Blowout

history books as the first black woman appointed to the Supreme Court. She was at the top of her class at Stanford, law review, all extremely accomplished for a black woman back in the sixties—pretty remarkable. She wanted to clerk for Justice Raines, a noted conservative on the Court. She was recommended by two top Federal Appeals Court judges, none of which mattered since only men were taken by both parties, and still are, for the most part. You’ll appreciate this—she has three women law clerks out of ten in the total count of thirty-six.
    “She’s much like my stepfather, usually votes conservative—pro death penalty and against attempts to increase prisoners’ rights. Like him she can go the other way as well—she’s very much a proponent of women’s rights, rabidly against sexual discrimination, and pro abortion, except partial birth abortion, which she is very much against.
    “Her husband trains horses, races them, has quite a stud program. She uses a hyphenated name—Elizabeth Xavier-Foxx. It’s interesting, isn’t it, how the two women Justices have kept their maiden names? I guess it gives them more heft, like they really were somebody before they got married.
    “Even though she’s black and a woman, there were attempts to derail her confirmation, the excuse being that there was lots of money on her husband’s side, with perhaps the taint of corruption.”
    “What was the accusation? That she’d be influenced unduly whenever there was a case about federal horse racketeering?”
    Callie laughed. “Nah, it was just politics as usual.”
    “What do you know about her confirmation?”
    “Well, after some huffs and puffs because she wasn’t staunchly pro abortion all the way, and she was—gasp—pro death penalty, the Senate confirmed her. They knew it was an historic moment. No one was willing to try to shoot her down. She’s expecting us?”
    “Oh yeah. Do you like her?”
    “Yes, I do. She’s got lots of class; her husband stands behind her like this huge silent power, as if daring anyone to come after her. I personally don’t believe he’s guilty of anything other than not being a Democrat.”
    “But if he had been, then the Republicans would have blown a fit.”
    “True. Ain’t politics fun?” She grinned over at his profile.
    “Yeah, right.”
    “Savich,” she said, then frowned, paused.
    He arched an eyebrow.
    “He’s cute. Whenever I see him, I think of that actor James Denton.”
    Ben rolled his eyes. “I’ll be sure to tell him that, it’ll make his day.”
    “As for his butt—”
    “Get yourself together, Ms. Markham. We’re here at Foxx Farm. Oh yeah, happy birthday.”
    She gave him a perfectly blank look.
    “You’re twenty-eight today.”
    “Oh my, imagine that. Yeah, I guess you’re right. I forgot. Isn’t that something? Thank you.”

CHAPTER
13
    S UMMERTON , V IRGINIA
    F OXX F ARM WAS HUGE , judging by the miles of white fence that bordered it, a score of white paddocks, rolling hills and forests. There was a huge barn, two big stables, all dusted white with snow, looking still and impossibly beautiful on a Sunday morning. It looked magical to Ben, and utterly alien.
    A lone media van idled outside a gated entrance.
    When Ben pulled up to the intercom, a reporter jumped out of the van and ran over.
    “Hey, you FBI? Can you get us in? They won’t even let us through the gate.”
    “Sorry,” Ben said. “Why don’t you head back to Washington? I hear it’s really pretty about now, a nice Sunday morning. You can go to a park for a picnic.”
    “That’s what we told him,” said a tall man in a thick black wool coat, a federal marshal’s hat on his head. He stood behind the gated driveway, his arms crossed over his chest. Good, they were here protecting Justice Xavier-Foxx. “We figure as long as the media is camped out all over the place, ain’t no assassin going to get to the Justice. All we’ve got to do is protect her from these baboons.”
    “Probably true,” Ben said as he handed over his badge. “We’re here to interview the Justice.”
    The federal marshal studied the badge, raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. “Go on through. I’ll keep this charming gentleman out here.”
    “Hey, you’re Callie Markham, The Washington Post. What are you doing here? What—”
    The gate buzzed open, and Ben gave a small wave to the guy. He ran back toward the van, trying to make it through the open gate after him, despite