Deadlock Page 3

  “Thank you, Tom,” Millie said, feeling the warmth she always did when speaking to the man who was like a second father to her. “I wish it was you.”

  “Ah.” Riley waved his cane. “I’m too crotchety. Too old. Though I do plan to serve till I’m a hundred. Then I’ll go out singing, if I remember any words.”

  He stopped at the corner and faced her. “Millie, I’ve been around a good long time. You get a feel for things. Back when I was a trial lawyer in Wyoming, during the Bronze Age, I learned to get a feel for what a jury was thinking. You know how I did it?”

  “Tell me.”

  “By walking around. By getting out in the city and the country and reading newspapers and listening to folks. It’s a wide world out there, and the good lawyers know how to get to it.”

  Millie wished she could have seen Riley in action back then, defending mostly poor people accused of crimes.

  “Now I’ve got a feeling,” Riley continued, “that we’re in for some rough times in this country. Terrible times. And this time it’s not because of terrorists or anthrax or anything you can touch. It’s more insidious. And if you get tapped to be court justice, the barbarian hordes are going to come after you. They may say some nasty things.”

  “My only concern is for the Court. I don’t care what they say about me.”

  “That’s the ticket. We’ll take ’em all on.” He extended his hand, his grip firm with energy. “See you in a few months. Vincit omnia veritas.”

  “Truth conquers all things,” Millie said. It was Riley’s favorite quotation, and Millie had often heard him say it from the bench, confusing lawyers with the Latin phrase.

  Riley winked at her. “Don’t ever stop believing that, Justice Hollander.”

  6

  “What’s your read?” President John W. Francis asked.

  “She’s a slam dunk, Mr. President,” Senator Levering answered.

  It was near midnight in the presidential study. The lights in the wood-paneled room were low. A bottle of A. H. Hirsch bourbon sat open on the table – a detail, Levering mused, that would have sent the religious right to the thesaurus to find new definitions for outrage. Especially since the topic of discussion was control of the Supreme Court.

  Next to the bottle, a small replica of the Declaration of Independence in a paperweight cube hugged the edge of the table, as if it might fall off at the slightest bump. Every now and again Francis would reach out and tap the cube with his index finger.

  “Think she’ll get through the committee?” Francis asked.

  “In a New York minute,” Levering said. “Think they’re gonna turn down the first woman CJ? We’ve got a majority, and everybody loves her. And having her as CJ will help you enormously.”

  Francis shot him a look. “You poll watching again, Sam?”

  Levering smiled, enjoying the slight tinge of uncertainty in the president’s voice. The balance of power in the conversation had shifted his way. His interior gauge for such transfers of power had served him almost infallibly for over thirty hard-fought political years.

  Francis took a swig from his drink, another sign of nerves. Levering had seen the president lose control like this once before, when they had haggled over a pocket veto that Levering opposed. Levering had prevailed over the president’s inner circle, just as he planned to now.

  “And she’ll be consistent for us?” Francis said.

  “As she has been.”

  The president tapped the Declaration of Independence again. “Sam, I’ve decided to hang my legacy on the domestic partnership act.”

  Levering nodded. “Good choice. It will be the civil rights act of our time.”

  “If it’s not declared unconstitutional.”

  “Relax. The way the Court’s made up now, it’ll pass.”

  “So we name Hollander chief justice. Who’s on our short list to fill the other chair?”

  “Some good names. We have a couple of stealth candidates who are probably unbeatable.”

  “Nobody’s unbeatable,” Francis said.

  “John,” said Levering in his best schoolteacher tone of voice, “let me remind you how it’s done. Pavel retires, you move Hollander into the chair, and then you appoint a good liberal law professor. Like Larry Graebner.”

  “Graebner? He’d never get by. His paper trail is too long.”

  “Exactly. It’s like the picador. Ever seen a bullfight?”

  “Only in the movies.”

  “The picadors soften up the bull, using long spears to slice up the bull’s neck muscles. Then the matador comes in and finishes him off. Graebner is our picador; we drop his name and the conservatives go crazy. We get a big fight, and Graebner steps aside. And then you appoint the right judge. We’ll find him – or her. Someone in their forties. All the fight will be gone from the other side. They’ve fired their big guns. And then you know what you’ll have?”

  “What?”

  “A solid 5-4 majority. For years.”

  The table lamp reflected in Francis’s eyes, and Levering knew the president understood.

  “It sounds perfect,” Francis said. “Just one thing, though. Hollander.”

  “What about her?”

  “I just have a feeling about her. Are you absolutely sure she’s the one we want?”

  “Sure as I can drink you under the table, Mr. President.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Levering leaned over the table to address the leader of the free world face-to-face. “Because I know women,” Levering said. “And I’m about to get to know Millicent Mannings Hollander in a very special way.”

  Francis’s smile was of the locker room variety. “You old dog,” the president said.

  7

  On Tuesday morning Millie spoke to a group of fourth graders at a public school in D.C. Sharing her love of law and learning with children was one of the things she enjoyed most. She hoped a seed would be planted in those who might otherwise have considered dropping out by the time high school rolled around. And maybe, just maybe, she’d be talking to a future Supreme Court justice.

  Today’s appearance was different. Millie’s closest friend in town, Helen Forbes Kensington, had prevailed upon Millie to allow a camera to videotape the session for future public relations use. Helen, having reached a seventy-million-dollar divorce settlement from publishing tycoon Richard Kensington eight years ago, could support whichever causes she chose. Women’s reproductive rights were at the top of her list. She served on the board of the National Parental Planning Group, and often appeared as a media spokesperson.

  At lunch, over Pelegrino water with lime, Helen congratulated Millie on her answer to a delicate question from a little girl who asked why she could not pray in school. “You handled that brilliantly, kiddo,” Helen said. She was Millie’s age, but the best plastic surgeons in the country had made her look twenty years younger, especially in the soft lighting of the upscale restaurant Helen had chosen.

  “I wasn’t handling anything,” Millie said. “I was merely trying to explain to them why separation of church and state is a good thing. That’s hard for a fourth grader to understand.”

  “I don’t think she wanted to understand. It was like she was planted just to make you look bad. Wouldn’t put it past them.”

  Them. Millie knew exactly to whom Helen was referring. She often referred to conservative Christians as them.

  “You’re a little paranoid,” Millie said.

  “It’s not paranoia if it’s true.” Helen reached for another jicama-date canapé from the appetizer plate. “There are fronts opening up all over the place now, and frankly I’m getting a little frustrated. I just heard this morning about an informed consent case down south.”

  Millie said nothing. In conversations with friends she had to walk a fine line between innocuous opinions and subtle politicking. Helen usually respected that line.

  “It is an insult to women,” Helen said. “These laws assume we don’t know what’s
going on, we’re stupid or incompetent to make decisions. When is this country going to grow up?”

  “When you are elected president,” Millie joked, trying to change the subject. Talking with a friend who was so issue driven had to be done delicately. Millie wanted no undue influence on matters destined for the Court.

  Helen understood and smiled. “Okay. So why don’t you tell me about this super secret meeting you had the other day.”

  “Not super secret.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing much. Just a meeting with Senator Sam Levering.”

  Helen let her jaw drop melodramatically. “You stinker! You didn’t tell me!”

  “It was an informal meeting,” Millie said. “He just asked me if I wanted to be chief justice.”

  Helen let out a celebratory howl. “Now we’re talking! Oh, honey, I knew this day would come.”

  “It hasn’t come just yet,” Millie cautioned. “But it may.”

  “And Sam Levering is on your side? You cannot miss, girlfriend. Do you want it?”

  Millie took a sip of water. “Of course I want it.”

  “This is great. This is wonderful. We have to celebrate. How about you and I dress to the nines and hit Antonio’s tonight?”

  “Sorry,” Millie said.

  “You don’t want to go out with your nearest and dearest friend?”

  “I have other plans.”

  Helen put her elbows on the table. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Millie couldn’t keep it in any longer. “Sam Levering called me last night and asked me to dinner.”

  Again, Helen’s mouth opened like an automatic door. “You. Are. Kidding. Me.”

  Millie smiled.

  “Stop the presses! When was the last time you went on a date?”

  Millie thought a moment. “Thirty-five years ago, I think.”

  “Sam Levering,” Helen said, “is a notorious ladies man.”

  “I’m a big girl,” Millie said.

  “You’re a lamb in sheep’s clothing.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Millie said, but she felt a little heat rising on the back of her neck.

  Helen looked at Millie. “The truth now,” she said. “What on earth made you say yes?”

  For a moment Millie hesitated. She was not one for massive self-reflection. She had settled interior matters long ago. But this was Helen, the closest friend she had.

  “I really don’t know for certain,” Millie said. “Maybe it was insane. But the man is handing me the greatest prize a judge could ever have. How could I say no?”

  Helen raised and lowered her eyebrows. “It might be kind of fun, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh, stop it,” Millie said. “You really are insufferable.”

  “But this is Senator Sam Levering, Millie dear.”

  “A nice dinner is enough for me.”

  Helen huffed as if she didn’t quite buy it. “Just watch your backside, honey. And your front side, too.”

  8

  Millie looked at herself in the mirror and said to the reflection, “You have got to be joking.”

  She was actually dressing up to go out on a date. Was the dress she held against her body too fancy or not fancy enough? She had the right clothes for official dinners, and speeches, and appearances. But this was different, radically so.

  Was the color right? Was the length out of fashion? If only Helen were here to help her, but that would have been a cure worse than the disease. Helen would have taken her on a dress-buying binge and quantum makeover for what was supposed to be a simple dinner for two.

  Millie lowered the dress and considered her body. It wasn’t so bad, was it? She was not thin nor heavy, though she would have preferred a little less in the thighs. Her lower body seemed to have developed a mind of its own lately, issuing dissenting opinions to her desire for firmness. The treadmill and basketball helped, along with a sensible diet. But she knew she would never be one of those middle-aged women who could wear bicycle pants to the market with impunity. Not that she would ever do it. But the option would have been nice.

  She had never considered herself pretty; reporters were fond of describing her “dignified” face. What exactly did that mean? A face to be etched in the side of a mountain? Terrific. Right up there with Teddy, Tom, Abe, and George.

  She wished now she had said no to Senator Levering. What on earth had she been thinking? Going out with a United States senator? One who had a reputation with the ladies? How could she have let herself get into this?

  She remembered vividly the last time she went on one of these gruesome social rituals called a date. It was a memory etched in stone, like the words on the Supreme Court building. It was only her second time being asked out by a boy. She’d said no the first time. But this time it was Marty Winters, the second smartest kid at Santa Lucia High. She, of course, was the first, and that was one reason she didn’t get asked out.

  She had actually liked Marty, had been drawn to him, unlike any other boys she had met. Growing up brilliant made her extremely self-conscious and withdrawn in a way that worried her parents. She had never given boys a serious thought – who would ever find her appealing? – until Marty.

  They went to the movies. Romeo and Juliet was the big sensation. Marty had placed his arm around her the moment the coming attractions started and did not remove it until Romeo and Juliet were quite dead. She knew Marty was in more than a bit of arm pain after the movie, but she didn’t mention it.

  He took her to a burger place afterward. They saw some kids from school, who made a few cracks about Marty and Millie sittin’ in a tree. Marty made a joke that put them to shame, and she thought then that she was in love. He was almost handsome, in a scholarly sort of way. His acne was clearing up and she could see him inventing things someday.

  She remembered the music that night. The radio in the restaurant played “Hey Jude” by the Beatles. And then Herb Alpert’s “This Guy’s in Love with You.” She made a girlish wish that Herb Alpert was singing about Marty.

  Marty did not drive her home. Instead, he took her up to The Rim. She didn’t protest, though she was so nervous she almost threw up. The Rim was a mountain road that offered a great view of the valley. It was a make-out place, of course, where the kids always went. Where she never went.

  She hoped Marty wouldn’t do something wrong. She would allow him to kiss her, though she didn’t know how to kiss. She had spent the afternoon kissing the side of her fist, trying to get the pressure to feel right.

  And Marty did kiss her. A lot. Too much. She tried to turn her head away and he kept twisting it back with his hand. But that wasn’t the bad part.

  The bad part happened when she would not let him put his hands on her chest, when she said, “Let’s stop, huh?” He reeled back like he’d been slapped.

  And then Marty Winters told her that she was ugly and he was doing her a favor, and none of the boys liked her because she was so ugly and smart, and she’d never have a boyfriend and why didn’t she just dry up and blow away?

  Millicent Mannings Hollander, dressed up in her home in Fairfax County, remembered how she had almost burst out in tears. How unfamiliar feelings pushed up in her like flood waters behind a dam, and how her mind – the one thing she had always been able to rely upon – fought them back for her and forced her not to cry. Not in front of Marty then, and not alone in her room when he dropped her off.

  And not in front of her mother when she had asked about the date. Millie simply turned her emotions inward, forming the start of a rock-hard interior.

  That hardness had held her together through the death of her father, working to get through college, and finishing first in her law school class. It had given her a steadiness and strength that served her well as her career took her from teaching constitutional law at Boalt Hall, to the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, and finally to the Supreme Court.

  During her career she’d had occasional offers to date but turned
them all down. She had determined not to seek the intimate companionship of men. If she was to be married at all, it was to the law.

  So why was she doing this now?

  In truth, she had been feeling somewhat odd for a few months now. She could even pinpoint the start of it – the argument in the late-term abortion case. Because of her vote, the law outlawing the procedure had been declared unconstitutional. But the graphic nature of the operation had been emphasized by the attorney for the state. Ever since that afternoon she had felt moments of uncertainty. Not so much with her decision – based as it was on her reading of the law and precedent – but on the whole idea that such an issue should arise at all in a civilized society.

  But the right of women to control their bodies was the primary value she upheld, and she would stick to that. She just wished she’d stop being bothered by a particular case.

  That must be it, she suddenly decided. The senator is a diversion I am hoping will put me back into equilibrium. That’s unfair, to him and to me. This was a bad idea.

  She went to the phone to call Senator Levering. He’d left his direct mobile number. What would she tell him? Headache? He wouldn’t believe her, but that was not important. She could not go through with this. It was, aside from everything else, silly. She was too old for dating. Besides, she had David McCullough’s John Adams biography waiting for her, and that would be enough. Books had always been enough.

  She picked up the phone and started to dial. Then she heard the doorbell.

  9

  Senator Levering said, “You seem a bit edgy, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  He sat facing Millie in the back of the limousine. She was on the side, near the wet bar, castigating herself for being so transparent. This is just a dinner with a man, a senator, an ally, she told herself. Don’t be such a baby.

  “I’m a little rusty at this,” Millie said.