Allegiance (9 page)

“Mr. Justice Gressman,” I say.

He shrugs again. “Come on. Let's get it into the pipeline.”

Clarence Bright is a small man with a pencil mustache, chain-smoking Luckies from a white pack behind the counter. A sign on the wall promises the fastest service in town, and he gives us the same assurance. “No problem, my friends. It will be ready to go in three days.”

“Excellent,” says Gressman. He leans forward confidentially, waving smoke from his face. “I must stress that this opinion is extremely sensitive. That's why we're delivering it ourselves instead of the messengers. No one can learn about it.”

“No need to worry,” says Bright. He spreads his hands and narrowly misses Gressman with an ash. “I divide all the opinions. Three or four parts, one for each printer. And the end, where it says
affirmed
or
reversed
, I keep that for myself. No one knows.” The hands come down to the counter, and he leans forward himself. “You can be sure.”

“Ah,” says Gressman, patting Bright's hand. He is not as good at this as Frankfurter, I think; he has chosen the hand that holds the cigarette. Bright looks dismayed at the interruption, then reaches across with his other hand to make the switch and takes a quick puff. “No one but you,” Gressman says into the smoke. “Very good, my friend.”

For the next three days we watch the papers assiduously, but there is nothing from Drew Pearson, nor from anyone else. I stand in the doorway of Murphy's chambers and watch Gressman flipping disconsolately through the
Times-Herald
. “We need to go,” I tell him.

“Go where?”

“To pick up the opinion.”

“Oh,” he says. “Do you think we should?”

“Are you kidding? If we don't get it, he'll probably send it here. How would you like Murphy to see your drafting? Or Frankfurter?”

Gressman is out of his chair with unusual speed, grabbing his hat and rushing past me. “Hadn't thought that far ahead,” he pants as we stride down the street. “I was sure by this point we'd be confronting him with the evidence.”

“The only evidence there is now is that opinion,” I say. “And it's against us.”

Gressman nods, puffing. His feet splay and his weight rolls side to side as he walks. When he begins a trot, the effect is even more pronounced.

“Did you take a physical?” I ask.

He shakes his head, unable to speak. I am mildly pleased to note I am not short of breath. Tennis is less of a workout than squash, but the amount Justice Black plays, it is enough.

“Why not?”

Gressman looks at me in exasperation, but he slows down enough to talk. Perhaps he is glad of the excuse. “Didn't need it,” he says. “Bad heart. Well established. Could drop dead any moment.”

“Really?”

He shrugs. “Sort of. Close enough they didn't have to look at me.” The awning of Bright's shop nears us. “Not a bad thing to keep in mind, anyway. Makes you enjoy life more. Have you done what you wanted with the time you've had?”

“No,” I say. “No, I haven't.”

Clarence Bright hands us a package wrapped in brown paper. “Here you go,” he says cheerfully. Gressman takes it and turns to leave. Bright's voice follows us from out of a cloud of smoke. “My friends,” he calls.

“What?”

“There is the matter of my fee,” says Bright. “I understand the opinion is sensitive and you are not following the standard procedures, but I am usually paid at this point.” Frowning, Gressman walks back to the counter and takes the piece of paper Bright holds out. The news is not good. He turns a stricken face to me. Like the need to pick up the opinion, this contingency has apparently been overlooked. “Shall I send a bill to the Clerk of Court?” Bright asks.

“No,” says Gressman quickly. “Don't do that.”

“We'll just handle it now.” I take out my wallet. Gressman looks relieved, then slightly annoyed.

“I can't pay you back,” he says when we're outside.

“It's nothing,” I say. The very casualness of the response seems to gall him.

“It's not nothing,” he says almost truculently. “I owe you.”

“Don't be silly,” I say. “You're helping me.” I have not thought much of it before, but of course this is true, and as I put it into words I feel a rush of genuine gratitude.

He brightens perceptibly. “So I am.” For a few blocks he is silent, then he speaks up again. “Well, it's not the printer.”

“Are you sure? Maybe he figured out what we were up to.”

“No, he's solid. I can tell.”

Back at the Court, we trot across the marble steps to the side entrance. Their corners are still sharp, but the building no longer intimidates me as it once did. For all its imposing starkness, it is starting to feel like home. “So what's our next move?”

“I don't know. I need to think.”

“What do I do with the opinion?”

“Keep it. You paid for it.”

That evening, I return to my apartment in good spirits. The whole escapade has the feel of a college prank, and the mock opinion in my briefcase is an amusing souvenir, like a stolen mascot. I double back a few times as I walk, but notice no trailing figures. Perhaps they have given up. The mail carries a dinner invitation from Cissy Patterson, the owner of the
Times-Herald
, which lifts my mood further. In law school I found that New York society was not open, but Cissy's parties are the best Washington has. Perhaps Francis Biddle has put in a word. Even Suzanne, calling from Northeast Harbor, is agreeable on the phone. I will do my best to get back home over the coming months, understanding that things will get busier when the Court starts hearing cases in October. Without doubt I will be back for Christmas, and then we will be halfway to the end. This separation is a minor hiccup on the way to a house in Center City. I drink a glass of Scotch and fall asleep in a warm haze.

THINGS ARE DIFFERENT
in the morning. Instead of Cissy's invitation, I have her newspaper. The Japanese are driving our Marines back on Guadalcanal; in the west, teenage girls behind antiaircraft guns stand between the Panzers and Stalingrad. They stand for an afternoon. I walk half a block toward the Capital Transit streetcar then dash back to the apartment as though I've forgotten something. Just outside the lobby a gray-suited man ignores me assiduously.

“We'll find them,” says Gressman. “I have a new idea for you.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Why don't you go take a walk? Maybe check out Lincoln Park.”

“You're awfully peppy for a man with no coffee.”

Gressman's eyes shift away and then back. “Just trust me,” he says. “Take a walk. It'll do you good.”

As he instructs, I wait ten minutes and then leave the Court, walking slowly. I head down East Capitol Street. Summer is fading into fall, but the sun is still bright and the sidewalk bustling. As I near the park I see Gressman sitting with a newspaper. He folds it up as I pass.

I stop before a sculpture of Lincoln, arm outstretched over a former slave. A lunchtime crowd has gathered, girls in skirts and blouses, cups of chicory and sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper. I look around as though appreciating the scene. There is Gressman, half a block away, fussing with a shoelace.
And there is the man in the gray suit, over on the other side of the statue.

I have figured out Gressman's plan now. He is trying to watch my watcher. But I do not know if he will make the identification. The crowd is pretty thick, and though Gene has a good legal mind, he is no one's idea of a spy. I turn my gaze more directly on the man. He looks down and starts to walk away. Gressman is still tying his shoe, glancing my way with what he evidently thinks is sly circumspection.

The man has almost left the plaza. With a few steps, I come up behind him. “You,” I say.

He turns around. Just as at Eastern Market, he seems afraid of me. He shakes his head, though it is not clear what there is to deny, and steps back.

“You won't get anything from me,” I say. I have marked him for Gressman now, and I do not feel scared anymore. I feel angry. Rats, scampering after crumbs of information. “You might as well give it up.”

He backs away, still looking at me. Or not quite. He is looking behind me, off to my left. It takes me a second to figure out what that means, and a second is too long. Something hits me from behind, hard, in the middle of my back. A lowered shoulder, I guess. I stumble into a woman, spilling her cup. The man with her sees an opportunity for gallantry. “Watch it, pal.”

I ignore him, spinning around, looking for whoever struck me. A man in blue pinstripes is striding away. Before I can move to follow him, someone else pushes me. Not the would-be knight errant; it's another one of them. A whisper hisses in my ear. “We know what you've done.”

“What?” I turn around again. The crowd is full of blank faces.

“I said, watch it, pal.” There is soup on his jacket, pale shards of poultry, tricolored vegetable cubes, and a gleaming curl of pasta.

“Not you.” I try to wave him away, which only angers him further. He takes a step closer.

There's another push in my back, driving me into the soup knight. Another whisper hissing in my ear. “Trader.”

“What?” The word makes no sense, but he doesn't stick around to clarify it. I spin again, pointlessly. There could be three of them or there could be twenty-three, coming in to jab and fade away. For a moment I bounce back and forth like a pinball. Then it is over and I am standing by myself, scanning
the crowd in vain. Sir Chicken Noodle grabs the back of my collar. I turn to see his fist cocked. “Someone pushed me,” I say. “I'm very sorry.”

He scowls and lowers his hand. “You're getting off easy.”

“Yes,” I say. “I'm sure I am.” There is no sign of Gressman, nor anyone I recognize among the passersby. I dab ineffectually at his jacket with my handkerchief. “My apologies to you both.”

• • • • 

Gressman is not there when I get back to the Court, and I sit in Black's chambers for a while, waiting. There is more than one, and they are not as passive or fearful as I thought—that, or fear drives them further. But what is there for them to be afraid of? I am the one who should worry. And Gressman, who's gone after them. As the minutes tick by, I grow uneasy. Gene can't run; he can barely manage a brisk walk. He would be helpless in a fight. And neither he nor I have any idea who these people are. The knock at the door triggers a flood of relief. “You're back.”

But it is Phil Haynes whose face peers in at my call. “How are you doing?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say.

“You sure?” He is wearing a seersucker suit; his face is tanned. I am put in mind of Northeast Harbor, roast corn and the last clambake of a waning summer. “You look a little worried.” His eyes go to my desk. “Certs got you down? Or do you still think people are following you?”

Looking at him, I can almost see the ocean in his eyes, smell the salt spray. The effect is haunting. “You wouldn't believe me.”

Haynes frowns. “Try me. If something's bothering you, I want to know.”

“Well,” I say. “It's not my imagination.”

“You see someone else you recognized?”

“More than that.” I hesitate. How to describe what just happened? “There were several of them. They were working together.”

Haynes nods. “How do you know?” he asks, and I am about to start telling the story when over his shoulder I see Gene Gressman appear in the doorway.

My face must change, for Haynes turns around. “Oh,” he says. “Hello,
Gene.” He turns back and gives me a small shake of his head. “Later,” he says softly.

“Hello,” Gressman says. He winks at me. “So, Cash, you had a question about antitrust?”

“Antitrust?” Gressman nods encouragingly. “Oh,” I say. “Right. Yes, I did.”

“Later,” Haynes says again, walking out.

“So what happened with you?” Gressman asks.

“A question about antitrust? You don't want to talk in front of Phil?”

“I don't.”

“Why not?”

“First, I don't like him. Second, he's one of the Happy Hot Dogs.”

“The what?”

“Frankfurter's boys. He has his network. Former clerks, students, protégés, they're all over the place. Doing his bidding.”

“He doesn't seem to trust you, either.”

“Well, he shouldn't. He's not my friend.” Gressman hesitates a moment. “He's not yours, either.”

Again the ocean comes to my mind, glimpsed through goldenrod on rocky hills. “You don't get to decide that.”

“I'm not deciding, Cash,” Gressman says. “Just reporting.” Another pause. “So what happened?”

“You saw, right? They pushed me. And they were saying things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Crazy stuff,” I say. “It didn't make any sense. Something about knowing what I'd done.”

“Huh,” says Gressman. He frowns. “Why'd you start something with them anyway? That wasn't the plan.”

“I wanted to be sure you saw them,” I say. “You could just pretend to be tying your shoelace, you know.”

“It really came untied.”

“You could tie your shoes carefully before you go out on a spy mission.”

“Hey,” says Gressman. “I had that guy before you pointed him out. And I followed him back without anyone spotting me.”

“Back where?”

“Well, that's the funny part.”

“What?”

“Would you believe the Department of Agriculture?”

I look at him. “No.”

He shrugs. “That's where they went. The guy in gray, a couple more that met up with him. And it wasn't to lose me. They showed ID, they knew people there. You were being tracked by certified Grade A New Deal bureaucrats. I'd say economists by the way they walked. But maybe lawyers.”