She sang again, which was how she prayed when she was nervous. Lord, take my feet and make ’em walk on fire.
A fire it would be, going up to Winsor & Grimes! Little Charlene Moore, born twenty-seven years ago in Mobile, Alabama, the great-granddaughter of a slave. A girl who wanted nothing more than to sing like Patti LaBelle. What was she doing here, a lone, unmarried lawyer with only one client and a very large tiger by the tail?
Because God had spoken to her?
The elevator bell rang, startling Charlene. She smoothed her skirt and checked the clasp on her briefcase. The doors opened. With one last prayer, Charlene stepped into the largest reception area she had ever seen. At just over five feet tall, she felt a little like Frodo Baggins looking up at Mount Doom.
Over a desk the size of an aircraft carrier were huge brass letters:
Though both names were now part of regional legal lore, neither had achieved the stature of the man Charlene was about to meet. Beau Winsor III, who many said had engineered the election of the current president of the United States, was the one who had summoned her here.
After a cursory check-in with the receptionist, Charlene was ushered into a conference room by a young woman who looked as if she could gnaw metal. Winsor & Grimes was known for toughness, even in its assistants.
Ten minutes later the door to the conference room opened. A lean square-chinned man in an impeccable navy blue suit, with a full head of graying hair and a blindingly white smile, extended his hand. “Beau Winsor,” he said.
Charlene swallowed. “Charlene Moore.”
“Welcome.” He spun the chair next to her so he could sit down. Charlene was unnerved. She had anticipated he would sit across from her, like an adversary. “You get up here to Mobile much?” he said.
“No, actually,” Charlene said, certain her throbbing pulse could be heard by everyone on the thirtieth floor.
“How I envy you,” Winsor said.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, that simple life down in Dudley. The way things move, easy and nice. Not like up here, where things are a bit more hurried, more harsh.”
He drawled that last word in a rich, honeyed tone. And his was the smile of a killer. Hardly a word had been spoken and already Charlene felt like a plug of red meat dangling by a thread over a lion’s cage.
Charlene cleared her throat. “I’m sure it could be a little dangerous to come to the city unless a person knew exactly what was going on.”
“Words of wisdom, Ms. Moore. It’d be more than a little dangerous. A person could get hurt pretty bad. And I hate to see people get hurt.”
He nodded at her, like an uncle. An uncle hiding a stiletto behind his back.
“You know,” he continued, “federal court is like the city. When you filed your case it was in state court. Nice, easy-going judges and juries. When we moved it to federal court, well, it’s a whole new world. You ever tried a case in federal court?”
Charlene had never even been inside a federal courthouse. “This will be my first,” she said.
“Can’t say as I’d recommend this case to be your debut.”
She could feel him circling her, looking for cracks in her facade.
“My policy is to meet with opposing counsel face-to-face,” Winsor said, “before a trial starts. Talk some turkey. Now it seems to me you’ve invested quite a bit of time and money in this whole thing.”
How true that was. Her bank account was precariously low, her credit cards maxed out. “I believe in this case,” she said.
“’Course you do, darlin’. Mark of a good lawyer. And when I see a good lawyer, I want to make sure he – or she – gets a fair hearing. So before we go taking up a lot of time and trouble in court, how about we settle this right here and now?”
“What,” Charlene said slowly, “did you have in mind?”
“Well now, you’re asking for a whale of a lot of money, Ms. Moore. We know that’s how you play the game. I’ve got no grudge against a good game. Did you know my grandpappy played ball against Ty Cobb?”
The sudden turn threw her off balance. “Really?” she said, trying to sound interested.
“Sure enough. Baseball was a game for men back then. Tough men. And Cobb, well, he was one of the toughest. Used to slide into base with his spikes high, hoping to rip up the legs of anybody in his way. Well, my grandpappy stood in his way once. He played pro ball before settling on the law. And old Cobb, he came flying at him heading into third base, and what do you think my grandpappy did?”
Charlene could only shake her head.
“He took a step to the right, caught the ball, and slammed it into Cobb’s face. Bloodied his nose. And Cobb never tried that again with Beauregard Winsor. So, darlin’, instead of getting bloody over this, why don’t you take four hundred thousand dollars home with you? Give two thirds to your client, who will be very happy. And you’ll have more in your pocket than you’ve seen in your whole career.”
A flame ignited inside Charlene. “I’m not in this to make money,” she said. “This is about punishing an organization that scars young women.”
Winsor hardly blinked. “Why don’t you just think about it? Talk to your client. You see, if we go to trial, we’ll have to come at you with spikes high, just like ol’ Ty Cobb.”
Charlene bristled. “Then maybe we’ll have to bloody your nose.”
Winsor smiled. “Brave words, darlin’. But you ought to know one more thing. We added Larry Graebner to the team, as of this morning.”
If he had literally spiked her, the shock would not have been as great. Larry Graebner! The Yale law professor reputed to be the finest Constitutional lawyer in the country, a man on the short list of possible Supreme Court nominees, a scholar whose treatise on Constitutional law Charlene had used in law school… he was now part of the largest, most frightening legal opponent Charlene had ever seen?
“So you be sure to think it over,” Winsor said, “and get back to me now, ya hear?”
3
“You beat God back with a stick,” Senator Sam Levering said to Millie. “That’s no small feat.”
They were seated in Levering’s oak paneled office in the Senate building. The senator sipped a bourbon on the rocks. Millie drank a sparkling water. She did not drink much more than a little champagne on New Year’s. She had made her career with a clear, sharp mind, and did not want that to change. Especially now.
“You’re overestimating the role of one justice,” Millie said. She was still trying to figure Levering out. She’d spoken to him maybe half a dozen times in the past, but only cursorily and in a semi- official manner. Now they were face-to-face, chatting amiably.
Levering smiled his charming Oklahoma grin, the one that had gotten him
