William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

Roush folded his arms across his chest. “I repeat: I am not wearing makeup.”

Carraway pinched the bridge of her nose with her long red fingernails. “Bob, I can’t work with this.”

Senator Hammond smiled, but it was not a happy smile. “Let’s leave it for now. We’ll revisit the issue later.”

“We will not,” Roush said emphatically. “Are you insane? I am the first openly gay Supreme Court nominee. No way in hell I’m going to be seen wearing makeup. It’s just too…obvious.”

“Antonin Scalia wore makeup,” Carraway replied.

“I’m sure Ruth Bader Ginsberg did, too,” Roush grumbled. “But I won’t.”

“His concerns about makeup raise all kinds of public opinion issues we have to address.” This was Kevin Beauregard, a professional pollster. “Our research indicates the opposition to his nomination is almost evenly divided between those who oppose him because he’s gay and those who are concerned about his possible connection to a violent crime. He’s right to avoid anything that might be perceived as stereotypically gay.”

Roush raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“Oh, you know as well as I do. Probably better. No pastels. Pink shirts are out. We want you to look sharp, distinguished. But not ‘pretty.’ No fussy hair styles. No Dippity-Do.”

“Am I allowed to shampoo?”

“Yes, but under no circumstances can you exfoliate.” He sighed. “If I had my way, I’d give you a buzz cut.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Then you wouldn’t need shampoo.”

A line creased Roush’s forehead. “I repeat, sir: Not going to happen.”

“And that thing you do with your wrist—don’t do it.”

“What thing?”

“That thing. You just did it. That has to go.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s that thing you do, especially when you get worked up. It’s not exactly a limp wrist, but…uncomfortably close. You have to avoid anything that might seem effeminate.”

Roush’s face was reddening. “Will there be anything else?”

“Yes. Can we do something about all the refusals to reply?”

“I don’t know what—”

“You won’t talk about your personal life. You won’t talk about your sexual preference, other than to identify it. You won’t talk about Ray. You won’t talk about the murder. You won’t express an opinion on issues that might come before the Court.” He shook his head. “The American public does not like to be told no. Makes you come off very negative. People will suspect you’re hiding something.”

“My personal life is none of their damn business.”

“And when do people normally say something is ‘none of your business’? When they’re hiding something. I’m telling you, Thaddeus—every time you refuse to answer, you lose three percentage points.”

“I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks. I will not express opinions on political issues or hypothetical cases. It is grossly inappropriate.”

“Another thing: don’t say ‘grossly.’ It sounds, well, gross. Turns people off.”

“Are you planning to police my vocabulary now?”

“Absolutely. Try to avoid the big multisyllabic words. People don’t like it—makes them feel stupid. And it seems kind of pompous. Maybe even a little gay.”

“My vocabulary is gay?” Under the table, Ben could see Roush’s fists balling up. “Have you people forgotten that I am not running for office? All I need is the votes of nine senators in committee and fifty-one in the full assembly. The opinion of the American public doesn’t matter.”

“I’m afraid it does. This is already a hot-potato nomination. People are up in arms. Calling their senators.”

“I can testify to the truth of that statement,” Ben offered. “My phone has been ringing off the hook since the announcement in the Rose Garden.”

“And it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets any better,” Sexton added. “Thaddeus, you should prepare yourself for the worst.”

“Moreover,” Beauregard said, “I can guarantee that the distinguished members of the Senate will be taking the temperature back home before they decide how to vote. You’ll have to win over Middle America if you want this position.”

“Swell.” Roush swiveled his chair to face Ben. “You’re from Oklahoma. Could you please deliver the Heartland for me?”

“If possible,” Ben said somberly. “But the sad truth is, most of my phone calls are running against your appointment.”

“That’s to be expected,” Hammond said hastily. “People don’t know you or anything about you, other than your sexual orientation. We can change that at the hearing.”

“Look,” Roush said, “I’m not planning to put on any dog and pony show. I’m a D.C. Circuit judge, not a damn circus performer.”

“Another thing that has to go,” Beauregard said, making a tsk ing noise. “That attitude. Temper, temper.”

“What, is my temper too gay for you?”

Ben scooted his chair between them. “Gentlemen, please. We’re on the same team here, remember?”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Roush grumbled.

“If you don’t mind,” Ben continued, “I have a few questions of my own.”

“Like what?” Senator Hammond asked.

“Like what the heck am I doing here?”

“Well, I was planning to spring this in private, but—I want you to be Tad’s lead counsel at the hearings, Ben. I want you sitting beside him from start to finish.”

“What? Me? Why me?”

Hammond’s eyebrows bounced up and down. “Why not you? You’re a member of Congress and an experienced lawyer.”

“You’ve already got a lawyer.”

Hammond shook his head. “Bertram is brilliant when it comes to strategizing the Senate hearing, but he has no experience in criminal defense.”

“This isn’t a criminal trial.”

“Damn close. You know as well as I do that they will try to drag the murder of that poor woman into it.”

“Probably right. But there are other senators—”

“Actually, there are few senators with genuine criminal defense experience, and none with as much as you.”

“But at best, the criminal defense aspect will be a small part of the confirmation hearings. You need someone with political savvy. Experience with hearings of this sort.”

“Bertram will be sitting right behind you.”

“I should be sitting right behind him. ”

“No, I don’t think so. You’re an Oklahoman and everyone knows it. You’re young, earnest, popular, and as Mom-and-applepie as they come. That’s what I want America to see. Bertram won’t be far away. But when people turn on their sets to look at Tad, I want them to see the fresh-faced kid from Oklahoma at the same time. I want them to think, ‘Well, if Kincaid likes him, a member of the opposition party for heaven’s sake, maybe he’s okay.’ ”

“I think you’re overrating my influence.”

“Got nothing to do with influence,” Hammond said. “It’s about image. You’ve got exactly the image Tad needs. Am I right, Gina?”

She nodded. “He is right. Why are you paying me so much money, Bob? I think you’ve got the image concept down cold.”

“Thirty years in the Senate will do that for you. But I still like to get a second opinion.” He leaned forward and grabbed Ben by the shoulders. “So whaddaya say, slugger? Your country needs you. Thaddeus Roush needs you. Will you do it?”

“Have you made a decision?”

Ben stood in the doorway, a briefcase and coat under his arm. He had just returned from the big powwow in Hammond’s conference room and Christina nailed him before he even had a chance to sit down. “Could I at least hang up my coat first?”