Capitol Threat

39

Judge Haskins slammed the front door of his rented Georgetown home behind him, locked it, dead-bolted it, pressed his back against it, and breathed an enormous sigh of relief. “Vultures. Relentless vultures!”

“You should talk,” Margaret said. Her hair was up in the usual beauty shop do, with a single strand dangling down the front out of place. “You haven’t been here all day. I have.”

“Vultures!” Haskins repeated, just to get the thought clear in his mind. “They have no right to harass us like this.”

“Do you want me to call the police?”

Haskins frowned but said nothing.

“That’s what I thought. Having the press hauled away might end your run of perfectly glowing stories.”

“Do I detect a note of cynicism in your voice?” he asked. He wrapped his arms around his wife and gave her a firm hug.

“I suppose I’m just not accustomed to being married to a hero. I mean, being married to a judge was good. Very good. Decent money, all the best parties. But being married to a hero—well, that’s more intense.”

“I’m not a hero,” he said, shrugging uncomfortably. “I only did what any other man would do in that situation.”

“That clearly isn’t true.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You are a hero, darling. Live with it.”

He shrugged. “What’s for dinner?”

“Shrimp limone.”

He gasped. “Dear Lord. Have I died and gone to heaven?”

“Not yet, Rupert. I rather think your next destination is a musty old courtroom in Washington, D.C.”

“Now, Margaret, I’ve cautioned you—”

“I know, I know. No chickens before hatching. Not even sure you want it.” She winked. “But I’m picking out my inauguration gown, just the same.”

Haskins mounted the stairs, feeling as tired as he had ever felt in his entire life. What a day! He was a judge, for heaven’s sake. He’d never expected to be caught in the middle of a media firestorm. The President’s people calling him night and day, asking question after question, always something more they had to know—now. Why did you say this in that opinion? Passages he didn’t even remember that were suddenly of critical importance. And they practically wanted documentary evidence of his heterosexuality. At least half a dozen friends had called to tell him they’d been pestered by investigators.

Bad enough that the Roush nomination had gone so sour so fast: people demanding his withdrawal, others accusing them of homophobia, others prying into Roush’s personal life and finding the most unseemly details. Now they were saying there was just the slightest chance Roush might survive the committee, that there was a backlash created by Keyes and Matera’s heavy-handed tactics, that his advisor had swayed public opinion with an honest and heartfelt expression of outrage. Didn’t matter, of course—there was even more damaging information waiting in the wings.

Haskins still remembered the look on Richard Trevor’s face as he passed him the all-important manila envelope. Like a little boy who had learned the secrets of the universe and couldn’t wait to tell. Trevor was watching his reaction oh so carefully. Haskins made a point of giving him nothing. If he wanted to know how badly Haskins wanted a Supreme Court nomination, he was going to have to find out by offering him one. He wasn’t going to get an advance peek by playing these stupid cloak-and-dagger games on Roosevelt Island.

It was so close now. So close he could taste it. If he could just survive all this attention. The hotline phone calls in the middle of the night and supposed power brokers wanting to meet in low-key yet public locales, secret files and the impossible need to be on top of everything without appearing to be aware of anything. He had to be above the fray and the master of it simultaneously. Like tiptoeing through a garden of eggshells. But here he was, bearing it all, keeping his head up, making sure that if his chance came—when his chance came—he would be ready. He owed that much to Margaret. And to himself.

To be a justice on the Supreme Court of the United States. To have the ability to quite literally change the world with a stroke of a pen. What wouldn’t someone do for power like that?