Deadlock (39 page)

Bonassi paused, his face becoming radiant with the telling. “So Telemachus went to the Coliseum, walked right into the arena where two gladiators were fighting. He put his hand on one of them and told him to stop shedding innocent blood. The crowd roared at him. They shouted in outrage. Telemachus put up his hand for silence.

“Then he said, ‘Do not repay God’s mercy, in turning away the swords of your enemies, by murdering each other.’ The crowd shouted him down, shouted for more blood. The gladiators pushed Telemachus into the dust and resumed their fighting.

“Telemachus got up and placed himself between the combatants. The gladiators seemed to react as one. They killed Telemachus with their swords. And suddenly, realizing that a holy man had been killed, the crowd fell silent. There was no more combat that day. Nor ever again in Rome. His death brought an end to mortal combat.”

Bonassi fell silent himself, for a long moment. “Maybe you’re a Telemachus. Maybe because of what you did the country will look at what politics has done to the Court.”

If only she could believe that. Perhaps, in time, she would.

The door opened. Dorothy, out of breath, said, “You need to come.”

“What is it?” Bill said, rising.

“The news. They said Sam Levering shot himself.”

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New York Times

Friday, November 21

In a stunning recorded interview with the D.C. police, the late Senator Sam Levering gave full details of abuses of power and conspiracies of corruption. According to sources, Levering names names and does not spare himself.

Sources say many of the admissions relate to the impeachment of Chief Justice Millicent Mannings Hollander, who resigned from the Court two weeks ago. Levering and his chief aide, Anne Deveraux, orchestrated a pattern of lies designed to drive Hollander from her position. Others were involved as well, including the recently named president of the National Parental Planning Group, Helen Forbes Kensington.

The major accusations against Hollander were false, according to the statement. One charge, that Hollander was under the influence of alcohol when she stumbled into the street and nearly died last June, was false according to Levering. It was he who was drunk, he states in the document, and made unwanted advances on Hollander, who attempted to get away from him.

Also named as co-conspirator was a reporter for the
National Exposure.
Daniel Ricks, the statement claims, was hired to collect dirt on Hollander during her recuperation from the accident in Santa Lucia, California.

Calls to the
National Exposure
went unreturned.

But perhaps the most stunning admission from Levering was that the Hollander campaign was tacitly approved by President John W. Francis.

Arnold Rutledge, chief legal counsel to the president, issued a statement late last night denying the allegation.

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“You probably hate me, don’t you?” Helen said.

Millie shook her head. “I couldn’t hate you, Helen. Not after all these years.”

“That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“I hated you.”

They were standing at the perimeter of the Jefferson Memorial. It was where Helen had wanted to meet. For Millie it was like a scene out of a political thriller. She made sure she wasn’t followed by reporters. She had even told the taxi driver to make sure they were free and clear.

“Why?” Millie asked, as surprised by Helen’s admission as anything else in the last five months.

“I thought you were a traitor,” Helen said. “I thought you had gone off the deep end and that you would start rolling back everything I believed in.”

“I gathered that much.”

“And I hated your — I don’t know — integrity.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me about this?”

“I didn’t know how.”

“But you talked to that reporter for the
Exposure?”

Helen nodded. “Levering convinced me I had to do it. He and that Gestapo agent of his, Anne Deveraux. We ruined you.”

“I don’t feel ruined.”

“How can you not?”

Thinking of Bill Bonassi, Millie had to smile. “I’m a reverse paranoid.”

“A
what?”

“
Let’s just say I’m ready to start a new chapter. I’m moving back to Santa Lucia.”

“No.”

“My clerk, Rosalind Wilkes, and I are going to open an office.”

“A lawyer? You’re going to be a lawyer?”

“Why not? Maybe even be a TV star. Fox has been calling. They want me to be a commentator on national legal news. I don’t know what God has in store.”

They were near the portico now, the majestic figure of Thomas Jefferson deep in thought inside. Millie watched a group of children being led toward Jefferson by a woman who was obviously a teacher. Hope for the future, went the cliché. But she couldn’t think of a better place to start than with the author of the Declaration of Independence. Millie thought of the stirring final words of that document. “With a firm reliance on Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.”

When she looked back she saw Helen with her face in her hands.

“What is it?” Millie said.

“Can you forgive me?”

Millie put her arms around Helen. It was not a natural gesture for Millie. Or maybe it was. Now.

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Rosalind was waiting for Millie back at Millie’s house in Fairfax County. Who was it Rosalind had wanted her to meet?

It was a young, rather slight, but confident-looking African American woman who shook Millie’s hand with gusto.

“Meet Charlene Moore,” Rosalind said.

Over tea, Charlene Moore told Millie her story, up to the filing of the
certiorari
petition by Larry Graebner.

“He’s formidable,” Millie said. “And your case sounds like one the Court may grant cert on.”

“Which is why I came here,” Charlene said. “I’ve been asking God who would be the right person to help me with this. I kept flashing on you.”

“I’ve never been flashed before,” Millie said.

Charlene Moore laughed. “But will you do it?”

“You don’t waste time, do you, Miss Moore?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I’ll really have to think about this,” Millie said.

“You know,” said Charlene Moore, “sometimes God kicks thinkin’ in the pants.”

Millie laughed. “The strange thing is, I think I understand exactly what you mean. Why don’t we pray, right now, and whatever God wants, we’ll do.”

“Right on,” Charlene said.

“Roz,” Millie said. “Do you mind?”

The young woman shook her head. “I’d like to join you, if I may.”

“This is very cool,” Charlene said.

Three women joined hands. And sought God.

Upon these two foundations,

the law of nature and the law of revelation,

depend all human laws.

SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE

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“Oyez, oyez, oyez.”

The Supreme Court marshal solemnly intoned the medieval French words handed down from more than a thousand years of English common law. Though Millie had heard them countless times before, she now felt them entering into her like trumpet blasts.

“The honorable, the chief justice and associate justices of the Supreme Court of the United States,” the marshal continued. “All persons having business before this honorable Court are admonished to draw nigh and give their attention, for the Court is now sitting. God save the United States and this honorable Court.”

And there they stood, her former colleagues — Byrne, Facconi, Johnson, Parsons, Weiss, Velarde, and Chief Justice Atkins, along with the judge who had replaced her, Walter Saxon. And, finally, Thomas J. Riley. His face, as far as Millie could tell, was a mask of impassivity.

The justices sat in their high-backed leather swivel chairs as Millie’s knees trembled. That she was here at all was still unbelievable to her.

It was June again, the time when she would have been wrapping up her Court matters before the summer break. Instead, she was about to argue for the first time as an advocate in front of the Supreme Court.

She had spent the last six months going over and over the case, researching precedent, scanning the transcripts from the lower court for every nuance of legal reasoning. In that time, through e-mails and phone calls, Charlene Moore had come to be something of a little sister to her, more than just in a spiritual way. She was a support, a sharp legal mind, and full of energy.

But as Millie sat at the Respondent’s table, she realized that after all that work, she still did not know how her argument would do. It was, she and Charlene had decided, to be directed at the newest justice, Saxon. Millie knew she would have the four conservatives with her. Riley, of course, would oppose her, as would the three other liberal-moderates. Saxon, even though he was a Francis appointee, was at least new enough not to have set himself permanently in any coalition.

If she had any hope of winning, it would be in convincing Saxon. From her research on his opinions from the Ninth Circuit, she got the impression that he was a logical technician. He liked his arguments tight, to the point, and without fluff. So, for the last month, Millie had practiced her presentation with Saxon in mind.

Millie silently prayed, thanking God for trusting her, asking one more time for her mind to be primed and ready.

Then she saw Lawrence Graebner approach the podium. “May it please the Court,” he said.

The justices allowed him to argue for nearly five minutes without a question. Millie felt herself wanting to engage Graebner herself. Old habits.

“The use of the term
unborn child
in the statute is clearly unconstitutional,” Graebner was saying. “It is a loaded term with only one view in mind, to stop an approved medical procedure from taking place.”