Capitol Threat

43

Ben was closeted with his advisors—quite literally, since they were all standing in a janitorial storage closet down the hall from his office. The press had Ben’s office, Senator Hammond’s office, and the Caucus Room covered; this was about the only place left where they could meet without having to field the same question over and over again: Will Thaddeus Roush withdraw?

“Is there no hope at all?” Ben asked.

Sexton shook his head sadly. “I’ve talked to every senator on the committee who would talk, and the AA of every senator on the committee who wouldn’t talk. This has become too much of a lightning rod—for all the worst reasons. It’s going to go straight down party lines.”

“And that means we lose,” Beauregard added, as if Ben didn’t know that already. “Ten to eight. The nomination dies in committee and President Blake picks someone else. Without ever being forced to take a controversial position on a controversial issue.”

“Who can we call? Who could we work on? There must be someone who could be persuaded to vote his or her conscience,” Ben said.

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last forty-eight hours?” Sexton snapped. “It hasn’t happened.” He glanced at his watch. “And now it’s too late. I hate to say it, but…it probably would be best if Roush threw in the towel.”

The door cracked open. “That won’t be happening.” Roush stepped inside.

Sexton gritted his teeth. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Tad. But I hate to see you rejected. You deserve better than that.”

“I won’t turn tail and run.”

“If you go in that room, you force everyone to take a stand. It becomes a referendum on gay rights.”

“Maybe it should be!”

“Let me correct myself. It becomes a referendum on gay rights—and the gay community loses.”

“The first time. Perhaps we have to lose a few times before we can win. Better to start the process.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said, “but I disagree. Better to wait for the right time. The first black Supreme Court nominee—Thurgood Marshall—passed because the time was right. The first female appointee—Sandra Day O’Connor—passed because the time was right. I had hoped that the time was right for you.” He lowered his head. “But apparently I was wrong.”

“So are you saying you want me to quit?” Roush looked at him, his face twisted in a knot. “Is that what you’re saying? After all we’ve been through? I should quit?”

Ben thought for a long time before finally speaking. “I think you should…” He tried again. “I think you should do what’s best for you, Tad.”

Roush laid his hand firmly on Ben’s shoulder. “Then let’s get our butts into that Caucus Room.”

“Before we begin,” Chairman Keyes said after the hearing had come to order, “I have a few words I’d like to say to the people in this room. An opening statement, if you will.”

“Point of order,” Ben said, pulling the microphone to his lips. “This is not a courtroom.” Smart-alecky, yes, but he wasn’t likely to get another chance.

To his surprise, Keyes grinned. “Yes, Mr. Kincaid. Thank you for that clarification.” He looked to the side of the gallery, which Ben knew equated to looking directly into the camera. This speech wasn’t for the people in the Caucus Room. It was for the folks out in television land.

“There’s been a lot of discussion about this proceeding in the press of late. Too much, if you ask me. And too little of it has focused on things that actually matter.”

Like what, threesomes in gay bars? What was the purpose of this? The man already had the votes he needed to give the President what he wanted—Tad’s head on a platter. Didn’t he?

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear. Throughout these proceedings, I—and I think I speak for my colleagues as well—have been concerned with one thing and one thing only: the professional and personal qualifications of the nominee. So when we cast our votes today, ladies and gentlemen of the press, you may be assured that we are voting on that basis. And that basis alone.”

Very sweet, Ben realized. He’s basically arguing that he and his companions could conceivably kill Tad’s nomination without being considered anti-gay.

“Every man and woman on this dais has a conscience, and those consciences place integrity and loyalty at the epicenter of—”

“Point of clarification,” Ben said, interrupting. What the hell—this thing was over, anyway. “Do Robert’s Rules of Order permit the chairman to attempt to influence the committee members with a so-called opening statement right before the vote is taken?”

“Mr. Kincaid!”

“I mean, I know you’ve been doing it for weeks, but in the hearing room, on national television? I don’t know. It just seems sort of tacky.”

Keyes’s nostrils flared. “Mr. Kincaid, I am grossly offended by your suggestion that—”

“Well, I was grossly offended by your self-serving opening statement.”

Keyes pointed a gavel. “Consider yourself fortunate that I don’t find you in contempt of Congress.”

“I could hardly be more contemptuous of certain members of Congress than I am at this moment.”

“Mr. Kincaid!”

“Why don’t you call this what it is? A pathetic attempt to save face even though you and the other members of your party are about to kill the nomination of a worthy man because your partisan masters wish it. Because it turned out the nominee had a different sexual preference than you do and wasn’t afraid to tell everyone.”

For the first time since the start of the proceedings, Keyes appeared barely able to contain his rage. “You are out of order.”

Ben started to reply, but Keyes cut him off. “I sat patiently and listened to your speech yesterday, appallingly self-serving though it was. Now you will afford me the same courtesy. And if, as I think may be the case, you don’t know the meaning of the word ‘courtesy,’ I can direct you to the nearest dictionary.”

Ben settled back into his chair. There was no reason to continue—he’d made his point. Anything more would just seem obnoxious. Not that he particularly minded being obnoxious to Senator Keyes, but it wouldn’t do Roush any good.

“As I was saying,” Keyes said, rediscovering his oratorical voice, “this assemblage has always acted with pride and dignity as befits these chambers, so let no one dare to cast aspersions, let no one congregate with the wicked, but let us only cast our votes as our hearts, our minds, and our Creator directs us.”

Ben tried not to roll his eyes. It was the first time he’d heard anyone violate the Constitution three times in a single sentence.

“All those who favor sending the nomination of Thaddeus Roush to the full Senate with a favorable recommendation for confirmation should so signify by saying ‘aye.’ All those opposed should signify by saying ‘nay.’ The clerk will call the roll.”

As had undoubtedly been arranged in advance, the clerk started with those sitting to the left of the chairman—the Republicans. One after another, they fell in with the party line. Eight votes in a row, all against.

Roush sank progressively lower into his seat. “It’s over,” he said quietly.

“Senator Matera of Wyoming,” the clerk called out. “How do you vote?”

There was a pause, long enough to cause every head in the room to turn her way.

Keyes leaned into his microphone. “Senator Matera? It’s your time to vote.”

“Yes, I know that.” She batted her finger against her lips, then sighed. “I’ve been thinking a long time.”

“Senator, we need your vote.”

“And you mean that in more ways than one, don’t you?” She smiled a little. “I’ve got to tell you—despite outward appearances, I’ve been troubled about this business for a long time now.”

“Senator…,” Keyes said, a deep furrow crossing his forehead. “This is not a time for making speeches. You do not have the floor. You just need to cast your vote.”

“Well, now, Mister Chairman, you got to make your little speech, even though it was not proper procedure, so you can just hold your breath a moment while I make mine.”

A mild titter of laughter spread through the gallery. Ben realized he was clenching his pencil so tightly his knuckles were white. What was going on here?

“I came into the Caucus Room today expecting to do…well, just what everyone expects me to do. I’ve been the good chairman’s attack dog, and now I’m supposed to deliver the final bite to the throat. But I’ve been troubled. Since the start, I suppose. I mean, I don’t mind asking questions. Anyone who wants to sit on the Supreme Court ought to be prepared to answer some tough questions. But what’s going on now…”

She seemed lost in thought for a moment. “It disturbs me. Right down to my core. I had a conversation last night that disturbed me even more. Reminded me where the real power in this town is now, and how far that is from where the real power is supposed to be. In the long run, I suppose one little vote isn’t going to make that much difference. But you never know, right?”

Ben gasped. Was it…possible?

Chairman Keyes cleared his throat. “Senator Matera, do you feel quite well?”

“Fit as a fiddle.”

“And…you understand what you’re doing?”

“Yup. Kissing the vice presidency good-bye.” She shrugged, tugged on the flared lapels of her jacket. “Stupid job, anyway. Who wants to carry the President’s luggage for four years? I’d rather go back to Wyoming and spend some time with my grandchildren.” She sat up straight and turned slightly so she could face her fellow Republican committee members. “So on behalf of all of you—whether you like it or not—I’m going to do what you should’ve done. What you perhaps wanted to do but couldn’t find the courage to do. Because every one of you knows that Thaddeus Roush is a fine man and a distinguished jurist. Smart as a tack. Your reasons for voting ‘no’ have nothing to do with his qualifications. And that’s a shameful disgrace that I find myself unable to countenance.” She stopped, then started again. “And one more thing, just for the record: if the founding fathers had any inkling what these confirmation hearings would turn into, they would’ve never given us the damned advise-and-consent power in the first place.”

Matera stared directly at Keyes, who looked almost as flabbergasted as Ben felt. “I vote yes, Mister Chairman.”

Ben was stunned, but not so stunned he couldn’t add. Matera’s vote was unexpected, but even if every Democrat on the committee voted yea, it would only produce a tie. Chairman Keyes would break the vote, and he knew all too well how that would end.

As it turned out, Senator Matera wasn’t finished. “And what gives me particular pride—and hope for the future—is that I’ve managed to convince Senator Potter, the youngest member of this committee and thus the one most able to change the old-guard politics, that confirmations should be based upon qualifications, not party politics. Isn’t that right?”

Senator Potter nodded. “I second that, Senator. And I also vote yes, Mister Chairman.”

The room was thunderstruck. One after the other, every Democrat on the committee voted to confirm Judge Roush.

With the vote at ten to eight, Keyes would never have a chance to cast a tie-breaking vote.

While everyone else was still gaping, not sure whether to applaud or hiss, Thaddeus Roush rose slowly to his feet.

“Thank you, senators,” he said quietly. “You honor me. And may I perhaps express my special thanks to you, Senator Matera, for reminding me what government is supposed to be.”

“My pleasure, sir,” the senator from Wyoming said, her eyes twinkling. “Now get over to the full Senate hearings and give ’em hell.”