William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

“Come on. Roush is a federal judge. How long could he possibly keep something like that quiet?”

“How long did J. Edgar Hoover keep his homosexuality quiet? Like, his entire life? And he had a much higher profile than a federal judge.”

Ben shrugged. “I still can’t believe it.”

“You don’t want to believe it.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it if it was all consensual. I just…don’t believe it. Doesn’t ring true.”

“I’ve got people looking into this Gottlieb guy,” Sexton explained. “See if we can find some motive for him to fabricate testimony.”

“Maybe he’s jealous of Roush’s success,” Carraway suggested.

“Maybe Roush dumped him,” Christina added.

“Ah.” Sexton smiled. “The Anita Hill counteroffense. After she testified against Thomas at his confirmation hearing, the Republicans did their best to cast doubt on her testimony. Problem was—she had no motive to lie. She hadn’t even wanted to testify. So they started the rumor that Thomas had dated Hill, then dumped her. Suggested that she was insanely jealous because he married a white woman instead of her.”

Christina pursed her lips. “That’s just…revolting.”

“Agreed.” Sexton paused. “I wonder if it would work for us.”

“We’re not going to have an opportunity for any counter-offensive,” Ben said. “Not for a while. They still have more witnesses to call, probably of the same ilk. We should start rounding up people who have worked with Roush but have not been propositioned and have not observed any inappropriate behavior.”

“Not that it would disprove what we’ve already heard.”

“Can’t hurt.”

“It could, actually,” Sexton said, batting a finger against his lips, “if it sounds lame. Desperate.”

“What we need is for the nominee to get angry again,” Carraway said. “My polls show the public doesn’t understand why he sits quietly while people say nasty things about him. That outburst at the end of the last session was good, but undermined by the fact that he didn’t actually get to say anything. He needs to show some fire. Tell people off.”

“I disagree,” Ben said. “That would be playing into their hands.”

“Americans respect fire.”

“Not in a legal, or even a quasi-legal proceeding. Makes you look defensive. I’ve talked to hundreds of jurors.”

“When are you going to get the message? It’s not a courtroom.”

“But the same principles apply.”

“Not in the political arena. People will support a sex fiend sooner than they’ll support a wimp. You need to tell your man to fight back, hard and fast.”

“I will not. It’s bad advice.”

The deep breathing made Carraway’s shoulder pads rise. “Kid, don’t question me. I’m the expert here. Just do it.”

“Are you intentionally trying to sabotage this hearing?”

Carraway glared at him.

“I won’t do it,” Ben said firmly. “No.”

Sexton intervened. “Could you at least get him to deny the orgies part? I think that would go a long way.”

“I’ll talk to him. But I’m not optimistic.”

Hammond laid his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Give it a go, Ben. I know how persuasive you can be. Talk sense to the man. He trusts you.” The elderly statesman smiled. “I feel certain you can make him understand.”

“Absolutely not!”

“Just hear me out.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Just a tiny compromise.”

“Not an inch. Not a goddamned inch!”

Ben had taken Roush downstairs into the subterranean chambers that underlined the main Capitol building, the home of unwanted office equipment, the world’s most archaic (and noisiest) ventilation and air-conditioning system, and the private hideaways of the most senior and important senators. Ben didn’t have one; at the moment, he was about ninety-ninth on the standby list. But it was still a good place to stretch your legs and get out of the office, however briefly, without being spotted by the media. Ben had hoped a little exercise might help Roush clear his head.

So far, wrong.

“If we give them an inch, even an inch, we could set a precedent that will haunt every Supreme Court nominee till the end of time,” Roush argued. “People remember the Bork inquiry as the moment when standards began to erode. I won’t have them remember the Roush inquiry as the moment when standards disappeared altogether.”

“I don’t think you need to go into any detail. Just deny the seedy nightlife stuff. Isn’t that what you were trying to do?”

“I lost my temper. It was a mistake. Any response will constitute a tacit endorsement of these scurrilous tactics.”

“You can think of an explanation.”

“Explanation, or excuse?”

“Say you’re doing it to protect Ray’s reputation.”

Roush arched an eyebrow. “Step forward to protect the little lady? I don’t think so.”

Ben paused outside the door to what had once been the hide-away of his predecessor, Senator Glancy. After the murder, even the most eager senators passed on the chance to claim it. The room had been converted into a storage facility for cleaning supplies. “Look, it comes down to one thing. Do you want to join the Supremes or not?”

“Of course I do! What kind of fool wouldn’t? That’s not the question. The question is: How low am I willing to sink to get on the Court?”

Ben grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him squarely in the eyes. “Please reconsider, Tad. Our only hope is that you will step forward and deny as many of these accusations as you can. Because if you don’t—I can’t help you in there.” Ben released his shoulders and looked at him sadly. “You’re on your own.”

36

The next three witnesses all stated that they had seen Thaddeus Roush frequenting gay bars in and around the Annapolis area. Ben didn’t feel that was the end of the world. The constant corroboration, however, would eliminate the possibility in many people’s minds that the stories were entirely false—even though Ben knew from experience that if you could get one person to lie, it wasn’t that much harder to get four people to lie.

The fourth witness at least demonstrated a certain variety. Alice Rodgers, co-owner of a local concert venue, testified that she had seen Roush shopping in a gay adult sex shop. She was there to pick up a gag gift for an office Christmas party when, to her surprise, she chanced across a member of the federal appeals court. She remembered the incident very clearly.

“At first, I couldn’t believe it—I had seen Judge Roush’s picture in the paper just the day before. And there he was. Browsing the dildos and the edible body paint.”

“How long was he…shopping?” Senator Matera asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Ten, fifteen minutes.”

“And you observed him the whole time?”

“Well, I tried not to stare. But you know. It was a bit distracting. Like seeing Cher in a strip club.”

“And did he purchase anything?”

“He did. But I couldn’t see what it was.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“Oh, heavens, no,” she said, covering her face. “I didn’t feel it was my place.”

Well, Ben thought, it could be worse. This testimony was not helpful, but it was hardly a criminal act. In a way, he was almost relieved—it could have been so much more damaging.

“But even though you didn’t speak to him,” Matera continued, “you’re quite certain it was Judge Roush.”

“Oh, yes,” Rodgers said. “Absolutely. No doubt about it. Despite his best efforts, I recognized him.”