“Will you continue to uphold the principles we hold dear?”
“I will always try to do so.”
“Then I have no other questions,” Levering said. “Senator Gelfan, you may proceed. I would like to remind my colleagues that we’ll keep the questions to five minutes each this round.”
The older senator picked up a paper and began to read what his staff had prepared for him. “Over the past three decades this country has seen an erosion of the dignity afforded human life, most specifically unborn human life. Madame Justice, will you continue to align yourself on the side of those who would allow the taking of unborn human life?”
A few groans came up from the gallery. Senator Levering winced. Millie had been expecting the question, but not her reaction. A sharp pain twisted inside her. Could the cameras see? She fought for calm.
“Senator Gelfan,” Millie said, “as you know there are cases dealing with that issue that are, or will be, granted review. It would not be ethical for me to comment beforehand on how I might rule.”
Gelfan lowered the paper and directed a choleric gaze at Millie. “This is a question of supreme importance to the majority of Americans. Don’t you think they have a right to know what the next chief justice might have in mind?”
“Senator, what all Americans have a right to is an independent judiciary, free of political influence.” That had come out sharply, and she was glad. A little fighting spirit to steady her nerves.
“Do you continue to believe the Court’s decision in Roe v. Wade was rightly decided?”
“I…” She stopped suddenly, and there was that pain again. It stitched up from her stomach and burned to the top of her head.
“You were about to say?” Senator Gelfan said, like a cat pouncing on a wounded sparrow.
“My past decisions… are a matter of record.”
“That’s not what I asked you,” Gelfan said. “My question was, as you sit here today, do you continue to believe that Roe v. Wade was decided correctly?”
“Senator…”
“It’s a simple yes or no question, Justice Hollander.”
Levering leaned into his microphone. “Point of order – ”
Like an angry pit bull, Gelfan whirled on the chairman. “I am asking the questions – ”
“Point of order!”
“ – and I do not – ”
“This is not an adversarial proceeding.”
“ – appreciate the interruption.”
Millie sat back, feeling almost surreal, as if she were disembodied and given a seat in the gallery to watch this circus. But she was grateful for the slight pause.
“As chairman, I will have my say,” Levering said. Gelfan leaned back in his chair, his weathered face pinched into a scowl.
“When my predecessor was in this chair,” Levering said, referring to Gelfan, who was chairman when the Republicans controlled the Senate, “and certain nominees came before us, those of us on this side of the aisle were lectured, over and over again, not to ask questions on specific issues. Not to make these hearings into litmus tests. I now find it quite troubling that, with the shoe on the other foot, my good friend from Iowa wants to change this policy. I will make this short and sweet. Madame Justice, do you believe it would violate your oath and your ethics to answer specific questions about specific issues that may come before the Court?”
“Yes,” Millie said. “I do believe that.”
“Senator Gelfan,” Levering said.
The Iowa senator was being handed a sheet of paper from an aide. He looked at Millie. “But you may answer questions about your judicial philosophy. That is not improper, is it?”
Millie took a deep breath. “With all due respect, Senator, my judicial philosophy is evident in my opinions.”
“Then I will ask you this. Is that judicial philosophy evolving?”
“Evolving?”
“Changing in any way. Surely the American people have a right to know that.”
Millie squinted into the lights. She had always been of the “living, breathing Constitution” school, the idea that changes in society mandated changes in how one viewed the law. For one thing, it sounded right. Who could be against flexibility when it came to justice?
But she was not unaware of the other side, the original intent argument, which said that unless one stuck close to the philosophy of the founders, judges would be free to change the laws according to their own preferences. Nevertheless, she had decided early on in her law studies that the latter school was impractical.
“I would hope,” Millie said, “that any judge, indeed any politician, would be open to changing for the better. I hope that I am as well. All I can say is that I take my position as a justice of the Supreme Court with the utmost seriousness. It is an honor for me to serve there, and I will continue to strive to do what is right as…” She paused, a word coming to her throat and sticking there. The word was God. “… as I see it.” In that moment an image of Jack Holden flashed through her mind. She wondered if he was praying for her.
Gelfan read a few more questions. Then it was Hal Killian’s turn. The handsome Wisconsin Democrat was thoughtful and articulate.
“Justice Hollander,” he said, “I’ve admired your judicial opinions over the years. I find them models of clarity, of principle. I would be interested, do you have any judicial heroes? Anyone you would hold up as a model?”
“Yes,” Millie said without pause. “Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes. I believe he brought an integrity and clarity to the Court that has rarely been surpassed.”
“I agree with you,” said Killian. He engaged her in a range of questions, and then things swung back and forth, between Republican and Democrat. By the time the session ended, Millie felt as if she’d been run up a flagpole in a hurricane. But she had a sense that the hearing had gone her way. In fact, Sam Levering winked at her just before the break.
She was going to be the next chief justice of the highest court in the land.
3
When Millie got back to her chambers, Rosalind Wilkes, one of her clerks for the new term, was waiting. She was a graduate of the University of Chicago Law School, and one sharp cookie. She had Millie’s court mail.
“I weeded out most of it for later,” Rosalind said, “but there’s one letter here that looks like it came from Santa Lucia.”
The letter was addressed by hand, in ink. The return address was also in ink. It was from Jack Holden.
“Thank you, Rosalind,” she said. “Would you mind closing my door?”
When she was alone again, Millie opened the letter with unexpected anticipation.
Dear Justice Hollander:
I hope you don’t mind a real letter. I know email is more practical, and considering your schedule, preferable. But I have never felt I can get to the heart of things better than if I put pen to paper. And I want to get at the heart of things in this letter.
I watched the hearings on TV. It may be presumptuous of me to read anything into what I saw, and I know I have barely come to know you, but it seemed to me there was real anguish inside you as you went through some tough grilling. I want you to know that I was praying for you the whole time.
Praying! She remembered that moment when she was being interrogated by Senator Gelfan, and her mind had flashed to Holden. She had wondered if he was praying for her.
The surprising thing to me was my own reaction. It was more than just a feeling of compassion, as one would have toward a friend in distressing circumstances. What I was feeling was wishing I could be there with you. I wanted to be able to offer a word of encouragement, and
The last sentence did not end with a period. There was white space, and then Holden started again.
Hang it all, I’m not as smooth at this as I thought. Here’s the deal. I wanted to be with you because I began to feel more than just respect for you while you were here in Santa Lucia. I began to feel affection.