“No,” she lied.
“The street guy. Elijah.”
“Oh, him. What about him?”
“We can’t find him now.”
Ever since she could remember, Anne Deveraux had worked hard at perfecting the art of the lie. She had to. Her stepfather had made it plain what would happen to her if she told her mother what he did to her at night. Little Annie, you know what I can do to you if you tell, don’t you? Don’t cry, little Annie. I’ll have to make you stop if you do. She had no choice. Out of fear she had learned to deceive. To keep a straight face when backed up against a wall.
This detective had no idea who he was dealing with, and little mind games weren’t going to get to her.
“That’s too bad,” Anne said, giving her voice the perfect tone of unconcern.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any information on where he might be, would you?”
“Of course not.”
“I mean, the guy you spray has a connection to your boss – ”
“Oh, come on, Detective,” Anne said. “Not only is that the weakest witness I’ve ever seen, he couldn’t possibly be right.”
“Why not?”
With a perfectly calm voice, Anne said, “Because Senator Levering was with me that night.”
Markey frowned. Perfect.
“I went back, as you suggested, and checked my book and Senator Levering’s. We had a strategy meeting at his place. We ate pizza and drank Diet Cokes, although I will admit to you the senator gave his a little dash of bourbon every now and then. We watched Nightline and then worked until about two in the morning. Any further questions?”
Markey blinked at her a couple of times. “Yes,” he said. “What was on Nightline that night?”
Anne smiled. She almost felt sorry for this police hack. “The Pentagon budget,” she said. She had looked it up a couple of nights ago in preparing the alibi. Then she added with just the right touch of uncertainty, “At least I think that’s what it was.”
“I’ll check on it,” Markey said.
“You do that.”
He drained his ginger ale and left, looking, Anne thought, a little rattled.
3
“Like the bartender said to the horse,” Helen said. “Why the long face?”
“Is it that long?” Millie asked.
“Like a list of crooked congressmen.”
“Sorry. I haven’t been good company so far, have I?”
“This is a time to celebrate,” Helen said. The exclusive restaurant Helen had chosen was just over the Virginia line and had the flavor of the Old South.
When Millie did not say anything, Helen added, “You are ecstatic about this, aren’t you? I mean, as if Mel Gibson walked up to you and asked you to model lingerie?”
Millie looked at her oldest friend in D.C. I don’t know her at all, really, she thought. How many times had they ever talked about their deepest concerns and desires? Helen was in many ways a private person. She let people in only a little, and then only when it seemed to serve her purposes.
But then, that was how Millie was too, she realized. Now, those barriers needed to be broken. “Something has changed for me,” Millie began carefully.
Helen peered at Millie over her raised wineglass, which she held in the fingers of both hands. “Changed?”
“Yes.”
“We talking menopause here?”
“No, not that, I – ”
“Because if we are I have some drugs that – ”
“That’s not it.” Millie felt suddenly reluctant, but the boat had left the shore. She had to go with it. “I had some time to think in Santa Lucia.”
“Thinking is what you’re good at, girlfriend.”
“Sometimes.”
“So what are you thinking about now?” Helen sipped her chardonnay, waiting.
Go for it, Millie thought. “God.”
Helen paused, the glass at her lips, her eyes narrowing slightly. “God?”
Millie nodded.
“As in?”
Suddenly Millie’s tongue was doing back flips. “God… you know… as in… God.” What a fabulous and eloquent judge you have become, she thought.
Helen tapped her glass with a fingernail. “Tell me more, Igor.”
Millie didn’t know what words she would use so she just let them pour out. She told Helen everything – the near-death experience, Santa Lucia, her mother’s death, Pastor Jack Holden. Helen sat through it all with an expression half bemused and half – what? Troubled?
“And I’ve been meeting with Bill Bonassi,” Millie concluded.
Helen’s eyebrows went up. The restaurant seemed suddenly still. Helen herself seemed frozen, as if in a state of emotional shock. Millie prayed silently her friend would remain that, a friend, and understand. And accept.
Helen began tentatively. “Frankly, Watson, this is troubling,” Helen said. “Bill Bonassi? Do you know how bizarre that sounds?”
“I suppose.”
“The biggest right-wing justice of the last fifty years?”
“It’s not a political thing,” Millie said. “Bill has been answering a lot of my questions about Christianity.”
“Yeah? Whose brand of Christianity? His? Falwell’s? What is up with this?”
Millie closed her eyes a moment. “I’m not thinking about it in those terms, Helen. A lot has happened in the last few months.”
“I guess!”
“I can only tell you I had been saying no to God for many years, and then I realized I was saying yes.”
“Wow,” Helen said with a faraway look, as if she were gazing upon some strange new thing.
“I know,” Millie said.
Helen waited a long time before putting her wineglass down and reaching for Millie’s hand. “Hey, kiddo, you went through a terrible thing there. I understand that. Of course I do. You got shaken up. It’s natural to think about these things – you know, religious things.”
“Thank you, Helen.”
“For what?”
“Listening.”
“Hey, it’s me. So, you are looking at Christianity.” Helen paused, as if a new thought had snuck up on her. “What do you think it means?”
“Means?”
“You know, for the future.”
“My future?”
“Yeah. As chief justice and all.”
Millie saw the look of incipient concern on Helen’s face. “You worried I’m going to go off on some odd angle?”
“Bill Bonassi,” Helen said with a shrug. “It at least raises the issue.”
“Helen, I’m going to do what I’ve always done, okay? One case at a time.”
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Hurt? How?”
“You know, if the press gets hold of this.”
Millie had thought about that. She was not so naive as to think that the hungry sharks of Washington media wouldn’t try to make a big deal out of her spiritual quest. If they found out.
Helen squeezed Millie’s hand. “We can handle this thing together, kiddo,” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
1
On October 8, a cool Wednesday afternoon in Washington, Chief Justice Millicent Mannings Hollander presided over the first judicial conference of the new term.
She felt like she was made of warm jam. That was partly due to her initial trepidation – the new-kid-at-school syndrome, even though she’d been here ten years – but mainly because she knew, when the discussion began on the first case, there would be a judicial firestorm.
For conference, the nine members of the Court met in the large room next to the chambers of the chief. They shook hands with each other before taking their seats at the large rectangular conference table, under the watchful portrait of the famous chief justice, John Marshall. Only the nine justices would be present – no clerks, secretaries, staff assistants, or anyone else allowed.