Deadlock

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.

I hope you didn’t drop a volume of Supreme Court Reports on your toes when you read that.

It came as a shock to me. I didn’t think I could feel this way again about someone.

I had to decide if I should keep quiet about it, just let it go, or tell you. Well, I’m telling you. And I am inviting you to write back and tell me to jump in that lake after all. I will respect that.

I have nothing against lakes per se, but here is my preference: I would like to continue our conversation. By phone, letter, pony express, whatever. I don’t want to stop talking with you.

May we?

There it is. As I write this, I’m wondering if I’ll actually put it in the mail. But I had to get my feelings down on paper.

Regardless of your decision, it was an honor to get to know you out here, to have the chance to spend some time with someone I deeply respect.

It was signed, simply, Jack.

Millie was glad she was sitting down. Glad she didn’t have a heavy volume in her hand to drop on her foot.

She felt her face heating up. She shivered, actually shivered, like a child watching a scary movie. She sat there for a long time.

Then she decided it was time to tell him what had happened to her. She took out several pieces of paper and her favorite fountain pen. And began to write.

4

The demons were active tonight.

They swirled around his head, like dancers of death, jabbing at him. Sam Levering even saw them in the swirls of his bourbon, in the way the light hit the ice. And sometimes he heard voices.

Images came at him, haphazard but horrid, from the past. He saw his son as a boy with flaxen hair and unlimited potential. He saw his own political career devastating his family. And worst of all, he saw himself not caring. Giving everything up to serve his unlimited ambitions and grasping dreams.

He kept the lights off at times like this. Normally his home was fully illumined, and people would be around. Servants. Friends. People to distract him. Even A

But when the demons came he preferred to drink them away in the dark, here in the library. And no one else was home.

Had it all been worth it?

Levering forced himself to say yes. He had fought the good fight, for civil rights and the right to choose. For subsidies to help single mothers and laws to keep the wealthiest Americans from enjoying tax breaks while the poor couldn’t even get a decent minimum wage. And countless other fights. There had been heartbreaks and setbacks, to be sure. He had been bloodied, but remained unbowed.

Yes, it was worth it, he told himself again. But somewhere, a voice argued with him. It was not worth it, this voice said.

If he could have gone back in time, back to before his first elective office, back to a wife who loved him and a son who adored him, would he do it? Would he give up being just a few years from the presidency of the United States for that?

Senses and sounds from his memory. Smell of ocean. The three of them at the Pacific shore, a little place called Cambria, his wife had found it (she did things like that, and back then she could convince him to go). Tad only three and stark naked, ocean swirling around his feet as he giggled and jumped up and down. Sam with his milk skin (which would burn soon enough) and bathing suit, picking up his son and wading further out.

The smoothness of his son’s skin. The laughter. The little eyes widening as the waves came toward them, and Tad clinging tighter to Sam’s neck, the only one who could save him.