Deadlock by James Scott Bell

could busy yourself with staff work, public ceremonies, drink, female companionship — any one of a number of items from a United States senator’s playbook. And he had tried them all.
    That was true now, as he pounded his way out of the chamber of the Judiciary Committee. He had been unable to concentrate on the hearing, even though it was an easy one. President Francis had sent Preston Atkins, a judge from the Second Circuit, as his nominee to fill the vacancy created by Ed Pavel’s retirement.
    The media were full of speculation about who would assume the CJ’s chair, especially after the accident involving Millicent Mannings Hollander. Most assumed Hollander was going to get the nod.
    But Atkins brought his own set of credentials. Described by Francis as “middle of the road,” Atkins was really a staunch social liberal. The conservatives were making a lot of noise, but Atkins was handling the questioning with poise and equanimity. He was going to sail through, despite a few bumpy waves.
    Yet Levering couldn’t keep his mind focused. He’d been distracted by a simple phrase one of the opponents had said in the middle of an argument. “We cannot leave our children with that legacy.”
    Children.
    Thoughts of his son raced into Levering’s mind, stronger than they had in a long time. Levering had fought against all thoughts and feelings about his son. But sometimes nothing seemed to help.
    So, though it was only eleven in the morning, Sam Levering was on his way back to his office for a drink. He turned toward the east corridor when he heard his name called. It was Anne Deveraux.
    “Don’t you ever rest?” he said.
    “What’s rest?”
    “I’m about to have lunch.” Bourbon, he thought.
    “Want to hear the latest on Hollander?”
    “Yes.”
    Anne looked around. No one was within earshot. “She was talking to, get this, a minister.”
    “Minister?”
    “Yeah. Heads up a little church. Now isn’t that curious?”
    Levering ran his tongue over his dry lips. He hated the word minister. It had been a minister who ruined his son’s life. What was Hollander doing consorting with one of that ilk?
    “Bottom line, what do you think it means?”
    “Maybe nothing,” Anne said. “Maybe something. It appeared to be a somewhat casual conversation, according to my source. But it went on for a bit.”
    It better not be more than casual, Levering thought. Not for his pick for chief justice. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid? I mean, isn’t her mother a churchgoer or something like that?”
    “Something like that,” Anne said.
    “So what’s your gut instinct?”
    Anne looked at him over her sunglasses. “I think Madame Justice is not herself these days.”
     
    | 2
    Charlene Moore felt her legs trembling. But she had to stand for her opening statement.
    The courtroom was huge, especially compared to the state court satellites she was used to. Judge Howard Lewis seemed to be a hundred feet in the air atop his bench, looking down like an Olympian god. And the majestic eagle rendered on the shield that adorned the wall seemed ready to drop the olive branches in its talons and swoop down, mercilessly, on Charlene.
    And every member of the jury seemed better dressed than Charlene.
    But they were people. She reminded herself of the advice she’d given Sarah Mae’s mother. She was going to tell them the story as if she were talking to people in her living room.
    “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Charlene said. Most of the jurors nodded at her.
    “As you know, my name is Charlene Moore, and I represent Sarah Mae Sherman.”
    Charlene turned to her client. “Sarah Mae, would you please stand?”
    The girl, looking terrified, got to her feet. Her plain summer dress — pastel blue — was hanging on her like a tablecloth draped over a chair. She tried to look at the jurors, but her eyes kept glancing down toward the floor.
    “Thank you, Sarah Mae,” Charlene said. Sarah Mae returned to her