James Bell - Deadlock

“Justice Hollander, would you mind telling me what you found objectionable?”

“You can’t guess?”

“Was it scripturally unsound?”

“It had nothing to do with Scripture.”

“Then it would be unsound!”

“I don’t find that funny. You stood in the pulpit and directed a sermon at me. You took advantage of my situation, my accident, and delivered what was tantamount to a lecture for one. Well, I found it highly offensive and unethical.”

The pastor swallowed. He looked like he’d been hit with a hockey stick. Good. He needed to be.

“You took something highly private,” Millie continued, “and made a whole sermon about it. You even mentioned a book I was reading. If you wanted to shine a spotlight on me in front of this whole town you did a pretty good job of it. Is that your idea of Christianity? To embarrass people, stick needles in them?”

“This was not – ”

“That is all I have to say. I will assure you, for the sake of my mother, that I won’t talk about what I’ve said here with anyone. I will show you a courtesy you did not show me.”

She turned toward the door.

“Justice Hollander.”

“There is nothing more to discuss.” She put her hand on the doorknob.

“Sixth Amendment,” Holden said.

Millie whirled around. “Excuse me?”

“Does not the accused have the right to a trial?”

“I am not amused.” Though she was surprised that he would be quoting the Constitution at her.

Holden stood and walked to the front of his desk. “I am not trying to be amusing, Justice Hollander. I would only like the chance to say something in my own defense.”

“I am really not interested in discussing this further.”

“You at least owe me that.”

She was about to say she did not owe him anything. But now she was curious. What could he possibly say that would justify his offense?

“I’d just like to show you something,” Holden said. He went to a filing cabinet by his bookshelf, pulled out the top drawer. Millie saw a line of manila folders.

“These are my sermon files,” Holden said. “I plan my sermons months in advance. I know what subjects I’ll be preaching on. About six weeks before a sermon, I start my research, jot notes, find material, and throw that into the folder. Four weeks out I start writing the rough draft.”

He pulled out a folder and slid the drawer closed.

“This is my folder for today’s sermon,” he said, approaching her. “On the tab I have today’s date.” He took out some papers. “And this is my rough draft. I’d like you to take a look at it, if you would.”

Reluctantly, Millie took the draft from Holden.

“You’ll notice the date at the top of the draft,” he said. “I wrote this three and a half weeks ago.”

Millie started to read. Her head began to tingle and she felt her cheeks storing embarrassed heat. As she scanned the rest of the page, and the page after it, she saw, almost verbatim, the sermon he had delivered this morning.

“You see,” Holden said, “six weeks ago I knew my subject was going to be death. But I had no idea you would be here today, just as I had no idea you would be in an accident.”

Millie heard herself stammer. “But my book. You mentioned my book.”

“Book?”

“The one I was reading in the square. On Death and Dying.”

“You were? Oh, yeah, you had a book. Was that what it was?” Holden walked to the bookshelf and pulled down a dog-eared paperback. “Here’s my copy.”

For a moment Millie stood there, feeling exposed and without control. For ten years on the Supreme Court, she had been able to control virtually everything, because of her dogged preparation. She never made an argument unless all the facts were clear to her.

The facts had not been clear this time. She had made a huge assumption. Had there been a convenient prairie dog hole outside she would have gladly held court there.

“I must apologize,” she said.

Holden said, “No need. If I had a dime for every time I was misunderstood, this building would be made of crystal.”

In spite of herself, Millie smiled. “I’ll just run along.”

“Wait.”

Millie looked at him, wondering what he could possibly want.

“You feel up to shooting some hoop?”

Anne Deveraux flipped open her phone. “This better be good.”

“It is.”

“Ricks?”

“It ain’t Yasser Arafat.”

“Detail me.” Anne shot a cigarette into her mouth. She was sitting on the balcony of her apartment, ripping through the New York Times and Washington Post via laptop. She wore loose jeans and a gray T-shirt, what she called her Sunday best.

“Our girl went to church with Mom this morning,” Ricks said.

“Big deal.”

“That’s not all.”

“Give it to me.”

“She went back later to meet the guy.”

“The minister?”

“Same one she was talking to before. She went back to the church and met the guy at the front door. Then they go inside.”

“Where is she now?”

“That’s where I left them.”

Anne looked down at the street. From her fifth-floor perch the people looked like dolls. She felt like moving them around. “All right,” she said. “Stay on it. Just don’t stick out like a sore thumb.”

Click.

Anne leaned back in the canvas chair and ran her mind around Dan Ricks. There was nothing to worry about. She knew she could trust him, because he feared her. She knew he feared her because she never entered any relationship without the power to inspire fear.

Except one.

That relationship was not with one of the so-called power guys in D.C. They were really cupcakes when it came right down to it. They would go all soft and crumbly in the face of a woman like Anne. The sex would be great the first night, but after that feelings of inadequacy would creep in under the macho shell, and soon the guy would be goo. One time she’d picked up a lobbyist for a tobacco company, and right as he was fumbling with her buttons she started singing Pat Benatar’s song “Hit Me with Your Best Shot.” That was cruel, she knew, but also telling. The guy was out her door within five minutes.

The older power brokers held no allure for her. Guys like Levering. She respected them, of course, but was not interested in trophy status.

She was twenty-eight and beginning to think the single, professional life would be her lot. Not a bad thing. She didn’t want kids. She didn’t even know if she wanted a long-term relationship.

When she met Ambrosi Gallo, though, things changed.

Anne checked her watch, and noted she had three hours to get over to Dulles to catch her flight to New York. She wished it was sooner. She wished she was on the plane right now, the sooner to be in Ambrosi’s arms.

Anne actually lit her cigarette now, and then felt something weird, something in her gut.

She’d always had great instincts. Had to. To survive. When her parents died helicoptering over the Grand Canyon, her step-dad at the stick – that might have messed up any other sixteen-year-old. But Anne had already overcome her stepfather’s abuse, and she chose to get even stronger. Eventually got into Harvard. Made her way into the citadels of power. Her instincts were impeccable.

She took another deep, wonderful drag on her cigarette, and checked out the street again. Same activity. Same going and coming. Same -

Then she saw him. On the corner just below her balcony. The way he was dressed cried out homeless person. But even from five floors up she could read him. He had a scraggly beard, a dark face. His eyes were wide. And he was looking directly at her.

She went cold. Had to be a coincidence. He had to be looking at something else. From down there, he couldn’t zero in on her. She paused a moment, waiting for him to turn away. He didn’t.