“I want you to promise there will be no discussion of Roush’s sexual preference.”
“I can’t do that. It may not seem relevant to you, but to my constituency, it is the most important issue relating to Roush’s confirmation.”
“Then I want you to agree to proceed with fundamental fairness. No character assassination. No slimy slurs or insinuations. No gay stereotyping. We keep it all aboveboard and conduct ourselves as befits members of the United States Senate.”
Keyes looked at him levelly. “That I can agree to.”
Ben paused. Something about this conversation was extremely unsatisfying, but how could you go on arguing when the man agreed to your terms? “Fine.” Ben extended his hand. “Here’s to a fair fight.”
“Indeed,” Keyes said. “A fair fight.”
Ben was relieved to finally get Roush inside the Old Senate Caucus Room, where the confirmation hearings would be conducted. It was a beautiful room, one of the most ornate and elegant in the entire Senate complex, and virtually unchanged since its construction at the dawn of the nation’s history. The high ceiling gave the room a sense of being larger than it was; the gold crown molding imparted a sense of dignity and history that Ben could only hope imprinted itself on the participants. Most important, there would be no mob of reporters. In here, the select few allowed inside were assigned seats and were expected to remain in them. There was one camera strategically placed on the left side of the room, and its feed would be shared by all the television networks.
Ben took advantage of the fact that the rest of the assembly had not yet been admitted. He and Roush walked the room, getting a feel for it, getting comfortable, if such a thing were possible.
After they had explored the room, Ben and Roush made their way to the front-and-center table. There were two chairs, a pitcher of water, two glasses, and a microphone.
It was terrifying.
Maybe it wasn’t the table. Maybe it was the raised semicircular bench upon which eighteen senators would sit, ten Republicans, eight Democrats, each of whom in turn would question Roush about his fitness for the job of Supreme Court justice. No, Ben couldn’t blame Roush for seeming nervous. Just the thought of it made Ben’s stomach churn, and he wasn’t the one who was going to be grilled.
The rest of the assembly would be admitted soon. Best to get into position.
“Ready to go?” Ben asked, as he motioned toward the center chair.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Roush sat, and Ben took his strategic place beside him. “Is it too late to decline the nomination?”
Ben almost smiled. “If you were going to withdraw, I think you’d have done it by now.”
“Yeah.” Roush paused again. “Do you think I did the right thing?”
Ben didn’t have to ask what he was talking about. “As a matter of fact, I do. With the enormous amount of scrutiny and investigation given a Supreme Court nominee, it might’ve come out anyway.”
“The President’s people didn’t get it.”
“They didn’t get Anita Hill at first, either, but she still testified, putting Clarence Thomas on the defensive for the rest of the hearings. No, you were right, Tad. Better to do it yourself. That way, everything is on the table. You don’t have to worry about being discovered. All the secrets are out.”
“Yes,” Roush murmured quietly. “All the secrets are out.”
The rear doors were flung open and in an instant, the subdued edginess was transformed into brash panic. Eighteen senators took their seats on the bench, Senator Keyes in the center. Members of the press, of the Senate, and of the Washington establishment all took their positions in the gallery. Senator Hammond, their legal advisor, Bertram Sexton, and Christina took the seats directly behind. Gina Carraway, the media expert, stood on the left, where she could see the image in the television monitor—in effect, she could see the hearings as America saw them. Once Ray Eastwick was released from the police interrogations, he also would sit behind Roush, but they had decided not to leave an empty seat for him now—that would only remind America why he wasn’t present today. The cameraman adjusted the boom mikes and turned on the bright white spots. An anticipatory buzz swept through the Caucus Room, making the already unbearable suspense about a thousand times more intense. Ben could feel the heat bearing down on them, and that wasn’t just from the overhead lights. He knew he wasn’t the only one feeling it. Roush was already sweating.
Christina strode up to the table and placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder.
“Ready to go?”
Ben smiled nervously. “No.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Good. You always do better when you’re on edge. Comes with being mildly neurotic.”
“How sweet.”
She leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I know you’ll be great,” she whispered. “You always are.”
“I think you’re seeing me through rose-colored glasses.”
“Perhaps. There’s a word for that.”
“Which is?”
She patted his shoulder one last time. “Well, if you don’t know already, you’ll hear it during the wedding ceremony. Whenever that happens.”
Ouch. Ben winced. He glanced at the other end of the table and saw Roush grinning broadly. “What?”
Roush shook his head, still greatly amused. “And I thought I had problems.”
Keyes tapped his microphone, as if to make sure it was working.
“This hearing is called to order,” Keyes said, with what Ben estimated to be approximately three times his usual Texas accent. “Would the nominee please do us the favor of rising?”
Ben leaned sideways and whispered into Roush’s ear: “Show-time.”
18
Thanks to the concerted efforts of Senator Hammond and Bertram Sexton, Ben felt as if they were well-prepared for what would soon take place—or at least had the illusion of being prepared, perhaps the best that could be hoped for under the circumstances. Senator Keyes, he knew, was taking his marching orders from the White House. They wanted the nomination killed, but Keyes, as chairman, had to remain impartial and nonpartisan. His main go-to girl would be Senator Matera of Wyoming, a staunch ultra-Republican woman in her fifties who didn’t mind playing the attack dog, and had a fiercely independent constituency that remained loyal to her—and possibly even liked her more—when she was at her worst. Her opposite number was Senator Dawkins from Minnesota, a Democrat who did not plan to run for reelection and thus was free to challenge the Republican majority whenever they acted inappropriately—for whatever good it might do. Each of the eight Democratic senators had prepared or been given prepared questions that would elicit favorable testimony: discussions of some of Roush’s best opinions, his charitable work, his sterling judicial record. Ben had remarked at how much the whole proceeding resembled a trial; an enormous amount of work went into the preparation, yet everything remained uncertain.
The sergeant-at-arms held the Bible while Roush raised his right hand. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” Roush replied.
“Point of order,” Senator Matera said, raising a finger in the air. “Does the nominee attend a church?”
Senator Keyes appeared surprised, although Ben thought that very unlikely. “Well, I…I don’t have a record—”
“Neither do I. How do we know an oath to God means anything to him?”