But that wasn’t what Landon saw, and what he knew to be the truth: Their religion was the country’s religion and their politics were those of the Founders, and it was the melding of the two that had once shaped a great nation and would do so again. He remembered the last political discussion he had with Gage up at his cabin, wondering aloud why conservatives had stopped reading American Christians like James Fenimore Cooper and had turned instead to foreigners like the Russian atheist Ayn Rand and why they were blind to how it distorted their thinking and caused them to bow to a metaphorical Atlas instead of to a real God. These two new justices would restore both the law and the culture.
Landon refocused on the screen. He found himself worrying that Duncan would engage in a rant that would expose the desperation that had characterized their meeting in the Oval Office. But he didn’t. His comments were standard and respectful toward the constitutional process of confirmation, treating the coming hearings as part of a legislative flow, not the flash flood Landon knew it would be.
Neither the president nor the nominees answered questions. The two offered obligatory thanks to the president and appreciation for the support they’d received from their wives and colleagues, and then stepped back in turn.
It was over in three minutes.
Landon’s cell phone rang. It was Brandon.
“Turn to NBC,” Brandon said. “James Bissell just keeps repeating the same thing over and over. It’s hilarious.”
Landon changed the channel.
“A gauntlet has been thrown,” Bissell was saying, “President Duncan’s entire legacy hangs in the balance.”
Landon knew those words would echo for a generation.
“It’s not clear to me how the Democrats can oppose nominees they confirmed less than a year ago-but they will because they have no choice. It’s as if the president laid a trap back then, only to spring it now.”
“Did you hear that?” Brandon said. “Laid a trap. Duncan couldn’t lay a trap without lopping off an arm. Congratulations, Landon. Brilliant move.”
“The next step,” Bissell continued, “is the Senate Judiciary Committee. Landon Meyer is the chairman. I have no doubt he was consulted in advance, but still, the task of moving these nominees through to confirmation will give him the fight of his career.”
An inset box appeared on the screen showing a reporter standing with the White House behind him.
“It makes you wonder, James, whether Justices Martinez and Fairstein are sitting in their living rooms wishing they hadn’t decided to retire. If confirmed, these two nominees will roll back nearly everything they’ve accomplished in the last thirty-years. It’s only a question of how long it will take.”
The reporter paused, then skimmed his notes.
“You also have to consider what effect this will have on Landon Meyer’s campaign for the presidency. He may win this battle for President Duncan, but lose his own war for the top job.”
“It’s hard to say. New Hampshire is still months away. That’s a lifetime in American politics.”
Chapter 33
Dark clouds pressed down on the city and a light rain fell as Gage walked up the steps to Socorro Palmer’s Russian Hill Victorian. He glanced toward the eastern hills and saw the morning sun still shining on his neighborhood, but not for long. It had been there during dinner on his deck looking across the bay and over San Francisco that Faith told him she’d called and convinced Socorro it was time to talk about Charlie and his final days. Gage had wanted Faith to come along with him, but it was midterms at Cal, so she had tests to grade and final papers to read.
Standing at the front door, Socorro seemed thinner, her eyes dark and sunken. In her saggy sweatpants and loose fleece pullover, she gave him the impression she hadn’t left the house since the day of the funeral.
Even though Gage had planned to go into his office afterward, he wore Levi’s and a sport shirt, a way of communicating that he was more a friend visiting than an investigator questioning.
Socorro was her mother’s daughter. Her first words were “Have you had breakfast yet?”
Gage nodded as he stepped across the threshold, and said, “But coffee would be fine.”
She led him to the enclosed back porch where a carafe and two mugs stood on a table between the same green wicker chairs they’d sat in the last time. She poured for both of them and they sat down.
Gage pointed at the telescope in the corner. A dust rag was draped over the crossbar of the tripod. An open packing box lay on the slate floor next to it.
“Getting that ready for your son?” Gage asked.
Socorro nodded. “It’s about all they shared. Camping in the Sierras above the city lights, looking at stars.” She sighed. “The sad thing is that the only real connection between them was made through little specks of rock millions of light-years away.”
They sat in silence for a long moment, the raindrops tapping the roof above them.
Finally, Gage asked, “How have you been holding up?”
He already knew from Viz that a truthful answer would be: It’s been the worst time in my life.
“I’m getting along,” Socorro said. “You know how these things are.”
“Faith and I were thinking we’d like you to spend a weekend with us up at the cabin, maybe a change of scenery would-”
She cut him off with a shake of her head. “I don’t think I’m ready.” She looked back at the kitchen, then toward the flower garden. “Somehow I feel like I’d be abandoning him and… and there’s kind of a mystery in this house that has to be solved.”
“A mystery about what? The burglary?”
“About who my husband really was.” Her voice was flat, as if the words were born of a nighttime resolution. “My brother told me you spoke to someone who Charlie might’ve harmed in some way. A man named John Porzolkiewski. He said when the time came you’d tell me about it.” She fixed her eyes on Gage. “The only way I’ll ever understand Charlie is by knowing the kinds of things he did.”
Gage thought back on his conversation with Faith as they’d walked to their car after the funeral. Maybe Faith had been correct. That Socorro had been blind-perhaps by choice-to the life Charlie had lived. And he wondered what would be the psychological consequences of now coming to see and to accept who Charlie had been from the beginning, even as they’d held hands or shared a dessert on their first date.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Gage asked.
Socorro reached under her chair and withdrew a manila file folder. She opened it on her lap. The top page was a retirement account summary of cash, bonds, and equities. She handed it to Gage. His eyes followed the column of figures to the bottom: two and a half million dollars.
“From the little I know of his practice,” Gage said, “this seems about right.”
She handed him another folder. Inside was a letter from AmeriWest Annuities to Charlie saying he and she would be receiving income of thirty thousand dollars a month, effective six weeks earlier. A three-hundred-and-sixty-thousand-dollar-a-year annuity meant Charlie had probably purchased it for about seven million.
Socorro didn’t wait for Gage to comment on it, instead she asked, “Where did he get the money?”
“You mean, what did he do for it?”
She nodded.
Gage flipped the folder closed and handed it back. She accepted it as if he was handing her a lab test revealing that she had cancer.
“I’m not sure I’m the best person to do this,” Gage said. “There’s a lot I don’t know about his work.”
“How about start with Porzolkiewski and his son.”
The solidity and resolve in her voice pushed Gage past his internal resistance. He described the trail leading from Jeannette Hawkins in Richmond, to Wilbert in India, then back to Porzolkiewski and his descent toward hysteria on hearing the truth about his son’s death.