From her wheelchair, Millie tried to smile gamely for the cameras. The press coverage was inevitable, and it was best to just get it out of the way now.

Flashes burst around her and voices threw questions like baseballs.

Dr. Cross, pushing the wheelchair, ran interference. “Allow Justice Hollander to make a statement please. Please! And then she will answer only a few questions. I will update you on her condition momentarily.”

The reporters waited, cameras whirring and microphones thrusting.

Millie was not an accomplished public speaker. When she made speeches she read them, preferring to prepare her statements in logical order beforehand. If she spoke off the cuff, she might say something that could be misconstrued. And the one thing she wanted to avoid as a Supreme Court justice was misunderstanding.

“Thank you,” she said, “for your concern. And I thank the American people for their well wishes.” She had received flowers and cards and stuffed animals, along with telegrams and even a bathrobe with capitol domes on it. So much for the separation of powers.

“I am continuing to recuperate under the care of Dr. Cross. Aside from a bad headache, I am doing quite well. I hope to take a little time to rest back home in California. I will be ready to resume my seat on the Court when the new term begins in October.”

She paused, and immediately a reporter shouted, “Can you tell us why you were walking at night alone?”

There were a few groans at the question, but mostly, Millie noted, keen interest from the newspeople.

“I had been with an acquaintance, and that is all. I appreciate that you will respect the privacy of all concerned here.”

“Are the police respecting that privacy?” another reporter asked.

“This is not a police matter. As I told them, I was in the process of getting a taxi to go home. I lost my balance and fell into the street.”

“What do you think of Edward Ellis Pavel’s retirement?”

While she had been recovering in the hospital, Pavel had announced his retirement.

“Chief Justice Pavel has served honorably for over twenty years. He will be missed.”

“Are you going to be the next chief justice?”

“I leave that to the people who make those decisions. Now if you’ll – ”

A smallish man, who looked – Millie couldn’t help the analogy – like a rodent, shot out of the gathering as if emerging from a hole. “Madame Justice, how has your brush with death changed your life?”

Millie only vaguely heard the voices of disdain this question provoked. She felt the man’s feral eyes boring into her, as if by will he could drag out her deep secrets. And she did have a secret, one she was not prepared to be examined on.

The truth was her life was different, but she had no idea how. There had not been time to assess it. But the disquiet she had felt ever since coming back to consciousness was not gone. She had always kept her emotions under strict control. But now – well, she might actually need to see a therapist. And that was something no one must ever find out about.

Thankfully, Dr. Cross stepped in front of the wheelchair. “That is all for today. Thank you very much.”

With a great sigh, Millie put on a smile and waved for the cameras once more. The reporters began shuffling to give way. But the little man stayed close, staring at her, until security finally nudged him out.

She got a very strange feeling in her stomach. “I need to go home,” she told Dr. Cross, “as soon as possible.”

“I’ll have a car brought around.”

“No,” she said. “I mean to California. Would it be all right if I flew out tomorrow or the next day?”

Dr. Cross folded his arms. “I want to check up on you. I can’t very well do that if you’re three thousand miles away.”

“I promise to be good.”

He smiled. “I have an associate out that way, in Bakersfield. Would you mind if I had him on call for you?”

“Not at all,” Millie said. “God forbid I should need a doctor. What could possibly happen?”

Dr. Cross patted her shoulder. “You just never know.”

Sam Levering woke up with a fuzzy feeling on his tongue. As he got older, the drinking seemed to do that. When he was a young buck, he could put away twice the amount and wake up fit and ready to run.

Those days were gone. A lot of things were gone for Sam Levering. His wife had divorced him fifteen years ago. That had actually been a career boost. Marla could not handle her liquor and was developing into a liability.

Sure, a divorced politician was suspect in those days, but Levering managed to charm the people again. He won the governorship and left early to run for the Senate.

He and Marla had shared custody of their son, Tad. That was another thing Sam had lost.

Each morning when he awoke, Levering felt a small hole inside him. It could not be filled. It was shaped like his son, the one he had once envisioned taking the governor’s mansion and then joining him in the Senate. And then the presidency. A dynasty.

But Tad had turned away from everything, every value, Sam Levering ever had.

It started with teenage antics. Levering thought that was normal and would play itself out. Tad liked cars, liked girls, and liked them both fast. A chip off the old block. Levering had even felt a little pride when Tad stole a cheerleader from the football team captain and spent a weekend with her in a Tulsa motel.

Then in his late teens, Tad had become progressively odd and distant. All because of a preacher.

Levering had grown up in the Bible belt but renounced the faith of his youth when he was in the Army. He did attend church services when the political weather vane pointed in that direction. But on fishing or camping trips with Tad, Levering taught him the value of self-reliance and skepticism of all things religious.

“Use the religious folks to get yourself elected,” he counseled his son. “But don’t fall into it yourself. The American religion is finishing first.”

Tad, he thought, soaked up every word.

But then that preacher got hold of his son, and Tad got “saved.” How Levering despised that word. As much as he despised the preacher, a man named Doty.

When Tad announced that he was a Christian, Levering almost went nuts. There had been huge arguments. Levering called Tad names he had never used before, even for political opponents. Tad took off.

That was eight years ago. Levering did manage to locate his son once through a private investigator. But Tad’s only response was to send his father a Bible with a note pleading for him to “turn to Christ.”

Levering sauntered to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, trying to put the past out of his mind. He heard his cell phone bleeping on the bed and went to answer it.

“Who’s your Huckleberry?” Anne Deveraux asked.

“Why do you keep saying that?” Levering asked.

“Heard it in a movie once. Now tell me who your Huckleberry is.”

“You, Anne.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the best.”

“And do you know why?”

“Is this a personal call? Because I’ve got a ton – ”

“I’ll tell you why. Because I see things before they happen. I anticipate trouble.”

“Yes, you do, Anne.” It was true. She was the best in the business at not only getting out of a crisis, but steering clear of those that did not yet exist.

“Well,” Anne asked, “when can I see you?”

Levering went through his mental checklist. “I have several short meetings today.”

“Work me in.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I see something coming.”

“What’s it about?”

“Madame Justice Millicent Mannings Hollander.”

Levering met Anne near Independence Avenue. The day was overcast but hot, making him sweat almost immediately. He felt like he was in detox.