Supreme Justice (3 page)

The only thing keeping many death-row inmates alive is a petition for a writ of certiorari, which, if granted, orders the last court to hear the petitioner’s appeal to forward the record of the case to the Supreme Court for review. Twice each week, stacks of new petitions are circulated in the justices’ chambers, where their law clerks write memorandums recommending that the petitions be granted or denied. The chief justice circulates a “discuss list” with cases deemed to have merit, and each associate justice may place additional cases on the list.

The decision to grant or deny the thousands of petitions that flood the Court each month is made in an oak-paneled conference room that adjoins the chambers of the chief justice. Only the justices attend the conference; no other Court personnel, including their clerks, are allowed to hear their deliberations. The conference room is illuminated by a chandelier and the light from several windows. The windows are flanked by bookshelves filled with reports of the Court’s decisions. A somber portrait of John Marshall hangs above a black marble fireplace. From his position on high, the fourth chief justice of the United States watches his judicial descendants take assigned seats around a long mahogany conference table on which lie sharpened pencils and yellow legal pads.

Associate Justice Felicia Moss limped into the conference room aided by an ebony cane with a silver handle, a gift from her clerks to celebrate her return to the court after hip-replacement surgery three years earlier. Justice Moss eased herself onto one of the high-backed black leather chairs that surrounded the conference table, noticing that everyone but Ronald Chalmers was present. As soon as she sat down, Chief Justice Oliver Bates nodded. Warren Martinez, the most junior justice, closed the door and the chief justice began the meeting.

“Ron’s not here,” Moss interrupted.

“Sorry, Felicia,” Bates said. “I told everyone before you came in. Ron’s going to be delayed and he wants us to start without him.”

Moss frowned. “Is something wrong? He hasn’t missed a day since I started on the Court.”

“He didn’t tell me what was up. He just said to go on without him, so let’s start. We have a lot to discuss.”

Over the next hour, the justices debated the fate of several cert petitions before arriving at
Woodruff v. Oregon
. Millard Price—a barrel-chested, broad-shouldered man who had once been president of the American Bar Association, solicitor general of the United States, and senior partner in Rankin Lusk Carstairs and White—was sitting across from Moss. Price was easygoing and could usually be counted on to defuse tension with a joke, but Moss thought he’d looked edgy all morning. As soon as the chief justice spoke the case name, Price leaned forward.

Warren Martinez had scribbled a request to speak about the case on the discuss list, and he outlined his reasons for believing that cert should be granted.

Chief Justice Bates and Kenneth Mazzorelli argued against granting the petition. Justice Moss was on the fence and decided to keep her views to herself. Millard was one of the last to speak.

“This is a waste of time,” he said. “I don’t see anything certworthy in the case.”

Moss was surprised to hear Price take a hard line in a capital case. The justice was a member of the conservative bloc on many issues, but he was a moderate on social issues, and he was usually fair and open-minded in death cases.

“The double-jeopardy argument is frivolous,” Price went on. “The case was dismissed with prejudice the first time Woodruff was charged with Finley’s murder. There was a completely different set of circumstances when she was charged the second time.”

“But it was the government that was responsible for her being charged in the first case,” Martinez said.

“And there’s definitely a
Brady
issue,” Justice Mary Ann David chimed in. “The government has an absolute duty to provide the defense with exculpatory evidence in its possession, and I don’t think national-security concerns can trump that duty, especially when the defendant’s life is at stake.”

“That argument is based on guesswork and conspiracy theory, not fact,” Price shot back. He seemed upset, and Moss found that strange. Millard’s arguments were usually calm and well reasoned. This outburst was very uncharacteristic.

Before anyone could continue the discussion, the door opened and Ronald Chalmers entered the conference room. There were dark circles under his eyes and his broad shoulders were bowed.

“Glad you could join us, Ron,” Chief Justice Bates joked.

“Out on the links?” Martinez asked with a smile. Chalmers was a serious golfer.

“I won’t be staying,” Chalmers said. Moss thought he sounded exhausted. “I just came from the White House. I’m resigning from the Court.”

The justices looked stunned.

“I’m sorry to spring this on you, but I didn’t know until yesterday afternoon. Vivian has Alzheimer’s. It’s in its earliest stage, so she . . .” Chalmers choked up and paused to collect himself. “We’re going to Europe while she can still appreciate the trip. I’ve been putting it off and, well, I just can’t anymore.”

Justice Moss went to her friend and colleague and embraced him. The other justices gathered around.

“I am so sorry,” Felicia said. “If there is anything I can do.”

“There isn’t,” was Chalmers’s weary answer. “I just want to spend as much time with Vivian as I can, and there’s no way I can do that and carry on the work of the Court.”

“When are you leaving for Europe?” Mary David asked.

“I’ve got our travel agent working out the details. It will be soon.”

“Does Vivian want visitors?” Justice David asked.

Chalmers smiled. “I think she’d like that.”

“I’ll call, tonight.”

The justices talked with their colleague a few moments longer. Then Chalmers excused himself.

“God, that has got to be so tough,” Bates said.

“I can’t imagine what he’s going through,” Martinez said.

The eight remaining members of the Court talked about their friend until Millard Price broke in. “I don’t want to be insensitive, but we really should get back to work. It takes four votes to grant cert. With Ron stepping down, I don’t think there are four votes in
Woodruff
, so maybe we can dispose of the case.”

Several of the justices looked appalled at Price’s lack of compassion. A few looked angry.

“The body’s not cold yet, Millard,” Martinez said. “I don’t think this is the time to make a hasty decision about a case that some of us feel strongly about.”

“Well, the votes aren’t here,” Price said. “We can take a poll, but I don’t think a vote to grant cert will carry.”

“I’m not going to be rushed into a vote, given these circumstances,” Justice Moss said. “We have no idea how Ron’s successor will vote, and I’m not certain how I’m coming down. I say we exercise the right under 28 USC, Section 1 to defer our vote.”

A few of the other justices voiced agreement. Chief Justice Bates said, “I’d like a show of hands. How many of you are in favor of deferring
Woodruff
?”

Seven of the eight justices raised their hands, Price being the only dissenter.

“All right, then,” Bates said. “Let’s take a twenty-minute break to clear our heads.”

Moss wanted to talk to Price about the way he’d acted, but he rushed out of the room.

“What was that about?” Justice Mazzorelli asked Felicia, his eyes on Price’s retreating back. Mazzorelli, a staunch conservative, often clashed with Felicia on legal issues, but he was an amiable colleague.

“I have no idea. Millard doesn’t usually get worked up about our cases.”

“Maybe he didn’t get enough sleep last night.” Mazzorelli shook his head. “I bet Ron didn’t get any at all. Poor bastard.”

Moss let Mazzorelli steer the conversation away from Price and the
Woodruff
cert petition, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the judge’s overreaction.

Dennis Masterson worked a kink out of his neck as he carried his coffee mug to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his spacious corner office. Masterson’s workplace was the largest of any partner at Rankin Lusk, which was fitting because he was the firm’s biggest rainmaker. The oak-paneled walls of his domain were a testament to his power. They were decorated with pictures of Masterson posed with every important person who had worked inside the Beltway for the past thirty years.

Most of the partners in the major D.C. law firms labored in obscurity, known only to the members of their country club and the legislators and political appointees they lobbied, but Masterson was familiar to any American who watched the evening news or political talk shows. A quarterback at Dartmouth and a law review editor at Yale, he had joined Rankin Lusk after two tours in Vietnam. Seven years ago, Masterson had taken a sabbatical to serve as the director of the CIA. Three years ago, there had been a very embarrassing incident in Afghanistan, and Masterson had rejoined Rankin Lusk when the president, in need of a scapegoat, had asked him to fall on his sword. Masterson had toyed with the idea of resisting the request, but there was a lot of money to be made in the private sector and it didn’t hurt his business prospects to be owed a favor by the leader of the free world.

Masterson was six four with the patrician features of a man born to wealth. With his snow white hair and steely blue eyes, he was the personification of wisdom and sincerity, and the perfect guest on any television talk show. During his CIA days, he had been the ideal person to bear witness before a congressional committee. Masterson’s connections with the defense and intelligence industries made him indispensable to his firm.

Masterson’s disposable and untraceable cell phone rang. Only one person had the number to this particular phone and that person only called with important news.

“The conference just ended,” the voice on the other end of the line said, “and there’s been a development. Justice Chalmers resigned. His wife has Alzheimer’s and—”

“I’ve known that for two hours,” Masterson interrupted. “What happened with the
Woodruff
petition?”

“It’s still alive.”

Masterson swore. “Millard couldn’t kill it?”

“He tried but Moss stepped in and convinced the other judges to defer a vote.”

“What’s the count?”

“Justices David and Martinez want cert granted. Moss won’t take a position, but Price thinks she’s leaning toward voting to grant.”

“Thank God for Chalmers’ wife. He would have been the fourth vote if Moss is in favor.”

Masterson went quiet. The caller waited.

“I want Moss’s chambers bugged,” Masterson said. “We have to know which way she’s leaning.”

“I’m on it.”

Masterson broke the connection and returned his attention to the world outside his office. In the streets below, people scurried back and forth with no idea of who was really running the world. From this height, they looked like ants, and Masterson viewed them with the same dispassion he viewed any other insect. Of the billions of people in the world, only a few counted, and he was one of them. But that could change if Sarah Woodruff’s case didn’t die in conference. As it stood now,
Woodruff
was just another criminal case from a Podunk state known for tree huggers, pretty mountains, and running shoes. Masterson could not risk the scrutiny it would receive if the Supreme Court took it up.
Woodruff
had to stay buried, and Dennis Masterson was willing to do anything to keep it six feet under.

The Supreme Court cafeteria is open to the public, but the clerks eat in a glassed-in section with a door that is always closed so they can discuss Court business freely without worrying about being overheard. Advance notice of, for instance, the way a business case is going to be decided can have all sorts of consequences, and the clerks were impressed from their first day with the need for secrecy. Brad never discussed his cases with anyone but his justice and his fellow clerks, and Ginny knew better than to ask about them.

Brad was grabbing an early lunch alone in the clerks’ area of the cafeteria when a tall, fit-looking man with a military haircut carried his tray to the seat across from him.

“Mind if I join you?”

“No, sit,” Brad answered. The man looked to be in his mid- to late thirties, which was old for a clerk, and Brad wondered if this was a visitor who had wandered into the clerks’ eating area by mistake.

“Are you Brad Miller?” the man said as he set down his tray. Brad braced himself for questions about the Farrington case. “Your fiancée is Ginny Striker, right?”

“Do you know Ginny?” Brad asked, relieved that he wasn’t going to have to fend off another nosy inquiry.

“I’m Kyle Peterson and I’m a senior associate at Rankin Lusk.”

Peterson saw the panicky expression on Brad’s face and laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m temporarily clerking for Justice Price until he hires someone to replace Frank Sheppard.”

Brad sobered immediately. “That was awful,” he said. Brad had met Frank his first week at the court. All of the clerks were shocked when he was badly injured in a hit-and-run accident.

“I never met him, but I heard he’s a very nice guy,” Peterson said.

“He is. So how did you get to take his place?”

“I worked with Justice Price when I started at Rankin Lusk, and we stayed in touch after he went on the Court. He’s comfortable with me, and he trusts my work. The firm thought it wouldn’t hurt for me to work up here, so . . .” Peterson shrugged.

“Do you work with Ginny?” Brad asked.

“We worked on a project together. When Justice Price asked me to fill in, I mentioned it to her and she told me you were clerking. I knew your name and what you look like from the papers and TV.”

“That is my curse.”

Peterson laughed. “So, how do you like clerking?”

“I really enjoy it. Justice Moss is great to work for, and the work is so interesting and important. The load is overwhelming at times, but I’m really glad I got the position.”

“It’s a great place to work, and you’ll be able to pick your job when you’re through. You might think about Rankin Lusk, though I don’t know what the firm policy is about hiring married couples.”

“I worked for a big firm in Oregon, and I’m not interested in doing that again. I’m thinking about the Justice Department or maybe something in the Senate or House.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. I bet Justice Moss has a ton of contacts. And speaking of your boss, do you have any idea what she did in conference that upset Millard?”

“No,” Brad answered cautiously.

“It had something to do with the
Woodruff
petition.”

“I didn’t work on that one, and the judge never discusses what goes on during the cert conferences.”

“Well, something set him off. He’s usually pretty mellow. You don’t happen to know how she’s planning to vote on the petition, do you? That might have something to do with it.”

“Like I said, it’s not a case I worked on, and the justice hasn’t said anything to me about it. I don’t even know what type of case it is.”

Peterson took a bite out of his sandwich and Brad did the same.

“So, you were working in Oregon,” Peterson said when he was through chewing. “I’ve never been out there, but I hear it’s nice.”

Everything about the library on the top floor of the Supreme Court was majestic, appointed with rich oak paneling, plush red carpets illuminated by grand chandeliers, and long tables of polished wood on which to write and research. It wasn’t unusual for Brad Miller to find his eyes drifting upward to the ornate ceiling or wandering to the figures representing law, science, and the arts that were carved on the seven huge arches on either side of the library.

By contrast, there was nothing beautiful about the gym located above the library. A set of narrow stairs led the way to a long, colorless room filled with weight machines, stationary bikes, and other standard workout equipment. Next to the gym was the aptly named Highest Court in the Land, a basketball court that was the scene of many spirited games played by brilliant attorneys who would all willingly trade their fancy degrees for a chance to play in the National Basketball Association.

This evening, Brad found himself in sole possession of the court. Using one of his patented moves, he faked Kobe Bryant out of his Nikes before firing a three-pointer over Shaquille O’Neal’s outstretched hand. Unfortunately, the ball clanged off the rim, costing the Knicks the NBA championship. Brad swore and jogged dispiritedly to the wall to recover the ball.

“Nice form.”

Brad turned his head and found a pretty brunette about his height, in shorts and a sports bra, watching him from the door that connected the basketball court to the gym. When he’d entered the gym, Brad had seen her hunched over one of the stationary bikes, her face tense, as if she were finishing a hotly contested leg of the Tour de France.

“Did you play college hoops?” she asked.

“High school, JV,” he said, unable to lie, though he was tempted. “I was never good enough for a college team.”

“Give it here,” the woman said. Brad tossed her the ball. She glided across the hardwood before firing a shot from the spot where Brad had attempted his three. The ball swished through the net without touching the rim.

“Awesome,” Brad said, reacting to the unexpected grace of the woman’s moves. She laughed. Then she picked up the ball and walked over to Brad. As she drew closer, he realized that she was more than just pretty, and she was definitely sexy, with her flat bare midriff and long smooth legs.

“Did you play in college?” Brad asked.

“Point guard at MIT.”

Of course,
Brad thought, feeling more inadequate than usual. He’d been a decent tennis player in college and could usually console himself with the idea that he was a better athlete than his fellow clerks even if he wasn’t as smart, but this clerk could not only play hoops better than he could, she had a degree from MIT.

The woman thrust out her hand. “Wilhelmina Horst. It’s a horrible name. Everyone calls me Willie. You probably don’t remember, but we met at Happy Hour,” she said, referring to the courtyard get-togethers hosted in turn by each chamber, where the clerks could get to know each other over a beer and eats.

“Oh, yeah,” Brad said, fighting to hide the discomfort he felt being this close to a very attractive, half-naked woman. The guilt the attraction elicited was due to his status as a man engaged to be married. “I didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”

Willie smiled. “I was probably wearing glasses along with my suit. I use contacts when I’m not trying to look lawyerly.”

“Brad Miller.”

“Yeah, I know; the president guy. You’re famous.”

Brad blushed. “I wish I wasn’t. Being a celebrity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, believe me. It’s actually a big pain in the butt.”

“Oh, come on. Bringing down a president has got to be a rush.”

“Not really. Mostly, I was in a state of terror. So, whom do you clerk for?” Brad asked, desperate to change the topic. Willie wasn’t the first clerk who had tried to pump him for inside dope about the Farrington scandal.

“Millard Price. You clerk for Justice Moss, right?”

Brad nodded.

“My boss is pissed at her.”

“Oh?”

“Something she did at conference with the
Woodruff
cert petitions upset him.”

Brad’s mental alarm went off. Horst was the second of Price’s clerks to talk to him about
Woodruff
.

“What did she do?” he asked.

“I don’t know. He was just muttering about Justice Moss when he got back to chambers, and he looked concerned. Your boss didn’t mention W
oodruff
when she got back from the conference?”

“Not to me. I didn’t work on that one. I don’t even know what it’s about.”

Willie looked directly into Brad’s eyes, making him more nervous than he was already. Then she thrust the ball at him.

“Want to go one-on-one?”

Willie’s voice sounded huskier than it had been moments before. Brad felt something stirring bellow his belt line and tried to control his panic. He looked over Willie’s shoulder at the clock. It was almost eight.

“I should be going. My
fiancée
is probably waiting to have dinner with me.”

“Maybe some other time?” Willie said, her voice full of promise. She was apparently unfazed by the revelation that Brad had a significant other.

“Not if I want to preserve my dignity,” Brad answered with a nervous laugh. “You’d probably kick my ass.”

Willie smiled. “It would be fun to try. Say, I’ve heard that Justice Moss’s chamber is decorated with really interesting civil rights memorabilia.”

“It is.”

“Any chance you can give me a tour some evening, after work, when she’s gone?”

“Uh, sure, maybe.”

“Good.”

“I really have to go. Ginny’s probably starving.”

“Right. Nice talking to you again.”

Brad left the gym sweating more than he had when he was working out. The questions about
Woodruff
had raised a red flag. Something was up, and he decided he should tell his boss about his conversations with Millard Price’s clerks as soon as he had a chance.

Brad took a quick shower, then headed down to his office to call Ginny.

“Are you up for dinner?” he asked when he got through to her.

“I would love to have dinner with you, but General Tso asked me first.”

“Ditch the takeout. I can be at your office in fifteen minutes.”

Ginny sighed. “I can’t. One of the partners dumped a file on my desk at six and needs a memo first thing in the morning. You remember what that’s like.”

“Unfortunately, I do,” Brad said as he flashed back to the bad old days at the law firm in Portland.

“I love you, and I’ll see you at home.”

“You’ll probably be too tired for wild sex,” Brad said, half joking and still aroused by his encounter with Willie Horst.

“Or any other kind.”

Brad laughed. “Just kidding. I’m pretty beat myself. You’re the best.”

They traded kisses and Brad hung up. He smiled. Willie Horst might be sexy, but she was no Ginny Striker.

Ginny hung up the phone and sighed. In front of her was a sixty-page contract so boring that it would put a speed freak to sleep. To her right, a pair of chopsticks stuck out of a carton of greasy General Tso’s Chicken. She would have given anything to be in her pajamas, snuggling on her couch with the man she loved while they watched a great old movie on the Turner Classics station. Unfortunately, she owed thousands of dollars in student loans and also found it necessary, for some strange reason, to eat and put a roof over her head. Ah to have been born a royal princess or heir to an industrialist’s fortune. Life was definitely not fair.

Ginny plucked a piece of chicken out of the carton and washed it down with a swig of Coke. Then she slapped her cheeks to get her adrenaline going. She made it through the contract a little after nine and e-mailed her memo to the partner at 10:15. At this hour, Rankin Lusk Carstairs and White was a ghost town inhabited by the cleaning crews that moved silently through the plush offices of the partners and the Spartan broom-closet-size spaces occupied by oppressed associates who, like Ginny, had been saddled with last-minute assignments by their sadistic masters.

Ginny was almost to the elevator when she heard the
ding
that signaled the arrival of a car. A woman stepped out, followed by Dennis Masterson. Ginny was not surprised to see Masterson with a female. He had a well-deserved reputation as a womanizer. As new as she was to the firm, Ginny knew of two associates who’d had to fend off his advances. What did surprise Ginny was how ordinary the woman looked. She was dressed in a severe beige business suit and had thin, pinched features and mousy brown hair. Her eyes were her best feature, and they examined Ginny without emotion, the way a computer might if it could stare.

Masterson nodded at Ginny as he passed her on his way to his sprawling corner office. Ginny wondered if the woman was a client, then wondered why she would be meeting with Masterson in his office at this hour. She considered the possibility that the meeting was a tryst but discounted it. If Masterson was going to make love to the woman, they would be in a hotel room. Ginny was too tired to give any more thought to the pair, and they were forgotten by the time the elevator doors opened in the garage.