William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

“Yes.”

And so it began. Ben sat at his desk, elbow to elbow with his fellow senators, and watched the votes trickle down. Most of the senators were voting along what passed for party lines in this convoluted mess—Republicans voting against the nominee of their President, Democrats voting for a die-hard Republican. Ben was pleased to see that at least his party was falling into line; there was considerable doubt about whether Roush could even muster that vote after the abortion revelation. So far, though, they hadn’t gotten anything from the Republican contingent. And they couldn’t win without it.

Five minutes later, the clerk was approaching the middle of the alphabet.

“Senator Matera.”

The prior rhythm was altered as the clerk paused to allow Matera to rise to her feet again. It wasn’t required, but Matera wanted to do it, and no one was going to stop her.

“I vote yes.” Her voice crackled a bit, and as she said it, she peered down at a number of her colleagues. Ben knew who she had singled out. She wasn’t glaring at random. She was staring down the handful of Republicans who were considered moderates. The precious few who might conceivably change their vote given the proper motivation.

The first moderate to vote was Senator McHenry. He voted no. Ben saw Matera give him the evil eye, but no words were spoken.

The second moderate to vote was Senator Norwood. She also voted no.

But Senator Palmetto voted yes. The second Republican to do so.

“Senator Quince.”

Ben could feel the man’s eyes burning down on him as he spoke. “I know this isn’t the time for speeches,” Quince said quietly, “but I just wanted to explain that, although I still have some reservations about this nominee, I am moved by the words of the senator from Oklahoma. This chamber should be focusing on the qualifications of the nominee for the job to which he has been nominated. When we focus on anything else, we encourage people to create scandal, which appears to me to be exactly what has happened in this unfortunate case. We must stop this before it robs the process—and the Constitution—of its dignity.” He took a deep breath. “Accordingly, I vote yes.”

Ben’s heart almost leaped out of his chest. For the first time, he allowed himself to believe confirmation was just marginally possible.

The murmur in the chamber was audible, but the clerk continued calling names as if he did not hear it. In the course of the next five minutes, five Republican senators voted yes. No one had abstained. The vote was almost even, the nays only slightly ahead.

“Senator Wellington.”

“Yes.”

“Senator Wyatt.”

“Yes.”

The chamber and gallery alike held their breath. The vote was fifty yeses, forty-nine nos.

“Senator Yarmouth.”

There was an understandable pause. He appeared to be staring at the tote board as he spoke.

“Well, under the circumstances…I vote yes.”

Ben’s eyes widened with stunned surprise. A loud hue and cry ballooned up from the gallery, but the Vice President banged his gavel, cutting it off.

“Accordingly,” the Vice President announced, “the yeses number fifty-one, while the nos are forty-nine. The Senate therefore does advise and consent to the nomination of Judge Thaddeus Roush to the Supreme Court. We are out of session.”

He banged the gavel again, and this time there was no stopping the whooping and laughing and crying, the ecstatic outcries and disgruntled grumbling. One hundred senators and six hundred spectators spoke at once, all of them amazed at the historic event they had just witnessed.

Senator Hammond pushed his way down the aisle to Ben. He grabbed his hand and began shaking it with great force. Tears were in his eyes. “Damn it,” he said, smiling, “I knew you were the right man for this job. I knew it!”

Ben shrugged. “We got lucky.”

“In politics, there’s no such thing.” He pulled closer so he could be heard above the growing tumult. “Listen to me, Ben. You have to run for reelection. You have to. We need a man like you in the Senate.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Will you run?”

“I have to admit, it hasn’t been quite as horrible as I thought it might be.”

Christina came running down the aisle, pushed several senators out of her way, and threw her arms around Ben’s neck. “I never doubted you for a minute,” she said, hugging him tightly.

“Then you were the only one,” he whispered in her ear.

“No, I wasn’t.” She looked toward the gallery where, amid the noise and the tumult, Thaddeus Roush stood in the front row looking down at them. A throng of people were trying to get to him and offer their congratulations, but for the moment he was holding them at bay.

Even though Ben couldn’t hear, he didn’t need to be a lip-reader to know what Roush was saying: “Thank you.”

Ben nodded back at him. “It was my pleasure.”

“I talked to Lieutenant Albertson on my cell,” Christina told Ben. “He’s working on a subpoena to search Haskins’s home, office, and the place he’s been renting since he came to D.C. And he’s sending a security detail to pick him up from—”

Her eyes turned upward again. Ben followed her gaze. In the front row, just to the left of Judge—soon to be Justice—Roush, Margaret Haskins still sat, her hands covering her face.

But Judge Haskins was gone.

60

Loving practically had to promise his firstborn child before Trudy would let him leave the hospital. All that talk about his delicate condition—it was almost as if they were married. Which wasn’t likely to happen, at least not in this universe. Still, Loving had to admit, his association with her— him —had loosened him up a little bit. Made him perhaps a little more accepting. Helped him see the value in people very different from himself. Trudy had saved his life. After that, minor details such as gender and wardrobe choice seemed pretty minor.

Loving was waiting covertly in Haskins’s front yard when his Cadillac came careening around the corner and down the circular cul-de-sac. Haskins’s eyes were wild; his movements were frenetic. Sweat dripped from his face.

As soon as he left his car, Loving stepped out of the bushes.

“Evenin’, Judge.”

Haskins froze as if he had hit an invisible wall. “Who—who are you?”

“Name’s Loving. I’m here to make sure you don’t do nothin’ you shouldn’t.”

“Like what?” Haskins snapped.

“Like destroyin’ evidence.”

“What makes you think there’s any evidence here?”

“Well, you were drivin’ in an awful big hurry.”

“You have no proof. You just came because that damned Kincaid said all those horrible lies about me.”

“The Skipper has been wrong, once or twice. And if he’s wrong today, fine. But I think I’ll keep an eye on you, just the same.”

“You can’t do that. You’re not with the police.”

“No, I’m not. But the police have obtained a search warrant and they’re on their way. I’m just babysittin’. Till they get here.”

Haskins tried to push past him. Loving blocked his way.

“You have no right to be here.”

“You know, I ’spect you know a heck of a lot more about rights and stuff than I do, bein’ a judge and all.” He looked at the man levelly. “But I’m still not gonna let you destroy evidence.”

Haskins rushed forward, tackling Loving. Loving’s feet hit the porch steps and he tripped, falling backward. Haskins caught him with a punch to the jaw on his way down, then rushed past him.

Ow! Loving wasn’t sure which hurt more—the slug to his face or his head thudding against the concrete sidewalk. As if he hadn’t taken enough pounding lately. For an old geezer, Haskins had a darn good right arm.