Prelude
The day after Chief Justice Madison’s death, Katherine Lee McCain calls me. At the time, I am in the 13th-floor conference room at my Washington law firm, conducting onboarding training for a group of new associates of the Appellate and Supreme Court Division.
“Your name is on the shortlist,” she says.
I stiffen. The moment finally arrives. “How many names?”
“Fewer than five. But the Attorney General and the Chief of Staff both prefer candidates with Supreme Court clerkship experience, so your real competition is down to two.” Katherine’s smile is audible over the phone.
“Great, but who are my competitors?” I keep my breathing steady, aware of the ten curious associates in the room. A few sharp ones are exchanging subtle glances.
“Judge Morton from the Seventh Circuit and Judge Edwards from the Second Circuit.”
“What’s the decision-making process? Who has the final say?” I ask.
“Your old friend, Sasha Markov. The Solicitor General—soon to be Attorney General. And, I suppose, I’ll soon be calling you Madam Chief Justice,” she adds with a wry tone.
I don’t remember what I say to end that call or wrap up the training session. I am on edge. As soon as I return to my office, I unlock my drawer and pull out my personal phone.
I dial Sasha’s number.
“You heard the news?” His voice is laced with sarcasm. “The Chief Justice just passed yesterday morning, and the vultures are circling the corpse.”
His hostility catches me off guard, leaving me momentarily speechless. I’d intended to comfort him, to tell him I am mourning the Chief Justice’s death—knowing how close Justice Madison had been to him. I even plan to congratulate him on becoming the new Attorney General and on his close relationship with the new President. But his hostility remains.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re grieving,” I say haltingly.
“No, you don’t know. You know nothing,” he shots back. “You just want me to recommend you to the President to replace my mentor. You’re using me again for your ambitions.”
His anger escalates, and I can picture his long fingers gripping the phone tightly, his blue eyes blazing with fury. He always looks striking when he is angry. His youthful smile could take years off his face, but when he is angry, his brilliance is magnetic. Those fiery eyes burn like molten steel. I could feel his energy radiating through the phone.
“Say something.” he demands, calmer now after venting.
“I’m just thinking…you’re at your most stunning when you’re angry. Completely captivating,” I reply.
“Go to hell. Save that line for your husband,” he snaps.
“Simon doesn’t look as good angry as you do, even though you two look so much alike,” I say softly.
“I’ll never nominate you. As long as I’m here, you’ll never be Chief Justice of the Supreme Court,” he growls before slamming the phone down.
When I return to my Georgetown home, the smell of creamy mushroom pasta filled the air. Simon is bustling around the kitchen, with our daughter Annie helping him prepare dinner. I have told them countless times not to wait for me, but Simon insists that family meals are non-negotiable.
“Tonight’s main course is Dad’s creamy mushroom pasta, paired with orange-glazed duck, and dessert is de-stemmed strawberries courtesy of me,” Annie announces sweetly.
At 15, she is already a young lady, with blue eyes resembling mine and long, sleek black hair cascading over her chest. A freshman at Georgetown High School, she’d never brought home a report card with less than straight A’s and a key figure of both the debate team and the figure skating team.
“I honestly can’t imagine this home without your dad,” I say sincerely. Annie nods, poking at the duck with a mock-serious expression. I know she’s teasing me about that infamous birthday years ago when I’d attempted to make roast duck.
Back then, I rarely cooked due to work, but with Simon in New York visiting his sister Anna and unable to prepare the meal, I had decided to make dinner for Annie myself. Despite good intentions, I underestimated the time and effort required. I ended up taking Annie and her three friends to an Italian restaurant and later cleaning up the disaster I’d left in the kitchen.
“I cook better than you, Mom. At least I know the difference between a roasting pan and a regular plate.” Annie had sighed at the time, forbidding me from stepping into the kitchen again.
Simon laugh. “Thank you, Aniya. You’re so sweet.”
“How was the New York trip?” I ask.
“Productive. We’ve got new deals from the governor, he’s going to sign a contract to publish a new memoir.” he says. Annie smiles to him and offers to clean the dishes in the kitchen. Simon signals for me to follow him into the study. Once inside, he closes the door. He says to me:
“The President plans to nominate an Asian woman as the next Supreme Court justice. Rumor has it your name is on the shortlist,” he says.
I give him a wry smile, unsurprised that even an outsider like him heard the news.
“Are you going to tell him the truth? He’s Annie’s father. He should help you secure the nomination,” Simon says, gripping my shoulders. “Aniya, you’ve dreamed of this your whole life. Alexander can make it happen. You have leverage—use it. This chance won’t come again.”
“I know, Simon. I plan to tell him at Chief Justice’s memorial service,” I say, calculating that the funeral was five days away. Sasha likely wouldn’t interview the other two candidates before then.
“Don’t wait. If I were you, I’d go to his house tonight. Something this important can’t be delayed. Sasha has hated you for years—you need to give him time to process,” Simon urges.
I sit in my private study, typing out these words one by one on my computer.
A battle is to come, a mind has to be steadied, a comparison between the enemy and myself has to be assessed, a chaotic and turbulent heart has to be tamed. I feel an urgent need to tell someone the story of my long struggle.
Beyond my crude and worldly thirst for money, fame, and titles, it is a more secret longing that charred within me ever since parting with Sasha Markov sixteen years ago, leaving me restless day and night.
