Authors: William Bernhardt
1
B
en Kincaid rushed into the magnetic train in a blind panic. He knew he shouldn’t have taken a meeting with that woman from the foreign-policy think tank, but she’d told him that it was urgent, that American civil rights might crumble into dust if he didn’t meet her at Jimmy T.’s, a favorite hangout for senators and lobbyists not far from his office in the Russell Building.
“You can see why this is so urgent,” the thin, earnest woman said, brushing a shock of brunette hair from her face. She was even younger than Ben, which undoubtedly accounted for a good deal of the earnestness. “This country has endured the torture of prisoners at Abu Ghraib. We’ve endured Gitmo Bay and the Salt Pit and all the other places where the Constitution has been violated.”
“Technically,” Ben said, “the Constitution only applies to U.S. citizens. Not foreign nationals.”
“So you’re saying you’re okay with torturing prisoners?”
“Nooo,” Ben countered. “I’m down on torture. But I’m down on terrorists, too.”
“If we allow this to continue, then we become the terrorists.”
Ben could see he would get nowhere with this woman using only logic. “You do understand that I’m not Todd Glancy, right? Senator Glancy resigned. I was appointed by the governor to fill out the remainder of his term.”
She flipped her hair back again. “Like I don’t know that already.”
And in that instant, Ben realized that she not only knew that already—that was the reason she had singled him out. She would get nowhere with any experienced member of the Senate, so she was going after the new kid on the block. “Look, if you have a report or something, I’ll be happy to forward it to the Foreign Relations Committee. Of which I am not a member.”
“You seriously think we haven’t done that already? I don’t think you understand how dire this situation is…”
And it probably was dire, too, as was the predicament of every lobbyist, politician, and private citizen who had contacted Ben in the few short months since he became a senator. If he’d had the time, he would have been happy to listen to what she had to say. Maybe. But in this particular instance, the time did not exist. He still had the memo Christina had given him in his suit pocket: the Democrats were planning a filibuster and he was late.
As soon as he’d managed to extract himself from the earnest young woman, which was none too soon, he’d raced down the sidewalk, run into the Russell Building, and taken the elevator down to the small private subway train that shuttled back and forth between the Senate office buildings and the Capitol. Ben liked the train—it was quiet and clean, unblemished by graffiti and advertisements. A series of state flags, arranged in order of admission to the Union, ornamented the track. Ben knew that by the time he reached the baby blue flag of Oklahoma, the forty-sixth state in the Union, he had almost arrived at the Capitol building. But he couldn’t enjoy the ride today. He was late. For his first filibuster! His party was hosting a party and he wasn’t there!
He ran into the building only to be stopped for an interminable period of time at the security checkpoint. How long before they would just wave him past? Probably forever. Finally he smiled at the Capitol Police and raced down the corridor. He sped past the pillared Capitol crypt, past the vice-presidential marble busts in the spectator gallery, past the historic Ohio clock in the hall outside the chamber. He had heard some of his new colleagues talking about the politics of motion—the need to appease the public by creating the appearance of movement, even when none is actually taking place. At the moment, Ben’s feet were giving the phrase a whole new meaning.
Moving as quickly as decorum would allow, Ben made his way inside the Senate chamber. He emerged on the carpeted center aisle but veered left toward the curving rows of nineteenth-century mahogany desks (exactly one hundred of them) arranged in concentric semicircles. Ben found his assigned desk on the Democrat side: Desk 101 on the far rear left of the chamber, the desk reserved for the most junior freshman senator in the assemblage. He slid behind it, sat up straight, and tried to act as if he had been there all along and knew exactly what was going on.
Ben had been in such a rush it took him a moment before he noticed that no one else was there. The other desks were all empty.
What was going on? Had he gotten the dates confused? He checked the memo Christina had given him. No, she had told him to be here thirty-five minutes ago, and Christina did not make mistakes. Where was the rest of the Senate?
There was one other person present, but he wasn’t at a desk. The junior senator from Alaska, Byron Perkins, was on his feet, milling aimlessly about the Senate floor in the general vicinity of the rostrum. He was a tall, prematurely gray senator in his second term, but Ben knew he had already managed to get appointed to some of the most prestigious committees. He appeared to be reading from the newspaper—something about grape imports in Pago Pago.
Perkins spotted Ben and made his way toward Desk 101. He eventually stood directly in front of Ben, winked, and continued reading.
“…while the commerce secretary assured the crowd that a steady stream of fruit would continue throughout the spring season. The representatives from the agricultural community were pleased by the announcement. In other news…”
Ben listened to the scintillating prose from the
Washington Post
read aloud for the better part of an hour. Could this really be what he was supposed to be doing? And if so, why was he the only person here? He wanted to ask someone, but he was afraid to get out of his chair. Could one false move end the filibuster? Perkins never took a breath long enough for Ben to ask him anything. What should he do? Eventually, a potent combination of confusion, fear, and boredom gave him the courage to raise a hand.
“No, sir,” Perkins rambled on, “I will not yield to the young senator from Oklahoma, because if I did, my filibuster would come to an end and the Republican majority could seize control of the chamber. However, the weather forecast for this week in D.C. looks exceptionally rosy…”
Ben lowered his hand.
“…but despite the fine weather outside, I might do well to offer the eager but rather inexperienced senator from Oklahoma the knowledge that during a filibuster, although the senators have to remain on the premises in case a quorum call is made by the opposition, only the most inexperienced rube would actually go to the Senate chamber and listen to the continuous drivelous spiel that makes up the actual filibuster.”
Ben shrank down into his seat.
“Interested parties might find the members of the Senate in the large conference room across the hall. If such interested party will be going there now, I wonder if he might consider fetching me some coffee. I don’t want to presume, but when one is the most junior senator in this august legislative body, and one has been foolish enough to actually attend a filibuster in progress, a certain degree of errand-running might not be utterly inappropriate…”
Across the hall in the large conference room, Ben found a vast expanse of cots stretched as far as the eye could see. The other ninety-eight members of the Senate, with few exceptions, were resting on the cots, for the most part sound asleep. Ben gazed at the field of legislators, some of whom he had admired his entire life—Senate Minority Leader Hammond, Senator Keyes from Texas, and numerous others, all arrayed before him, many of them stripped down to T-shirts and boxers, and also—
Snoring.
Ah, the glamorous life of a United States senator.
2
I
t still didn’t seem like his office.
Ben, aided by Christina’s eternal resourcefulness and dubious decorating taste, had tried to remake the place in his own image. Almost everything that had belonged to Senator Glancy had been removed—including that creaky copying machine that printed only in blue ink. Ben had ordered the walls painted, the carpet replaced, and new furniture imported. Christina had contributed plants, a mostly dying breed from her nearby apartment on “C” Street. The walls were loaded with family photographs and press clippings pertaining to some of Ben’s more high-profile cases. He’d noticed that most of the other senators decorated the walls with campaign memorabilia, but since he’d never campaigned for anything in his life, he’d have to make do with mementos of trials gone by.
He’d made his private retreat in the right rear of Senate office S-212-D in the Russell Building a near replica of the one he had back at Two Warren Place in Tulsa: a cozy nook in which he could deal with the endless stream of memos, e-mail, phone calls, lobbyists, and constituents. He needed a place for personal privacy or private meetings. He still hadn’t been assigned one of the basement hideaways—just as well, given the unpleasant memories of Glancy’s hideaway he still retained, not to mention his inability to navigate the basement without becoming hopelessly lost. And no one seemed to use the Senate library anymore. It was dusty, musty, poorly lit—and worst of all, they didn’t carry either of the two books Ben had written. There was a rumor circulating that Christina was mounting a boycott.
Speaking of whom…
Ben stared up into the vivid blue eyes of his law partner, Christina McCall, currently serving as his chief of staff, who was seated on his desk, hovering over him. Her strawberry blond hair encircled her head like the flaming halo of the Angel of Retribution; her arms were akimbo, her brow was creased, and she had called him “Benjamin J. Kincaid,” a certain sign that she meant business.
“You have to make a decision. Now.”
“I—I don’t see the urgency.”
“That’s why you have a chief of staff. So what’s it going to be? Decide!”
“Look, I’m a United States senator—”
“Which is precisely why you can’t dither about the way you usually do. Decide!”
Ben tried to push his chair back, but the wall blocked his escape. “It’s only been a few months since the governor appointed me to fill out the remainder of Senator Glancy’s term. I don’t even know if I like it, much less whether I want to run for reelection. Well, I don’t know if it’s really reelection when you weren’t elected the first time, but I still—”
“Stop.” Her eyebrows knitted together. “You thought I was talking about deciding whether to run for a full term?”
“Everyone has been hounding me for a statement. The press, the governor, Senator Hammond—”
“I don’t give a damn about that.”
Ben blinked. “You don’t?”
“Well, I mean, I do—but I already know what your decision will be.”
“Is that so. Perhaps you’d like to enlighten me.”
“Nope. Violates the Prime Directive.”
“Excuse me?”
“Forbids interference with the natural development of a dithering personality.”
“Then what are we talking about?”
She thrust the back of her left hand into his face. “This!”
The sizeable diamond glittered in his eyes. “Oh, that. Well, gosh, we’ve only been engaged for, um…”
“Thirteen weeks, two days, and roughly four-and-a-half hours.”
“Yes. Exactly.” He pressed his hand against his brow. “I thought it was understood that we’d get married after this term ended and we were back in Tulsa.”
“And that was acceptable when I thought we were talking about one abbreviated term. But I’m not waiting around another six years! I’ve been waiting for you half my life as it is!”
They both heard the chuckles emanating from the back of Ben’s office. “Could you be kinda less subtle, Chrissy? I’m not sure Ben gets your drift.”
Loving. Ben’s barrel-chested investigator, currently serving as Senator Kincaid’s research aide, though most of his research didn’t involve library books. “Something I can do for you?” Ben asked.
“Just remindin’ you it’s time to take off for the Rose Garden. Don’t want to miss a chance to visit the White House.”
“I was thinking I might skip it.”
“Skip the White House?”
Christina and Loving both erupted at once.
Ben shrugged. “There’s so much security. I can just stay here and watch it on C-SPAN.”
Christina gripped him by the shoulders. “Benjamin J. Kincaid. When the leader of the free world invites the junior senator from the State of Oklahoma to the Rose Garden to hear firsthand who he’s nominating to the Supreme Court of the United States, the junior senator doesn’t go couch potato on him.”
“He invited everyone in the Senate.”
“Doesn’t matter. You have to go.” She paused. “Especially if you’re thinking about running for another term.”
Ben sighed. “Oh, all right. But I won’t enjoy it.”
“You’re breaking my heart.”
“I’m s’prised it’s taken the President so long to make the nomination,” Loving offered. “This whole thing’s been orchestrated from the start.”
Ben wasn’t sure what was stranger: the statement itself, or the fact that Loving had used the word “orchestrated.” “Huh?”
A low, subguttural snigger. “You don’t really think the late Justice Cornwall died of a heart attack, do you?”
“Spare me your conspiracy theories.”
“When a man in a position of power in his early sixties dies of a ‘heart attack’ ”—Loving made little snicker quotes in the air as he said the words—“you can be certain the Powers-That-Be are making a play.”
“The Powers-That-Be? And who is that? The Trilateral Commission? The Freemasons? The Thirteen Old Men Who Rule the World?”
Loving stepped closer and spoke in hushed tones. “Microsoft.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Give me a—”
“Think before you scoff, Skipper. Everyone knows Microsoft is in bed with the Chinese.”
Christina stared at him. “We do?”
“Who else uses icons to convey meaning, huh? Do you know how widespread the Windows operating system is? In twenty years, the English alphabet will be extinct.”
Ben frowned. “And this relates to the late Justice Cornwall because…”
“He was well known to be a staunch anticommunist.”
“I would like to think everyone in our government—”
“In the new era, Americans will all be illiterate computer jockeys. Easily conquered by the Marxist-Maoist-Microsoft consortium.”
“And this is all being engineered by that pinko fink Bill Gates?”
Loving guffawed. “You know, Skipper, for a senator, you’re not very well informed. There is no Bill Gates.”
“There isn’t?”
“Bill Gates is a virtual character created by Microsoft technicians and played by a succession of actors. Honestly, do you think he looks like a real person? I don’t even know where you’d go to buy a pair of glasses like that.”
Ben pushed past him. “On second thought, I
will
go to the Rose Garden. I’m desperate to go to the Rose Garden. Anywhere I might find a small morsel of sanity. Come—”
He collided with Jones, his administrative assistant, currently serving as his administrative assistant. “Boss! Are you taking appointments yet?”
“Do I ever stop?”
“Christina told me not to let anyone in your office till she came out.”
Ben gave Christina a long look. “Indeed. Well, it’ll have to wait. We’re going to see the Presid—”
“Senator Kincaid!” Ben was all but flattened by a large woman in a sundress who pushed past Jones and slammed Ben back into the doorway. She slapped her hands against his chest. “I have to talk to you.”
“This is the U.S Senate! Don’t we have…guards or something?”
The woman ignored him. “I’m Geraldine Pommeroy.”
Ben ran the name through his mental Filofax. “I talked to the chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee about that furlough for your son—”
“I don’t have a son. I have four daughters.”
“Four…daughters. Oh—there’s a Senate page position opening up in—”
“They’re not old enough to be pages. The oldest is twelve.”
“Okay, I give up. What do you want?”
“They told me you could get us tickets for the White House tour. My eldest is doing a report on what she did over the vacation break, and she needs pictures of the White House to bring up her ‘C’ average.”
Ben rolled his eyes. Good thing U.S. senators deal with only the most urgent and important crises. “Jones?”
He stepped forward. “Sorry, Boss. We’re all out of tourist passes.”
Ben shrugged. “My apologies, ma’am. I couldn’t get anyone into the White House if my life depended on it. If you’ll excuse me—”
“Where are you going?”
“Me? I’m going—” He stopped short. “I’m…um…I’m going on an important…senator…thing.” He ducked under her arm and slid past. “Be seeing you!”
The woman whirled on him. “I’m not voting for you next time!”
“I’m pretty sure you didn’t vote for me before,” Ben said under his breath. “Jones—is the car ready? Get me out of here!”