“What?”

“Lay low. You need to get confirmed as CJ – and you need to recuperate.” A little light flickered in Helen’s eyes. “Hey, why don’t you go out to California?”

“Back home?”

“Your mom’s still got a house, right?”

Millie nodded. “I don’t know, Helen. Santa Lucia? It’s the other side of the world.”

“But that’s the point, kiddo. It’s quiet. And you’ll have the whole summer.”

Maybe Helen was right. Millie could get away from this unwanted attention and see her mother at the same time. She’d have to endure some religious talk, but that was a small price.

And there was something else about it. The desert community that she’d grown up in had a certain simplicity. Maybe that’s what she needed to forget all that had happened the last couple of weeks. Maybe it would help that troubling vision to fade.

“I’ll think about it,” Millie said. “But remember, it’s California we’re talking about.”

“What do you mean?”

Millie smiled. “A lot of weird stuff happens in California.”

CHAPTER THREE

1

Charlene Moore took a sip of her mother’s coffee on the front porch, and breathed in the morning. She’d spent the night with her family, a once-in-a-while thing. They lived an hour away from Dudley, and it was good now and then to have a home-cooked meal and see the folks. And Granddad. She loved the man who had taught her to love God when she was a little girl.

Once she had come to him after a Sunday school lesson about God and the Red Sea. Charlene told him she’d thought about it and she didn’t think it could happen. Granddad had laughed his deep, jowly laugh and said, “Sometimes, Charlene, God kicks thinkin’ in the pants.”

As Charlene sat on the porch swing, where she’d spent many an hour as a girl, she glanced at the local paper. The front page was running yet another story on the accident that almost killed Millicent Mannings Hollander. It had been two weeks, and she was going to be released from the hospital.

Charlene read the story with keen interest. Hollander was something of a secret foe in her life. In law school, Charlene had written a law review article that took apart one of Hollander’s most controversial opinions, one strongly upholding the Roe v. Wade decision. That had been a 5-4 disaster in the long fight against abortion.

Charlene took a long sip of coffee, wondering what the death of a sitting Supreme Court justice would do to the country. There would be a firestorm of political debate, of course. President Francis would move to put up a liberal, and thus preserve the liberal court majority. If one of the conservatives died, then another liberal would make the Court 6-3 in that direction.

Such were the calculations going on constantly, Charlene knew. And then a thought struck her. Millicent Hollander had been on the very edge of dying. Would that change how she now viewed life?

One could always hope. And pray. Things were supposed to happen when you prayed, weren’t they?

The screen door opened and Granddad came out with his own mug of coffee.

“Hi,” Charlene said. “Want to sit?”

“I do,” Granddad Clarence Moore said. He was a veteran of the Korean War and a retired mechanic. He still smelled of grease because he was always tinkering with the lawn mower.

“How’s my baby today?” he asked, sitting next to her. The rusty chain creaked a little.

“Ready to get back to work,” she said. “I’ll be leaving soon.”

“Your big case?”

Charlene nodded. She had told the whole family about it last night at dinner. Everyone had agreed it was going to make her famous. Except Granddad. He hadn’t said much at all.

“You worried about me?” Charlene said.

“Yes I am,” Clarence Moore said. “Now that you mention it.”

She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t. I am all over this one. I feel good about it. I can win it.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about, baby.”

“Then what are you worried about?”

He pushed with his feet so they rocked a little. “I’m worried about your insides. You sure you’re not running ahead of God on this one?”

Charlene felt a little irked. She was not five years old. “Come on, Granddad, I’m a lawyer. This is what I’ve prepared for, to get a case like this and use it to – ”

“Use it?”

“Why not?”

“Are you using it to prove something about Charlene Moore?”

“No,” she said, wondering how much she meant it. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime case. It’s mine and I have to take it all the way.”

“You don’t own it,” Clarence Moore said. “We don’t own anything, do we? You just keep praying about it, baby. And I mean the kind of prayer that lays you flat. Not the gimme-gimme kind. Promise your old grandpappy?”

“Of course,” Charlene said, wanting to leave right away. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

2

Sam Levering had a TV room at home. Four monitors, each beaming in a different channel. With the touch of a couple of buttons on the remote, he could increase or decrease the volume of any set, so he could concentrate on the story that seemed most relevant.

Right now it was on Fox News. He hated Fox. It regularly held him up to scorn, but it was also the leading cable news outlet so he would just have to deal with it.

Tonight it was all about the story that still occupied Washington, if not the entire country: Who was Millicent Mannings Hollander with the night she got hit?

The Fox reporter in the field, standing outside Walter Reed Hospital, was saying, “All we know is that police have questioned Justice Hollander, and she has stated that she had been with a friend. That’s the word she used, friend. She was dropped off near the Lincoln Memorial, though she didn’t say why, but was going to try to catch a taxi to take her home. Here is where the story gets a little confusing. There is some speculation that the friend was…”

Levering gripped his glass of bourbon like a lifeline.

“… one of the other justices of the Court. Justice Hollander does not have the reputation of socializing much in Washington circles…”

Levering breathed a little easier. A friend. She was not going to say anything. Good for her. Now he would not have to use the little contingency plan Anne Deveraux and he had hatched. He could save it. Keep it in his back pocket, as it were, and with it control the next chief justice of the Supreme Court. Man, he was good. With Anne Deveraux, he was unstoppable.

His phone rang. The direct line.

“You been watching?” President Francis asked.

“It’s under control,” Levering said.

“I just want to know if this is going to become a problem for us.”

“Don’t worry. A few days and it’ll be on A-20 of the Post, and then gone.”

“What about Hollander?”

“What about her?”

“She still the one?”

“Oh, yes. This will garner her all sorts of sympathy. You’ll be a hero.”

“I still get this feeling.”

“Trust me.”

“I have to, I guess.”

And that was just the way Sam Levering had planned it all along.