William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

Eastwick was seated in a footed chair with red upholstery and arms that extended into an eagle’s beak. He hadn’t moved from the chair since Ben and Christina arrived.

“I really don’t see how I can help you,” Eastwick said, speaking slowly and almost as if his voice were detached from his body. Ben noticed that there was a half-full brandy decanter on a table not far from his chair, and a small glass beside it bearing a trace of the dark, smoky liquid. “Tad never tells me anything.”

Christina tried to seem sympathetic. “I’m sure he’s trying to shield you from the worst of the media blows. He’s been taking some serious hits.”

“What am I, a child? I don’t need to be protected. I need to—” His voice caught. “I need to be able to pretend that I’m his partner. A true partner. Not just a political football.”

“I can imagine how you feel,” Christina replied, moving to the chair nearest his. “But let me say that I admire the courage you’ve displayed throughout all this. Not only during the police interrogation but even before, having the courage to come out during the acceptance speech and be forthright about—”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Eastwick snapped.

Christina hesitated. “Well, I know you weren’t the one making the speech, but still, you understood—”

“I most certainly did not. Thaddeus never told me he was planning to mention his sexual preference. We didn’t even discuss it.” His eyes shrank until they were almost the same color as the liquid in his glass. “I was outed.”

Ben’s lips parted. No wonder Eastwick had remained so distant from the confirmation campaign.

“He—He didn’t consult you?”

“Not even a hint.”

“To be fair,” Ben said, doing his best to defend the clearly indefensible, “Tad did tell us he didn’t plan to reveal his sexual preference. But when he stood before all those people and all those cameras—”

“Yes, I know. His sense of propriety overwhelmed him. Doesn’t that make him a wonderful person? And doesn’t that make me—what? A prop? A tool?”

Christina touched his hand sympathetically, but he acted as if he did not even feel it. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way. How did he explain it to you?”

“We haven’t talked. Not really. Not since the disastrous press conference when the body was found and the police hauled me away. Nothing. Not even a ‘Hi Ray, glad you’re not sharing a cell with Big Bruno.’ ”

Ben pressed his fingers against his forehead. The resentment threshold in the room was so high it was palpable. This was going to be more difficult than he had imagined. “I understand that you may be having some negative feelings right now. Still, can you give us any information about the baby he lost?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking Tad that question?”

“Believe me, I have. He’s not answering. It’s like some kind of wall. Someplace he won’t go.”

Eastwick laughed, a short, bitter cackle. “And for good reason.” He rose from his chair, moving as though he weighed a thousand pounds. He poured himself another brandy, downed it in a shot, then walked unsteadily toward the bay window that overlooked the green expanse behind the house. “What you may not know is that for the first thirty years of his life, Tad was perfectly straight.”

No, Ben thought, I didn’t know, but what else is new?

“That’s probably partly why the President’s investigators didn’t trip onto the truth. There was plenty of evidence of heterosexual affairs in his past. He claims he always was gay, deep down, but he was trying to sublimate it, trying to overcome it. Never quite worked, which might explain why he never married. Might also explain why he tended to favor women from the…seedier side of the tracks. No one who would ever make a suitable wife.”

“When did he, ummm…” Ben could feel his face coloring. How do you put these things?

“When did he realize he was gayer than La Cage aux Folles ? Later. When he started going to those gay hangouts, more in an effort of self-discovery than because he was stalking action. He claims he was never really sure—until he met me.” Eastwick stared through the sunroom window, as if wishing he could bury himself in the loveliness of the peonies and the stately hedges. “At least that was when he first openly acknowledged it. I had had male lovers before, but not Tad.” He pressed his palm against the glass. “Despite what you heard at the hearing, I was his first.”

“How did you meet?”

“At an art gallery. A showing for one of the Maryland Court of Criminal Appeals judges who painted on the side. Talented woman, actually. I was there because I was clerking for Senator Hammond and I love art, and Tad was there because, well, it came with his job. He brought a date, a homely little thing from the poor part of Annapolis, but I could tell there was nothing between them. Between Tad and me, however, that was different. Instant chemistry, just like in the movies. Instant.”

“That’s nice.”

“It was more than nice. It was fantastic. It was a miracle. It was quite literally what I had dreamed of my entire life. Our first few months together—” He shook his head. “That’s when my life began.”

“And you’ve been together seven years?”

“Until now.”

“You’re not thinking about—about—”

“Can’t quite think of a word for it, right? Can’t call it divorce, because we’re not allowed to marry. But after seven years, there should be something.”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating the problems,” Christina said reassuringly. “It must seem overwhelming right now. I’ve often said that these times of stress—trials, hearings, what have you—they’re tough on the subject, but they’re even tougher on the—the—”

“Still can’t think of a word for it? Partner, Tad usually says, but that makes us seem more like lawyers sharing an office than lovers sharing a bed. The law, that sacred cow to which Tad has devoted his life, won’t give us a word for what we are. You want to say, ‘It’s even tougher on the spouse.’ But you can’t. Because I’m not a spouse.”

“Maybe some counseling…”

“When? Tad’s too busy with this interminable and increasingly impossible quest to get on the Supreme Court, so he can sit on a bench with a bunch of no-life losers and decide the fate of people they’ve never met. That’s all he cares about. Not me.”

Ben drew in his breath. If this went on much longer, he was going to be pouring a brandy for himself. “But getting back to the subject of the abortion…”

“That happened before we met. Well before.”

“I understand, but I still thought he might’ve mentioned it to you.”

Eastwick turned suddenly, and his face was streaked with tears. “He did. And how do you think that made me feel? To know that he’d had a child with someone, someone he didn’t even…” He covered his face with his hand.

“But why won’t he talk about it? We need details to prepare a response.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eastwick said with a wave of the hand. “It will all come out. Soon.”

“No doubt, but we have to prepare, think ahead, and we can’t unless—” Ben stopped mid-sentence. A cold chill enveloped his heart. “What do you mean, it will all come out soon?”

“It’s inevitable. So many people have been looking into it. For so long.”

Ben was confused, but his brain was beginning to work its way out of the muddle, and the only explanation was one he didn’t like at all.

“What are you talking about?” Christina asked. “The FBI investigation of Tad’s background?”

“No. Well, yes. But—no.”

“If you could perhaps be just a bit clearer.”