"I'll get you some more coffee," Darby said.
"No, no. I'm awake."
"How's your head?"
"Fine, if I could've slept for three more hours. I think I'll cancel class. I'm not in the mood."
"Great."
"Damn, I can't believe this. That fool has two nominations. That means eight of the nine will be Republican choices."
"They have to be confirmed first."
"We won't recognize the Constitution in ten years. This is sick."
"That's why they were killed, Thomas. Someone or some group wants a different Court, one with an absolute conservative majority. The election is next year. Rosenberg is, or was, ninety-one. Manning is eighty-four. Yount is early eighties. They could die soon, or live ten more years. A Democrat may be elected President. Why take a chance? Kill them now, a year before the election. Makes perfect sense, if one was so inclined."
"But why Jensen?"
"He was an embarrassment. And, obviously, he was an easier target."
"Yes, but he was basically a moderate with an occasional leftward impulse. And he was nominated by a Republican."
"You want a Bloody Mary?"
"Good idea. In a minute. I'm trying to think."
Darby reclined on the bed, sipped the coffee, and watched the sunlight filter across the balcony. "Think of it, Thomas. The timing is beautiful. Reelection, nominations, politics, all that. But think of the violence and the radicals, the zealots, the pro-lifers and gay haters, the Aryans and Nazis, think of all the groups capable of killing, and all the threats against the Court, and the timing is perfect for an unknown, inconspicuous group to knock them off. It's morbid, but the timing is great."
"And who is such a group?"
"Who knows?"
"The Underground Army?"
"They're not exactly inconspicuous. They killed Judge Fernandez in Texas."
"Don't they use bombs?"
"Yeah, experts with plastic explosives."
"Scratch them."
"I'm not scratching anybody right now." Darby stood and retied the robe. "Come on. I'll fix you a Bloody Mary."
"Only if you drink with me."
"Thomas, you're a professor. You can cancel your classes if you want to. I am a student and..."
"I understand the relationship."
"I cannot cut any more classes."
"I'll flunk you in con law if you don't cut classes and get drunk with me. I've got a book of Rosenberg opinions. Let's read them, sip Bloody Marys, then wine, then whatever. I miss him already."
"I have Federal Procedure at nine, and I can't miss it."
"I intend to call the dean and have all classes canceled. Then will you drink with me?"
"No. Come on, Thomas." He followed her down the stairs to the kitchen and the coffee and the liquor.
Without removing the receiver from his shoulder, Fletcher Coal punched another button on the phone on the desk in the Oval Office. Three lines were blinking, holding. He paced slowly in front of the desk and listened while scanning a two-page report from Horton at Justice. He ignored the President, who was crouched in front of the windows, gripping his putter with gloved hands, staring fiercely first at the yellow ball, then slowly across the blue carpet to the brass putting cup ten feet away. Coal growled something into the receiver. His words were unheard by the President, who lightly tapped the ball and watched it roll precisely into the cup. The cup clicked, cleared itself, and the ball rolled three feet to the side. The President inched forward in his socks to the next ball, and breathed downward at it. It was an orange one. He tapped it just so, and it rolled straight into the cup. Eight in a row. Twenty-seven out of thirty.
"That was Chief Runyan," Coal said, slamming the receiver down. "He's quite upset. He wanted to meet with you this afternoon."
"Tell him to take a number."
"I told him to be here at ten tomorrow morning. You have the Cabinet at ten-thirty, and National Security at eleven-thirty."
Without looking up, the President gripped the putter and studied the next ball. "I can't wait. What about the polls?" He swung carefully and followed the ball.
"I just talked to Nellson. He ran two, beginning at noon. The computer is digesting it now, but he thinks the approval rating will be somewhere around fifty-two or fifty-three."
The golfer looked up briefly and smiled, then returned to his game. "What was it last week?"
"Forty-four. It was the cardigan without the tie. Just like I said."
"I thought it was forty-five," he said as he tapped a yellow one and watched it roll perfectly into the cup.
"You're right. Forty-five."
"That's the highest in - "
"Eleven months. We haven't been above fifty since Flight 402 in November of last year. This is a wonderful crisis, Chief. The people are shocked, yet many of them are happy Rosenberg is gone. And you're the man in the middle. Just wonderful." Coal punched a blinking button and picked up the receiver. He slammed it down without a word. He straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket.
"It's five-thirty, Chief. Voyles and Gminski are waiting."
He putted and watched the ball. It was an inch to the right, and he grimaced. "Let them wait. Let's do a press conference at nine in the morning. I'll take Voyles with me, but I'll keep his mouth shut. Make him stand behind me. I'll give some more details and answer a few questions. Networks'll carry it live, don't you think?"
"Of course. Good idea. I'll get it started."
He picked off his gloves and threw them in a corner. "Show them in." He carefully leaned his putter against the wall and slid into his Bally loafers. As usual, he had changed clothes six times since breakfast, and now wore a glen plaid double-breasted suit with a red and navy polka-dot tie. Office attire. The jacket hung on a rack by the door. He sat at his desk and scowled at some papers. He nodded at Voyles and Gminski, but neither stood nor offered to shake hands. They sat across the desk, and Coal took his usual standing position like a sentry who couldn't wait to fire. The President pinched the bridge of his nose as if the stress of the day had delivered a migraine.
"It's been a long day, Mr. President," Bob Gminski said to break the ice. Voyles looked at the windows.
Coal nodded, and the President said: "Yes, Bob. A very long day. And I have a bunch of Ethiopians invited for dinner tonight, so let's be brief. Let's start with you, Bob. Who killed them?"
"I do not know, Mr. President. But I assure you we had nothing to do with it."
"Do you promise me, Bob?" He was almost prayerful.
Gminski raised his right hand with the palm facing the desk. "I swear. On my mother's grave, I swear."
Coal nodded smugly as if he believed him, and as if his approval meant everything.
The President glared at Voyles, whose stocky figure filled the chair and was still draped with a bulky trench coat. The Director chewed his gum slowly and sneered at the President.
"Ballistics? Autopsies?"
"Got 'em," Voyles said as he opened his briefcase.
"Just tell me. I'll read it later."
"The gun was small-caliber, probably a .22. Point-blank range for Rosenberg and his nurse, powder burns indicate. Hard to tell for Ferguson, but the shots were fired from no farther than twelve inches away. We didn't see the shooting, you understand? Three bullets into each head. They picked two out of Rosenberg - found another in his pillow. Looks like he and the nurse were asleep. Same type slugs, same gun, same gunman, evidently. Complete autopsy summaries are being prepared, but there were no surprises. Causes of deaths are quite obvious."