William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

“And good luck. You’re sure to qualify for the finals. What piece are you going to recite then?”

“You mean I have to know another poem?”

“Of course. You can’t milk the same performance piece all night long. You must’ve prepared something else, right? I don’t think you can get by with the ‘burly-redneck-who doesn’t understand-poetry’ thing again. I mean, it had a nice, sort of Andy Kaufman quality the first time around—like a nail-hard comic not afraid to take a joke too far. But to try it a second time—that really would be taking the joke too far.”

“Thanks for the tip. And if you see Trudy, please let me know.”

Loving glanced up at the stage, eyes wide, hands already beginning to tremble. There must be hundreds of people in this auditorium. And if he didn’t find Trudy fast, he was going to have to come up with a parodic deconstructionist modernist interpretation for “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

Loving searched the entire auditorium, gallery, backstage, balcony, even behind the concession stand; but he never managed to locate anyone who remotely matched Trudy’s description, or anyone who knew where Trudy was. He systematically inspected the entire building, all while trying not to disturb the shouting, crying, wailing, pontificating, and various other modes of performance emanating from the stage. Stealth was for other private eyes; Loving much preferred the in-your-face, tell-me-what-I-want-to-know approach. Perhaps it lacked subtlety, but it worked for him. At least, normally it did.

After about an hour of searching, he decided to call it quits. She just wasn’t there. He hated to abandon the search—he had no other leads—but this was getting him nowhere. He was wasting his time, and worse, if he hung around much longer, he would be forced to take the stage again. That was to be avoided at all costs.

He decided to leave the same way he had come, by the backstage exit. No one seemed to mind him being there; they probably thought he was preparing for another performance. He slipped out and soon found himself back on the street. He wasn’t greeted by another round of gunfire, either from behind or above, and that was a considerable relief. Apparently the bad guys had gone home, at least for now. He cut through a nearby alleyway and headed for his van.

The blow came so swiftly he barely saw it, had no time to duck. Something hard and metal smashed into the back of his skull. Loving fell to his knees, fighting unconsciousness. He held up his hands, trying to block the next blow. Damned if it wasn’t a brick.

He wrestled with the strong arm holding it, fighting to get free. In the dark shadows, he couldn’t make out the face of his assailant. Max? Pretty Boy? He didn’t think it was either, judging by the silhouette. Maybe the sniper had climbed down from his nest. No telling. At the moment, he had to focus on making sure that brick didn’t make contact again with his head.

A sudden swift kick to the groin took the fight out of him but fast. Where had that come from? he wondered, as he felt the strength ooze from his arms. The shoe felt…pointed. As his attacker moved in for the next blow, he spotted the shadowy trace of hair, very long hair, so long the bearer could almost sit on it. Loving tried to grab a handful of it, but he wasn’t nearly fast enough. The brick came down again, this time making contact with the base of his skull.

He fell to the wet, slimy concrete pavement, his head swimming. The pain was immense. He tried to summon some strength somewhere in his body, preferably his feet, but it did not come. Before he could do anything to defend himself, the brick came barreling downward once again, the blackness enveloped him, and he was gone.

30

Ben entered the Senate Caucus Room with an almost unreasonable sense of optimism about what was yet to come. Despite the unmitigated disaster of the last session, he hoped this one would be a pleasant change of pace. The gauntlet of interrogations was over, all eighteen of them; now they called witnesses who had testimony that might be of use to the Senate Committee in the course of its deliberations. The friendly witnesses would be first—co-workers, friends, character witnesses, anyone Ben or Sexton could drum up to say a few nice words in support of Thaddeus Roush. Of course, each would be interrogated not only by the senator who called them but also by any other senator who wished to do so, with no set time limit other than those that might be imposed at the whim of the chairman. In effect, it would be cross-examination, though they didn’t call it that. But there was no reason to believe that would lead to any trouble. No one was being called who was remotely controversial.

After all the friendly witnesses testified, the opposition had the right to call anyone whose testimony might be of use, but so far they had given no indication that they would. Despite the widespread opposition to Roush’s nomination, no one seemed to have unearthed anything negative about him. They couldn’t hang him on his sexual preference. The police had been unable to link the murder to Roush or Eastwick. Besides, the whole procedure—calling witnesses, examining them, cross-examining them—was much closer to what Ben was accustomed to dealing with in the courtroom, and as a result, he hoped he might be somewhat more helpful than he had been so far.

The first witness sworn was a woman named Amelia Haspiel, a judge from the D.C. Circuit who had served on the bench with Roush for the previous eight years. She spoke in glowing terms about his dedication to his work, his fidelity to the law, his relentless work ethic. She called him a driven professional, but also made the point that he was genial and agreeable to work with, not obsessive or insulting, despite his obvious great intelligence.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever had a co-worker whose company I’ve enjoyed more. Or in whom I had greater confidence.”

“But you’re a peer. A co-equal Circuit Court justice,” Senator Dawkins said. “Do you think the same would be true of those who work under him?”

“I know it would,” Haspiel said without hesitation. “I’ve heard Tad’s secretary comment more than once that he was the best boss she ever had. And I know that whenever a clerkship in his chambers came available, there were always more applicants than Tad could begin to fill. He was popular with everyone.”

“Did you ever hear anyone say anything negative about Judge Roush?”

“Never. Not once in eight years. That includes remarks from lawyers who appeared before him, some of whom, of course, lost. Didn’t matter. Even when lawyers or fellow jurists disagreed with him, they always respected his opinion. He’s a man of integrity. I wish our courts had more judges like him.”

Can’t get much better than that, Ben thought, watching from the sidelines. And the best part of it was, neither he nor Tad had to do a thing. They could just sit back and watch.

Senator Potter, R-Ore., took the mike for what Ben knew amounted to cross-examination. He was a potential threat, someone whose devotion to Keyes would never waver. Didn’t matter. As long as it wasn’t Matera, Ben wouldn’t worry about it.

After about ten minutes of hemming and hawing, Potter finally got to what he had obviously wanted to talk about all along. “Judge Haspiel, did you think at any time that Judge Roush’s…sexual preference interfered with the performance of his judicial duties?”

Ben frowned. What could the purpose of this question be? Surely Potter didn’t expect a positive response. Was it just a bit of thinly disguised mudslinging, a chance to remind Middle America that Roush was gay?

“No, sir, there was not. But of course, none of us knew he was gay.”