Capitol Threat (26 page)

47

I
n the dim light of the conference room, the television flickered with a blue glow. All at once, the screen flooded with a white light so intense it was momentarily blinding, then faded and resolved into a sienna-tinted head shot of Thaddeus Roush. The voice-over narration was delivered by the warm, crisp voice of a well-known wrestler–turned-actor–turned politician.

“He said he’d be there for the poor, the oppressed, the under-privileged.” The camera began a steady zoom toward Roush’s eyes. “He said he’d be there for those in need, for those who seek justice. Equal justice.” By this time, Roush’s huge eyes were all that remained visible. “But when it mattered, he wasn’t even there for his own child.” A hideous, dissonant, cringe-inducing organ chord sounded, followed by the growing black-and-white image of two fetuses expanding out of Roush’s enormous eyeballs and merging into a single horrific image.

All at once, the screen went white again, and the musical sound track was replaced by the sound of a baby crying. Then two babies crying, then three. Soon the speakers were rattling with the titanic sound of so many unhappy babies.

“Every year,” the somber voice continued, “almost two million parents choose to have their own babies killed before they are even born. Thaddeus Roush was one of them. Do you really want him on the Supreme Court?”

Ben turned off the set.

“That’s just disgusting.”

Christina was slumped in a chair munching on a tuna fish sandwich. “Better than the last one. It managed to squeeze in gay bars, orgies, and abortions, all in thirty seconds.”

“Where are these coming from? Who’s paying for them?”

“Someone with a lot of money. A new PAC formed just to oppose the Roush nomination. Gina Carraway is calling her media contacts, trying to track its funding. But what does it matter what the names are? It’s some right-wing group with loads of cash.”

“I wish I understood better how people can raise so much money so quickly.”

“I wish you did, too. Especially if you’re going to run for reelection.” She looked up. “And you
are
going to run for reelection, aren’t you?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“Knowing you. For a long time.”

“So you know I’m hungry for power?”

“I know you can’t resist a professional challenge. The chance to be in a position to help people.” She paused. “Even if you’d be better off if you didn’t.”

“You’re saying you don’t want me to run?”

“Not at all. You should do what you feel called to do. All I’m saying is…” She finished the sandwich and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I think you’re an incredible attorney, and getting more incredible all the time. You belong in the courtroom. It’s your highest and best working environment, the place where you can make the greatest contribution. The political arena is fine, I guess. And I certainly don’t blame you for accepting the governor’s appointment—who wouldn’t? But it isn’t really you.” She sat up and brushed the crumbs off her dress. “At least I don’t think it is. Am I wrong?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t made up my mind whether to run or not.”

“And I don’t mean to pressure you.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “As long as I’m not pressuring you, wanna set a date for our wedding?”

“Christina—”

She held up her hands. “That was a joke, Ben. A joke.”

Gina Carraway entered the room, her cell phone glued to her ear. “No, sir. What I’m asking is that you exert your considerable influence to help finance a counteroffensive.” She stood by the table and paused. “We’re looking for three million dollars.” Pause. “I know it’s a lot of money, sir. That’s why we called you.” More pause. Carraway flipped her clipboard and scanned her address list while simultaneously carrying on a conversation. “If we don’t, sir, the Christian Congregation is going to choose the next Supreme Court justice. Is that better?”

She looked up at Christina, shrugged. Christina made a slashing gesture with a thumb across her throat. Carraway shook her head and pointed a finger toward her open mouth, making a gagging face. Christina pulled an imaginary wallet out of her back pocket and started counting out the dough. Carraway gave her a big nod and two thumbs up.

Ben marveled at how an entire detailed conversation could take place without a word being uttered.

“Yes, sir, I know the party will appreciate your contribution and sacrifice.” Pause. “Well, no, the party can’t officially endorse the nominee. He’s a Republican.” More pausing. “No, the Republicans aren’t endorsing him now, either. But despite rumors to that effect, the President hasn’t asked him to withdraw.” Pause. Pause. Mild drumming of fingernails. “Well, not yet, anyway.”

She switched the phone to her other ear. “Yes, sir. We need three million dollars just to get this off the ground.” The voice on the other end of the line was so loud Ben could hear it clear across the room. “Yes, that’s still a lot of money. But it’s less than the Republicans spent the first day after Roush got out of committee.” Pause pause pause. “Yes sir, I know nobody knew this latest revelation until after the committee vote, and doesn’t that seem a little suspicious to you? Like maybe someone was holding the silver bullet and saving it until they were sure it was necessary? Don’t you think—” Carraway winced, then pulled the phone away from her ear and shut it off.

“I gather that’s a no?” Christina said. “Possibly a ‘hell, no’?”

Carraway pursed her lips. “The exact words were: ‘I’m not going to put my money on the line for a horny homo baby-killer.’ ”

Ben pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you thought this person would be a likely contributor?”

“Sadly, yes. I thought he was our best shot. It will all be uphill from here.”

“Swell.”

“Problem is, Roush has no support base anymore, not in either party. Everyone sees him as being totally on his own, abandoned. And if there’s any truism to which everyone subscribes in this town, it’s that you can’t do anything without money.” She tossed down her clipboard and stretched. “I haven’t been able to locate the source of the funds for the anti-Roush 527s. Originally, it was a consortium of pro-life groups, but they’ve gotten some extra seed money from other organizations, all of them new. The Republican National Committee can’t get formally involved, but a lot of its biggest contributors can and have. Which is not to say there have been no contributors from the left side of the fence. There have been. Lots of them.”

“This is so wrong,” Christina said. “Tad is a man without a country.” She turned toward Ben. “How is he?”

“I don’t know. He called and asked if it was necessary for him to come in today. I told him it wasn’t.”

“When will the full Senate debate the nomination?”

“It could be as early as Monday. Certainly the President wants it over and done with as soon as possible. He wants to take advantage of this latest firestorm. Besides, all these TV spots are expensive.”

“That’s too soon,” Christina said. “How can we possibly turn around public opinion by Monday?”

Carraway cracked her knuckles. “What could we do to turn around public opinion if we had a year? Hope the world develops a case of collective amnesia? This nomination is over. Finished. Dead in the water. Gay, I could work with. Gay bars, even, I could work with. But abortion? It’s hopeless. If Roush has any brains, he’ll withdraw.”

“But he won’t,” Ben said quietly.

“Then he’ll wish he did.”

Ben sighed. “At least it couldn’t possibly get any worse.”

Annabeth hated it when the boss failed. It didn’t happen very often. Maybe twice in the ten years she’d worked as his AA. Keyes had one of the most successful track records in the history of the Senate—that’s how he ended up chairing the Judiciary Committee in the first place.

“Massage your neck?” she asked. It had always worked in the past.

“If you insist,” Keyes grumped.

Annabeth walked behind his desk, removed her glasses, and began slowly and gently kneading the elderly man’s shoulders. “You didn’t fail, you know. How could you possibly know Matera would do a Benedict Arnold on you?”

“I should’ve known. It was my job to know.”

“She’s just a sad old woman who wanted to do something memorable before she goes gently into that good night. I don’t think she had a prayer of getting the VP nod; I don’t care what anyone says.”

“And I’m just a sad old man who would happily accept the vice presidency if it were offered, but my chances went down like the stock market on Black Friday when Roush got out of committee. Especially when those scheming bastards on the other side made it a matter of conscience.” He swore silently. “I hate matters of conscience.”

Annabeth kept stroking, sinking her long fingernails into Keyes’s almost gelatinous flesh. She could see the short hairs rising on the back of his neck. “So what’s the problem? Surely you don’t think the Senate will confirm his nomination. Not after the abortion revelation.”

“Not a chance.”

“Then what’s to worry about? He’s going down.”

“Yes, he’s going down. But he’s not going down because of me!” Keyes shrugged off her hands. “I’m supposed to be the power broker in this chamber. Nobody should be able to get to first base without my help. Instead, in this mess, I come off looking like a doddering old has-been who couldn’t even keep a goddamn baby-killer from getting out of committee!”

“I think you’re taking this much too seriously,” Annabeth said. She was trying to sound soothing, but he was making it increasingly difficult. “A few months from now, no one will remember that you didn’t ground him in committee. They’ll just remember that he didn’t get on the Supreme Court. You’ll be blameless.”

“Have you learned nothing in the time you’ve been working for me, woman? In this town, there’s no such thing as blameless.”

“Come on,” she said, wrapping her arms around him and hugging tightly. “Where’s that Texas optimism? There must be a silver lining in this somewhere. When Thaddeus Roush steps into the Senate chamber, you’ll destroy him.”

“Wish me luck with that,” Keyes burbled. “Probably the only comfort that man has at this point is, no matter how bad everything is, it couldn’t possibly get any worse.”

Judge Haskins’s cell phone popped open. “I told you never to call me on an open line.”

“You told me never to call you at home, too.”

“So take a hint. Don’t call.”

Richard Trevor sighed heavily into the receiver. “I’m sensing some hostility here, Judge. What’s the matter? Haven’t you read the papers? Or watched television?”

“Of course I have. How could I miss that influence-peddling barrage? It’s the most embarrassing display since LBJ’s little girl with the daisy.”

“But it’s working. Polls show—”

“I don’t care about your polls. I don’t want any part of your seedy operation!”

“That’s not what you said last week.”

“Last week you promised me the Roush nomination wouldn’t get out of committee.” Haskins made sure the doors to the bedroom were closed and his wife wasn’t listening. He must remember to keep his voice down, no matter how excited he got. “You were wrong.”

“Details, details. Roush will be rejected. Monday. Probably before the lunch break.”

“I don’t care! Don’t you see what you’ve done!”

“No,” Trevor said wearily. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

“You’ve made it dirty! Before it was supposed to be a clean, aboveboard affair. The nominee turns out not to be the person the President thought he was, so the committee rejects him and the President picks someone else. I could live with that. But now it’s something entirely different. Now it’s more like the committee found nothing wrong with him, so some big-money power players dug up some dirt because they have a vendetta against homosexuals!”

“I can assure you, that’s not the way it’s playing in the public eye. I’ve seen the tracking polls.”

“I want you to stop calling me, stop trying to meet with me. I want you to leave me alone.”

He heard Trevor’s long exhalation on the opposite end of the phone. “So does that mean you are no longer interested in being a member of the Supreme Court?”

Haskins didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought. You want it so bad you can taste it. You just want to get through the confirmation process and emerge squeaky-clean. Like a hero.” He chuckled in a way that set Haskins’s teeth on edge. “Don’t worry, hero-boy. You’ll be okay. You can stay as far away from me as you like. But stay close to the President, okay? And when the time comes, I expect you to remember who got you the job you’ve wanted your entire professional life.”

Haskins’s lips pressed together; his eyes were livid. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. Have a nice weekend, and fear not. Roush will not be confirmed.”

“How can you know? He’s risen from the dead before.”

“I know. This time, I know.”

“What, like you have even more dirt you haven’t used yet? Don’t make me laugh.” Haskins stared at the cell phone, tempted to throw it across the room. “If I know nothing else, I know this: no matter how bad it is for Roush now, it couldn’t possibly get any worse.”

Roush was getting used to sitting alone at night. The price of fame, he liked to tell himself, as if he hadn’t paid that price enough times already. But he knew that this wasn’t what it was really about. This was his own fault. All of this mess was his own fault.

He’d known this could happen. He’d known it all along. He took the risk, he decided to keep the truth to himself, and now he was paying for it.

Of course, if he’d told anyone about the abortion, he wouldn’t be here at all. Wouldn’t have been considered at all. Had he made the right choice? It seemed so pathetically unfair to be automatically disqualified just because of a foolish mistake he made all those years ago. He was just a kid. She was just a kid. He didn’t even know who he was—obviously—or he wouldn’t have been with a woman in the first place. Why couldn’t the past remain in the past?

Asking himself rhetorical questions wasn’t getting him anywhere. He was rationalizing, trying to come up with excuses for—well, if not lying, withholding the truth. Funny. This whole thing began to go sour when he chose not to hide the truth, chose to be honest about who and what he was.