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He’s solid, this Bastinelli,” says Maddy, looking at the screen across the room.
Burton Pearce nods. “I hope Tess Hardy ate her Wheaties this morning.”
They’re in a nicely furnished office one floor above the crowded courtroom, surrounded by shelves full of legal books. The office’s usual occupant, another superior court judge, is vacationing in Aruba.
It took the Secret Service only a day to sweep the place for bugs, add bulletproof windows, and install a battery of secure phone lines. The office is now a fully functioning remote White House.
Maddy is sitting in the leather chair behind the judge’s desk. When Judge Dow declares a short recess after Bastinelli’s opening, she hits the Mute button and goes back to reviewing the latest memos and counts from her congressional liaisons. Like most leaders, she possesses an exceptional ability to compartmentalize.
Across the room, a Secret Service agent stands at the door. Melanie Smith, the president’s travel aide, perches on a sofa with an iPad on her lap and an iPhone held between her cheek and shoulder.
With all the pretrial publicity and legal maneuvering over the past eight months, the Grand Bargain has been on hold. But Maddy won’t let it slip away. Even with her husband facing murder charges, she needs to keep her focus.
“This is better news than I anticipated,” she says, flipping through the pages.
Pearce is reviewing the same paperwork, a cup of coffee in his hand. “I agree. So far, the key parties are keeping their pledges. I don’t want to jinx it, but maybe this is an idea whose time has come.”
Maddy rocks back in her chair. “In the 1700s,” she says, waxing philosophical, “people in different parts of the world suddenly and independently started working on steam engines. Why then? Why steam engines? Why not something else? As one of my economics professors said, ‘When it was time for steam engines, it was steam-engine time.’”
“Well,” says Pearce, “I endorse that theory. Let’s hope it’s Grand Bargain time. And let’s hope we can hold it together until this insanity is over.”
“Burton, wehaveto,” says Maddy. “And we will.”
Pearce puts his coffee cup down and moves his chair closer to the desk. “Madam President, are you planning to stay another night in New Hampshire?”
“Of course. I’ll stay as long as it takes.”
“With all due respect, ma’am, I think that’s a mistake.”
“Burton, this is Cole we’re talking about!”
“And that’s why we hired Tess Hardy. The best in the business.”
“You’re saying I should absent myself from the trial? Leave my husband alone under house arrest over there at the inn?”
“Every hour you’re not in DC, there’s a chance that things will start slipping. Phone calls and video conferences are one thing, but this project requires a lot of hand-holding. That means you. In person. One-on-one. We’ve come too far to let a distraction sink us.”
“You call supporting my husband a distraction?”
Pearce shakes his head. “No, no, of course not. You made a strong statement on the courthouse steps today. I think the country saw that as a wife defending the man she loves. Totally appropriate. But you know as well as I do that you can’t appear to be putting your thumb on the scale here.”
“And you think my presence creates that impression?”
“You’re here. In the courthouse. And the press knows it. And every day you attend the trial, they’re going to be shouting questions about the testimony, trying to get a rise out of you, maybe get you to say something that will be grounds for a mistrial. Meanwhile, the Grand Bargain is in a holding pattern, and a lot of people would love to shoot it down.”
“Enough, Burton. You’ve made your point.”
Pearce leans back in his chair, hands raised in surrender. “Okay, Madam President, it’s your decision.”
The court recess is over. Maddy turns up the sound again. “Damn right it is.”
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Judge Dow raps his gavel to quiet the room. “All right, we’re in session.”