to be pages. The oldest is twelve.”

  “Okay, I give up. What do you want?”

  “They told me you could get us tickets for the White House tour. My eldest is doing a report on what she did over the vacation break, and she needs pictures of the White House to bring up her ‘C’ average.”

  Ben rolled his eyes. Good thing U.S. senators deal with only the most urgent and important crises. “Jones?”

  He stepped forward. “Sorry, Boss. We’re all out of tourist passes.”

  Ben shrugged. “My apologies, ma’am. I couldn’t get anyone into the White House if my life depended on it. If you’ll excuse me—”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Me? I’m going—” He stopped short. “I’m…um…I’m going on an important…senator…thing.” He ducked under her arm and slid past. “Be seeing you!”

  The woman whirled on him. “I’m not voting for you next time!”

  “I’m pretty sure you didn’t vote fo
r me before,” Ben said under his breath. “Jones—is the car ready? Get me out of here!”

  3

  Sometimes Ben had to shake himself just to remember that it was real—he was an actual U.S. senator. And he had been invited to the White House. As his car whizzed down the stretch between Lafayette Park and 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, he marveled once again at his great good fortune. The elm trees and retractable bollards were lovely, and they kept you from noticing the camouflaged guard booths. Couldn’t have the White House looking like a penitentiary—even though at times Ben thought that was exactly what it was.

  Ben had seen the Rose Garden a million times on television, but it looked like an entirely different place when you visited in person. For one thing, you noticed that there actually were roses, long rows of tall flowering red and pink rosebushes. The air was sweet and the endless green expanse of perfectly trimmed lawn was an amateur golfer’s dream. All in all a wonderfully tranquil location—or it would be, if it hadn’t been infested with a thousand or so reporters, politicians, and sundry other dignitaries, not to mention a tangled weave of minicams, boom mikes, and miscellaneous technical equipment, all centered around the currently unoccupied podium bearing the seal of the POTUS—President of the United States.

  “A rather impressive display, isn’t it? Even when no one’s up there.”

  Ben turned and found himself face-to-face with the top dog in his party, the Senate Minority Leader, Robert Hammond. Ben glanced at his watch. “President Blake is late.”

  Hammond chuckled. “President Blake is always late. Haven’t you noticed? He likes to build anticipation, put on a show. It’s because he’s from Missouri.” The wind whistled through Hammond’s thinning silver mane. “But I suppose when you’ve gone to all the trouble of running for the highest office in the land, you’re entitled to a few idiosyncrasies.”

  Ben smiled. During his short time in Washington, he had repeatedly been impressed by Hammond’s warmth and good humor. He couldn’t help but be pleased that this senior legislator had taken so much interest in him, a puny appointed fill-in senator from Oklahoma. Ben almost felt as if the man were grooming him for a future in politics, as if Hammond saw a potential in him that no one else was seeing, including himself. Hammond was also the author of the federal Environmental Protection Wilderness Bill, a sweeping piece of reform legislation designed to undo the damage of previous administrations and declare an unprecedented amount of untouched wilderness and national parkland free from development. It was the legislation closest to Christina’s heart. She had spent hundreds of hours trying to make the bill a law. Hammond was also assembling a coalition to pass the largest aid bill in history for the millions of Americans living below the poverty level.

  “Have we got the votes yet, Senator?”

  “For the Wilderness bill? Still three short. Don’t worry. I’ll find them.”

  “You’re the only man who could.”

  Hammond grinned. “Might be right about that, Ben. Might be right. I’ll let you know when we’ve got a plurality.”

  “Great. I’m hoping to give Christina a signed copy of that bill for a wedding present.”

  “Can’t think of anything that would please her more. Or me.” He turned his attention to the empty podium.

  “You already know who it is, don’t you?” Ben asked.

  “Well…a small group of the senior legislators did have a private heart-to-heart with the President this morning.”

  “It’s Judge Haskins, isn’t it?”

  “That would be telling.”

  “Can you at least say whether you’re pleased about the selection?”

  “Yes. I can tell you that, under the circumstances, I’m very pleased. It could’ve been a lot worse, given the deeply Republican President who’s doing the picking. I can only assume the President wants to end his administration on a high note with a popular, quickly confirmed addition to the Court.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” Ben knew that the Supreme Court, in the wake of the death of Justice Cornwall, was evenly divided among conservatives, liberals, and centrists. The next person appointed to the Court might well cast deciding votes on the death penalty, gun control, abortion, right-to-die, and a host of other critical constitutional issues.

  “They’ve been planning this dog and pony show for days,” Hammond said. “No coincidence this is happening on a Friday afternoon, either. Most of the press won’t be on the story until Monday. In the meantime, the President’s staff will blanket the Sunday news shows with flunkies selling the candidate, rattling on about how he’s God’s gift to jurisprudence. They’ll get endorsements from the Christian Congregation and law enforcement organizations and anyone else who needs a favor from the White House. They’ll distribute puff pieces and video clips, stuff the media can regurgitate until they have a chance to do a little digging on their own. By Monday you’ll be reading stories about people whose lives were changed for the better by this judge’s courtroom brilliance. The press will look for something negative. But the truth is, they won’t find much, because if there were anything to find, the President’s men would’ve found it first—and he would never have been nominated. By the end of the week, most Americans will have heard something that gives them a favorable first impression of the man. And the President’s battle will be four-fifths won.”

  “The President’s investigators have missed things before,” said Ben. “Remember, they don’t do a full-fledged FBI investigation until the President makes his nomination. That’s the one wild card in every nomination—the President can never know what the Feebs might find. I was still at OU when my contracts professor Anita Hill went to Washington to testify about Clarence Thomas.”

  “That was eons ago. Today, these boys take no chances. Sad result is, the only people who can get nominated are nebbishes with no lives.” He winked. “But at least this time we’re getting a fairly reasonable nebbish.”

  “Good to know.”

  The applause began before anyone was even in view. Advance men, Ben reminded himself. Even the President depended upon them. A few moments later, as the applause reached its crescendo, the Commander-in-Chief appeared, shaking hands as he walked, smiling, slapping people on the back, until he reached his podium. He was not a tall man, but his bearing was so straight and self-confident that he seemed taller than he truly was. He had a smile so perfect, so carefully calculated for the television cameras, that in person, Ben thought it seemed almost external to his body, something he could put on or take off like a necktie.

  “Some have said that the power to appoint justices to the Supreme Court is the greatest of all executive powers,” he began, reading off an almost invisible translucent teleprompter, flashing the telegenic good looks that had gotten him elected. “Even greater than the power of war. While this administration opposes judicial activism, and judges who think they’re legislators, we nonetheless recognize that the appointment of a new member to the Supreme Court is a matter of grave import.”

  A wind whistled through the Rose Garden, bathing Ben in the aroma of rose petals. The President was doing a good job, he thought, getting straight to the point yet simultaneously letting the suspense build, so the ultimate announcement would seem all the more dramatic—even if no one had heard of the man before.

  “Ideally, Supreme Court justices should be many things—wise, impartial, insightful, full of idealism yet imbued with a keen eye on the wicked ways of the world,” President Blake continued. Ben thought his slow Missouri drawl—not that different from a western Oklahoma accent—effectively conveyed a sense of “regular guyness” without mitigating the importance of the occasion. “They must interpret the letter of the law, yet at the same time they must see beyond the letter to the people: the people who wrote the law, and the people it was designed to protect and defend. They must be intellectual, but never so much as to elevate the head over the heart, because every time they hear a case, every time they sign an opinion, lives are changed. This is
not a mere exercise in logic, but a sacred trust with the power to alter and affect millions of Americans. Most important, Supreme Court appointees must make sure that justice—equal justice—rings out in this hallowed land of ours, now and for-evermore.”

  “Is he announcing a judicial nomination,” Ben whispered, “or canonizing a saint?” Hammond motioned him to shush.

  The President smiled. “Fortunately, today I am proud to announce that after an extensive search, we have found someone worthy of and equal to this daunting responsibility. It is my very great privilege to announce this day my nominee for the office of the Supreme Court of the United States—the Honorable Thaddeus T. Roush.”

  Another round of applause broke out as a tall, thin man emerged from the restricted area behind the podium. He waved to the crowd, then approached the President, who gripped him by the shoulder and shook his hand.

  “Am I supposed to know who he is?” Ben whispered.

  “No,” Hammond answered. “But you will.”

  Roush was wearing a blue suit with a red tie—standard politico television wardrobe since Ronald Reagan. He was obviously unaccustomed to the attention, not to mention the crowd, the lights, and the microphones, but he held himself together and approached the podium, readjusting the microphone to account for his greater height.

  “Thank you, Mr. President. And let me say that it is my very great honor to even be considered, much less chosen, to be your Supreme Court nominee.” His slow, precise voice did not contain much inflection, highlighting his almost ascetic, intellectual appearance. “While I have enjoyed my work for the Court of Appeals, I am humbled by the possibility of playing an even greater role in the judicial affairs of this great nation. Again, I thank the President for this opportunity and assure you all that I will do the best I can to earn this honor and to respect and dignify the great tradition of the Supreme Court.”

  A spattering of applause. Roush hesitated. Ben wondered if he were done. He’d said enough—no rule required a Supreme Court justice to be a great orator, after all. Not part of the job description.