The Hearing (13 page)

“Yeah.”

She felt Gus turn toward her in the darkness. Knowing he was awake made her feel safer.

She decided not to mention the sound. Instead she said, “I can’t get that stupid thing out of my mind.”

In the
Washington Post
that morning one of the columnists had called Gus a racist. He quoted an unnamed “black
community leader” in Mobile who claimed that Gus gave stiffer sentences to blacks than to whites.

“Me either.”

“Is it worth it, Gus? I mean for you. It’s worse for you.”

“It’s bad for both of us, Michelle. But, yeah, it’s worth it. Nothing good comes easy. It’s only lies, anyway.”

“How can they say that, Gus? He
has
to know it’s not true.”

“Truth has nothing to do with it.”

Major activist groups were holding the threat of a primary battle over the head of any southern senator who voted for Gus’s
confirmation. To give teeth to that threat, the opposition had to arouse anti-Gus sentiment among black voters. Middle-class
concerns like privacy and affirmative action wouldn’t do that, but racism would. So for the past week TV spots, newspaper
ads, and certain columnists had painted Gus as a racist.

“Oh, Gus, I just—” She put a hand on his cheek. They were silent, wide awake.

Gus said, “Would it keep you awake if I took a shower?”

“No. Go ahead.”

She felt him get out of bed, heard the bathroom door close, saw cracks of light around the door.

Michelle heard the shower go on—and then the scraping noise again. She went to the closed window and listened. After a minute,
she heard it again, something downstairs by the garage.

“Gus?”

He didn’t answer, probably couldn’t hear her above the noise of the shower. She didn’t want to bother him. She decided just
to go downstairs and take a peek out the kitchen window.

A moment later in the kitchen, she put her face to the glass and strained to see the edge of the garage entrance. A faint
light flashed for an instant from the garage into the front yard. Her heart stopped. Through the door connecting the kitchen
to the garage, she heard the scraping sound, something dragging across the concrete floor. Two dozen cardboard cartons filled
with Gus’s papers, still unpacked since their move, had been stacked next to the car.

She didn’t know what to do. If she called to Gus, he might not hear, and whoever was in the garage would escape. If she ran
upstairs, Gus might not get down in time. She opened a kitchen drawer, took out the longest knife she could find, and stood
at the door to the garage. She held the knife above her head, put her other hand on the doorknob, and took a deep breath.
Then she threw open the door, screamed as loud as she could, stepped into the garage, and flipped the light switch.

He was young, short, overweight, stooping over a carton. He looked up, a rabbit caught in the headlights, eyes on her face,
then on the knife. He ran from the garage and jumped into the passenger side of a car that roared out of the driveway in a
cloud of exhaust and smoking rubber. She didn’t see the driver of the car or its plate number or even the make. But she would
never forget that face, burned forever into her memory, as she was sure the image of her knife was burned into his memory.

She stepped back into the kitchen and was almost knocked down by Gus, stark naked, charging in from the living room. His eyes
went from Michelle to the knife.

“Who screamed? What’s wrong? Put the knife down.”

She dropped the knife and fell into his arms.

“Michelle, what’s wrong? What happened?” She was trembling, hanging on. “It’s all right, honey. It’s all right.”

He led her into the living room. “Tell me what happened.”

“A man was in the garage. I think I scared him to death.”

“Are you okay?”

She had stopped shaking. She was smiling.

“I’m fine. Just a little—I’ll bet he’s shaken up. Crazy lady with a big knife.”

“What was he doing?”

“He was bending over a carton, like getting ready to lift it.”

Gus got up and went back to the garage.

“Where are you going?”

“Count the cartons.”

“Who was he, Gus?”

“Someone looking for dirt.”

Michelle waited. She didn’t want to see that garage again tonight.

Gus came back, carrying the knife. He dropped it in the sink. “Twenty-three. One missing.”

“What’s in it?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to go through the others.”

“Gus, I’m scared.”

He put an arm around her. “Let’s go to bed. I’ll call Rothman tomorrow.”

“We’re going to France tomorrow.”

“I know. Rothman can deal with your burglar friend.”

Carl was at the café at ten, and spent the extra hour on countersurveillance, more disturbed than ever about the
black Peugeot. He checked the surrounding streets, walked through a parking lot a block away. No black Peugeot.

As he returned to the café, he met Larry on the street. They were walking to Carl’s car when Carl spotted a man fifty meters
away between two parked cars, his face hidden behind a small hand-held video camera. The camera was aimed right at them.

Carl said, “Just a second. I’ll be right back.”

He started toward the man, who lowered the camera, jumped into one of the cars, and pulled out into the street. Carl ran,
and the car, a black Peugeot 205, accelerated past him, almost knocking him down. This time, through the windshield, he had
a clear view of Warren Gier behind the wheel.

Carl went back to Larry, got them both into his car, and was just turning the ignition when he heard a sudden banging on the
passenger window. He swung his head, his hand moving instinctively to the Walther in his waistband. A girl’s face was at the
window, her knuckles beating angrily on the glass.

Larry, yanking the door open, shouted, “Samantha!”

He jumped out of the car. “What are you doing here?”

The girl said, “You shouldn’t have done that! I’m going with you!”

She looked seventeen, tall, slim, pink T-shirt, white shorts, pink espadrilles. An older, long-haired, and very angry version
of the girl in the video.

Larry said, “You can’t go with me. I told you.”

“You shouldn’t have just left me.”

“I didn’t just leave you. I told you I was going out. You can wait in the hotel. I’ll be back soon.”

“Who’s he?”

Carl had come around from the driver’s side, standing at a distance, staying out of it. She was full of fire, tear-filled
eyes flashing anger.

“He’s the man I told you about. Carl, this is my daughter, Samantha.”

Carl said, “Hi.”

He put out his hand, smiling.

“Hi.”

Her grip was firm. She took him in at a glance, a one-second study that seemed to tell her everything she needed to know for
the moment. Then she looked sharply back at Larry.

“Where are you going?”

“It doesn’t matter, Samantha. I’ll be back later. Madame Durand will give you lunch.”

“I want to go.”

“You can’t go.”

“Why?”

“Samantha, this is something personal between Carl and me.”

“I’m scared.”

“Samantha, that’s—”

“I saw someone following you.”

“No one’s following me, Samantha.”

She turned to Carl, facing him straight on, and this time the eyes tried to pull him to pieces. He felt sorry for her. She
was terrified at the possibility of Larry driving off and leaving her. Or maybe she’d seen Gier tracking them with his TV
camera. She wasn’t the only one concerned. Carl wanted to get back in the car and clear out.

“I don’t want to interfere, Larry, but why not let her come? It doesn’t bother me.”

Samantha reached for the door handle.

“There, so I’m coming.”

She climbed in the back seat, sitting straight, arms crossed.

Carl and Larry got in the front, and when Carl looked at her in the rear-view mirror she caught his eye and smiled. The fire
was gone, and with it the tears and anger. What was Gus going to say when he came off the plane and saw that face?

Heading out of Saint-Tropez, Larry said, “I hope it’s really okay, Samantha coming.”

“Absolutely.”

“Where are we going?”

“My friend’s arriving at the Nice airport. We can meet him there and have lunch.”

Carl had been watching Samantha in the rear-view mirror. “That sound okay, Samantha?”

She smiled. The girl in the video.

“Yes, thank you.” The eyes were gentle, the aggression gone. “That would be wonderful.”

Polite. Shy, even.

“He’s where?”

John Harrington had walked into Helen’s conference room late and nodded quickly at the three others who were already around
the table. Since an earlier meeting, the one at which Isaac Jasper had mentioned conventional tactics that “don’t meet your
needs,” several Freedom Federation members had found excuses for staying away.

Helen said, “Saint-Tropez.”

“Gier’s in Saint-Tropez? In
France?
”

“So is Parham’s daughter. With Carl Falco. Her name’s Samantha.”

Harrington, shocked into silence, sat down.

Isaac slouched in one of the white chairs, elbow on knee, unshaved chin cupped in his palm. His eyes were closed.

Helen said, “Isaac, are you awake?”

The eyes opened slowly, but the chin did not come off the hand.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Just thinking.” Now the chin lifted. “I don’t want to sound like a prophet of doom, but …”

“Go ahead.”

“You guys have had it.”

Helen said, “Samantha’s in France, and we’ve had it? You’re pretty quick to throw in the towel, Isaac.”

“Maybe so. But they’ve found her. Some innocent, pretty little thirteen-year-old goes on Larry King, Letterman, Leno—you’ve
had it. You will
not
find fifty-one senators willing to vote against the kind of sympathy that’ll produce. My opinion, maybe I’m wrong. Could
be wrong. Hope I’m wrong.”

Helen looked at Harrington. “John?”

“I think Isaac’s a little prematurely glum. These things are never easy. The question’s always the same. How bad do you want
to win?”

Helen said to Isaac, “You don’t think we can win?”

“I never said that. You can
always
win, if you’re willing to do whatever it takes to win. What I’m saying is, what you’re doing now won’t win. You’ll have to
do something more effective.”

“Like what?”

“That’s not my job. That’s your job. I’m just giving an
opinion. Business as usual—media, celebrities, phone banks, direct mail, press conferences—that won’t do it.”

Paula Yost stretched and looked wearily at the ceiling. “Kidnap the kid.” She pulled her arms down and her eyes met the shocked
stares. “Just kidding!”

Isaac said, “I’m not suggesting anything like that.”

Helen said, “Of course not, Isaac. You may be many things, but you’re not violent.”

“Possibly subviolent.” Harrington said it with a grin.

Helen said, “I beg your pardon?”

“Like the suggestion that Parham grabbed some of the luggage-locker money.”

Helen said, “Why is that ‘subviolent’?”

“It’s a lie,” Harrington said, “but we use it. A sort of invention. We all know he didn’t take the money, but no one rejects
the idea of using the accusation.”

“Dishonest.”

“Of course. But subviolent.”

A cloud of silence fell over the white chairs.

Helen said, “What’s your thinking, Isaac?”

“Are you talking about lying? If we minded lying we wouldn’t be here. Let’s not get philosophical.”

“Is that what you meant when you suggested something more effective?”

“Helen, let’s stop screwing around. This isn’t Politics 101. You want to keep Parham off the Supreme Court, keep him off the
Supreme Court. Do what’s necessary.”

After the meeting, Helen asked Isaac if he needed a lift.

He said, “Where are you going?”

“Wherever you are.”

In the car, Helen said, “Isaac, you’ve been in this town
a long time, including places most people never go. In your opinion, as you say, what will we have to do to win?”

“I like the word subviolent. It’s a nice euphemism.”

“Euphemism for what?”

“There’s a spectrum, Helen. What word you use just depends on how many people get hurt. It’s a progression. At first, people
call it politics. A smile, a handshake. Polite hypocrisy. A lie. Then gentle intimidation. A small threat. Mild blackmail.
Someone gets beaten up. Suicide. Murder. People die. Before you know it, you’ve got bombs in subways, parking garages, department
stores. Politics changes its face, changes its name. Now you call it terrorism. But it’s all still politics. Getting people’s
approval, getting them to see things your way.”

“Isaac—”

“Bombs in London, bombs in Beirut, bombs in Palestine, New York, Oklahoma—acts of war or terrorism or politics? Politics.”

“Isaac, this is a Senate confirmation hearing.”

“Sorry. Right. Not even a campaign. Not politics at all.”

She turned her head to look at him. Warren Gier would have had a cynical smile. Isaac was just staring out the window—looking
rumpled, detached, and not very happy.

Michelle was filled with longing and dread. She wanted to know everything there was to know about Samantha, but she did not
want to meet the man who had raised her, cared for her, the man Samantha called Daddy. As the plane banked low over the Mediterranean
and its tires screeched onto the tarmac of the Nice airport, Michelle felt fear grow into terror. Where was Samantha? Her
adoptive father was waiting in the airport, but where was Samantha?

She glanced at Gus. He was pale. How would Larry Young react, meeting Samantha’s biological parents? Would he see them as
enemies, a threat? Maybe he wouldn’t even talk to them.

Holding hands, they moved with the crowd through Passport Control, down a corridor, and reached a wide stairway to their left.
She looked down the stairway and saw Carl waving up at them. She smiled and waved back, keeping her eyes on his face, not
ready to see Larry.

She started down the stairs, and her knees went limp. She stumbled. Gus grabbed her arm. “You all right?”