Callahan sat upright and covered himself with the sheets. He blinked his eyes and combed his wild hair with his fingers. "Rosenberg? Murdered?" he mumbled, glaring at the screen. His foggy head had cleared immediately, and the pain was there but he couldn't feel it.
"Check out the sweater," Darby said, sipping the coffee, staring at the orange face with heavy makeup and the brilliant silver hair plastered carefully in place. He was a wonderfully handsome man with a soothing voice; thus he had succeeded greatly in politics. The wrinkles in his forehead squeezed to gether, and he was even sadder now as he talked of his close friend Justice Glenn Jensen.
"The Montrose Theatre, at midnight," Callahan repeated.
"Where is it?" she asked. Callahan had finished law school at Georgetown.
"Not sure. But I think it's in the gay section."
"Was he gay?"
"I've heard rumors. Evidently." They were both sitting on the end of the bed with the sheets over their legs. The President was ordering a week of national mourning. Flags at half-staff. Federal offices closed tomorrow. Funeral arrangements were incomplete. He rambled for a few more minutes, still deeply saddened, even shocked, very human, but nonetheless the President and clearly in charge. He signed off with his patented grandfather's smile of complete trust and wisdom and reassurance.
An NBC reporter on the White House lawn appeared and filled in the gaps. The police were mute, but there appeared to be no suspects at the moment, and no leads. Yes, both justices had been under the protection of the FBI, which had no comment. Yes, the Montrose was a place frequented by homosexuals. Yes, there had been many threats against both men, especially Rosenberg. And there could be many suspects before it was all over.
Callahan turned off the set and walked to the french doors, where the early air was growing thicker. "No suspects," he mumbled.
"I can think of at least twenty," Darby said.
"Yeah, but why the combination? Rosenberg is easy, but why Jensen? Why not McDowell or Yount, both of whom are consistently more liberal than Jensen? It doesn't make sense." Callahan sat in a wicker chair by the doors and fluffed his hair.
"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.
* * *
