It was the decision.

The first page was squeezing out slower than cold molasses.

“Come on, come on!”

The page was a third of the way out of the machine. Charlene craned her neck so she could look at it. She could only read the caption, the case name, and the introductory gobbledygook that was part of every printed decision.

“Hurry up!”

With the first page halfway out, she saw the names of the three judges who had considered the case. She remembered their faces, heard their voices again as they asked questions of counsel. She heard Graebner’s confident answers, and her own stumbles as she tried to remain calm and clear.

What was the decision?

When the page was almost out she was at last able to read the first lines of the first paragraph. It gave an overview of the proceedings and the decision of the district court judge. Then the last line of the paragraph came into view: “For the reasons stated herein, we…”

The first page spat out.

“Move it!” Charlene railed at the fax machine. Page two was barely showing its top edge as it emerged.

Charlene gripped the edge with her fingers, as if she could coax it to go faster. The machine kept its own pace.

Her neck was starting to ache with the craning.

Finally, the next line came into view, and the first word was reverse…

Breath left her.

… the decision of the district court and remand for further proceedings.

Hot tears came much faster than the fax paper. Sarah Mae had won.

2

The media camp outside Millie’s home was like a Russian circus. She herself had become the dancing bear. The story. Not her opinions, but her. It was the nightmare she had never wanted to happen in real life.

Now she knew what it felt like to be a prisoner in her own home. She’d seen the way politicians had to deal with reporters on their front lawn. Walking out with forced smiles. Trying to get in cars while cameras rolled. Putting up a false front.

She could never do that. What were her alternatives? Find a way to sneak around town? Ask, respectfully, for privacy? Fat chance they’d give it to her.

She was not going to watch television. She couldn’t stand hearing her name on the news.

She was about to burst. Helen hadn’t called since the bomb had exploded. Millie had left a message, but maybe Helen was out of town.

Millie walked to her front window and peeked through the blinds. The media camp was there on the street. A camera aimed at her from a van seemed to be looking right into her eyes. She quickly drew back.

Now what?

The phone rang. It seemed like the millionth time. She let her machine pick it up again. It hadn’t taken long for her private number to fall into the hands of the news outlets.

Then she heard a familiar voice.

“Millie, it’s Jack Holden. I’m here at the church. I just – ”

Millie snatched the phone. “Jack!”

“I’m so glad I got you. What is going on?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Millie said. “Just a replay of the invasion of Normandy out in the front yard.”

“That all?” Jack said. “Then I feel sorry for the other side.”

His light touch was comforting. She felt herself holding on, trying to stay rational.

“I don’t suppose you’ve been watching the religious stations,” Jack said.

“Unless Dan Rather is the pope, no.”

There was a pause. “A guy who has a network here is calling you a miracle from God. Says Roe v. Wade is finally going to be overturned.”

“Oh, no.” Millie’s stomach went into freefall.

“Looks like you’re getting it from both sides.”

“Why can’t they just let me do my job?”

Jack said, “Can I read something to you?”

“Please.”

“ ‘Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.’ ”

“I wish I felt blessed,” Millie said.

“It’s not a feeling. It’s a promise. ‘The God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.’ ”

“This is good stuff. You got more?”

“A whole bookful. You have anybody you can talk to back there?”

“Justice Bonassi. I’ve been meeting with him and his wife. They’ve been great.”

“That’s a godsend,” Jack said. “I’ve prayed you would find good support.” Then he added, “How are you doing, really?”

Millie thought a moment. “It’s hard, but I keep remembering what Mom used to say. Just let it roll off your back like a duck.”

“She was a wise woman.”

“What I don’t like is that it is such a distraction to the Court’s business. So I hope this blows over soon.”

“And when it does,” Jack said, “maybe I can come out there. And take you to dinner. That’d give the reporters something to talk about, wouldn’t it?”

She laughed, suddenly wishing he were here now.

3

The barbershop for members of the House of Representatives was in the Rayburn House Office Building. A throwback to someone’s idea of a small-town hair salon, it sported a barber’s pole outside the door and three chairs. Since it had been privatized, the House barbershop had lost more barbers than it kept.

Sam Levering did not get his haircuts here. The Senate had its own, nicer, salon. His mission in the House shop was to find the House Speaker, Representative Brian Kessler. Kessler’s office had told Levering where he was, though that was no guarantee Kessler would actually be in the chair. House members were notorious for demanding an appointment with the barber, and then being late, often hours late, or not showing up at all.

But there he was, in the middle chair, being snipped by a short black-haired man.

“Hello, Brian,” Levering said.

“Sam,” Kessler said. “You slumming?” A fifty-year-old red-headed freckle face, Kessler was the quintessential boy next door. That was how he kept getting reelected. Only Levering and a few other insiders knew about certain practices that might have scandalized Kessler’s constituents.

“Can your man here take a break?” Levering said.

The barber shot a hard stare at Levering.

“Can’t this wait?” Kessler said.

“Knowing you, it can’t,” Levering said. Kessler was always doing three or four things at once. Levering wanted his undivided attention.

“Ermanno,” Kessler said. “Why don’t you give us a few minutes, huh?”

With an Italian version of humph, the barber walked out of the shop. Kessler spun around in the barber chair. Levering parked himself in the adjoining one.

“I want you to start thinking about impeaching Hollander,” Levering said.

Kessler remained impassive. He was a cool one. One didn’t get the speakership without developing an iron poker face.

“That’s pretty extreme, don’t you think?” Kessler said.

“Just start thinking about it, that’s all.”

“Are you nuts?” Kessler said, his cheeks starting to show the first blossoms of pink. “I don’t like the idea of messing with the Supreme Court.”

“What if the Supreme Court, by a slim majority, starts messing with our issues?”

Kessler shook his head. “Sam, you’re talking about the third arm of government. I don’t want to lead our party down that path.”

“Do you have any idea what might be at stake?”

Kessler pulled the apron off his chest and leaned forward. “Sam, listen. That’s going way too far. There would have to be a big public outcry for impeachment first.”

“You watch,” Levering said calmly. “There just might be.”

“There’s more to this?”

“I said watch. And be ready.”

Kessler ran his fingers through his incomplete hairstyle. Soon it would be lacquered down so even a typhoon couldn’t damage it. Levering had always admired Kessler’s hair.