James Bell - Deadlock

Climbing a small rise, Millie came to the outskirts of town. Santa Lucia looked the same to Millie. It was as if a dome had been placed over it, preventing any aging. There were paint jobs, of course, and some sprucing up. City Hall had a new flagpole, with a grand, golden eagle on the top.

If there was any difference it was that fewer people seemed to be out at this time of day. She could remember balmy summer evenings when the streets were teeming with families. That was in the early sixties. When cable TV got to the valley, people stayed indoors more. They could watch the tube, and also avoid the bad things they thought might float down from San Francisco or up from Los Angeles.

Millie found a bench facing the town’s only fountain – a double decker erected by the Rotary in ’59 and dedicated to the fallen heroes of World War II. She settled into the bench and opened the book she’d brought with her, On Death and Dying. There was barely enough light to read.

“Howdy.”

Millie looked up. Jack Holden stood there, dressed in casual blue jeans and a T-shirt – as if he were a rancher or a farmhand. He still had that odd bead necklace on. She hoped he would not ask to join her.

“May I join you?” he said.

She nodded reluctantly.

Holden sat down. “Saw you over here and thought I’d apologize for earlier. I think I sort of hit the wrong note.”

“Thank you. I apologize, too. I was a little tired from my trip.” You can go now.

“See, I’ve got this little problem. People sometimes think I’m a little, what’s the word I’m looking for…”

Obnoxious?

“Persistent,” Holden said. “I get a little carried away sometimes, especially when I talk about the church. But it saved my life, you see, so I guess that’s why.”

Millie gave him a quick nod but said nothing. She did not want to invite further conversation.

“So,” Holden said. “What are you reading?”

Millie placed her hand over the cover of her paperback. “Oh, just a little book.”

“Like to read myself,” Holden said. “Wish I had more time for it.”

Shifting uncomfortably – her blouse was sticking to her back – Millie cleared her throat in a way she hoped would finally end the conversation.

“May I ask you a question that’s a little personal?” Holden said.

No. “Personal?”

“I don’t mean to be… persistent. You can tell me to go jump in the lake if you want to.”

“What’s the question?”

“We’ve been praying for you, after your accident and all. I was just wondering how you’re feeling. Not just physically, but every way.”

She didn’t know which she liked less. The fact that he was looking at her so seriously, or the fact that she almost wanted to answer him.

“Reverend Holden?”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps that jump in the lake?”

Holden put his head back and laughed. “I will respect your privacy,” he said. “But I wonder if I might try this again. Would you do me the honor of attending my church on Sunday?”

Millie had to at least admire his persistence. “Thank you, that’s very nice, but I’m just not a churchgoer.”

“Well, we don’t discriminate at our church. Non-churchgoers are welcome.”

She shook her head slightly. “Again, thanks for the invitation.”

Holden didn’t leave. “It really would be an honor to have a Supreme Court justice visit us. Though in the interest of full disclosure, I must tell you that I don’t agree with your judicial opinions most of the time.”

She was aghast. Not so much that he would disagree with her, but that he had read enough of her opinions to reach such a judgment. “You’ve actually read my opinions?”

“All of them,” he said.

“But why?”

“Why not? I’m a citizen. And your mother is, after all, a member of my flock.” He stood up and nodded. “Well, hope to see you on Sunday. Thanks for the chat.” And with that he turned and walked away.

Stunned, she watched him go, noticing for the first time that he had a slight limp. Now she was curious. He had, in the last few minutes, transformed from a stereotype to a man of much more complexity.

A clergyman who read her opinions? Now she wanted to know just why he disagreed with her. She wanted to ask him questions, like she would have done to a lawyer arguing before her. For a moment she considered calling him back.

“Don’t,” she said out loud. Then she forced herself back into her book. But, unable to concentrate, she finally gave up and walked back to her mother’s house.

The trick to fighting depression, Sam Levering thought, was to keep busy. You could busy yourself with staff work, public ceremonies, drink, female companionship – any one of a number of items from a United States senator’s playbook. And he had tried them all.

That was true now, as he pounded his way out of the chamber of the Judiciary Committee. He had been unable to concentrate on the hearing, even though it was an easy one. President Francis had sent Preston Atkins, a judge from the Second Circuit, as his nominee to fill the vacancy created by Ed Pavel’s retirement.

The media were full of speculation about who would assume the CJ’s chair, especially after the accident involving Millicent Mannings Hollander. Most assumed Hollander was going to get the nod.

But Atkins brought his own set of credentials. Described by Francis as “middle of the road,” Atkins was really a staunch social liberal. The conservatives were making a lot of noise, but Atkins was handling the questioning with poise and equanimity. He was going to sail through, despite a few bumpy waves.

Yet Levering couldn’t keep his mind focused. He’d been distracted by a simple phrase one of the opponents had said in the middle of an argument. “We cannot leave our children with that legacy.”

Children.

Thoughts of his son raced into Levering’s mind, stronger than they had in a long time. Levering had fought against all thoughts and feelings about his son. But sometimes nothing seemed to help.

So, though it was only eleven in the morning, Sam Levering was on his way back to his office for a drink. He turned toward the east corridor when he heard his name called. It was Anne Deveraux.

“Don’t you ever rest?” he said.

“What’s rest?”

“I’m about to have lunch.” Bourbon, he thought.

“Want to hear the latest on Hollander?”

“Yes.”

Anne looked around. No one was within earshot. “She was talking to, get this, a minister.”

“Minister?”

“Yeah. Heads up a little church. Now isn’t that curious?”

Levering ran his tongue over his dry lips. He hated the word minister. It had been a minister who ruined his son’s life. What was Hollander doing consorting with one of that ilk?

“Bottom line, what do you think it means?”

“Maybe nothing,” Anne said. “Maybe something. It appeared to be a somewhat casual conversation, according to my source. But it went on for a bit.”

It better not be more than casual, Levering thought. Not for his pick for chief justice. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid? I mean, isn’t her mother a churchgoer or something like that?”

“Something like that,” Anne said.

“So what’s your gut instinct?”

Anne looked at him over her sunglasses. “I think Madame Justice is not herself these days.”

Charlene Moore felt her legs trembling. But she had to stand for her opening statement.

The courtroom was huge, especially compared to the state court satellites she was used to. Judge Howard Lewis seemed to be a hundred feet in the air atop his bench, looking down like an Olympian god. And the majestic eagle rendered on the shield that adorned the wall seemed ready to drop the olive branches in its talons and swoop down, mercilessly, on Charlene.