James Bell - Deadlock

After two practice swings that scattered tufts of grass like flushing quail, Francis hit one of the best golf shots Levering had ever seen. The white ball flew up onto the green, rolled, and stopped about five feet short of the pin.

“And that,” the president said, “is how it is done.”

“Pretty good,” Levering said.

“Pretty good? Tiger would kill to hit a shot like that.” Francis led the way to the golf cart. Levering got in, shooting a quick glance at the secret service detail in the golf cart behind them. They did not smile. They did not golf.

“The secret to golf,” Francis said as he drove toward the green, “is to stay out of trouble. You know? Just stay away from the trouble areas. Which is one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”

The scent of cigar smoke mixed with freshly mown grass was the scent of power. Levering breathed it in deeply, appreciatively. “You have something in mind?”

“Hollander,” the president said. “She stable?”

“As near as we can tell.”

“That’s not near enough.” Francis brought the cart to a stop on the path next to the green. Then he faced Levering, flicked a bit of ash onto the grass, and said, “I had a meeting with Helen Forbes Kensington yesterday. You know her?”

Only from what Anne had told him. She was Hollander’s good friend, and a pretty hot-looking divorcee. “Not personally,” Levering said, “though I wouldn’t mind.”

“You and me both,” Francis laughed. “Anyway, she was doing some lobbying, wanted me to put reproductive rights further up on the list. Plus she was all in a lather about a case down south, a trial in federal court about informed consent.”

“I think I read about that.”

“Yeah, well she thinks it’s a hydrogen bomb on the whole women’s rights movement.”

“How so?”

“If the plaintiff wins based on the fact that she should have been informed about the mental health risks of abortion, what happens?”

Levering shrugged.

“Class action lawsuits,” Francis said. “If they win, the abortion providers go bankrupt, my friend. Then the anti-abortion crowd won’t have to worry about Roe v. Wade . They’ll have effectively shut down abortion through the back door.”

Levering had fought all of his political life for the rights of women, from the days of ERA to the cause of the right to choose. Was this concern real? If it was, then having Millie Hollander under his wing, as chief justice, was even more important than he had at first supposed.

“I’m going to need a strong chief,” Francis said. “Someone who can hold the delicate balance up there. And I want your assurance that Hollander is still your first choice.”

Of course she was. His little tryst with Hollander had been – through Anne Deveraux’s alchemy and his limo driver’s loyalty – transformed into a weapon of almost unbelievable potency. Levering knew how much Millie Hollander wanted to be chief justice, how much her reputation meant to her. Sam Levering knew how to use the ambition of others to his own ends. That was politics.

“Yes,” Levering said as he and the president headed for the green. “I know she’s the right choice.”

“Fine,” Francis said, getting out of the cart and grabbing his putter from the bag. “Then I want to talk with her as soon as possible. A nice chat before I make the announcement. And I want to run it by Graebner.”

“That’s a good idea,” Levering said.

“Those are the only kind of ideas I have,” Francis said. “Now take a look at this putt. You think it breaks left?”

Levering laughed. “Everything you do breaks left, Mr. President.”

Millie quivered. She was not used to raw emotion unfiltered through careful analysis. But her mind seemed paralyzed; it rang with the words she hadn’t had a chance to say to her mother.

Jack Holden had arrived just behind the ambulance. The paramedics said they’d be going to Kern Medical Hospital in Bakersfield. Holden offered to drive Millie. She gratefully accepted, and appreciated that he wasn’t feeling chatty. After about twenty minutes on the highway he gently asked, “How you feeling?”

Millie looked at him, wondering for a moment if she might be able to open up a little. What she said was, “I’m a little upset right now.” It was a cold, antiseptic description.

“You’re very close to your mother,” Holden said.

“I haven’t had a chance lately to be close,” Millie said. Something cracked inside her. A small fissure, and out of it came a warm stream of tears. She swiped her index finger under both eyes, embarrassed.

Holden, if he noticed, did not react. He kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Almost there,” he said.

The gray concrete hospital was just off Mt. Vernon Avenue. At emergency receiving Millie gave them as much information as she could. Then she was told to wait. A doctor would be out soon.

Soon stretched into sometime. The TV in the waiting room was tuned to a soap opera vacantly eyed by a scattered few. A boy of about five played with some plastic toys on the floor under the TV.

Holden said, “Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

“Water,” Millie said. “Thanks.” She watched as he got up and noticed how solid he looked. He must be a real comfort to people at moments like this. That was the important thing, perhaps. Not all the theology or the preaching or the arguments for God. Maybe all that mattered was what you did when people needed you.

Holden returned with a Styrofoam cup of cold water. It tasted metallic.

“I appreciate that you’re here,” Millie said.

“Glad to be,” Holden said. “I love your mom. She’s a great lady.”

And then, needing a change of pace of any kind, Millie said, “You write a pretty good brief. Thoughtful.”

“Thank you.” His gratitude seemed genuine. “Coming from Justice Hollander, that’s high praise indeed.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I’m always game. But what about you?”

“Please. Anything’s better than just sitting here, waiting.”

Holden seemed pleased. “Funny word, better.”

Millie looked at him questioningly.

“Do you know the term tertium quid?” he asked.

“That’s Latin for ‘third thing.’ ”

“Exactly. Any moral argument needs a tertium quid that stands outside two competing positions. It’s like an umpire in baseball or the rule book. Without that third thing, you and I might never agree on what is good, better, best. Or even a moral standard. We always fall victim to the Grand Sez Who.”

“Come again?”

“If I say racism is a good thing, and you tell me it is not, I can answer, Sez Who? You? I can be a racist if I want to. There is no tertium quid.”

The intellectual give-and-take was indeed a pleasant diversion. She dove in. “But I can gather the community to denounce you as an ignorant outcast.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to agree. If I have guns or bombs, I can make an even greater statement.”

“And I can lock you up.”

“And so we get to the conclusion. Morality on this stage equals power. Might makes right.”

Feeling a bit testy now, Millie said, “Where is the doctor?” She started to stand up, then sat down again.

“He’ll be here soon,” Holden said. “More water?”

“No, no.” Millie pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Let’s keep talking. It helps.” She settled back to talk. “Okay, tell me how the ‘Sez Who’ theory proves the truth of Christianity.”

“Our moral sense is just one bit of evidence to consider,” Holden said. “That’s the mistake people make. They assume that because one line of argument can’t prove the case alone, it is of no value. Not so. What do we do in court? We let the jury look at all the relevant evidence and then decide which way the scales of justice should fall.”