Supreme Justice (7 page)

Brad was so exhausted that he overslept, but the policeman who’d relieved Officer Gross drove him to work so he wasn’t too late. Normally, the security guard at the employees’ entrance nodded at Brad when he walked by, but this morning he said, “Good work, Mr. Miller.”

Brad blushed and mumbled something inane before rushing off. The last thing he wanted was for everyone to think he was a hero when he didn’t think of himself like that. He’d read interviews with men who had been awarded the Medal of Honor and citizens who’d rushed into burning buildings or leaped into turbulent rivers to save a life. Many of them were humble and embarrassed at being labeled a hero. Brad could see why. If he’d had time to think, he believed he would have run away from Justice Moss’s assailant as fast as he could. But, like many other real-life heroes, he had acted on instinct, and it bothered him that he would be given credit for saving the judge’s life when he was on automatic pilot when he did it.

“Thank you,” Carrie Harris told Brad when he walked by the door to the judge’s chambers on his way to his office.

“I really didn’t do much, Carrie.”

“Uh huh,” she answered, her voice dripping with skepticism. “Well, whatever you didn’t do kept the boss alive. So I’m still going to thank you. And speaking of Justice Moss, she wants to see you.”

“I’ll be there in a minute. I’m just going to dump my stuff.”

As soon as Brad walked into his office, Harriet jumped to her feet.

“Are you OK?” she asked, examining his taped-up chin.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Did you really have a karate fight with the guy who attacked the boss?”

“Karate fight? I don’t know any karate. Where did you hear that?”

“All of the clerks are talking. I think they heard it from the security guards, but I can’t swear to that.”

“There was karate, but there wasn’t any fight. I was on the floor before I knew what hit me.”

“Then how did you fight him off?”

“I didn’t. Justice Moss knocked the gun out of the guy’s hand with her cane while I distracted him by letting him beat the hell out of me. Then she fired the gun to keep him from killing me. She’s the real hero.”

“I think you’re just being modest.”

“I’m just being honest. Look, Harriet, the judge is waiting for me. Please don’t tell anyone I’m the Bruce Lee of the Supreme Court, because that is absolutely false.”

“Hold my calls and shut the door,” Justice Moss told Carrie Harris when she ushered Brad into chambers.

“How are you feeling?” the judge asked Brad as soon as they were alone.

“Not too bad. A little sore, that’s all.”

“Roy Kineer called me last night,” Moss said when she was satisfied that he wasn’t just being brave. “He heard about the attack on the news. He asked after you. I told him you saved my life.”

“I hope you didn’t exaggerate what I did.”

Justice Moss threw her head back and laughed. “You charged a man with a gun armed only with a legal memo, young man. How do you exaggerate that?”

Brad smiled.

“Roy wasn’t surprised by what you did. He had some very nice things to say about you, some of which I’d heard before when he recommended that I hire you. You should know that there aren’t many people who impress Roy.”

Brad blushed and looked at his lap. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. The former chief justice had acted as the independent counsel who investigated the charges against President Farrington, and they had met because Brad and Dana Cutler were the key witnesses in the case. Kineer was an icon in the legal community and one of Brad’s heroes. It was hard for him to believe that Justice Kineer thought about him at all, let alone was impressed by him.

Moss stopped smiling. “I have a problem, and you’re the only person I can think of who can help me.”

Brad sat up straight. “Anything I can do, just ask.”

“Don’t commit yourself until you hear what I want you to do. It’s . . .” Moss paused. “Irregular. No, more than irregular. If someone discovers what we’re up to, it could lead to some very unpleasant consequences for both of us. If you tell me you don’t want to do it, I’ll respect your decision, and I’ll forget this conversation even took place.”

“Now you’re making me nervous,” Brad said.

“When I told the FBI that there was no case I could think of that could have triggered last night’s attack, I wasn’t being completely honest. Millard Price’s reaction in conference to
Woodruff v. Oregon
was very unusual. And you’ve told me that two of his clerks told you that I upset Millard by the way I acted in conference and tried to pump you for information on how I’m going to vote.” Justice Moss paused. “Brad, I think there’s a possibility that the attack on me and the
Woodruff
case are connected.”

“You think Justice Price is trying to kill you?” Brad asked incredulously.

“No. But his reactions were so odd that . . .” Moss shook her head. “There’s something about that case that’s upsetting him, and I can’t understand what it could be.”

“Why didn’t you tell Keith Evans about your suspicions?”

“What goes on in conference is sacrosanct. I would make an exception if I had evidence that the case was the reason I was attacked, but I don’t have one scintilla of proof. I just have a feeling. That’s why I need your help. I need to know if there’s any hard evidence to support my suspicions.”

“I still don’t know what you want me to do,” Brad said.

“We justices are prohibited from going outside the record in a case when we’re deciding the legal issues it presents, but I can’t help thinking that Millard may have some connection to the
Woodruff
case that he hasn’t disclosed. I need an investigator to find out if such a connection exists and, if it does, what it is.”

Brad frowned. “You want me to go to Oregon and play private eye?”

“No, of course not. You’d be missed instantly. Besides, I can’t afford to be short a clerk. Last night, when I was talking to Roy, he reminded me that your friend, Dana Cutler, was working as a private detective when the Farrington affair broke.”

Even though they were friends, the mention of Dana Cutler made Brad shiver. Brad liked Dana, but he’d led a sheltered life before getting involved in the Farrington affair, and he wasn’t used to associating with people as potentially violent as he knew Dana could be. While working as an associate in an Oregon law firm, Brad had been assigned a hopeless pro bono appeal for a convicted serial killer and had stumbled onto evidence that linked President Farrington to the murder of several women. Simultaneously, in Washington, D.C., Dana had drawn similar conclusions when she discovered a link between the president and a murdered college student. When they’d finally hooked up in Portland, Dana had forced Brad into a situation that almost cost him his life.

“Is Miss Cutler still a private investigator?” Justice Moss asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you think she would look into any possible connection between Millard and the
Woodruff
case?”

“I can ask.”

“I’ll take care of her fee and expenses, but she can’t tell anyone who is employing her.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Brad paused. “Willie and Kyle told me that you did something specific that upset Justice Price. Do you feel that you can tell me what happened between you two? Dana is going to want to know.”

“As you know, it takes four votes to grant cert. Oliver Bates, Kenneth Mazzorelli, and Millard spoke out against bringing
Woodruff
up here. Lucius Jackson usually votes with Ken, and Frank Alcott is more conservative than anyone on the Court. Mary David and Warren Martinez made it pretty clear that they want
Woodruff
heard. I’m leaning their way. Ron Chalmers was going to vote to grant cert. So there were only two sure votes for cert after Ron stepped down, and my vote wouldn’t have been enough.

“As soon as Ron Chalmers left the room after telling us he was going to resign, Millard tried to force a vote on
Woodruff
. I told him I wasn’t sure how I was going to vote, and I precipitated a vote to defer. I’m responsible for cert still being a possibility in the case. Now it all depends on how Ron’s replacement votes.”

“You told Keith Evans that people don’t kill justices of the Supreme Court to keep cases from being heard.”

“I hope I’m right.”

“And, from what you’re telling me, even if cert was granted, the petitioner would probably lose five to four.”

“That’s true. And all this could be the work of an old woman’s overactive imagination, but it’s the only unusual thing that’s happened in connection with a case, and it’s got me worried.”

“If Dana agrees to help, what do you want her to do?”

“I think she’ll have to go to Oregon and find out as much as she can about what really happened there, and whether Millard had a connection to any of it.”

“I’ll see if Dana can meet with me tonight. Then we—”

A knock on the door startled them. Millard Price walked in. Brad had to struggle to keep his composure.

“Sorry to interrupt, Felicia, but I just heard that you were attacked last night. Are you OK?”

Brad watched Price closely. He seemed genuinely concerned.

“Thanks to Brad’s quick thinking, I’m just fine.”

“Thank God.”

Brad stood up. “I should get hopping on that memo, Judge.”

“Fine. Come in, Millard.”

Brad took one final look at Justice Price before shutting the door. Then he went around the corner to his office. Harriet was working away at her computer, and Brad saw her cast a nervous glance at Keith Evans, who was sitting in Brad’s chair. The FBI agent stood up as soon as Brad walked in.

“I just dropped by to see how you’re doing,” Evans asked.

“I’m fine, just a little sore, that’s all.”

“Good. Is there someplace we can talk? I want to go over what happened yesterday in more detail, now that you’ve had a rest, and I don’t want to disturb Miss Lezak.”

Brad led Evans through the halls until they reached the spacious, elegant, and architecturally identical East and West Conference Rooms, which faced each other across a corridor near the courtroom. Each space was bordered by a courtyard that provided natural light to the interior rooms. No meetings were being held in either place, so Brad led Keith into the East Conference Room. The carpets and drapery were rose colored, and the walls were paneled in American quartered white oak. Crystal chandeliers from Czechoslovakia hung from a ceiling glazed in two tones of gold. Portraits of the first eight chief justices graced the walls. Rows of beautifully carved, straight-backed wooden chairs had been set up for some special occasion that was to take place the next day. Brad took one chair and Evans sat next to him.

“This is some place,” the agent remarked as he took in the stylish setting.

“Working here can be a bit overwhelming at times. Especially if you grew up in a ranch-style tract home on Long Island.”

“I can see what you mean. So,” Evans said, transferring his attention to his friend, “has anything occurred to you since we spoke last night?”

Brad knew he should tell Keith about Justice Moss’s suspicions, but he would never violate her confidence.

“Not a thing, and believe me I’ve given what happened a lot of thought.”

“I bet you have. What about the assailant?”

Brad shook his head. “He was covered from head to toe. I can tell you he was about my height and wiry, but that’s it. I was on the floor most of the time or being dragged across the concrete with my back to the guy when he had me in that choke hold.”

Evans sighed. “I was hoping you could give me something, because we’re coming up empty. The perp vanished without a trace.”

“What about security cameras?”

“They only tracked him so far. He knew areas of the building that weren’t covered, and that’s where we lost him.”

“So he knows the layout of the Court pretty well?”

“That would be my guess,” Evans answered.

“Do you think it’s someone who works here?”

“That’s a definite possibility.”

“Well, I can’t think of where to point you, but I’ll get in touch if I get any ideas.”

“So, are you enjoying yourself?” Keith asked.

“Yeah, this is the best job,” Brad answered with a broad smile. “Except for the part where you get beat up by ninja assassins.”

Keith laughed. “Hopefully, that was a one-off.” He pushed himself to his feet.

“Make sure you’ve got Justice Moss covered, OK?” Brad said. “She’s a great boss and a brilliant justice. The country needs her.”

“We’re beefing up her security. Do you think you need someone watching your back?”

“No. The killer was going after Justice Moss, not me. I wasn’t even supposed to be in the garage. I shouldn’t be in any danger.”

Normally, Dana Cutler turned down matrimonial work. It was sordid and boring, and her clients were usually angry no matter what she reported. But Mark Shearer referred a lot of business her way, and he was genuinely worried about his client. Rachel Kelton, a sweet, plain-looking woman in her late thirties who had never been married, had inherited a fortune when her parents died in a plane crash. Eight months ago, she had met Erik Van Dyke, the president of a hedge fund, at a charity fund-raiser. Van Dyke was five years Rachel’s junior. He had wooed her for five months before proposing. On the surface, he appeared to be an ideal prospect for matrimony, but something about her fiancé bothered Rachel, and out of an excess of caution, she had asked Mark to conduct a discreet investigation into his background.

That was why Dana found herself following Van Dyke in the inconspicuous brown Toyota she used for surveillance. She had begun detecting a sour smell shortly after looking into Van Dyke’s business dealings. Although she couldn’t prove it, she suspected him of running a Ponzi scheme, in which he gave initial investors excellent returns by paying them with money he received from newer investors. Rachel’s fortune would be very attractive to a con man.

Dana also had a funny feeling about Van Dyke’s social life. He didn’t appear to have any. When he wasn’t courting Rachel, he worked or stayed in his apartment. That would be normal if Van Dyke was the genuine article. But it would be abnormal if he was a predator. On a few occasions, Dana had followed Van Dyke into a seedy part of town known for street prostitution, but he had not made a move. This evening, he did.

The girl was young and had the reedy, waiflike build of a woman with a serious jones. She was pale and could have passed for twelve. There were dark circles under her eyes, which were constantly scanning the street, and her stringy blonde hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in days.

Van Dyke usually drove a flashy sports car or an expensive sedan. Tonight, he’d chosen a low-end Chevy, which he pulled to the curb. The girl leaned into the car through the open passenger window. After a brief negotiation, she got in the front seat, and Dana followed them to a by-the-hour motel.

Dana was worried. The girl looked very vulnerable. Van Dyke could afford high-priced, sophisticated call girls. What was he doing with a junkie who could be loaded with a sexually transmitted disease? Dana suspected that missionary position sex was not on Van Dyke’s mind.

The girl waited in the car while Van Dyke secured the keys to a room at the far end of the building. The parking-lot lights were out near the room, and Van Dyke parked in the shadows. The girl got out and he followed. Dana noticed the navy blue gym bag he carried in his right hand.

Dana was five ten, lean and muscular, and she was always on edge. She looked hard and dangerous in her leather jacket, tight jeans, and black T-shirt, but there was something about her that would make a man think twice even if she was wearing a cocktail dress.

There was a reason for the aura of violence that enveloped Dana. She had spent a year in a mental hospital dealing with post-traumatic stress after she had butchered three men who’d tortured her in the basement of a meth lab while she was working undercover with the D.C. police. Since her release from the hospital, she always went armed and had shown no reluctance to resort to extreme violence during her involvement in the affair that had brought down President Farrington.

Dana was carrying two guns and a hunting knife, but she rejected these weapons in favor of a tire iron she kept under the driver’s seat. Dana didn’t think Van Dyke would be much of a physical threat to someone with her training, and she decided that she could always escalate if she was wrong and things got out of hand.

There was a window at the front of Van Dyke’s room and another at the side of the building. Dana took her camera out of the car and knelt by the side window. Unless someone parked in the lot across from the room she would not be detected. The shade was up enough for Dana to see into the bedroom. So far, Van Dyke was acting the part of the perfect gentleman. Dana couldn’t hear what the couple was saying, but Van Dyke was smiling as he pulled out his wallet and handed some bills to the girl. As soon as she tucked the money in her purse, the girl started to disrobe. Van Dyke watched her but made no move to take off his clothes. As soon as the girl was naked, Van Dyke smiled broadly and hit her in her solar plexus. The girl flailed for air. He slapped a piece of duct tape across her mouth to keep her from screaming. She was already oxygen deprived, and her eyes bugged out when her mouth was sealed. Van Dyke had no trouble turning her face down and handcuffing her arms and legs to the bedpost with restraints he pulled from the gym bag.

Dana could have rushed in immediately, but she decided that the girl would be safer secured to the bed where she wouldn’t be a distraction. Van Dyke took a whip from his bag. Dana slipped on a ski mask, walked to the front door, and pounded on it.

“Open up, police,” she barked in the authoritative voice she’d used when she was with Vice and Narcotics.

Dana thought she heard the door to the bedroom slam shut, and she pounded and shouted “Police” again.

“One second,” a voice called. Dana guessed Van Dyke had covered the girl with a blanket and bedspread and had ditched the whip, which she noticed he’d held in his right hand. As soon as he answered the door, Dana broke Van Dyke’s right collarbone and kicked him in the crotch. He collapsed on the floor. Dana took out one of her guns and closed the door behind her. Then she grabbed Van Dyke by the hair and pulled him into the bedroom.

“Get all of your clothes off,” she commanded.

“You broke my shoulder,” he whined as he rolled on the floor in agony.

Dana pistol-whipped him hard enough to get his attention before repeating her order. She enjoyed seeing the pain Van Dyke suffered as he struggled to take off his clothes with his collarbone broken. She hoped his pain exceeded the pain he had intended to inflict on his helpless victim.

Dana walked over to the girl. “I’m here to help you. I’m taking off the tape. Don’t scream. You’ll end up with every penny this asshole has before I leave, and he won’t be able to hurt you, so please do as I say.”

The girl nodded and Dana removed the tape so she could breathe. Dana pulled off the blankets that covered the girl before returning her attention to Van Dyke.

“Pick up the whip in your right hand and stand by the bed as if you’re going to beat her,” Dana ordered, knowing that the girl was in no danger from the whip because of Van Dyke’s broken collarbone. As soon as Van Dyke obeyed, Dana snapped off several shots of the naked man that made it look as if he was going to flay the helpless girl. When she had enough pictures, Dana removed the girl’s handcuffs and used them to secure Van Dyke faceup on the bed.

“I’m going to leave in a minute,” she told the girl. “This creep won’t be able to hurt you. I’ll leave his car keys on the dresser. If you want to, you can drive somewhere, ditch the car, and take the money to your dealer. Or I can take you somewhere safe and get you into rehab. I’m not going to tell you what to do. I’m not your mother. You’re sick. The first step in getting better is to start making the right choices. Think it over while I finish with this pervert.”

Dana turned to Van Dyke. “I want you to refund the money you stole from your clients. Then I want you to leave Washington. I’ll give you one week to take care of business. If I find you haven’t followed my orders, I will publish these pictures on the Internet after I send them to the police. If you’re still here after I publish the pictures, I will hunt you down and kill you. Tell me you understand.”

Van Dyke was crying from the pain in his shoulder. “I understand,” he managed.

“Good,” Dana said.

Dana had a brief flashback in which she was lying on the cold cement in the basement of the meth lab after she’d been gang-raped. Rage raced through her. She slapped duct tape across Van Dyke’s mouth and broke his left kneecap.

“You make me sick,” she told him when Van Dyke’s muffled screams stopped. Then she went through the man’s wallet and handed his money to the girl.

“Heroin or rehab?” she asked.

The girl’s head was down. She was crying. “Get me out of here,” she gulped in a voice so low Dana could barely hear her.

“Good choice,” she said.

Dana turned her back on Van Dyke and put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. She would send Mark Shearer the photos and a report. The report wouldn’t mention what she’d done to Van Dyke. That was private. Dana smiled. Saving the girl and humiliating Van Dyke had made this one of the most enjoyable evenings she’d spent in a while.