fifteen-year-old Yale Law sweatshirt, was trying to teach Amy, his four-year-old daughter, how to operate a scooter. They were on the flagstone patio in the back of his Newark Street house in the Cleveland Park section of Washington, and under his breath Ben was cursing his stupidity in acceding to Amy's repeated pleas for a lightweight aluminum scooter as a birthday gift. Dexterity and balance weren't his strong suits, and he had never ridden a scooter in his life. Plus, Amy was too young for it. She was going to kill herself.
But Amy had said at least ten times, "Really, Daddy, everybody in the preschool has one except me." With the guilt he felt as a single parent, he had yielded. Even after reading the owner's manual, though, he wasn't much help, other than holding the scooter and reminding her about the warnings that were plastered on it. The helmet had been easy. Amy had readily agreed to that. The elbow and knee pads proved to be a sticking point. "Karen and Emily don't wear them, and I don't wanna. I'm no baby."
"They're not for babies," he said, trying to be calm and patient. "They protect your knees. If I were going to ride a scooter, I'd wear knee pads."
She laughed. "You'd look stupid in them."
"But you won't."
"No, Daddy, no," she cried, her eyes filling up with tears. In the end, he caved. "Only this first time. After today, no knee pads, no scooter."
After ten or fifteen minutes, she told him he could let go. Dressed in a pale pink sweatshirt and red corduroy slacks, Amy, who had practiced on her friends' scooters, was soon zipping around the patio.
While watching Amy, Ben let his mind wander. At some point today he had to prepare his summary of the evidence in the Young case. He kept hearing in his mind the words Senator Young had shouted at him when he was questioning Young yesterday afternoon: "You're just a mad-dog prosecutor." The words had stung so badly that Ben had picked up a paper cup half-full of tepid coffee. He was within a hair of flinging it at the senator and scoring a bull's-eye in the middle of Young's white shirt and expensive silk tie. He didn't have to take crap like that from a senator who had accepted secret payoffs from a Mexican drug cartel. The senator had been trying to get his goat with that "mad-dog prosecutor" charge. It wasn't true.
Suddenly, he heard the pager on his belt beep. It was the phone number of Al Hennessey's house in Georgetown. Oh, shit, he thought. His boss, the U.S. Attorney, never worked or called on the weekend. It had to be something urgent. Ben's guess was that Young had complained about Ben's aggressive interrogation. Might as well get it over with fast, Ben decided. "C'mon, Amy," he said, "let's go inside for a little bit."
"But I want to ride my scooter."
"Just for a few minutes, honey, while I make a phone call. You can play with your Barbies. Then we'll come back out. I promise."
In his first-floor study, Ben dialed Hennessey's number. "It is Sunday," Ben said. "I didn't get my days mixed up."
"That's very funny. Real funny."
His boss did not have a sense of humor. Only that practiced politician's tone. "What's up, Al?"
"I was sitting here having brunch when Jim Slater called from the White House."
"And?" Ben held his breath.
"Slater wants us to hold up thirty days taking the Young case to the grand jury."
"And I hope you told him no fuckin' way."
"You don't tell the President that."
"Jim Slater's not the President."
"He speaks for Brewster. There's no doubt that on most issues, Brewster will do what Jim tells him."
"I thought we're a democracy. Nobody elected Jim Slater."
"Listen, Ben, you know what the score is in this town. Young is a powerful Democratic senator. You're getting ready to cut off both his nuts and stick them in his mouth. If Jim Slater tells me to delay thirty days taking the case to the grand jury, how can I tell him no?"
Ben resisted the urge to shout. "Why does he want the thirty days?"
"They want to make their
But Amy had said at least ten times, "Really, Daddy, everybody in the preschool has one except me." With the guilt he felt as a single parent, he had yielded. Even after reading the owner's manual, though, he wasn't much help, other than holding the scooter and reminding her about the warnings that were plastered on it. The helmet had been easy. Amy had readily agreed to that. The elbow and knee pads proved to be a sticking point. "Karen and Emily don't wear them, and I don't wanna. I'm no baby."
"They're not for babies," he said, trying to be calm and patient. "They protect your knees. If I were going to ride a scooter, I'd wear knee pads."
She laughed. "You'd look stupid in them."
"But you won't."
"No, Daddy, no," she cried, her eyes filling up with tears. In the end, he caved. "Only this first time. After today, no knee pads, no scooter."
After ten or fifteen minutes, she told him he could let go. Dressed in a pale pink sweatshirt and red corduroy slacks, Amy, who had practiced on her friends' scooters, was soon zipping around the patio.
While watching Amy, Ben let his mind wander. At some point today he had to prepare his summary of the evidence in the Young case. He kept hearing in his mind the words Senator Young had shouted at him when he was questioning Young yesterday afternoon: "You're just a mad-dog prosecutor." The words had stung so badly that Ben had picked up a paper cup half-full of tepid coffee. He was within a hair of flinging it at the senator and scoring a bull's-eye in the middle of Young's white shirt and expensive silk tie. He didn't have to take crap like that from a senator who had accepted secret payoffs from a Mexican drug cartel. The senator had been trying to get his goat with that "mad-dog prosecutor" charge. It wasn't true.
Suddenly, he heard the pager on his belt beep. It was the phone number of Al Hennessey's house in Georgetown. Oh, shit, he thought. His boss, the U.S. Attorney, never worked or called on the weekend. It had to be something urgent. Ben's guess was that Young had complained about Ben's aggressive interrogation. Might as well get it over with fast, Ben decided. "C'mon, Amy," he said, "let's go inside for a little bit."
"But I want to ride my scooter."
"Just for a few minutes, honey, while I make a phone call. You can play with your Barbies. Then we'll come back out. I promise."
In his first-floor study, Ben dialed Hennessey's number. "It is Sunday," Ben said. "I didn't get my days mixed up."
"That's very funny. Real funny."
His boss did not have a sense of humor. Only that practiced politician's tone. "What's up, Al?"
"I was sitting here having brunch when Jim Slater called from the White House."
"And?" Ben held his breath.
"Slater wants us to hold up thirty days taking the Young case to the grand jury."
"And I hope you told him no fuckin' way."
"You don't tell the President that."
"Jim Slater's not the President."
"He speaks for Brewster. There's no doubt that on most issues, Brewster will do what Jim tells him."
"I thought we're a democracy. Nobody elected Jim Slater."
"Listen, Ben, you know what the score is in this town. Young is a powerful Democratic senator. You're getting ready to cut off both his nuts and stick them in his mouth. If Jim Slater tells me to delay thirty days taking the case to the grand jury, how can I tell him no?"
Ben resisted the urge to shout. "Why does he want the thirty days?"
"They want to make their
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