The Divine Appointment, page 19
“Are you sure it was him?” Porter asked.
Porter knew Director Hughes didn’t like conversing with him, and he didn’t care. Director Hughes thought he was too important to talk to anybody less than the president himself. That was precisely the reason Porter had initiated the conversation.
“Yes, we’re sure,” Director Hughes shot back at Porter. He looked at President Wallace as he answered instead of at Porter. “The voice analysis returned a perfect match.”
“But you can’t find him?” President Wallace used his grandfather voice again.
“It’s like he evaporated.”
“People don’t evaporate. Do you have any leads? We’re in the middle of confirmation hearings. If anything were to happen now—”
Director Hughes raised his hands in defense. “Nothing’s going to happen. We have around-the-clock security on Judge Shelton.”
“Les, what have I told you about interrupting me? I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.” The president’s voice was still calm and collected, but had taken on a stern edge.
Porter grinned. The grandfather voice was lecturing, and Porter liked it. Especially when it was directed at a guy like Director Hughes.
“You find this man, and you find him soon,” President Wallace ordered. “Or I’ll find someone who can. Do you understand me, Les?”
“Yes, sir,” Director Hughes replied through clenched teeth.
Director Hughes and his bodyguards stormed from the room. President Wallace and Porter looked at the closed door.
“You want me to start getting some names together?” Porter asked. He watched as President Wallace pondered the question.
The president didn’t think about it for long. “Yeah, it’s time for a change. I’ve been looking for a good reason to get rid of him, and this is it. He’s been here since the last administration.”
“I don’t like him very much either.”
Porter knew the president meant it was time for a new FBI director. But Porter also decided it was time to find Joe Moretti. It had been long enough.
Chapter Twenty
Washington DC
It was after midnight. Porter drove his own private car—no government plates, no limo—down Seventh Street NW, near Mount Vernon Square in Chinatown. He parked on the curb in front of a renovated warehouse that housed an art studio on the first floor. He carried a manila folder when he exited his car. An African American with a barrel chest, a four-button suit, and a matching tie appeared from the shadows and walked toward him. Porter recognized the man and nodded. The man nodded back, moved closer, and stopped by Porter’s car. Porter knew his car was safe and would be intact when he returned.
Porter climbed the five concrete steps that led to the entrance to the studio. He glanced above the door to the hidden television camera. A buzzer reverberated, and the door opened without any effort from Porter. The studio was dark. Only a couple of floor lamps lit his path. He walked through the studio, out the back door, and up a flight of stairs. Again a buzzer sounded, and another door opened without Porter’s assistance.
Two more bodyguards met Porter as he entered. One was Caucasian, the other African American. He recognized them both, but no one spoke. The Caucasian bodyguard opened a third door, and Porter stepped into the offices of Simon Webster. Their meeting would be brief.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Simon said.
Porter wasn’t surprised by the statement. He knew Simon kept his ear to the ground. Simon sat behind a large desk. He was intimidating. Even sitting, he looked tall. Muscular. Rough, tan skin. Thick, black hair and mustache. And he had a scar under his chin that ran from one ear to the other. It was the closest Simon had ever come to dying, it was said. No one had ever found the body of the man who did it. Simon had made sure of it.
Simon was ex-CIA, ex-Navy SEAL, and current mercenary. His walls were covered with photographs of him with prodemocratic militant groups from all corners of the world. He had the only copies. Porter kept Simon on retainer through various unregulated political-action-committee accounts but kept the knowledge of his existence from President Wallace. The president’s hands couldn’t be soiled if Simon’s identity were to be discovered. FBI Director Hughes denied Simon existed. And he didn’t exist. His official file said he was killed when his unit parachuted into Iraq over the Turkish border during the first Gulf War.
“I need you to find Joe Moretti.”
Porter was all business and ready to leave. There weren’t many people in the world who intimidated Porter, but Simon was one of them. If Simon wanted to, he could make Porter disappear without a trace. Porter knew it—and that scared him. Porter tossed a folder on Simon’s desk. Its contents were from the FBI’s file on Joe Moretti that Director Hughes had left with President Wallace.
Simon took the folder and flipped through the pages. “Shouldn’t be hard. Two-bit Mafia wiseguy.”
“I need him in one piece, and soon.”
An evil smile appeared under Simon’s mustache. He had one gold tooth right in front, and the overhead light glistened off it when he smiled. “One piece might be a little difficult, but we’ll see what we can do.”
Porter didn’t laugh or smile. The assignment was delivered, and he wasn’t staying for the jokes. He turned and vacated Simon’s office.
Retracing his steps, he found his car intact, with Simon’s bodyguard still protecting it. Less than ten minutes after his arrival, Porter left Chinatown and was on his way to his house and family in Bethesda, Maryland.
Amelia Island, Florida
Myron Carlson and his wife, Dorothy, lived in an antebellum home off North Fletcher Avenue in the Fernandina Beach area of Amelia Island near Fort Clinch State Park. The majestic home with its four large columns was set on a small point and overlooked the expansive Atlantic Ocean. A narrow, nondescript dirt-and-gravel driveway a quarter mile long led from the home to North Fletcher Avenue. The view from the street to the house was so obscured by dense trees that hardly anyone other than Fernandina Beach locals even knew of the house’s existence. Myron and Dorothy valued the seclusion, away from tourists and vacationers.
“Dot, did you see where Dunbar’s going to begin his questioning today?”
Myron sat in his wheelchair at the breakfast table, his legs covered with a quilt. He read from an article below the fold on the front page of the Florida Times Union that lay beside his plate of fried bacon, scrambled eggs, and white toast. A glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee—black—were nearby.
“I saw it, dear,” Dot replied. “I’m glad he and his wife are safe. That was just terrible what happened to them. Terrible. I don’t know why people act like that sometimes.”
“Because politics makes people crazy. That’s why.”
“You want to watch some of the confirmation hearing later?” Dot sat in a wooden chair to the right of Myron. She was skimming through the lifestyles section of the paper.
Dot and Myron were both in their eighties. Dot’s hair was a blue-gray, and she wore glasses that hung from a chain around her neck. She was plump and in remarkable health for a woman her age. But Myron looked frail. He had wispy white hair, bristly white eyebrows, and eyeglasses with thick lenses. But they still lived independently. A nurse from a home health agency checked on them twice a week.
They had moved to Amelia Island after Myron retired from Harvard Law School nearly twenty years earlier. Neither could tolerate the brutal Boston winters any longer. And there was nothing to keep them in Boston. They had tried to have children, but after two miscarriages and one stillbirth neither had the desire to try again.
Despite his poor health, Myron liked waking up early. He savored the stillness of the early morning. Dot, too, delighted in the serene mornings. As the sun slowly rose over the calm waters of the Atlantic Ocean, she would prepare the same breakfast for Myron that she had for the last sixty years.
“Bah,” Myron grunted. “No, I don’t want to watch. There’s nothing in the Constitution that requires confirmation hearings for judicial appointments. Advice and consent, that’s what it says. Advice and consent.”
“Don’t get upset, Professor,” Dot warned. She called him “Professor” when he acted like one, which was often. “You don’t have to watch if you don’t want to.”
“Don’t professor me. It’s the most ridiculous circus in the world.” He took a bite of toast and drank from his glass of orange juice. “A bunch of politicians asking unintelligent questions of a constitutional scholar about constitutional law. That’s just ridiculous.”
Dot sipped her coffee while Myron ranted.
“All they should do is take a vote on the floor of the Senate,” Myron continued. “That would satisfy the requirements of the Constitution.”
“You don’t think Dunbar can handle the questioning?”
“He can handle it. Dunbar was one of the best constitutional students I ever had. He’ll eat those senators for lunch. But they’ll probably try trapping him on Roe. He’ll have to be careful even though Roe really is bad law, despite what people may think about the morality of the subject.”
“I know, I know.” Dot’s voice was patronizing. “Penumbras and emanations and all that. I’ve heard it a hundred times before.”
“And you’re going to keep hearing it until the Supreme Court justices stop being judicial activists. Judges are no better qualified than the average American to decide moral issues. They need to leave the lawmaking to state legislatures.”
Myron finished the last of his coffee. “Penumbras formed by emanations,” he mumbled. “I wish someone would show me where that is in the Constitution.”
“That’s enough, Professor,” Dot said as she carried the dishes to the kitchen. “Let me get the dishes finished, and we’ll go out to the pier. I bet the dolphins are out this morning.”
The Hart Building, Washington DC
On Tuesday morning Porter looked through the second-floor window at the mass of people. The pro-life group had grown, but the pro-choice protesters had at least doubled overnight. Maybe tripled. Now thousands of people were chanting and yelling. A sea of Defeat Shelton and Save Roe signs floated over the crowd. Porter didn’t like what he saw.
And then there was Stella. The sight of her made him shake his head. A makeshift stage had been erected overnight, and Stella stood in the middle of it. A bullhorn was no longer sufficient. Large speakers flanked either side of the platform, amplifying Stella’s voice for all to hear. Two or three Hollywood celebrities stood with her and waved to the crowd. The roar intensified. A dozen television cameras recorded the whole scene.
Porter left the window and strolled to the door that led to room 216. The Tuesday session—the second day of confirmation hearings—was scheduled to begin. He had seen enough through the window, and what he saw made him mad. He entered room 216 and sat in the seat he’d sat in the day before. All the same players were present.
Senator Montgomery called the hearings to order and asked Judge Shelton to stand and be sworn to tell the truth. A faint yellowish bruise was visible on the judge’s forehead, but no other physical evidence of the bombing was noticeable. He wore a dark suit and navy blue tie. After taking the oath, Judge Shelton returned to his seat and gave an opening statement. His notes were on the table in front of him, but he spoke without using them.
Porter listened intently.
“Let me begin by thanking President Wallace for nominating me. I am very humbled by the trust he has placed in me. As you know, the past few weeks have been very trying for my family and me. But as my father used to tell me, once you start something, you can’t give up.”
Judge Shelton eyed each senator individually as he spoke. He didn’t look over their heads or at their staffs. He looked the senators directly in the eye. Some pretended to be listening. Others turned their heads and chatted with staffers. Their inattentiveness irritated Porter, but it didn’t seem to bother Judge Shelton. He simply continued on. He told about his childhood and those who had influenced him. He mentioned Professor Myron Carlson as one of his mentors.
“I have no agenda,” Judge Shelton said firmly. “If I am confirmed, I will evaluate every case with an open mind. And as I’ve done on the Mississippi Supreme Court, I will work to make sure the United States Supreme Court upholds the rule of law. I don’t make any promises other than to fairly and impartially consider cases that come before the Court.”
Judge Shelton concluded his opening statement and handed his unused notes to a handler behind him. The mahogany table was clean.
The first volley of questions for Judge Shelton was to come from Senator Montgomery, the committee chair. He shuffled some papers that were handed to him by a staffer and spent three agonizing minutes with an opening monologue to his question. He liked hearing himself talk, Porter knew. Finally the question came.
“Judge Shelton,” Senator Montgomery began. His Northern accent was nasal and annoying. “Do you think that the Constitution contains a right to privacy?”
The question was one that had been covered in Judge Shelton’s mock committee hearings. Porter could almost recite Judge Shelton’s answer before he gave it.
“I do, Senator. My reading of the Constitution and the precedent of the Supreme Court indicates that there are privacy rights in the Constitution.”
But, Porter knew that didn’t mean that in the Constitution there was a right to an abortion. And that was the crux of the matter.
“And what about precedent, Judge Shelton? Can a decision such as Roe v. Wade be overturned?”
The room fell silent and Judge Shelton shifted in his chair. Again, a question for which Judge Shelton was prepared.
“Senator, not all precedents are created equal. Some vary in strength, and overruling a weaker precedent might be merited in some instances. As to a specific case, it would be inappropriate for me to comment on whether a previously decided case should be affirmed by the Court or overruled. That same issue might come before the Court again, and I cannot ethically discuss it in these proceedings.”
Porter liked the answer. And it didn’t alarm anyone in the room. A murmur of noise resumed. Judge Shelton’s answer was exactly the way they had practiced. No hints, no forecasts, no previews. That was the way the game of Senate confirmation hearings was played, and Judge Shelton played it well. Porter was pleased.
Washington DC
After he had finally opened the envelope, Holland Fletcher left several messages for Tiffany Ramsey on her voice mail at the Supreme Court building. He left his home number, his wireless number, and the direct line to his desk at the Post. He had tried to reach her all day Monday. All messages had gone unreturned. He had driven by her town house several times over the weekend but had never seen her car parked in front. One reason he wanted to talk with her was simply to hear the sound of her voice. But more important, he had questions for her about Senator Proctor and Jessica Caldwell. He called again, but this time added something extra to his message.
“Tiffany, this is Holland Fletcher with the Washington Post. Please call me back on my direct line. I have some information about Senator Proctor I want to discuss with you.”
Within ten minutes the phone on his desk rang. It was Tiffany.
“You really need to stop calling me,” she said.
Holland had a pen in his hand and a notepad on his desk. Like all good reporters, he was prepared to scribble down whatever Tiffany said. It didn’t matter so much whether he correctly recorded what she said so long as at least part of it was right and it fit into the article he was writing.
“If you had returned my earlier calls, I wouldn’t need to keep calling. I’m just trying to write a story.”
“I told you before that I don’t want to be interviewed for your story. Jessica was a friend—”
Holland cut her off midsentence with his first question. “Do you know that Senator Proctor owns the town house you live in?”
Silence. No words, no sound, no breathing. There was complete silence from Tiffany’s end of the telephone.
“Tiffany, did you hear me?”
“I heard you, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“Did you know it?”
“Not really.” The tone of her voice wasn’t very confident.
She knew something and Holland was determined to get it out of her. He pressed further. “What does that mean, ‘not really’? Either you know or you don’t know.”
“Look, Holland. It’s dangerous for you to be calling me and for me to be talking to you. Please stop calling me.”
Dangerous! “Why is it dangerous?”
“I’m not talking to you anymore. Good-bye, Holland.”
Holland heard her disconnect the call. He listened to a dead line for several seconds and then a dial tone. He finally hung up and stared at his empty notepad. He wrote the words Senator Proctor and dangerous, but he didn’t know what they meant.
Chapter Twenty-One
The law offices of Elijah J. Faulkner, Jackson, Tennessee
Jill Baker knocked on the frame of Eli’s open door, and he glanced up from behind his desk. He waved her to the sofa in his office. It was Wednesday, the second week of July. Eli and Jill had been working on Tag Grissom’s case for six weeks. Eli could tell the case was really beginning to get to Jill.
“I called the lab to get the status on the DNA test,” she said. “They received the tissue samples from the fetus last week from the coroner’s office.”
Jill’s voice was detached. He knew she was still troubled over exhuming Jessica Caldwell’s body. Eli didn’t like it any more than she did. But it had to be done. His choice was either to seek DNA testing on the fetus or only halfway represent Tag Grissom, and the latter wasn’t an option. If he took on a case, then he had to do everything possible to win. Even if that meant exhuming a body, and even if he didn’t want to.
“How long before they’ll have any results?”
