Sarah Mae shook her head with a slow, mournful look, as if she were lost in the woods. “I don’t rightly, exactly, remember.” Her eyes told Charlene she had no idea what she had done. And then those eyes gushed with tears.

Charlene looked at the judge. “Perhaps now would be a proper time for a break, Your Honor.”

Lewis nodded. “We’ll recess until ten-thirty,” he said. It sounded like he was announcing the time for an execution.

“Mom!”

Ethel was sprawled motionless on the kitchen floor.

“Mom, please, Mom.”

Millie knelt. Ethel was facedown, her left arm folded awkwardly under her body. Millie put her hands over her mother as if she wanted to do something, but could not figure out what. For an excruciating moment she felt as if she alone could determine whether her mother lived or died, yet at the same time her mind was a blank. Her hands trembled over the unmoving body of her mother.

Phone. Millie clambered to her feet and grabbed the kitchen phone. She punched 911. It took less than thirty seconds to give the dispatcher the information. But in this small town, how long would the ambulance take? The nearest full hospital was Bakersfield. Would her mother make it?

Returning to Ethel, Millie knelt and put her hand on her mother’s arm. It was so frail. Her skin felt like silk.

Millie saw the faint throb of a pulse in Ethel’s almost translucent neck and heard herself cry out, “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

The words triggered her next desperate act. Grabbing the phone, she dialed information and got the number of the church. Then she called, hoping – praying – that Pastor Holden was in.

President John Warrington Francis took the cigar out of his mouth, looked at Senator Sam Levering, and said, “What would you do in this situation?”

Levering smiled, his lips curling around his own cigar. “I’d quit, go home, lick my wounds, admit I’m not the man I used to be.”

Francis said, “You know what crow tastes like? ’Cause that’s what you’re about to eat.”

The president leaned over to his golf bag and selected a five wood. His ball, a Slazenger 1, was embedded in the deep rough that lined the right side of the fairway. Levering knew full well that Francis was not going to quit. Francis was a three handicap, one of the benefits of growing up rich in the northeast, with a father who held two country club memberships.

Levering, on the other hand, was the typical weekend hacker. He hadn’t even taken up the game until he came to Washington. He was lucky to shoot in the nineties.

Francis inserted the smoldering cigar into his mouth as he approached the ball. No wonder this guy was president, Levering thought. He was handsome, trim, athletic, and smart. And he knew how to get out of a jam.

After two practice swings that scattered tufts of grass like flushing quail, Francis hit one of the best golf shots Levering had ever seen. The white ball flew up onto the green, rolled, and stopped about five feet short of the pin.

“And that,” the president said, “is how it is done.”

“Pretty good,” Levering said.

“Pretty good? Tiger would kill to hit a shot like that.” Francis led the way to the golf cart. Levering got in, shooting a quick glance at the secret service detail in the golf cart behind them. They did not smile. They did not golf.

“The secret to golf,” Francis said as he drove toward the green, “is to stay out of trouble. You know? Just stay away from the trouble areas. Which is one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”

The scent of cigar smoke mixed with freshly mown grass was the scent of power. Levering breathed it in deeply, appreciatively. “You have something in mind?”

“Hollander,” the president said. “She stable?”

“As near as we can tell.”

“That’s not near enough.” Francis brought the cart to a stop on the path next to the green. Then he faced Levering, flicked a bit of ash onto the grass, and said, “I had a meeting with Helen Forbes Kensington yesterday. You know her?”

Only from what Anne had told him. She was Hollander’s good friend, and a pretty hot-looking divorcee. “Not personally,” Levering said, “though I wouldn’t mind.”

“You and me both,” Francis laughed. “Anyway, she was doing some lobbying, wanted me to put reproductive rights further up on the list. Plus she was all in a lather about a case down south, a trial in federal court about informed consent.”

“I think I read about that.”

“Yeah, well she thinks it’s a hydrogen bomb on the whole women’s rights movement.”

“How so?”

“If the plaintiff wins based on the fact that she should have been informed about the mental health risks of abortion, what happens?”

Levering shrugged.

“Class action lawsuits,” Francis said. “If they win, the abortion providers go bankrupt, my friend. Then the anti-abortion crowd won’t have to worry about Roe v. Wade. They’ll have effectively shut down abortion through the back door.”

Levering had fought all of his political life for the rights of women, from the days of ERA to the cause of the right to choose. Was this concern real? If it was, then having Millie Hollander under his wing, as chief justice, was even more important than he had at first supposed.

“I’m going to need a strong chief,” Francis said. “Someone who can hold the delicate balance up there. And I want your assurance that Hollander is still your first choice.”

Of course she was. His little tryst with Hollander had been – through Anne Deveraux’s alchemy and his limo driver’s loyalty – transformed into a weapon of almost unbelievable potency. Levering knew how much Millie Hollander wanted to be chief justice, how much her reputation meant to her. Sam Levering knew how to use the ambition of others to his own ends. That was politics.

“Yes,” Levering said as he and the president headed for the green. “I know she’s the right choice.”

“Fine,” Francis said, getting out of the cart and grabbing his putter from the bag. “Then I want to talk with her as soon as possible. A nice chat before I make the announcement. And I want to run it by Graebner.”

“That’s a good idea,” Levering said.

“Those are the only kind of ideas I have,” Francis said. “Now take a look at this putt. You think it breaks left?”

Levering laughed. “Everything you do breaks left, Mr. President.”

Millie quivered. She was not used to raw emotion unfiltered through careful analysis. But her mind seemed paralyzed; it rang with the words she hadn’t had a chance to say to her mother.

Jack Holden had arrived just behind the ambulance. The paramedics said they’d be going to Kern Medical Hospital in Bakersfield. Holden offered to drive Millie. She gratefully accepted, and appreciated that he wasn’t feeling chatty. After about twenty minutes on the highway he gently asked, “How you feeling?”

Millie looked at him, wondering for a moment if she might be able to open up a little. What she said was, “I’m a little upset right now.” It was a cold, antiseptic description.

“You’re very close to your mother,” Holden said.

“I haven’t had a chance lately to be close,” Millie said. Something cracked inside her. A small fissure, and out of it came a warm stream of tears. She swiped her index finger under both eyes, embarrassed.

Holden, if he noticed, did not react. He kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Almost there,” he said.

The gray concrete hospital was just off Mt. Vernon Avenue. At emergency receiving Millie gave them as much information as she could. Then she was told to wait. A doctor would be out soon.

Soon stretched into sometime. The TV in the waiting room was tuned to a soap opera vacantly eyed by a scattered few. A boy of about five played with some plastic toys on the floor under the TV.