And then Levering was on the seat next to her. “A little more champagne?” he offered.

“No, thank you,” Millie said.

“May I be so bold as to give some advice to a Supreme Court justice?”

“All right.” She could smell his cologne now, mingling with the scent of perspiration.

Levering leaned toward her a little, unwavering in his gaze. “I think you need to live a little.”

Millie swallowed. “Oh?”

Levering put his hand on hers. “We’re cut from the same cloth, you know.”

Millie tried to gently pull her hand away. Levering held on.

“From the people,” Levering said. “We worked our way up the hard way. I know all about you, Madame Justice.”

She wondered what he meant by that, and by the half smile on his face. For a moment she thought he would try to kiss her. But he leaned back, reached behind her to the bar, and poured more champagne for himself.

“You grew up poor, like I did,” Levering said. “You pulled yourself up by your bootstraps and made it. Boalt Hall Law. Editor of the Law Review. Number one in your class. You were slated for greatness from the start. So was I.”

The limo approached the Lincoln Memorial. Millie saw the flocks of tourists dotting the stairs, and Lincoln presiding over it all.

“And now,” Levering said, “here we are.”

He squeezed her hand again. Millie felt her face heating up. How silly this all was. That she should be acting like a little schoolgirl.

Levering leaned over and kissed her neck.

Alarms went off through her body. Part of her, the rational part, told her to take it easy. This was a harmless development; she could handle it. But the other part, made up of instinct and feelings she hardly knew, cried out at full volume.

She smelled alcohol on his breath as Levering reached his hand behind her neck and pulled her toward him. She pushed back.

“Stop it.” Millie slid away from him. “Take me home, please.”

He backed away. “Let’s take a walk.” He grabbed the limo phone and told the driver to pull over.

“Senator Levering, take me home.” She said it firmly, but knew he had no intention of doing so. Now what?

The limo pulled into a crowded parking lot. The driver opened the door, offering his hand to Millie. She decided to get out. Maybe she could catch a taxi.

Levering stumbled out behind her. The air was crisp for early summer. A tour group ambled past them heading toward the Lincoln Memorial. Levering staggered a bit as he watched the raucous teens.

“They don’t even know who we are,” he said. “And couldn’t care less.”

Millie started to worry that someone would recognize the senator, a group leader perhaps, and before long she’d be staring at herself on the cover of the National Exposure. She shuddered.

Levering grabbed her hand. “Come on, let’s walk.”

She tried to extricate her hand from his, but he pulled her toward a grassy area. The thin sliver of moon seemed like a sardonic smile.

“Please let me go,” she said. “I really want to go home.”

He turned toward her. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said. “I’m on your side. I’m your friend.”

“Friendship is fine,” Millie said. “I don’t mind that.”

“But I need more.” In the gloom she could barely see his face, but it looked sorrowful. For one moment she thought of him not as a senator, but a boy. The look quickly faded as a smooth smile returned.

“Don’t you want to give it a try?” Levering said.

“Give what a try?” she asked.

“This. Us. Just give it a try. You’ll like it.”

He moved quickly, grabbing her around the waist and pressing his face on hers.

She broke his hold and stumbled back. “Stop.”

His arms shot out again and pulled her toward him. He kissed her mouth. She struggled in his embrace, but he was strong.

It was all so surreal. She was no longer a judge on the highest court in the land, but simply another woman being pawed by a drunk in the dark.

She slapped him.

It landed clumsily, not with the loud pop that a Bette Davis might have managed. And when he smiled at it, she turned and found herself running, stupidly, the heels of her shoes poking holes in the soft grass.

Charlene’s prayer tonight was not a song. It was a crying out.

This is our case, Lord. You’re not yanking it from me now, are you?

Four hundred thousand, of which Charlene would get over a third, was not pocket change. But this case was not about money. It couldn’t be.

It was dark outside her apartment, almost moonless. She had an indescribable feeling of evil hovering not just here, but over the whole country. And she had to do something about it.

She fell to her knees with her hands on the old sofa she’d nabbed at a yard sale while still a law student. Back then she’d been full of confidence. Now, with only the sound of crickets drifting in through the screened window, she felt confused and alone.

When she had gone into law, she thought she could make a difference in the world. Use the law to make the country a better place to live.

She had drifted away from her Christian roots by the time she’d enrolled at LaBlanc. It was not a prestigious school, but it allowed her to complete her degree at night. The curriculum was no-nonsense bar exam preparation. During the day she worked two jobs – as a waitress at Shoney’s and as a tutor for elementary students.

Stress was a constant companion. Charlene juggled tasks like a plate spinner, ever at risk for a crash. Then Ty Slayton came into her life.

He was a ruggedly handsome fireman. It was as if he had arrived at her own fire, the one raging in her life, and offered rescue. She fell for him like a collapsing roof.

When she got pregnant, the collapse was complete. Ty Slayton pressed her to get an abortion. That was his condition for continuing the relationship.

It was the turning point for Charlene. She knew she could not abort. She knew she carried life. And she knew God had created that life in her.

The very night Ty had given her his ultimatum, Charlene asked God to take her back. She felt no sense of his presence, but knew in her mind she had made a decision she would never back down on again.

When she miscarried two weeks later, she wondered if it was a punishment from God. Well then, so be it. She would make it up to him one day.

That day came when Charlene read in the paper about a local sixteen-year-old girl who had tried to commit suicide. Twice. The first time it was with a razor to her wrists. The second was an attempt to jump off a bridge into a rocky gorge. This girl, Sarah Mae Sherman, had been pulled back by a Christian minister right before she jumped. A miracle.

While reading the story, Charlene had an overwhelming sense of God’s leading. She prayed for an hour. And two days later Pastor Ray Neven had shown up in her office with Sarah Mae Sherman.

Now she wondered if she were being punished again. Sarah Mae’s case had been yanked from her. Why? What did God want from her?

He couldn’t want her to give up. He needed her. He needed this case. She was going to get it back.

Charlene grabbed the phone and called Aggie Sherman.

“It’s late,” Mrs. Sherman said.

“We can get more money,” Charlene said.

The silence on the other end of the line was heavy. Then Aggie Sherman said, “Well?”

“Never take the first offer. We keep going forward. Start the trial. There will be a bigger offer before the trial ends.” This was not a certainty, only likely. But it would get the trial going. That was the main thing.

“How much?” Aggie said.

“More than they’re offering now.”

“I don’t know.”

“Aggie,” Charlene said, “I’ve put my heart and soul into this case for you and Sarah Mae. I won’t let you down.”

Another long pause. “Get us the biggest settlement you can. Then take it.”