Melody continued huffing several steps behind him. She was unaccustomed to jogging. Especially with a clipboard in both hands. “Sir, I think the report will tell you everything you need to know about Thaddeus Roush.”
“I already know everything I need to know about Thaddeus Roush,” he replied. “The man is a homosexual.” He pronounced the word with two long “o’s” and a strong accent on the first three syllables. “He is not a suitable candidate for the highest court in the land.”
“He does have a good record. Sound decisions, persuasive reasoning. And consistently conservative.”
“Doesn’t matter. We cannot place our trust in a man who would lie down with another man.” Of course, he quietly reminded himself, many Old Testament figures who for sometimes difficult-to-comprehend reasons were the chosen children of God did it. But never mind that. “Sodomy is a plague upon our great country. It must be eradicated.”
“Sir, homosexuality has existed since the dawn of time. I don’t think it can be eradicated. Only persecuted.”
“Melody,” he said, without breaking his stride, “are you disagreeing with me?”
“Of course not, sir. Just…playing devil’s advocate. Previewing what your opponents will say.”
“I already know what my opponents will say, the heathen and the communists and the godless lesbian feminists and their ilk. Please do not talk to me in that manner again.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I just—”
“That is exactly the kind of soft liberal thinking that has brought our nation to the low place where it is today. Immorality destroyed the Roman Empire, you know.”
“Yes, sir. I’m so sorry, sir.”
Was he perhaps a trifle oversensitive on this subject? Yes, he would be willing to admit that he was. Particularly since he had so often been accused of being homosexual when he was growing up. There was no truth to it—none whatsoever! But the accusation kept rearing its ugly head, time after time. It was because of the way he looked, his eternal baby face. Maybe the somewhat high pitch of his voice. He had tried growing a beard—didn’t help. It came in wispy and unpersuasive. He tried lowering his voice, but it never sounded natural. Like Jim Nabors when he sang. Fake. Better to be himself and let the world judge him by his actions, not his God-given appearance.
He rounded the corner of the pool and started toward the Lincoln Memorial. There was a time when he would have been flattered by the attention of a lovely woman such as Melody, someone who had shown up at his office professing her devotion to the cause of Christian politics, someone who had made it all too clear that she would do anything—and she did mean anything—for him. Not bad for a kid who used to be a supply youth minister in one of the poorest churches in Miami. But this was a temptation he could resist, that he must resist. It was important that he remain free of entanglements. That was why he had never married. His work—the holy task of reforming the nation and returning it to its fundamentalist Christian roots—took precedence over everything else.
“Will we be seeing Judge Haskins today, Melody?”
“No, sir. He had a conflict.”
“Did he, now?”
“Ever since that fire at the Hilton, he’s been red hot. No joke intended, sir.”
“So he’s too busy to see me? Is that what you’re telling me, Melody?”
She hesitated. “He says he never intended to draw attention to himself. He thought it would be unwise to be seen in public.”
“You mean—seen with me in public.”
“Well, yes. I’m sure it’s nothing personal, sir. He probably just felt that being seen with the leader of one of the top lobbies in the country could make it appear as if he were campaigning. As if he had a political agenda.”
As if there was someone in this town who did not. “Don’t be naïve. He’s balancing the damage that could result from being seen with a lobbyist against the damage that could result from offending a lobbyist. And he has evaluated the problem incorrectly. Lobbyists—”
“—run this town. Yes sir, I know.”
Was she being sharp, or just stupid? “There are over fifteen thousand lobbyists in this city, Melody. Think of it. More than all the senators and representatives and their staffs combined. Our influence is enormous.”
“That’s the Golden Rule, sir. He who has the gold makes the rule.”
He decided to ignore the blasphemy of her lame little joke. This time. “Money is important. Especially with the new campaign reform laws, they’re all sucking at whatever special-interest teat they can find, issues be damned. No Republican appointment in the last ten years has been made without my approval, and that includes congressional committee appointments. I buried Harriet Miers and I can bury this Roush chump even easier. The Senate has rejected twelve nominees over the years and sixteen have withdrawn under pressure—and someone like me has been behind every one of those outcomes. Politicians who want to go somewhere play ball with me. Those that don’t find every door slammed in their faces.”
“Money certainly will buy influence, sir.”
“It’s not money, at least not predominantly. What gives lobbyists our real power is information. We constantly gather information. I know more about Senator Keyes’s constituency, what they believe and what they like, than he does. Small wonder we’ve managed to maintain such a positive relationship. There are simply too many bills, too many issues. No politician can keep up with it all, be the expert on everything. So when some new issue arises and they suddenly need to do ten minutes on Larry King on a subject they know nothing about, they call the lobbyists. They can’t admit to ignorance—that’s simply not done. If they get caught with their pants down, they look like fools. More than one political career has been ended by a single bad interview or press conference. So we help them out. That’s how Washington works, Melody. We inflate their egos. And they give us everything we want.”
Trevor reached the end of his run. Another assistant was waiting with a towel and a chilled bottle of Gatorade. “Tell Judge Haskins I will see him in my office this afternoon at two.”
“He told me he has a—”
“Tell him to cancel it.” Trevor smiled. The blood slowly faded from his cheeks as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Regardless of whether he wants to be on the Supreme Court, I’ll bet he won’t turn it down if it’s offered.” He laughed and tossed her the dripping towel. “If he’s the right man for the job, I’ll get him marching in step.”
“Whether he likes it or not?”
“I will not accept—will not tolerate—a gay Supreme Court justice. Especially not this one.”
“Do—do you know Judge Roush?”
“I was at the press conference when that poor Christian soul was murdered. So were you, Melody, remember?”
“But you sound as if you really know him.”
“Oh yes. I know him. All too well. Him and all of his kind.” His eyes narrowed. “I will not allow this nomination to be confirmed. And if I have to crush Roush in the process—” He shrugged, then started back toward his office. “The will of God be done.”
14
“Could we get a picture of you with the baby?”
Judge Haskins looked down at the ground modestly and shuffled his feet. “Well…if it’s all right with her mother.”