Supreme Justice (8 page)

Dana Cutler was writing the report for Mark Shearer in the basement office of the suburban ranch house she shared with Jake Teeny. When the words began swimming across the computer monitor, she decided it was time to take a break. Dana stretched and her T-shirt rode up, revealing pale scars on her flat stomach. There was a coffee pot perched on top of a low filing cabinet. She walked over and refilled her mug before returning to the computer.

Dana had moved in with Jake at the conclusion of the Farrington affair, and that was working out. The flashbacks and nightmares associated with her scars had been infrequent visitors since they’d started living together. Dana figured that she was as close to happy as she was ever going to be. Close to happy was a big step up from the hellish months she’d spent in the mental hospital.

Dana’s reflections about the state of her life were cut short by the ringtone on her cell phone. Few people had that number, and she was pleased to see Brad Miller’s name on the readout. She and Jake had gone out with Brad and Ginny soon after the couple moved to D.C., but all four were so busy with their jobs that they hadn’t hooked up again.

“Long time no hear,” Dana said.

“I’m sorry about that,” Brad said, “but this job eats up my hours.”

“No need to apologize. I haven’t called you either. What’s up?”

“Can we meet for coffee?”

“Sure. When?”

“I was thinking now.”

Dana looked at her watch. It was almost nine. She knew she should finish her report, but Brad sounded worried.

“OK. Where?”

“You know the city way better than I do. It would be best if we weren’t someplace where we’ll bump into reporters or anyone who’ll recognize us.”

“Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Absolutely not, but I’d feel more comfortable talking to you face-to-face.”

Dana told Brad where to meet her. Then she shut down the computer. Jake Teeny was a photojournalist whose assignments took him all over the world. Currently he was in West Africa, so Dana was free to ride his Harley. After being cooped up in the basement writing reports, the idea of tearing through the night on Jake’s machine was very appealing. She had a smile on her face when she slipped into her leather jacket and settled her helmet over her short auburn hair.

Dana had worked on the report through her normal dinner hour, and she didn’t realize how hungry she was until Brad talked about meeting someplace where you could get coffee. That was usually a place where you could also get something to eat, and thoughts of a juicy burger topped with cheese and bacon had her mouth watering and her stomach growling. When she was working undercover, Dana had discovered Vinny’s in one of the less reputable sections of the District of Columbia. Vinny’s served great burgers and fries and had not yet been discovered by the people who wrote the dining-out reviews in the
Washington Post
.

Dana was chomping on her dinner when Brad walked in. He looked nervous. Dana guessed that was because of the run-down state of the neighborhood and the disreputable look of Vinny’s patrons. Brad’s expression turned to relief when Dana waved from the dingy booth near the back of the tavern. He slid across the tattered red vinyl that covered his side of the booth and stared at Dana’s burger.

“Is that any good?” he asked apprehensively.

“Don’t let the decor fool you,” Dana said. “Order the bacon cheeseburger with fries. You’re in for a treat.”

Brad gave his order to their waitress and added a beer to wash it down.

“So,” Dana asked. “Why the clandestine rendezvous?”

“I want to know if you can handle a sensitive assignment.”

Dana rolled her eyes. “Like investigating whether the president of the United States is a serial killer?” she asked.

“This isn’t a joking matter, Dana.”

Dana could see how concerned Brad was, so she decided to get serious.

“Does this have something to do with the attack on Justice Moss?”

“I’m not sure. It might.”

“Is Justice Moss the client?”

“As far as you’re concerned, I’m your client.”

“Right.”

Brad leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Imagine you’re under oath, testifying before a Senate committee, and the chairman asks you if Supreme Court justice Felicia Moss hired you. How do you answer, under pain of perjury?”

“I get your point. So, Mr. Client, what’s this all about?”

Brad had read the statement of facts in the Sarah Woodruff case, and he gave her an overview. Then he gave her the details of the attack on Justice Moss and his boss’s suspicions about Justice Price.

“I’ve just wrapped up two cases, so I have time to devote to your problem, but I’ll have to go to Oregon, and I’ll need to read the record in the case before I go.”

“It’s packed up and ready for you. You’ll have it tomorrow.”

Dana smiled. “You were pretty sure I’d take this case, weren’t you?”

“I was pretty sure you were a friend I could count on.”

Dana didn’t handle compliments well, so she went quiet. Brad took the opportunity to bite a chunk out of his burger. Suddenly, Dana smiled. Brad’s mouth was full so he arched an eyebrow.

“I’ll need a cover story if I’m going to keep you and ‘she who must remain nameless’ out of this, and I just thought of one that’s perfect.”

When they were finished discussing the assignment, Brad told Dana what life as a Supreme Court clerk was like and filled her in on Ginny’s job. Dana told Brad about a few of her cases.

“Most of what I do is pretty boring,” she confided. “It’s nothing like my days as a cop or my time on the run during the Farrington business.”

“Do you miss the action?” Brad asked.

“Not really. Maybe I’m just getting old, but the idea of not having to look over my shoulder twenty-four hours a day has a certain appeal.”

“I hear you,” Brad said. He looked down at the table, his smile gone. “The fight in the garage shook me up pretty badly. It took me months to get over what happened in Oregon, and I’m having the same reactions again. I act brave, and I haven’t told Ginny because I don’t want to worry her, but I’ve had nightmares.”

“Welcome to the club,” Dana answered somberly.

There was a clock over the entrance, and Brad noticed the time.

“I should be going,” he said.

“It’s been great seeing you again. Say hi to your better half.”

Brad smiled. “I will. When Jake gets back, we should double.”

“It’s a date,” Dana said.

Brad walked to his car and Dana waved. The temperature had dropped, and she was grateful for the warmth her motorcycle jacket provided. Despite what she’d told Brad, she did miss the action. Her boring work paid well, and there was an upside to not having people trying to kill you 24/7. But action made her blood move faster and made the colors brighter, as it had the other night at the motel when she’d saved that girl. Still, now that she had Jake and she had a choice, she’d opted for the quieter side of life.

Dana stopped being introspective long enough to start Jake’s Harley and check for traffic. There were a few cars on the road, and she waited for an opening, then eased out. At this hour, she figured the trip home would take half an hour, which would give her time to think about what she wanted to accomplish in Oregon. The car that was following her stayed far enough behind Dana that she didn’t notice it.

Ginny was in a good mood when she arrived at Rankin Lusk the next morning. What had seemed so frightening last night seemed to be meaningless worry in the light of a new day. Justice Moss, not Brad, had been the object of the attack at the Court, and the assailant was most probably, as Brad had assured her, some nut case with an irrational agenda.

“You’re to go straight to Conference Room E, Miss Striker,” the receptionist said when Ginny entered the reception area.

Ginny frowned. She had a lot of work to do, and the few times she’d sat in on a client conference, there had been a lot of intentionally wasted time, all of which counted as billable hours.

Clients waiting in Rankin Lusk’s reception area could see through glass walls into Conference Rooms A and B. Clients meeting in these rooms could gaze out through floor-to-ceiling windows at a magnificent view of the Capitol. Conference Rooms A and B were used to impress the clients who met in them and to give the impression to clients in reception that the attorneys at Rankin Lusk were always involved in
big
deals and didn’t really need their business.

Conference Room E, which was a floor below reception, had no windows and was in the rear of the building away from prying eyes. As soon as Ginny walked into the room, she knew why the meeting was being held in a conference room where the conferees would not be on public display. Audrey Stewart and Dennis Masterson had their heads together at the far end of the table. Seated to Masterson’s left was Greg McKenzie, a fourth-year associate who worked with Masterson and made Ginny uneasy. McKenzie was huge and had been an offensive lineman at Iowa before going to Stanford Law. McKenzie always seemed angry, and Ginny wondered if he used steroids to maintain his pro wrestler physique.

“Ah, Miss Striker, come in and close the door,” Masterson said. Everyone stopped talking and looked her way. Masterson introduced Ginny. Then he smiled.

“Want to guess what we’re doing?” Masterson asked her.

“Helping Ms. Stewart prepare for her confirmation hearing?” Ginny asked cautiously. She hoped she had guessed correctly. If that was her assignment it would be the most exciting one she’d received since starting at the firm.

“A-plus,” Masterson answered with a smile. Then he addressed everyone in the room.

“I was delighted when President Gaylord nominated Audrey to the Court. We met when we worked together at the CIA, and we’ve kept in touch since we both left. The Court needs first-class minds, and Audrey was far and away the sharpest person I worked with at the Agency.”

Masterson stopped smiling. “Sadly, the liberals are going to attempt to discredit her by focusing on practices that kept them safe after 9/11 but have now fallen into disfavor. I’ve already heard from several sources that Senators Cummings and Vasquez are sharpening their knives. These liberals cowered in their holes while Audrey was facing fire on the front lines. Now they’re going to cast stones at the very people who protected them. So we have our work cut out for us. But,” Masterson said, breaking once more into a smile, “I feel confident that we will prevail, because our cause is just and we have God on our side, not to mention a bunch of very smart lawyers.”

The offices of
Exposed
, Washington’s most widely read supermarket tabloid, took up two floors of a renovated warehouse within sight of the Capitol dome in a section of D.C. that was equal parts gentrification and decay. Abandoned buildings and vacant lots peopled by junkies and the homeless could be found within blocks of trendy restaurants, chic boutiques, and rehabilitated row houses owned by urban professionals.
Exposed
was an unrepentant rag that had gained a measure of respectability when it broke the Farrington case, thanks to a deal between Dana Cutler and Patrick Gorman, the paper’s owner and editor. But its bread and butter still consisted of Elvis sightings, accounts of UFO abductions, celebrity gossip, and guaranteed miracle diets.

Dana found Gorman eating an extra large pepperoni and cheese pizza in his second-floor office. A good deal of the wall space was given over to framed copies of the paper’s most outrageous headlines. The fact that none of them made Gorman blush said a lot about his regard for journalistic integrity. Dana stared at a section of one wall displaying the Pulitzer Prize the paper had won for its coverage of the Farrington scandal.

“That’s a nice addition to your wall of shame,” Dana said.

Gorman hated to be interrupted when he was working or eating, but he broke into a grin when he saw who was standing in the doorway.

“How’s my favorite anonymous source?” he asked as he motioned Dana into a chair. Most gentlemen would have stood when a lady entered, but Gorman was grossly obese. Dana knew it took a real effort for him to heave himself to his feet, so she forgave him for his lack of chivalry.

“I’m well, thank you. And you? How are you handling being a legitimate journalist?”

Gorman waved his hand. “I got over that months ago. Though I do get the occasional flashback in which I’m standing on the podium with our Pulitzer and looking down at the sickly green complexions on the faces of those effete snobs at the
Times
and
Post
.”

“I have noticed that you haven’t stooped to including any more legitimate reporting in your rag,” Dana said.

“I didn’t know you were a reader.”

“It’s one of my guilty pleasures. I hide
Exposed
in between the pages of my dominatrix magazines.”

Gorman laughed hard enough to make his jowls shake. Then he pointed at the remnants of his dinner. “Pizza?”

“No, thanks.”

“If you didn’t come here to eat with me, to what do I owe this visit? You don’t happen to have another juicy exposé for me, do you?”

“No, I’m here to ask a favor.”

“For you, anything within reason.”

“I want press credentials for
Exposed
, and I want you to back me up if anyone calls to verify that I’m one of your reporters.”

“I’m intrigued. Why do you need the cover?”

“I’ll tell you but I need your promise that this will stay between us.”

“Sure, with the proviso that
Exposed
gets exclusive rights to any juicy stories.”

“If I can. I’d need permission from my client.”

“Who is?”

Dana wagged a finger at the editor. “You know better than that.”

Gorman shrugged. “You can’t blame a guy for trying. What can you tell me?”

“I’ve been hired to look into a fascinating Oregon murder case. Sarah Woodruff is on death row for murdering her lover, twice.”

Gorman’s eyebrows went up. “That sounds ready-made for
Exposed
.” He lifted his hand and formed them into a frame for an imaginary headline. “I MURDERED MY DEAD LOVER. I like this story already. Tell me how it’s possible to kill someone twice.”

“It’s not. Woodruff was arrested for killing a man named John Finley. The charges were dismissed in the middle of the trial. Several months later, Finley’s body was found; she was tried again and sentenced to death. My client wants me to go to Oregon and look into the case.”

“Why not tell whoever you talk to that you’re a private investigator? Why do they need to think that you’re a reporter?”

“What was the first thing you asked me when I told you what I was doing?”

“Ah, I see. They’ll want to know the identity of your client.”

“And they may not talk to me if I refuse to tell them. I won’t run into that problem if I’m an employee of the Pulitzer Prize–winning editor of
Exposed
.”

Dana waited while Gorman pondered her request for a minute, but only a minute.

“Deal. I’ll let everyone know you’re on the payroll, and you’ll give me the scoop, if your client consents.”

“You got it.”

Brad had hand-delivered the transcript and briefs in
Woodruff
earlier in the day. When Dana returned home from
Exposed
, she fixed a cup of coffee and a sandwich and looked at the mass of paper piled on her dining room table. The transcript was over one thousand pages long, and she decided that it would help to get an overview of the case before she tackled it. So she grabbed the petition for cert and read the Statement of Facts, which provided a summary of the two trials in which Sarah Woodruff had been accused of killing her lover.