“Rosenberg is dead,” the President repeated to himself. “I just can’t believe it.”

“I’ve got an idea for television.” Coal was pacing again, very much in charge. “We need to cash in on the shock of it all. You need to appear tired, as if you were up all night handling the crisis. Right? The entire nation will be watching, waiting for you to give details and to reassure. I think you should wear something warm and comforting. A coat and tie at 7 A.M. may seem a bit rehearsed. Let’s relax a little.”

The President was listening intently. “A bathrobe?”

“Not quite. But how about a cardigan and slacks? No tie. White button-down. Sort of the grandfather image.”

“You want me to address the nation in this hour of crisis in a sweater?”

“Yes. I like it. A brown cardigan with a white shirt.”

“I don’t know.”

“The image is good. Look, Chief, the election is a year from next month. This is our first crisis in ninety days, and what a wonderful crisis it is. The people need to see you in something different, especially at seven in the morning. You need to look casual, down-home, but in control. It’ll be worth five, maybe ten points in the ratings. Trust me, Chief.”

“I don’t like sweaters.”

“Just trust me.”

“I don’t know.”

Darby Shaw awoke in the early darkness with a touch of a hangover. After fifteen months of law school, her mind refused to rest for more than six hours. She was often up before daybreak, and for this reason she did not sleep well with Callahan. The sex was great, but sleep was often a tug-of-war with pillows and sheets pulled back and forth.

She watched the ceiling and listened to him snore occasionally in his Scotch-induced coma. The sheets were wrapped like ropes around his knees. She had no cover, but she was not cold. October in New Orleans is still muggy and warm. The heavy air rose from Dauphine Street below, across the small balcony outside the bedroom and through the open french doors. It brought with it the first stream of morning light. She stood in the doors and covered herself with his terry-cloth robe. The sun was rising, but Dauphine was dark. Daybreaks went unnoticed in the French Quarter. Her mouth was dry.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Darby brewed a pot of thick French Market chicory. The blue numbers on the microwave said it was now ten minutes before six. For a light drinker, life with Callahan was a constant struggle. Her limit was three glasses of wine. She had neither a law license nor a job, and she could not afford to get drunk every night and sleep late. And she weighed a hundred and twelve pounds and was determined to keep it there. He had no limit.

She drank three glasses of ice water, then poured a tall mug full of chicory. She flipped on lights as she climbed the stairs, and eased back into the bed. She flicked the remote controls, and suddenly, there was the President sitting behind his desk looking somehow rather odd in a brown cardigan with no tie. It was an NBC News special report.

“Thomas!” She slapped him on his shoulder. No movement. “Thomas! Wake up!” She pressed a button and the volume roared. The President said good morning.

“Thomas!” She leaned toward the television. Callahan kicked at the sheets and sat up, rubbing his eyes and trying to focus. She handed him the coffee.

The President had tragic news. His eyes were tired and he looked sad, but the rich baritone exuded confidence. He had notes but didn’t use them. He looked deep into the camera, and explained to the American people the shocking events of last night.

“What the hell,” Callahan mumbled. After announcing the deaths, the President launched into a flowery obituary for Abraham Rosenberg. A towering legend, he called him. It was a strain, but the President kept a straight face while lauding the distinguished career of one of the most hated men in America.

Callahan gaped at the television. Darby stared at it. “That’s very touching,” she said. She was frozen on the end of the bed. He had been briefed by the FBI and CIA, he explained, and they were assuming the killings were related. He had ordered an immediate, thorough investigation, and those responsible would be brought to justice.

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 together, 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.”