Deadlock Read online

  “They’re being careful with me.”

  “It’s on all the programs. They show that picture of you from five years ago.”

  “What are they saying on the programs?”

  “That they don’t know why you were out there.”

  “Where?”

  “Alone. At night. What happened?”

  Millie put her hand on her pounding head and closed her eyes. It was coming back now. She wished it wouldn’t. Would she have to tell the story? To the police? They would want to know who she had been with, how the whole thing happened. More publicity.

  “Millie?”

  “I’m here, Mom.”

  “Can you talk?”

  “It’s kind of hard now, Mom. But I’ll be all right.”

  “I want to come to you.”

  “Mom, don’t – ”

  “I have to see you, Millie. I have to. I feel I do. I can have Royal get me a ticket and take me to the airport. I – ”

  “Mom, it’s going to be a madhouse here.” Millie pressed a finger to her right temple. She didn’t want her mother here with all this going on. In fact, Millie herself did not want to be here. She could already feel the clamoring of media.

  “Then you come out here,” Ethel said. “Stay awhile.”

  “I really can’t – ”

  “It’s been too long and I…” Ethel stopped, and Millie could only wonder what her mother was feeling. In some ways Ethel Hollander, shaped as a child during the Depression, would always be tough as nails and not easily impressed. Indeed, Millie could not remember a time when her mother had said she was proud of her. As a little girl, that had hurt sometimes. But that was Ethel Hollander.

  “Mom,” Millie said, “I have to do what Dr. Cross says. I’ll call you every day if you want.”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll call you again tomorrow, huh?” Millie said.

  “Yes,” Ethel said. “Don’t forget. And, Millie?”

  “Yes?”

  “God is with you.”

  “Bye, Mom.”

  Millie hung up the phone. She looked at the ceiling and thought about what her mother had said. Prayer, that was the fabric of her mother’s life. It was a fabric Millie had long since abandoned.

  When had she rejected her childhood faith? she wondered now, lying in the bed. It had been a slow transition, but Millie did remember waking up one morning in her dormitory at Berkeley and thinking explicitly, I don’t believe that anymore. I do not believe in God. How will I ever tell Mom?

  She hadn’t, for many years. When her mother would call to check up on her, she’d always manage to ask her daughter about her church attendance. Millie could anticipate the question coming, and formed several clever ways to steer the conversation elsewhere.

  Finally, after she had been a judge for a year, she could not hide the fact from her mother any longer. It was the most difficult conversation of Millie’s life. Sitting in the living room of her childhood home, where she had once sung Sunday school songs her mother had taught her, she told her mother she had developed another sort of faith – in humanity, in principles of justice.

  When the tears came into her mother’s eyes it was like a death had occurred. And in a way, it had.

  “I will never stop praying for your soul,” her mother had said, almost with defiance. The thought of her mother continuing to pray for her was sometimes like a curse. Millie overcame it by learning to live in forward motion, not dwelling on her mother’s spiritual concerns.

  So why was she thinking about them now? And then the most disturbing thing happened. The word hell popped into her mind.

  Her whole body clenched. Pain shot through her limbs like liquid fire.

  Hell? Where had that come from? Why should she have thought it? Because of that vision when she’d almost died?

  She would go mad if she didn’t get that vision out of her system. She had always been able to think her way out of any dilemma. Her psychiatrist had been her reasoning, rational mind. She could always rely on it.

  And she would now. What she needed was to get back into her own world as soon as possible.

  7

  By Wednesday, Millie finally felt like she could see visitors. Helen had called every day – faithful Helen – and there were requests from all sorts of people for a personal one-on-one. Reporters, mostly. All the network anchors had requested interviews. NBC had even sent along a huge gift basket filled with flowers, Godiva chocolates, and an assortment of gourmet almonds.

  She turned them all down. She was not going to let an accident become an open door to the press. But she called Helen and asked her to come.

  Helen Forbes Kensington came in looking like she was the star of her own movie.

  “You look fantastic,” Helen said, grabbing Millie’s hand. “For someone who almost bought the farm.”

  Helen’s tone and temperament were cheering. “Maybe a farm wouldn’t be such a bad idea,” Millie said.

  “The reports I keep hearing say you’ll be good as new. Are they right?”

  “So Dr. Cross says.”

  “We need you, girl.”

  “We?”

  “All of us. The United States of America. We need you to write those opinions.”

  Millie was about to say something in assent but she stopped. Something shifted in her mind. It was subtle and almost unidentifiable.

  “Are you okay, girl?” Helen was leaning over.

  “What? Sorry,” Millie said. “I guess I had a moment.”

  “You looked like it. Pain?”

  “No, no. I’m all right.”

  “You sure?”

  Millie looked at her friend. Should she tell her about the vision? In all the years they’d known each other, Helen had looked upon Millie as a sort of Rock of Gibraltar. In fact she had once called her that, and for several months thereafter even nicknamed her “Rocky.” And Millie had liked it. She liked it a lot. If that was to be her main reputation in the Court – to be a rock-solid justice who did not break under pressure – she would be pleased.

  Now a fissure, however slight, seemed to be developing. How serious a break it would turn out to be, Millie did not know. But she did not want it to alarm anyone, especially her close allies. No, she would deal with it first, figure it out, like she always did. Think it through and get rid of it. Then she would be able to talk about it.

  “I’m sure,” Millie said.

  “Good,” Helen said. “Because I’ve got to tell you something. Big.”

  Millie tensed. Her ribs fought her. “Ow.”

  “Sorry,” Helen said. “Relax. It’s about your boyfriend, Senator Levering.”

  “Helen, please.”

  “I know. That gadfly of his, Anne something-or-other, tracked me down.”

  “Tracked you?”

  “Asked me all sorts of roundabout questions. What I figured out is she wanted to know if I knew about you and the senator. I played dumb. I told her I didn’t know anything about anything. I don’t know if she believed me or not. Frankly, I don’t care. But I’m certainly not going to spill any beans.”

  “I’ve issued an official statement that I was with a friend, and my private life is to remain private.”

  “Yeah. But these things can take on lives of their own. Like those awful Survivor shows. Well, you’re a survivor, and you’re going to stay that way. But I got from this Anne babe that the press might get all over this story if we don’t watch it. I think it might be a good idea for you to get out of town awhile.”

  “What?”

  “Lay low. You need to get confirmed as CJ – and you need to recuperate.” A little light flickered in Helen’s eyes. “Hey, why don’t you go out to California?”

  “Back home?”

  “Your mom’s still got a house, right?”

  Millie nodded. “I don’t know, Helen. Santa Lucia? It’s the other side of the world.”

  “But that’s the point, kiddo. It’s quiet. And you’ll have the whole su
mmer.”

  Maybe Helen was right. Millie could get away from this unwanted attention and see her mother at the same time. She’d have to endure some religious talk, but that was a small price.

  And there was something else about it. The desert community that she’d grown up in had a certain simplicity. Maybe that’s what she needed to forget all that had happened the last couple of weeks. Maybe it would help that troubling vision to fade.

  “I’ll think about it,” Millie said. “But remember, it’s California we’re talking about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Millie smiled. “A lot of weird stuff happens in California.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  1

  Charlene Moore took a sip of her mother’s coffee on the front porch, and breathed in the morning. She’d spent the night with her family, a once-in-a-while thing. They lived an hour away from Dudley, and it was good now and then to have a home-cooked meal and see the folks. And Granddad. She loved the man who had taught her to love God when she was a little girl.

  Once she had come to him after a Sunday school lesson about God and the Red Sea. Charlene told him she’d thought about it and she didn’t think it could happen. Granddad had laughed his deep, jowly laugh and said, “Sometimes, Charlene, God kicks thinkin’ in the pants.”

  As Charlene sat on the porch swing, where she’d spent many an hour as a girl, she glanced at the local paper. The front page was running yet another story on the accident that almost killed Millicent Mannings Hollander. It had been two weeks, and she was going to be released from the hospital.

  Charlene read the story with keen interest. Hollander was something of a secret foe in her life. In law school, Charlene had written a law review article that took apart one of Hollander’s most controversial opinions, one strongly upholding the Roe v. Wade decision. That had been a 5-4 disaster in the long fight against abortion.

  Charlene took a long sip of coffee, wondering what the death of a sitting Supreme Court justice would do to the country. There would be a firestorm of political debate, of course. President Francis would move to put up a liberal, and thus preserve the liberal court majority. If one of the conservatives died, then another liberal would make the Court 6-3 in that direction.

  Such were the calculations going on constantly, Charlene knew. And then a thought struck her. Millicent Hollander had been on the very edge of dying. Would that change how she now viewed life?

  One could always hope. And pray. Things were supposed to happen when you prayed, weren’t they?

  The screen door opened and Granddad came out with his own mug of coffee.

  “Hi,” Charlene said. “Want to sit?”

  “I do,” Granddad Clarence Moore said. He was a veteran of the Korean War and a retired mechanic. He still smelled of grease because he was always tinkering with the lawn mower.

  “How’s my baby today?” he asked, sitting next to her. The rusty chain creaked a little.

  “Ready to get back to work,” she said. “I’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Your big case?”

  Charlene nodded. She had told the whole family about it last night at dinner. Everyone had agreed it was going to make her famous. Except Granddad. He hadn’t said much at all.

  “You worried about me?” Charlene said.

  “Yes I am,” Clarence Moore said. “Now that you mention it.”

  She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t. I am all over this one. I feel good about it. I can win it.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about, baby.”

  “Then what are you worried about?”

  He pushed with his feet so they rocked a little. “I’m worried about your insides. You sure you’re not running ahead of God on this one?”

  Charlene felt a little irked. She was not five years old. “Come on, Granddad, I’m a lawyer. This is what I’ve prepared for, to get a case like this and use it to – ”

  “Use it?”

  “Why not?”

  “Are you using it to prove something about Charlene Moore?”

  “No,” she said, wondering how much she meant it. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime case. It’s mine and I have to take it all the way.”

  “You don’t own it,” Clarence Moore said. “We don’t own anything, do we? You just keep praying about it, baby. And I mean the kind of prayer that lays you flat. Not the gimme-gimme kind. Promise your old grandpappy?”

  “Of course,” Charlene said, wanting to leave right away. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  2

  Sam Levering had a TV room at home. Four monitors, each beaming in a different channel. With the touch of a couple of buttons on the remote, he could increase or decrease the volume of any set, so he could concentrate on the story that seemed most relevant.

  Right now it was on Fox News. He hated Fox. It regularly held him up to scorn, but it was also the leading cable news outlet so he would just have to deal with it.

  Tonight it was all about the story that still occupied Washington, if not the entire country: Who was Millicent Mannings Hollander with the night she got hit?

  The Fox reporter in the field, standing outside Walter Reed Hospital, was saying, “All we know is that police have questioned Justice Hollander, and she has stated that she had been with a friend. That’s the word she used, friend. She was dropped off near the Lincoln Memorial, though she didn’t say why, but was going to try to catch a taxi to take her home. Here is where the story gets a little confusing. There is some speculation that the friend was…”

  Levering gripped his glass of bourbon like a lifeline.

  “… one of the other justices of the Court. Justice Hollander does not have the reputation of socializing much in Washington circles…”

  Levering breathed a little easier. A friend. She was not going to say anything. Good for her. Now he would not have to use the little contingency plan Anne Deveraux and he had hatched. He could save it. Keep it in his back pocket, as it were, and with it control the next chief justice of the Supreme Court. Man, he was good. With Anne Deveraux, he was unstoppable.

  His phone rang. The direct line.

  “You been watching?” President Francis asked.

  “It’s under control,” Levering said.

  “I just want to know if this is going to become a problem for us.”

  “Don’t worry. A few days and it’ll be on A-20 of the Post, and then gone.”

  “What about Hollander?”

  “What about her?”

  “She still the one?”

  “Oh, yes. This will garner her all sorts of sympathy. You’ll be a hero.”

  “I still get this feeling.”

  “Trust me.”

  “I have to, I guess.”

  And that was just the way Sam Levering had planned it all along.

  3

  From her wheelchair, Millie tried to smile gamely for the cameras. The press coverage was inevitable, and it was best to just get it out of the way now.

  Flashes burst around her and voices threw questions like baseballs.

  Dr. Cross, pushing the wheelchair, ran interference. “Allow Justice Hollander to make a statement please. Please! And then she will answer only a few questions. I will update you on her condition momentarily.”

  The reporters waited, cameras whirring and microphones thrusting.

  Millie was not an accomplished public speaker. When she made speeches she read them, preferring to prepare her statements in logical order beforehand. If she spoke off the cuff, she might say something that could be misconstrued. And the one thing she wanted to avoid as a Supreme Court justice was misunderstanding.

  “Thank you,” she said, “for your concern. And I thank the American people for their well wishes.” She had received flowers and cards and stuffed animals, along with telegrams and even a bathrobe with capitol domes on it. So much for the separation of powers.

  “I am continuing to recuperate under the care of Dr. Cross. Aside from a bad head
ache, I am doing quite well. I hope to take a little time to rest back home in California. I will be ready to resume my seat on the Court when the new term begins in October.”

  She paused, and immediately a reporter shouted, “Can you tell us why you were walking at night alone?”

  There were a few groans at the question, but mostly, Millie noted, keen interest from the newspeople.

  “I had been with an acquaintance, and that is all. I appreciate that you will respect the privacy of all concerned here.”

  “Are the police respecting that privacy?” another reporter asked.

  “This is not a police matter. As I told them, I was in the process of getting a taxi to go home. I lost my balance and fell into the street.”

  “What do you think of Edward Ellis Pavel’s retirement?”

  While she had been recovering in the hospital, Pavel had announced his retirement.

  “Chief Justice Pavel has served honorably for over twenty years. He will be missed.”

  “Are you going to be the next chief justice?”

  “I leave that to the people who make those decisions. Now if you’ll – ”

  A smallish man, who looked – Millie couldn’t help the analogy – like a rodent, shot out of the gathering as if emerging from a hole. “Madame Justice, how has your brush with death changed your life?”

  Millie only vaguely heard the voices of disdain this question provoked. She felt the man’s feral eyes boring into her, as if by will he could drag out her deep secrets. And she did have a secret, one she was not prepared to be examined on.

  The truth was her life was different, but she had no idea how. There had not been time to assess it. But the disquiet she had felt ever since coming back to consciousness was not gone. She had always kept her emotions under strict control. But now – well, she might actually need to see a therapist. And that was something no one must ever find out about.

  Thankfully, Dr. Cross stepped in front of the wheelchair. “That is all for today. Thank you very much.”