While Justice Sleeps(66)
“Nice to meet you,” Neighbors greeted as he raked back the hank of true black hair that habitually fell over his broad, tanned forehead. He extended his free hand to the president. “Mr. President, we were just talking about you.”
Stokes pasted on his most insincere smile and shook his head, which gave him an opportunity to angle his neck to meet Neighbors’s flat-eyed stare. The freakish giant loomed like misbegotten Gulliver at six-six, hulking over his own respectable five-eleven.
The president preferred the altitudinal equivalence of a meeting in the Oval Office to the vertical pugilism on the standing cocktail circuit. But he hadn’t clawed his way to power by bending to redwoods. Coming toe to toe, he responded, “Hope you were saying good things.”
“Only the best.”
The prime minister drifted off in the care of one of the president’s staffers, leaving him alone with the majority leader, an unwelcome intimacy. “How are you, Mr. Leader?”
“Doing well, Mr. President. Better than some.”
“Is Marguerite here with you tonight?” President Stokes asked, well aware that the man’s pocket-sized writer wife had booked a berth at an eating disorder clinic that treated the side effects of rabid alcoholism.
The leader’s flicker of infuriation was barely visible. He replied gamely, “Marguerite is on sabbatical. You know the artistic temperament.”
“Well, Mrs. Stokes and I were thinking of inviting you two up to Camp David next month. Will her respite be over by then?”
The Senate majority leader appreciated the easy thrust of the shiv into the raw wound. Brandon Stokes had never extended an invitation to him not required by federal law or the social mores of Washington society. Indeed, his presence at state functions occurred in spite of Stokes, and only out of deference to his near-absolute control of the legislative agenda—and his best friend’s standing in the polls as the Democratic challenger to Stokes’s absurd appeal for a second lackluster term.
Knowing that, he could afford to be generous to the tyrant. “We’re leaving plans loose for now. With congressional recess coming up in a few weeks, we’re thinking about heading out west to the ranch. We bought a place not too far from the one DuBose owns in Montana. Good investment property.”
The only person Brandon Stokes hated more than Ken Neighbors was his counterpart in the House, Speaker DuBose Porter, Alabama-born and Yale-bred. President Stokes took a deliberate sip of wine to cleanse the acrimony. “Sounds lovely. DuBose’s family joining you?”
“Of course.” Neighbors ignored his drink, focused on delivering his message to the president. “He and I have been discussing this news about Wynn. We’re thinking that the Fourth of July holiday should be truncated, and maybe we should reconsider August recess entirely. He is sure the House members will understand.”
Stokes nearly choked. When his airway cleared, he repeated, “You both are willing to postpone recess? In an election year? How will members feel about their inability to campaign?”
“For the good of the nation, everything is on the table,” Neighbors threatened politely. The possibility of a recess appointment, a procedural trick used by too many presidents to get their own way, had occupied a good six hours of his day. Stokes had strategized endlessly about sneaking in a replacement justice while Congress was in recess, thereby circumventing a nomination process—if Wynn had the grace to die in a timely fashion. “We want to be prepared to act, if the time comes.”
“Have you discussed this with your caucus?”
Not yet, Neighbors conceded silently, and getting it past them would require bribery and bullying. But he and DuBose smelled blood in the water. Stokes’s blood. “Things are moving so quickly with Justice Wynn’s hospitalization and these rumors about his guardian. We simply intend to be cautious about sprinting out of town if work has to be done.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, you know, Mr. President. None of us want to use the words, because we all wish Howard the best. Still—”
“Still?”
“A coma is usually a poor sign. And we’ll want the full weight of the Congress to weigh in. It’s a Senate job, but for the good of the country, we need to be unified, don’t we?”
The last comment hung between them as warning and promise. “Well, Ken, I guess we’ll all have to play it by ear.”
Stokes turned on his heel, and, looking across the room, Ken made eye contact with Speaker Porter. Ken jerked his head toward the French doors leading out to a balmy portico.
Soon, the Speaker emerged through the glass doors. “Saw you and the president chatting,” DuBose quipped. “Felt left out.”
“Don’t worry. There’s nothing that snake will say that you can count on anyway.”
DuBose reached for a cigarette before remembering he’d quit last week. His hand dropped to his side. “Did he have any news about Justice Wynn?”
“Not a word,” Ken reported. “But I thought Stokes was going to choke on his own tongue when I mentioned postponing recess.” The accompanying guffaw carried out into the carefully tended lawn. “Nigel Cooper was right. Joker’s got a plan for that Supreme Court seat. Stokes probably thinks the geezer will kick the bucket while we’re out, and then he’ll shove one of his right-wing cronies up our asses while we’re out begging for votes.”