William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

Hammond slapped Ben’s shoulder. “I thought it was a hell of a good speech. Not the first time I’ve heard you do it, either. I hope you’re giving serious thought to running for another term. I think you could pull it off.”

Ben frowned. “I don’t know. I can’t decide. On the one hand, it seems wrong to pass on an opportunity to do some good in the world. On the other hand, the thought of undergoing a campaign is horrifying.”

“Why?”

“Ben is afraid someone will dredge up his lurid sexual history,” Christina said, covering her mouth with her hand.

“What? Don’t tell me you go to gay bars, too.”

“I most certainly do n—” He glanced at Roush. “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that. But—”

“I thought you two were engaged,” Hammond said.

“We are,” Christina said firmly, when Ben didn’t.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Get married. That’ll make him more electable. It will stifle sexual speculations and put an end to any talk about Ben being gay.”

“Since when has there been any talk about Ben being gay?” Ben said, sitting up straight—then noticing Roush glaring at him. “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

Roush rolled his eyes, then turned to Hammond. “And this was the man you chose to be my chief advisor?”

Hammond chuckled. “Don’t gripe, Tad. The man saved your bacon in there. Or at least kept you in the frying pan.”

Bertram Sexton raced into the conference room, carrying his jacket. It was the first time Ben had ever seen him wearing only two of the three pieces of his suit. “Been trying to get a line on how the undecided members of the committee are going to vote. Without success. No one’s talking.”

A line creased Roush’s forehead. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Hammond assured him. “Means they’re waiting to see which way public opinion tilts.”

“But we know Keyes and Matera are voting against me, no matter what happens.”

“And Potter and at least five others who don’t have the spine to buck the party line,” Hammond conceded.

“But if everyone follows party lines, we were dead before we began.”

“So we have to assume someone will show some courage.”

“A rather tall order,” Sexton commented icily.

“But not impossible. If we have public opinion on our side.” Hammond thought for a moment. “And if we can make it seem like the right thing to do. Nothing a politician loves more than playing the hero for a just cause. Especially if there’s no risk involved.”

“Here’s something else you might want to see,” Sexton said, passing around photocopies of a brief report. “We’ve managed to trace funds from a right-wing lobbying group that somehow found their way into the bank accounts of two of the people who testified against Tad. Who accused him of…well, you know.”

“So they were paid,” Christina said, grabbing a copy.

“Of course, the organization is saying they were just expense reimbursements.”

“Ten thousand dollars?”

“Yeah. Guess they stayed at a really nice hotel.” Sexton grimaced. “I’d be willing to bet more money will follow. Once the heat is off.”

“This doesn’t help their credibility,” Ben said, thinking aloud. “But it doesn’t prove they were lying, either. Man, I’d love the chance to cross-examine them.”

“I wouldn’t mind taking a swing at them myself,” Sexton agreed. “But it isn’t going to happen. They’re not even giving interviews. Their financiers are taking no chances.”

Christina turned up the volume on the corner television set. CNN was running a recap of the day’s hearing, a greatest-hits compilation, the shouting points, always culminating with a clip of Ben’s closing—usually ending on the “McCarthy’s ghost” remark.

“I for one am tired of hearing that,” Ben commented. “Do you suppose if we called Ted Turner and asked him nicely, they’d stop running it?”

“We don’t want them to stop running it,” Sexton said. “The more people see it, the more chance we have of converting people to support our nominee.”

“But the committee votes first thing tomorrow morning!”

“I know,” Sexton replied, and for once, a trace of sadness tinged his eyes. “I never said it was a great chance. But it’s the only one we’ve got.”

39

Judge Haskins slammed the front door of his rented Georgetown home behind him, locked it, dead-bolted it, pressed his back against it, and breathed an enormous sigh of relief. “Vultures. Relentless vultures!”

“You should talk,” Margaret said. Her hair was up in the usual beauty shop do, with a single strand dangling down the front out of place. “You haven’t been here all day. I have.”

“Vultures!” Haskins repeated, just to get the thought clear in his mind. “They have no right to harass us like this.”

“Do you want me to call the police?”

Haskins frowned but said nothing.

“That’s what I thought. Having the press hauled away might end your run of perfectly glowing stories.”

“Do I detect a note of cynicism in your voice?” he asked. He wrapped his arms around his wife and gave her a firm hug.

“I suppose I’m just not accustomed to being married to a hero. I mean, being married to a judge was good. Very good. Decent money, all the best parties. But being married to a hero—well, that’s more intense.”

“I’m not a hero,” he said, shrugging uncomfortably. “I only did what any other man would do in that situation.”

“That clearly isn’t true.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You are a hero, darling. Live with it.”

He shrugged. “What’s for dinner?”

“Shrimp limone.”

He gasped. “Dear Lord. Have I died and gone to heaven?”

“Not yet, Rupert. I rather think your next destination is a musty old courtroom in Washington, D.C.”

“Now, Margaret, I’ve cautioned you—”

“I know, I know. No chickens before hatching. Not even sure you want it.” She winked. “But I’m picking out my inauguration gown, just the same.”

Haskins mounted the stairs, feeling as tired as he had ever felt in his entire life. What a day! He was a judge, for heaven’s sake. He’d never expected to be caught in the middle of a media firestorm. The President’s people calling him night and day, asking question after question, always something more they had to know—now. Why did you say this in that opinion? Passages he didn’t even remember that were suddenly of critical importance. And they practically wanted documentary evidence of his heterosexuality. At least half a dozen friends had called to tell him they’d been pestered by investigators.

Bad enough that the Roush nomination had gone so sour so fast: people demanding his withdrawal, others accusing them of homophobia, others prying into Roush’s personal life and finding the most unseemly details. Now they were saying there was just the slightest chance Roush might survive the committee, that there was a backlash created by Keyes and Matera’s heavy-handed tactics, that his advisor had swayed public opinion with an honest and heartfelt expression of outrage. Didn’t matter, of course—there was even more damaging information waiting in the wings.

Haskins still remembered the look on Richard Trevor’s face as he passed him the all-important manila envelope. Like a little boy who had learned the secrets of the universe and couldn’t wait to tell. Trevor was watching his reaction oh so carefully. Haskins made a point of giving him nothing. If he wanted to know how badly Haskins wanted a Supreme Court nomination, he was going to have to find out by offering him one. He wasn’t going to get an advance peek by playing these stupid cloak-and-dagger games on Roosevelt Island.