Murder in the Supreme Court (Capital Crimes Series Book 3) (7 page)

“Lawyer talk. Legalese, Jonathan. I campaigned on a promise of righting wrongs in society, of returning to basic values. We had a president who was supposed to do that and didn’t. I thought you understood all that.”

“I do, of course, Mr. President, but the individuals on the Court carry with them their own views of the law. I talked with Justice Childs this morning. I’d assumed he’d be in favor of Illinois, but after our conference I realized that the legal question bothers him. Unlike Congress, one cannot depend upon a man’s predisposition to a given issue on the Court.”

“Or a woman’s?”

“Yes, but I think Justice Tilling-Masters will support the state’s position. That’s my reading of her, at least.”

“I hope so.”

The President put his hands behind his head and stretched.
Poulson noticed the beginnings of wear in the sole of his shoe. He considered mentioning it, then thought better of it. After all, that was the late Adlai Stevenson’s trademark, and the association would hardly, he thought, amuse the President. Instead, he said, “I’ve ordered a new visitor film be produced.”

“Film?”

“The one visitors watch in the Court’s small theater. I’m having it updated.”

“That’s nice, Jonathan. Let’s get back to the abortion question. Is there anything that I can do, or my people, to help shape a rational decision in
Nidel
v.
Illinois
?”

Poulson searched the President’s face as he formulated a reply. Randolph Jorgens was a self-assured man. He stood well over six feet and kept himself in good physical condition in the White House gym. Leathery, lined, tan skin testified to his Arizona heritage. His smile was wide and appealing, always at the ready. His cool gray eyes missed little while building a vast industrial empire, or after having entered the political arena.
Smart
, was the operative word around Washington—smart, and hard, and shrewd.

“I don’t know of anything that might come from the executive branch, Mr. President, that would especially help in this matter.” What Poulson wanted to say was that the entire conversation was inappropriate. The Court was supposed to be sacrosanct, a bastion of independent thought and judgment without influence from any other part of government, including the President of the United States.

Poulson’s appointment by Jorgens to the Chief Justice’s chair had been energetically debated during confirmation proceedings. An exhaustive FBI investigation, along with the Senate’s own probe, had been nerve-racking for the entire family. Poulson was aware that the President had ordered his own secret investigation utilizing the IRS and, it was rumored, certain CIA personnel. There had also been
long, in-depth conversations between the two men before Jorgens announced his choice. Those conversations had concentrated on relative political and social positions. Poulson had evidently satisfied the President’s perception of what the new Chief Justice should believe in and espouse from the bench.

Questioning during the Senate Judiciary Committee’s confirmation hearings had been spirited and, at times, hostile, depending on the questioner. One liberal senator had expressed his concern over the extent to which Poulson could function independently of the new administration, to which Poulson had replied, “I am, after all, Senator, a human being. I am subject to all the foibles of other human beings, including distinguished members of the United States Senate. I am, at the same time, a man who has devoted his life to the law. I believe in law above all else. Without law we cease to function as a civilized society. There have been many times in my career when my personal beliefs were placed in direct conflict with the larger issue of jurisprudence. In each of those instances law prevailed, just as it will should I be confirmed Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court.”

He’d meant every word of it.

“I’d like to be kept informed on a daily basis,” Jorgens said.

“Of course, Mr. President.”

“What about Conover, Jonathan? I assume he’ll vote in favor of the plaintiff.”

“It’s likely, Mr. President.”

“Damned old fool.”

Poulson said nothing. As much as he disliked Temple Conover’s life-style and persistent, in his view, misguided, liberalism, he did respect the senior justice for his rock-solid adherence to his convictions.

“Is there anything else, Mr. President?”

“This Sutherland matter, Jonathan. Where does it stand?”

“I just don’t know. All we can do is to cooperate fully with the investigative agencies assigned to the case—”

“I don’t like what I’ve heard about it.”

“Such as, Mr. President?”

“The bastard’s success in compromising people before he was killed.”

“That was unfortunate, as we all know. I certainly was never in favor of accepting him as one of my clerks to begin with.”

“Then why did you?”

Poulson winced against the question. The President knew why he had, and to ask the question was provocative. Still, Poulson felt compelled to answer. “As you know, his father was instrumental in that decision. Besides, no matter what Clarence Sutherland was personally, he was a brilliant young man. I don’t think there’s ever been a clerk here, during my term, with his skill at writing briefs. But of course if I had known about his other side…”

“Hindsight is a waste of time, Jonathan. I just wish you had been a little quicker to see what was happening beneath your eyes, in your own chambers. By the time you did, and reported it to me, the barn door had been open one hell of a long time.”

“It seems to me, sir, that—”

“There are serious questions of governmental operations and even national security involved up in this mess, damn it.” His face reddened. “Our highest intelligence echelons may have been compromised, at least potentially, by his actions, as has this very office. I had a briefing this morning by the CIA, and the threat of his knowledge… through his father… is a real one.”

He suddenly stood and smiled, came around the desk and slapped Poulson on the back. It was all there again, the infectious grin, the warmth, the sense of being your best
friend. “Let’s keep on top of it, Jonathan, really on top of it.”

“Of course. Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Thank
you
, Jonathan. Please give my best to Mrs. Poulson.”

“I certainly will, sir, and the same to the First Lady.”

Poulson retraced his steps through the steam tunnel to the Treasury Building, where his car was waiting. “The Court, sir?” asked the driver.

“No, home, please. I’m tired, very tired.” He leaned back and closed his eyes, his shirt clammy and cold against his skin.

***

Vera Jones knocked on Dr. Chester Sutherland’s office door. He told her to enter. He was with a patient, a high-level administrator in the Department of Agriculture. “I’m sorry to disturb you, doctor, but Mr. L. is on the phone. He says it’s urgent.”

Sutherland looked at his patient, said, “Excuse me, please.” He went through the door at the rear of his office and picked up a phone on which there were three buttons, one of which was lighted. “Hello, Mr. L.,” he said.

“Hello, Dr. Sutherland. There’s a meeting at ten tomorrow morning.”

“Of course, I’ll be there. Thank you for calling.”

The man who’d placed the call gently hung up his phone, left his office and walked down a long, carpeted corridor until reaching the Oval Office’s oak doors. He knocked, was told to enter.

“The meeting is set, sir,” he said.

“Thank you, Craig.”

Craig departed. President Randolph Jorgens stood, scratched his belly through his shirt and ran his hand over a leather horse on his desk. “I need a vacation,” he said.

Susanna Pinscher was with Matt Mitchell, her superior at the Justice Department. Large drops of rain splattered against the window in his office; a cold front had invaded the city from the north. It was three o’clock in the afternoon but was dark enough outside to be night.

“Are you sure you don’t want some tea, Susanna,” Mitchell asked. “You’re soaked. You’ll catch pneumonia.”

“Okay, some tea.”

“And put this on.” He dropped a beige wool cardigan sweater in her lap as he passed. “I keep it around for when I get all wet. Which is too much of the time.” Brief smile.

She draped the sweater over her shoulders and shivered. She’d gotten caught in the storm while walking back from a meeting in Chief Justice Poulson’s chambers. She’d used
an underground tunnel as far as it extended down Constitution Avenue, but was exposed the rest of the way.

Mitchell returned carrying a steaming cup of tea. He handed it to her, looked down at her feet and said, “You’re making puddles on my floor.”

“I can’t help it.”

He laughed. “Puddles beat waves.”

The hot cup felt good in her hands. She inhaled the tea’s aroma, sipped it.

“So, Susanna, how did it go with Poulson?”

“He’s pleasant enough, seems anxious to cooperate. The only sticky point is where the interrogations should be conducted.”

“I take it he doesn’t want them held in the Court.”

“He feels the Court has been violated enough and questions why follow-up investigations can’t be held outside the building.”

“He has a point. The first thing Poulson did after becoming Chief was to slap an even tighter lid on everything that happens inside the Court. Any clerk who’s even seen talking to a reporter is fired, no excuses, no explanations. They can’t even say no comment. Opening up the Court to a full-scale MPD investigation is like inviting every reporter in town to a public meeting. Cops are biologically incapable of keeping their mouths shut.”

“Matt, I realize the Supreme Court is a special place, but a murder happened there. My training has always said that you investigate where the crime occurred.”

“This is different, Susanna. In the first place, we don’t get involved in murders very often. In the second place, the MPD has already interviewed everyone in the Court and did it inside the building. The place has been gone over with the old fine-toothed comb, and if the President decides to go ahead with appointing a special prosecutor, there’ll be that much more disruption to the Court’s activities.” He sat
on the edge of his desk. “There’s another aspect to all this, Susanna, and maybe you haven’t considered it. If a Supreme Court justice had been murdered it would make sense. The fact is that a clerk was killed, and if he’d been shot anyplace else other than the Supreme Court it would be just another routine MPD investigation.”

“If.”

“Okay, but the fact remains that there are more important considerations than Clarence Sutherland’s murder. There’s the law of the land to preside over. That’s the Court’s job, after all.”

“What about if a murderer is sitting on the Supreme Court, presiding over the law of the land?”

He started to respond, pulled back, shook his head, stood and went to the window. “Miserable day.” He turned and said to her, “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“That Clarence Sutherland’s murderer might be one of nine justices? I don’t like to believe it but it’s a real possibility, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

He returned to the desk and leaned close to her. “Susanna, you go around spouting theories like that and your days in this city, and on this job, are numbered.”

She placed the empty teacup on the desk and closed the gap between them. “I thought the name of the game was to solve Sutherland’s murder, Matt, no matter where or what.”

“That’s true, but let’s not go beyond Justice’s scope. We’re at least partly in this for show… I spoke with the assistant attorney general this morning and he—”

“
Show
? I quit.”

“Quit? That’s ridiculous.”

“Like hell… not only am I told by my superior that my assignment is a kind of sham, I’m told that this big, wonderful
Department of Justice that I broke my buns to join is in show business.”

“Calm down.”

“Then say something to help me.”

“Keep working on the Sutherland case. Go after it full steam ahead, but also please don’t lose perspective. There are other things that share parity with Sutherland’s death.”

“I’ll try.” She handed him his sweater, picked up her water-soaked pumps and went to the door. “Matt,” she said, “I don’t mean to be a pain in the neck, I really don’t, but I have to feel that what I’m doing is important.”

“It is. I was shorthanding the situation, Susanna. Ignore it.”

She’d try.

Susanna Pinscher and Martin Teller stood in the Grand Foyer of the Kennedy Center’s Opera House, one of three large theaters contained in the vast and sprawling arts complex. The performance of
Cavalleria Rusticana
was over and it was intermission.

“Did you enjoy it?” Teller asked.

“Very much.”

“It’s some theater, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been here before.”

“To see an opera?”

“No. Chinese acrobats. I had the same impression of the place then that I have tonight. It’s big, formal and sort of stuffy.”

“Opera buffs seem to like it that way. Makes them feel
elegant or something. But every time that chandelier dims I get goose bumps. How about a drink?”

“It’s so crowded,” she said, pointing to a mob surrounding a small bar.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I belong to the Golden Circle society.”

“What in God’s name is that?”

“A bunch of people who pay a
thousand
bucks a year for the privilege of not standing in line for a drink during intermission. You wouldn’t think a cop could manage it, but I wash my own socks and make out with the finer things.”

“I’m impressed, socks or no socks.”

They were served cognac in snifters. They clicked rims and he said, “Here’s to indulgence.”

She smiled. “Tell me, Detective Teller, why does a man who spends his working days dealing with the low life lay out a thousand dollars a year to rub shoulders with opera buffs?”

“You have it wrong.” He leaned close to her ear. “I can’t stand these people. The fact is that dealing with what I deal with every day makes me sort of crazy for a change. What I get out of opera is a beautiful change. Fantasy after eight hours of reality. Makes sense?”