“Where do you get off lecturing me on procedure, young man? You don’t even know the difference between an objection and a point of order.” A little awkward laughter from the gallery. “You don’t set the agenda in this chamber.”
“It is traditional to allow the nominee to make a statement.”
“That doesn’t make it an entitlement. That’s all we need—a homosexual activist judge creating another entitlement.”
“I second that,” Potter interjected.
Ben clenched the mike tightly. “This is outrageously inappropriate.”
“I wasn’t put on this dais to improve the décor,” Matera continued. “I’m here to represent the people, and I will not be silenced or otherwise prevented from doing so. The American people are angry about what this man has done and they do not want to see it proceed any further.”
It was clear he would have no success appealing to her reason, so Ben turned his attention to Keyes. “Mister Chairman. Point of order.” He gave each word its own emphasis. “Are you planning to allow the nominee’s opening statement to be interrupted with questions?”
“Well…perhaps it would be best to let the man make his little speech,” Keyes conceded, now that the damage was done.
“Thank you.”
“Senator Matera, I would take it as a personal favor if you would reserve your remarks until it is your turn to question the nominee.”
Matera folded her arms across her chest. “If you wish, Mister Chairman. But I refuse to sit still and listen to this self-serving godless diatribe.” She stood and walked out of the Caucus Room, leaving almost everyone present gaping in her wake.
Keyes appeared surprised and shaken, even though Ben suspected the whole drama-queen scene had been planned and scripted, possibly even rehearsed. They had been one step ahead of him from the outset—well, more than one, actually.
Keyes waited until Matera was outside, then added, “Regret-table. But I suppose some members of the committee feel that certain remarks are of such egregiousness that they demand explanation. Judge Roush, please continue.”
He did, but Ben knew no one was listening. Matera’s scene-stealing stunt had totally upstaged him. The remainder of Roush’s opening speech would be only empty words, soon forgotten. All anyone would remember, all that would be discussed and replayed on the news shows, would be Matera’s outrage and walkout. She had effectively guaranteed that Roush would have no “honeymoon” period—he would be perceived as stumbling from the outset, which would only hasten the failure of his nomination.
And Ben, his astute legal advisor, had done nothing to stop it. Hadn’t even slowed it down.
19
Loving hated driving in Washington, D.C. It seemed there was no good time, just one endless rush hour. Traffic was never like this in the small Oklahoma town where he grew up. Even in Tulsa it was never like this, not even on the Friday afternoon before Christmas vacation. He was almost creamed by a semi as he tried to merge onto Interstate 66. He took the Key Bridge exit and traveled straight across the Potomac, then veered right onto “M” Street. Eventually he fought his way to Thirty-first, a main drag through one of the most upscale parts of Georgetown. Personally, he preferred the bars and honky-tonks of rural Oklahoma to the endless shopping emporia surrounding “M” and Wisconsin. Did everyone in this town own a cell phone? Were they permanently attached to their ears? Might as well dangle them from the end of a pierced earring.
When he was in the vicinity of his destination, Loving parked his minivan and crawled into the back. Since Ben had decided they were relocating to D.C., at least until his senatorial term expired, Loving had taken the time to drive his official P.I. van up from Oklahoma so he could use it when needed. The tinted windows were completely opaque; he could see out, but didn’t want anyone seeing in. A dark sheet hung between the front seats and where the rear seats used to be; he’d removed them to create a nest and to make more room for his surveillance equipment.
He opened the cabinet bolted to the side wall of the van. This was his private stash: digital camera, pencil-thin flashlight, twenty-power binoculars, bottled water, peanut butter sandwiches, and a lifetime supply of beef jerky. He also had a fan he used to keep cool during stakeouts. He wasn’t sure he needed any of this equipment at the moment, but he ate a sandwich, just so the trip wouldn’t be wasted. Then he slid outside the van and disappeared into a nearby alley.
He had become all too familiar with the network of alleys that seemed to unite most of commercial Georgetown; they were useful, but never ceased to send a chill or two up his spine when he entered. They were dark and oppressive, even in the daytime, and it would be all too easy to get trapped in them—as he had learned a few days before when he was fleeing from Leon and Pretty Boy.
He walked through the alley until he emerged at the opposite end and his ultimate destination, the address Leon had given him.
Loving pressed himself against the stone wall of the alleyway, carefully inching forward in tiny increments toward the street. Perhaps he was being excessively cautious. On the other hand, after two killers have tried their darnedest to blow you away, then one of them sits in a coffee bar and suggests there’s probably still someone gunning for you, maybe there’s no such thing as excessively cautious. The stinging sensation in his leg where the bullet creased it reminded him that wariness might be prudent.
He’d feel better about this if it were nighttime. Skulking about in the shadows was his specialty; he’d had a lot of practice. But Leon had made it clear that if Loving wanted to bump into this “Trudy,” four in the afternoon would be the optimum time. Broad daylight. Heavy Georgetown traffic. A line of high rises that provided a never-ending succession of potential snipers’ nests.
The street was smoggy to the point of choking with a sheet of cars whizzing by, not to mention the buses announcing their passage with hydraulic brake squeals and noxious fumes. How many different bus lines did this town have, anyway? Judging from the traffic, he put the number at somewhere around a hundred billion. A wonder there was anyone left to drive a car.
Loving plunged across the street, weaving a serpentine pattern through traffic, dodging cars and, at least in his mind, imaginary Leons who might be gunning for him. He made it to the opposite side and raced to the front door of the office building.
Except when he arrived, he realized it wasn’t an office building. Big enough to be one, but it wasn’t. Trinity Baptist Church of Georgetown, read the lettering on the door.
Loving did a double-take. This place looked nothing like a church, at least not from the outside. It was a five-story brownstone with barely any windows, much less any made of stained glass. He supposed space downtown was at a premium, and even churchgoers had to make do with what they could find. Inside, he saw more signs of churchliness, even though it wasn’t Sunday. Religious posters—HAVE YOU BEEN WASHED IN THE BLOOD?—and tract displays hung over the functional, if unexciting, airport-beige carpeting. He spotted two large double doors and peeked inside. He found a cavernous room larger than most auditoriums, with an immensely high ceiling; he speculated that it probably reached to the top of the building. The altar at the front was decorated with flowers and a podium and flanked on either side with huge movie display screens. High-tech preaching, from the looks of things. A lot bigger than anything they’d had back in Loving’s hometown.
Loving would have loved to stop and gawk, but he recalled that Leon told him that Trudy wouldn’t be found in the business operation proper—she’d be in the basement. That was starting to make a lot of sense to him. What better front for a criminal operation than a church? Or maybe the church was legitimate, but rented its basement to raise extra cash. Either way, it was likely to escape the scrutiny of law enforcement eyes. Very clever, in a satanic sort of way.