William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

He pulled himself up and rushed to the front door. Haskins had locked it, but hadn’t had the time to secure the dead bolt. Two good body slams with Loving’s strong right shoulder and the door began to crack. Two more and he was inside.

He found Haskins in the living room, crouched by the sofa, clutching a gun in both hands.

“Don’t make me shoot,” the judge said, his voice trembling.

Loving held his place, barely five feet in front of Haskins. The man shook from head to toe. Judging from his wild-eyed expression, he had taken complete leave of his senses. Loving had no confidence that he was in control of his trigger finger.

“You don’t wanna do that,” Loving said, holding out one arm.

“Stay back!” Haskins cried, shaking the gun back and forth. “I will shoot! Why shouldn’t I? I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

“Lemme tell you somethin’, friend—everyone’s got something left to lose.”

“Not anymore. I’m ruined. I’ve lost my job, my reputation. My freedom.”

“You still got a wife who loves you, right?”

Haskins hesitated, his gun wavering.

“How’s she gonna feel when she comes home and finds out you plugged someone in the living room? What’s she gonna think about you then?”

Haskins’s face contorted with pain and desperation. His hands quivered even more wildly than before.

“Margaret…always believed in me,” he said, his voice choking. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.” He stared at the gun in his hands. “Like now.”

Loving took a step forward. “Look, just gimme the gun. We can work out all the details later. I’m sure—”

Outside, they both heard the sound of sirens approaching.

“Oh, no. Oh, no.” Haskins’s voice was barely a whisper. “They really are coming. They’re going to lock me up and humiliate me and—and—”

“Whoa,” Loving said, taking another step closer. “Let’s stay calm here. The police are just comin’ to help.”

“No one can help me now. My life is over.”

Loving watched as Haskins slowly turned the gun barrel away, toward his own face.

“Hang on there,” Loving said. “You don’t wanna do that. Think about your wife. Think about—”

“Prison,” he muttered, staring at the gun. “Instead of the Supreme Court. Prison. Public disgrace. Margaret.” His eyes grew even wider. “I’m sorry, Margaret. I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t!” Loving shot forward, but he wasn’t fast enough. Haskins put the gun inside his mouth and pulled the trigger.

“No!” Loving turned away just before he fired. The scattered remains of Haskins’s head rained down, blood and brain tissue showering the room like a filthy rain.

The front door opened and two police officers rushed inside, their weapons drawn. “What the hell happened?” one of them asked.

“A tragedy,” Loving muttered. “A damned tragedy. Or maybe the end of one.”

Loving sat on the front porch of Haskins’s rented home, hands on his chin, disgusted with himself.

“Don’t take it so hard.”

Loving turned and saw Lieutenant Albertson standing behind him.

“There was nothing more you could have done. The man thought his life was over, ruined. So he took the easy way out.” Albertson frowned. “Hard thing for a good Catholic boy to say, but I’m not so sure he did the wrong thing.”

Loving didn’t attempt a response. “What’s in the Baggie?”

Albertson held up the plastic evidence bag he was carrying. “A pair of garden gloves. Found them hidden in the bedroom closet. They’ve been washed, but a luminol bath has already revealed microscopic traces of blood, and my expert says it’s the victim’s type. We’ll do DNA typing on the blood, if there’s enough, but there’s no real doubt in my mind. He must’ve found the gloves in Roush’s garden and put them on to avoid leaving prints when he killed the woman. When you wouldn’t let him get to them, he knew the game was up. He was going down for murder.”

“So he shot himself in the face.” Loving felt a mixture of disgust at the thought of what Haskins had done, and disgust at himself for not preventing it.

At the far end of the driveway, Loving saw another patrol car silently pull up, lights swirling. A moment later, a plainclothes police officer helped Margaret Haskins out of the car.

“Man, I do not want to be here for this,” Loving said, pushing himself to his feet. “Do you need me for anythin’ more?”

Albertson shook his head. “I know where we can find you. Thanks for your help.”

Loving took a deep breath, then marched down the driveway, his head hung low. “Yeah. Anytime.”

61

Ben knew he had better things to do—most of his senatorial duties had waited on the back burner while he was obsessed with the Roush confirmation—but he couldn’t help himself. He was addicted to the CNN coverage of the whole affair. The Roush confirmation vote had been dramatic enough, but coupled with the discoveries about Judge Haskins and his subsequent suicide, it became an even more major news event. Pundits bickered about every aspect of the case, whether it held hope for a more bipartisan approach to judicial confirmation or evidenced a gross eroding of standards. Everyone weighed in on the subject—everyone except the President, who had remained silent. Ben’s final speech in the Senate had been replayed and sound bit almost nonstop, and after the twentieth viewing or so, Ben finally stopped wincing every time he saw himself on the screen.

“Ready to go?”

Christina stood in the office doorway wearing a bright blue tea-length dress with a brilliant opal brooch.

“You look stunning,” Ben said.

She curtsied slightly and fluttered her eyelashes. “Well, I try.”

“Where have you been?”

“In Senator Hammond’s office. We’re still working double shifts, trying to get that Wilderness Bill out of committee. We think there’s a chance. If anyone can do it in the current political climate, it’s him.”

Ben placed his hands on her hips and smiled. “How is it we work together every day but still don’t see enough of each other?”

She returned the smile. “Well, part of the problem is that we live in separate apartments.”

Ben coughed into his hand. “Yes, well, umm…one thing at a time. May I escort you to the Capitol steps?”

“I’d be honored,” she replied, offering him her arm.

The President was present on the East Wing balcony, feigning pleasure that his nominee had been confirmed, but what pleased Ben most was to see Ray Eastwick in attendance. He was seated in the front row behind the podium, just beside Roush, the seating sending an unequivocal message to every spectator or viewer. He wondered if they’d made up—or had even had time, given all that had happened so quickly. He felt certain the wounds would heal, eventually. They were two intelligent, successful men; they knew better than to waste their lives sulking when they could be celebrating life to the fullest.

And today was a great day to celebrate.

On cue, Roush took his position, put his hand on a very large Bible, and gazed across at the Chief Justice of the United States.

“Please repeat after me.”

Roush closed his eyes, said a silent prayer, and began. “I, Thaddeus Ronald Roush, do solemnly swear to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States…”

The newly appointed Justice Roush’s remarks were brief, so in less than half an hour the entire ceremony was over. Ben was anxious to congratulate Roush, but so were about a thousand other people, so he patiently waited his turn. Now that the excitement was over, he was back to being a less-than-one-term junior senator from Oklahoma, and as such did not get cuts to the front of the receiving line.