Capitol Threat

49

The radio spot began with a voice-over in the usual clipped stentorian tones over a driving electronic beat that had been sampled from an action-picture sound track.

“Do you believe liars should be trusted?”

DUH-duh, duh, ta-da, the electronic heartbeat boomed in the background. DUH-duh, duh, ta-da.

“Do you believe sex offenders should be running the justice system?”

DUH-duh, duh, ta-da. DUH-duh, duh, ta-da.

“Do you believe a murderer should be on the highest court in the land?”

The music swelled, adding a pizzicato electric guitar riff that elevated the tension level of the music to the magnitude of a slasher flick. Then, all at once, the music disappeared. And after a moment of silence, the chorus of baby cries began, a mass cacophony of infant pain.

The stentorian voice returned: “Then tell your senator you don’t want Thaddeus Roush on the Supreme Court.”

“Paid for by the—”

Christina switched the car radio off. “You know, I was hoping for some Sarah McLaughlin or Alicia Keyes. Maybe John Mayer. Radiohead.”

“I’ve got a Susan Herndon CD in my briefcase,” Ben said, keeping his eyes on the road as he navigated the winding avenues of Montgomery County.

“Thanks, but no. Upon reflection, I realize that great music shouldn’t be wasted on a sour disposition.”

Ben briefly took one hand off the wheel and gave her knee a squeeze. “It was inevitable that the extreme pro-life lobbyists would emerge as soon as the news about Roush’s past broke. But that’s not going to sway everyone. Polls show a plurality of Americans still think abortion should not be criminalized.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Beauregard.”

“Well, if you hold a bad penny long enough, you’re bound to turn a little green.” Christina giggled. “I spoke to him earlier. He’s not ruling out the possibility of more backlash. People are tired of judicial appointments turning into political footballs. This has only made it worse.”

“Ben.” She looked across the car at him, her big blue eyes glistening. “I know you like Tad, but—honestly. Alan Ginsberg’s nomination was derailed because he admitted he once experimented with a marijuana cigarette. Remember the big fuss when it was discovered that Justice Roberts advised a gay rights group? He came very close to losing the support of his President over that one. Here we’ve got not only gay rights but the only other political football that could possibly be more controversial—abortion. People are still split all over the map on abortion and gay rights. Put the two of them together, and I don’t see your man getting onto the Supreme Court. Certainly not when the Republicans control the Senate.”

“He’s a good man, Christina.”

“I know that, Ben. But Senator Matera’s speech notwithstanding, that’s not really the primary qualifier for the Supreme Court, is it?”

“It should be.”

“But it isn’t.”

“But it should be.”

“But it isn’t!” She grabbed his shoulders and shook him as hard as she possibly could without causing an accident. “Ben, you have to live in the real world.”

“That’s what people say when they’re giving up.”

“Well—”

“Don’t.” He kept his eyes on the road, but his expression was fixed. “We’ve been through tough cases before. We never gave up.”

“But this isn’t a case, Ben. That’s just it. There’s no courtroom. We can’t control public opinion.” Her face turned downward. “Better to let it go and forge ahead. Concentrate on your reelection campaign, if that’s what you’re going to do.” She lightly touched the ring on her finger. “Maybe even give some thought to your personal life.”

Ben paused at a stop sign and turned to face her, his expression stern. “Christina, we are doing the right thing. I will not give up.”

The wheels screeched as he pulled away from the stop. “I know,” she said wearily. “That’s what I love about you. Sort of.”

Ben admired the sunroom overlooking the expansive garden in the rear of Roush and Eastwick’s home, but he had liked it better the first time he’d seen it, when it was filled with people and excitement, fraught with anticipation and intrigue. Today, with only Eastwick present, and he barely speaking, the excitement was subdued to the point of extinction.

Eastwick was seated in a footed chair with red upholstery and arms that extended into an eagle’s beak. He hadn’t moved from the chair since Ben and Christina arrived.

“I really don’t see how I can help you,” Eastwick said, speaking slowly and almost as if his voice were detached from his body. Ben noticed that there was a half-full brandy decanter on a table not far from his chair, and a small glass beside it bearing a trace of the dark, smoky liquid. “Tad never tells me anything.”

Christina tried to seem sympathetic. “I’m sure he’s trying to shield you from the worst of the media blows. He’s been taking some serious hits.”

“What am I, a child? I don’t need to be protected. I need to—” His voice caught. “I need to be able to pretend that I’m his partner. A true partner. Not just a political football.”

“I can imagine how you feel,” Christina replied, moving to the chair nearest his. “But let me say that I admire the courage you’ve displayed throughout all this. Not only during the police interrogation but even before, having the courage to come out during the acceptance speech and be forthright about—”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Eastwick snapped.

Christina hesitated. “Well, I know you weren’t the one making the speech, but still, you understood—”

“I most certainly did not. Thaddeus never told me he was planning to mention his sexual preference. We didn’t even discuss it.” His eyes shrank until they were almost the same color as the liquid in his glass. “I was outed.”

Ben’s lips parted. No wonder Eastwick had remained so distant from the confirmation campaign.

“He—He didn’t consult you?”

“Not even a hint.”

“To be fair,” Ben said, doing his best to defend the clearly indefensible, “Tad did tell us he didn’t plan to reveal his sexual preference. But when he stood before all those people and all those cameras—”

“Yes, I know. His sense of propriety overwhelmed him. Doesn’t that make him a wonderful person? And doesn’t that make me—what? A prop? A tool?”

Christina touched his hand sympathetically, but he acted as if he did not even feel it. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way. How did he explain it to you?”

“We haven’t talked. Not really. Not since the disastrous press conference when the body was found and the police hauled me away. Nothing. Not even a ‘Hi Ray, glad you’re not sharing a cell with Big Bruno.’ ”

Ben pressed his fingers against his forehead. The resentment threshold in the room was so high it was palpable. This was going to be more difficult than he had imagined. “I understand that you may be having some negative feelings right now. Still, can you give us any information about the baby he lost?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking Tad that question?”

“Believe me, I have. He’s not answering. It’s like some kind of wall. Someplace he won’t go.”

Eastwick laughed, a short, bitter cackle. “And for good reason.” He rose from his chair, moving as though he weighed a thousand pounds. He poured himself another brandy, downed it in a shot, then walked unsteadily toward the bay window that overlooked the green expanse behind the house. “What you may not know is that for the first thirty years of his life, Tad was perfectly straight.”

No, Ben thought, I didn’t know, but what else is new?

“That’s probably partly why the President’s investigators didn’t trip onto the truth. There was plenty of evidence of heterosexual affairs in his past. He claims he always was gay, deep down, but he was trying to sublimate it, trying to overcome it. Never quite worked, which might explain why he never married. Might also explain why he tended to favor women from the…seedier side of the tracks. No one who would ever make a suitable wife.”

“When did he, ummm…” Ben could feel his face coloring. How do you put these things?

“When did he realize he was gayer than La Cage aux Folles? Later. When he started going to those gay hangouts, more in an effort of self-discovery than because he was stalking action. He claims he was never really sure—until he met me.” Eastwick stared through the sunroom window, as if wishing he could bury himself in the loveliness of the peonies and the stately hedges. “At least that was when he first openly acknowledged it. I had had male lovers before, but not Tad.” He pressed his palm against the glass. “Despite what you heard at the hearing, I was his first.”

“How did you meet?”

“At an art gallery. A showing for one of the Maryland Court of Criminal Appeals judges who painted on the side. Talented woman, actually. I was there because I was clerking for Senator Hammond and I love art, and Tad was there because, well, it came with his job. He brought a date, a homely little thing from the poor part of Annapolis, but I could tell there was nothing between them. Between Tad and me, however, that was different. Instant chemistry, just like in the movies. Instant.”

“That’s nice.”

“It was more than nice. It was fantastic. It was a miracle. It was quite literally what I had dreamed of my entire life. Our first few months together—” He shook his head. “That’s when my life began.”

“And you’ve been together seven years?”

“Until now.”

“You’re not thinking about—about—”

“Can’t quite think of a word for it, right? Can’t call it divorce, because we’re not allowed to marry. But after seven years, there should be something.”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating the problems,” Christina said reassuringly. “It must seem overwhelming right now. I’ve often said that these times of stress—trials, hearings, what have you—they’re tough on the subject, but they’re even tougher on the—the—”

“Still can’t think of a word for it? Partner, Tad usually says, but that makes us seem more like lawyers sharing an office than lovers sharing a bed. The law, that sacred cow to which Tad has devoted his life, won’t give us a word for what we are. You want to say, ‘It’s even tougher on the spouse.’ But you can’t. Because I’m not a spouse.”

“Maybe some counseling…”

“When? Tad’s too busy with this interminable and increasingly impossible quest to get on the Supreme Court, so he can sit on a bench with a bunch of no-life losers and decide the fate of people they’ve never met. That’s all he cares about. Not me.”

Ben drew in his breath. If this went on much longer, he was going to be pouring a brandy for himself. “But getting back to the subject of the abortion…”

“That happened before we met. Well before.”

“I understand, but I still thought he might’ve mentioned it to you.”

Eastwick turned suddenly, and his face was streaked with tears. “He did. And how do you think that made me feel? To know that he’d had a child with someone, someone he didn’t even…” He covered his face with his hand.

“But why won’t he talk about it? We need details to prepare a response.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eastwick said with a wave of the hand. “It will all come out. Soon.”

“No doubt, but we have to prepare, think ahead, and we can’t unless—” Ben stopped mid-sentence. A cold chill enveloped his heart. “What do you mean, it will all come out soon?”

“It’s inevitable. So many people have been looking into it. For so long.”

Ben was confused, but his brain was beginning to work its way out of the muddle, and the only explanation was one he didn’t like at all.

“What are you talking about?” Christina asked. “The FBI investigation of Tad’s background?”

“No. Well, yes. But—no.”

“If you could perhaps be just a bit clearer.”

“I’m talking about the police.”

“The police?” Christina shrugged.

“The local police,” he snapped. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. But that’s what I’m talking about. Not the feds. The locals. Lieutenants Fink and Albertson.”

“But they’re looking into the murder of the woman at the press conference. The one no one can identify.”

Eastwick collapsed forward, his head practically in his lap. “Don’t you see? She’s the woman.”

“Who is?”

“The woman who was killed. It’s her! I knew it the moment I saw her. Even though I’ve only seen photographs. Even though she’s done everything imaginable to alter her appearance.”

Christina threw up her hands, then turned to Ben. “Do you understand what he’s saying? Because I sure don’t.”

“I fear I do.” Ben edged closer. “I think what he’s saying is that the murdered woman…is the mother.”

“The mother of who?”

Eastwick looked up at her with red-streaked eyes. “The mother of the child Thaddeus chose not to have.”