“I won’t make any quid pro quos,” says Margot.
“No one wants that,” says Jay. “Just be who you are. But, you know, remember that a lot of time and money has been invested in your education, your advancement, your career. You’ve been groomed for this moment, Margot. By me and Bruce and dozens of right-thinking Americans willing to put their money where their mouth is. We all believe in you, but you need to understand that you’re a piece of a puzzle that’s bigger than all of us. You believe that, right?”
“I believe God has a plan for this world, and we are here to do his will, yessir. I truly do.”
“That’s good,” says Jay, “but with this president it’s best—he’s Christian, but with a small c, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, sir.”
Malcolm rubs his eyes. “We’re going to win this war,” he says. “We have to. But we can’t do it without you. Do you understand?”
Margot nods. She knows that her whole life has led her to this moment. Every choice she’s made. Every ideal she’s fought for. Every compromise. “I won’t let you down,” she tells them.
The wine arrives. The waiter starts the opening presentation, but Malcolm shoos him away. He massacres the cork, places the bottle between his knees and muscles it open, spilling red wine on his pants. He pours them each a full glass.
“Cheers,” says Margot, and they clink glasses and drink. Malcolm lowers his glass, looks at Margot like she’s the turkey on Thanksgiving.
“Fucking A,” he says.
*
The next few days are a blur. Margot tours the Russell Senate offices, shaking hands. She meets Drinkers and Cooks alike. From their faces, she can tell she is a Cook’s worst nightmare. A conservative judge married to a Black man with a mixed-race son. Margot charms them as best she can, saying only that she will rule on every case based on its merits, not on a prescribed set of beliefs.
The Drinkers are suspicious too, trying to figure out the angle. A Cook nominated a Drinker. Is the Drinker not a real Drinker, or is the Cook not a real Cook? The idea of true bipartisanship never occurs to them.
On Friday she sits with the junior senator from Idaho, Kurt LaRue. He is a wiry man in his forties with a black comb-over, swept from left to right. LaRue was raised in a Christian community outside Devil’s Elbow. He is a building contractor turned land developer, who won his Senate race last year by just under one hundred votes. Before she’s even in the room, he grabs her hand warmly, two male aides standing in the background. They look like Bible study missionaries, just out of high school.
“An honor,” he says.
“Thank you, Senator.”
She sits. LaRue is across from her, sipping a Diet Coke. He is a Drinker who doesn’t drink, wearing a brown mudslide of a suit, tie loose at the collar. When he finishes his Diet Coke, an aide automatically brings him another.
“Big days,” he says. “Critical days.”
She nods.
“Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.” He smiles.
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s what my daddy always said. He was a preacher in our Samsonite community.”
“I’m not familiar with the Samsonites.”
“Fine people,” he says, “honorable people, committed to the idea that Eve, made from Adam’s rib, existed as an instrument of his will. But that man must be ever vigilant, lest the female of the species sap him of his life force.”
“You’re talking about the story of Samson and Delilah.”
“That’s it exactly,” he says, smiling. “A good man, a pious man seduced and betrayed by a fallen woman.”
He raises his glass and sips the last trace of his Diet Coke loudly, rattles his glass. An aide brings him another refill.
“You were raised in the Church of Christ,” he says, wiping his sweaty brow with a pocket handkerchief.
“I was. My family is quite devout.”
“Praise be.”
He takes a long sip. “And your husband is—”
“He’s from Georgia originally, raised Baptist.”
LaRue’s office is narrow, with a desk and two guest chairs. There’s a small round table by the door. The other senators’ offices Margot has visited have been busy places, overwhelmed by paperwork and briefing books, but LaRue’s office is clutter free, empty of both work product and personality. No documents, no books on the shelves.
“Well,” says LaRue, leaning forward, “I’m so happy you came to see me today. Because I know we speak the same language. That we see the truth they try so hard to hide. This world may look like the world we grew up in.”
He holds up his glass. “This glass may feel like just a regular glass. And in some ways it is, the way the Titanic was still a boat, even when it was sinking, but when you connect the dots, when you really understand what’s going on, you know the truth. We are locked in an uphill battle against the forces of evil. Forces that attacked and undermined our former president, hallowed be his name. Forces that have infiltrated the highest level of our finest institutions. I pray on it every night. There’s a storm coming, Your Honor. It may already be here. Certainly, I can hear the hooves approaching. The pale rider. You understand? January sixth was just the beginning. Our government cannot save us. Our courts cannot save us. Only He can save us. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Margot nods. She has a cousin back in Michigan who holds court at family reunions about Satan’s plot against a Christian America, about the duplicity of powerful elites. On some level it’s nothing new. The Bar has always had Drinkers like LaRue, perched at the curve, talking about the end of the world, but their section is bigger now. The hooch they drink is addictive and cheap, and they pour from their own bottles for anyone who’s curious. Margot tells herself they mean well, men like LaRue, that they’re just afraid of powers greater than themselves, state powers, cultural forces, Hollywood elites and other profane agents of Satan, sent to seduce our youth. Their words are just words, after all, and aren’t our words protected by a blessed document?