“I am planning to finish taking my turn.”
“Well, I’ve had about all of these touchy-feely-friendly questions I can stand.”
“I didn’t care much for the questions you asked yesterday, either, madam. But I still managed to keep my mouth shut while you asked them.”
“Mr. Chairman,” Matera said, “may I pose an interlocutory voir dire examination to clarify this point before Senator Dawkins proceeds with his questioning?”
May she pose a what? Ben thought. That wasn’t in the copy of Robert’s Rules of Order that he read.
“I’ll allow it,” Senator Keyes replied.
Dawkins appeared outraged, but Matera plowed ahead before he had a chance to say anything.
“Mr. Roush, I—and all of America, I think—would like a straight answer. Are you planning to repeal the death penalty?”
“I’m not planning to do anything,” Roush answered, “except consider the cases that come before the Court and rule on them to the best of my ability.”
“Can you promise that you will not attempt to repeal the death penalty—a penalty which, I might add, sixty-eight percent of all Americans favor?”
“It would be gross—” He glanced across the room at media-savvy Gina. “—er, wildly inappropriate for me to answer that question.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ ”
“You will take it the way it was given,” Roush shot back, his voice rising. His eyebrows knitted together. “You are asking me to predict how I would rule on a hypothetical case that is not before me, not before anyone—because it doesn’t exist.”
“All I’m asking for is a straight answer.”
“Mr. Chairman,” Ben said, jumping in, “this is not any kind of voir dire examination. This is harassment.”
“Oh, the nominee looks like he’s doing just fine to me,” Keyes said calmly. “But I think it might be time to return the questioning to Senator Dawkins.”
“Point of clarification,” Matera said, not giving Dawkins a moment to inhale.
“Very well,” Chairman Keyes said, with a touch of feigned weariness.
“Judge Roush, is your fanatical opposition to the death penalty based upon your fear that your boyfriend will be the next person who gets it?”
The Caucus Room erupted. Not just the press, but almost everyone in attendance gasped, whispered, cheered, booed, or raced for the door. On a side monitor, Ben could see that the camera was moving in for a close-up of Roush. He was trying to remain calm, but for perhaps the first time in the entire proceeding, he was losing the battle. Sparks of anger seemed to leap from his eye sockets.
“I have been instructed by counsel not to discuss the tragic death that occurred at my home—”
“I don’t care what your lawyers said,” Matera snapped back. “A woman was found dead in your garden, and it looks like your longtime homosexual lover killed her.”
“He did not,” Roush replied, clipping off each word.
“How do you know? Were you with him in the garden?”
“I know.”
“If he didn’t,” Matera said, “the only other person who could’ve done it was you.”
“That’s not true, there were hundreds of—”
“Listen to me, both of you,” Ben said, snatching the microphone away. “You are not supposed to be discussing this. We have been told not only by counsel but by the police—”
“I think the American people have a right to know!” Matera said, pounding the bench. “They have a right to know who we’re putting on the Supreme Court. A murderer’s accomplice? Or the murderer himself!”
Roush leaped to his feet. Ben tried to pull him back, but it was no use. He had totally lost it. “I have known Ray Eastwick for seven years,” Roush shouted. “He is not a murderer.”
Matera scoffed. “Love is blind.”
“He did not kill that woman!”
Pandemonium ensued. The chairman pounded on his bench, but the uproar was not quelled. Ben tried to object in his most fiery attack-dog manner, but no one was listening. Despite their best precautions, the murder had been dragged into the hearings, dragged into the living room of every American watching. Matera would be criticized tomorrow in the press, but what did she care? She was retiring at the end of this term, and now she would retire the hero of her party and her President. Roush would go down in flames. Haskins would be nominated, and a week later, no one would remember who Roush was. A hard-liner would replace a man with a conscience.
And it was all Ben’s fault.
27
Once again, Loving fought traffic on the elevated Whitehurst Freeway, wondering how a nice Oklahoma boy like him had ended up in D.C. Sure, Ben had helped him when he needed it most, and he would do anything for the guy—within reason. This East Coast relocation was really pushing it, though. At least the Potomac was quiet tonight. He’d come from the south, near the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, and the engine noise of the police patrol boats was happily absent. He took the usual crisscross of highways and byways to Georgetown, then parked near a rather dilapidated neighborhood. Loving could tell it had once been a thriving commercial center, but apparently the rise of the nearby Georgetown Waterfront Complex had stolen the tourists and the shoppers. He didn’t know who might be having a meeting in a neighborhood like this. No one he wanted to meet.
Except for Trudy, of course.
He walked parallel to the waterfront, then took a shortcut through Francis Scott Key Park. Nice place, especially for a guy whose main accomplishment was writing the lyrics to a song no normal human could sing. Loving tried to pretend the neighborhood wasn’t giving him the creeps, but it was, and no degree of self-disciplined self-denial was going to make him forget it. As the environment grew worse and worse, it became harder and harder to believe he was still in the nation’s capital. Granted, you only had to travel half a mile from Capitol Hill to be in the slums, but even the slums weren’t as bad as this sleazy, dirty, depopulated neighborhood. The street itself seemed to reek; the stink rose from the waterfront, the abandoned buildings, even the pavement. The only people he saw were pimps and prostitutes. He couldn’t even retreat to the alleyways, as was his usual wont, because every time he tried he bumped into a drug deal in progress. He couldn’t wait to get out of there.
Loving had taken the DocuPen back to the office, and Jones—when Loving could pry him away from the C-SPAN coverage of the hearing long enough—plugged it into a USB port and brought up the calendar pages he had scanned. The listing for that night didn’t give any indication of what Nadya was planning to do, but it did give an address, which in the long run was far more valuable. He’d find out what Nadya and her friend Trudy were up to when he got there.
He rounded a corner and saw three white punks huddled around a fire set in a metal trash can. It was not a cold night; he supposed this had been done just for dramatic effect. Didn’t take a genius to figure out they were gang members. He kept his eyes focused front and center and hoped he could pass without incident.
“Whatchoo doin’ on mah street, bee-otch?” one of the punks sang out.
Loving had to suppress a grin. He loved it when white boys tried to talk black. It was so pathetic.
“Just passin’ through,” Loving said, with a nod of the head. He didn’t stop walking.
“Betchoo I know whatchoo want,” another offered. “I’ll give ya some,” he added, wiggling his ass.
Loving sighed. It would be so pleasurable to stop and beat the living crap out of these kids. But he supposed he’d best stay on task.
Halfway down the street, a bullet whizzed by, just above his head. Damn!
Loving ducked and ran. Crouched but still in motion, he made tracks toward the street corner. None of the shops were open; there was no place to duck into for safety. Another gunshot, and even the street punks scrambled. Loving saw a bullet hit the brick wall just beside his head. Judging from the angle of deflection, it was coming from somewhere above him.