“Stop waffling. Can I assume you’re on board?”
“On board what? It’s not like I’m going to convert the Senate Judiciary Committee. I’ll be lucky to get a seat in the gallery.”
Hammond looked at him levelly. “Once the far right is mobilized, and the Christian Congregation begin their inevitable attack ads, he’s going to need all the friends he can get. A voice of support—especially one with a high approval rating from the buckle on the Bible Belt—will be very welcome. I’d like to be able to tell Thaddeus you’ve got his back. What do you say?”
Ben considered for a long time. This would not be a prudent move, especially for someone who was contemplating an imminent Senate race. But when did he ever do the smart thing, anyway? “Tell the man I’ve got his back. Now how can I get a seat for this press conference?”
“Seat?” Hammond took Ben by the arm and smiled. “You’re going to be standing just to the left of the podium, Ben. Let’s get your nose powdered.”
Roush locked the bathroom door behind him, sat on the toilet, put his head in his hands, and breathed deeply. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic out there. He’d never been in the eye of the hurricane before and he didn’t like it. Normally judges don’t attract that much attention. All these people swarming over the grounds, thinly veiled enemies looking for any scrap of information that might be used against him—it was overwhelming. Nightmarish. His asthma was acting up, and he couldn’t have that. By the time the cameras were rolling, he had to be calm and utterly in control.
He hated this business of trying to win over the Senate, one senator at a time. It was as if he were auditioning for the job. Totally inappropriate. But essential, if he was going to survive the tidal wave he had started. The toughest conversation had been with the new guy, Kincaid. He was smart, and so utterly without any political agenda or ambition that he remained free to act according to his conscience—the kind of person Washington feared most. The look that man had given him when he asked if Roush had any secrets! It sent chills down his spine. Or maybe it wasn’t the look. Maybe it was the fact that Roush knew how disastrous it would be if the truth ever emerged.
He and Ray still hadn’t talked, exchanging nothing more than a few casual pleasantries. First, the man is publicly outed on national television; then, the next day, his home is invaded. His private nest. No wonder he was hiding in the garden. Roush would have to think of some way, of any way possible, to make it up to him. He could just imagine the rage that must be boiling behind that gardening apron. When Ray lost his temper—
“Judge Roush?”
“Yes?” Camilla was on the other side of the door. She was the housekeeper three times a week, but on this day her job description had mutated into gatekeeper and bouncer.
“There’s a woman outside the gate who wants to speak with you. She buzzed me on the intercom.”
“Reporter? Politician?”
“Neither. She says she called you yesterday.”
“Just tell her—”
“She insists that you will want to see her—before it’s too late.”
“Did she give a name?”
“No. But she said to tell you—it’s about Savannah.”
Every muscle in Roush’s body stiffened. Every nerve tingled. He stopped breathing.
“If you want, Judge, I’ll just tell her—”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Are you sure? You’ve got so much—”
“I’m sure. It’s nothing serious, Camilla. Just a reporter trying to play on your good nature to trick her way in. I’ll take care of it. You go help Ruth in the kitchen, would you?”
“If—if you’re sure.”
Roush waited until she was gone before he did anything, before he even moved.
Victoria had waited this long to try to contact him. She could surely wait a little longer.
So it had finally happened. What he dreaded most. The one thing that could ruin his plans, his entire future. That was the problem with having your face splashed all over the airwaves. People remembered. People knew where you were.
The front yard was still cluttered with media. He would have to send her through the garden gate. Even that was hardly secluded—a crew was setting up for the press conference. And Ray was back there gardening.
He would have to get this over with as soon as possible. No one could know. Not the press. Not Ray. Not anyone.
His future depended on it. His life depended on it.
8
Ben listened to the pitiful deliberation between Hammond and Roush’s advance crews as they tried to decide where to stage the press conference. They walked all over the grounds, looking for the perfect visual backdrop. Ben favored the small rear herb garden surrounded by stately hedges, but the rest thought the enclosure was too small to accommodate everyone who would want to attend. In addition to that problem, a Ford SUV illegally parked on a dirt road at the far end of the property was visible at that angle. Hammond favored the central garden with the flowering plants, since it was beautiful and would create a positive impression. Roush’s people worried that being photographed surrounded by brightly colored flowers would seem too “gay,” whatever that meant. Perhaps it was an indicator of Roush’s eagerness for the job; Hammond’s crew won. The podium, the nominee, the supporters, and the press were artfully arranged at the south end of the garden among the tulips, pansies, and hanging lilies, just in front of a round-top wooden door covered with green climbing ivy—like something out of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
“Once we’re married, I want a garden like this,” Christina said, tugging gently at Ben’s sleeve. She had left her work on the Wilderness bill administrative committee midday to attend the conference.
“Christina, please don’t start…”
“I’m not starting anything. I’m just telling you that whether we end up in your boardinghouse or someplace nice, I expect to have a garden. A good one.”
“Then you’d better see if Ray Eastwick can fly out to Tulsa. Because I don’t know from gardening.”
Christina squeezed his arm and smiled. “You don’t know from women, either. But you’re going to learn.”
A few discreet coughs from the President’s representative—a junior staffer from the fund-raising department, about as low-level a rep as the President could possibly send without admitting he no longer supported the candidate—told Ben it was time to begin the conference. At Hammond’s request, and against his better judgment, Ben had agreed to introduce the nominee after a few humorous introductory remarks from the Minority Leader. He couldn’t help but dwell on the irony of it—a Republican nominee reduced to being introduced by two Democrats.
Ben waited for the laughter at Hammond’s jokes to subside before he began speaking. He had never been very good at getting people’s attention. He had read that some politicians seemed to grow larger than life when they stepped behind a podium. Ben was pretty sure he shrank. Here in Alice’s garden, he might as well sip from the bottle labeled DRINK ME.
“You may be asking why I—the most junior of the junior senators—am delivering this introduction,” Ben began. “The answer is simple. This is a time in our nation’s history when we must reach across party lines and remember that we are one nation. The nomination of someone who is actually qualified for the job—eminently so, in this case—is a cause for rejoicing, not mud-wrestling in partisan politics. So I am here, like many of my Democratic brethren, to show that we not only believe that this nomination is appropriate—it is important.”
Enough speechifying. He wasn’t very good at it, anyway. “Judge Roush has a few preliminary remarks, and then he’ll entertain any questions—any reasonable and appropriate questions—you may care to ask.”