The Court (36 page)

His red pen once again began adding up the new votes given each state by the new census. He studied the poll projections. No matter how he counted, he was through unless he could protect the Electoral College.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jerry Green sat on the bed and stared at the telephone. There was no use in putting off the inevitable, yet he seemed to lack the power to organize his thoughts, as if thinking itself had become an impossible effort.

He looked up from the telephone and glimpsed his own image in the dresser mirror. He studied the man he saw. With a few minor changes he could be looking directly at Dean Roy Pentecost; the same hair, the same face, even the same expression, only Pentecost always looked so sure of himself. The man in the mirror did not possess that inner quality. He seemed to be more puzzled, even lost.

Jerry Green's mind began to focus on the mirror image. He and the dean were so much alike, he could almost persuade himself that he could think in the same pattern. What would the dean do if their positions were reversed?

Pride looked back at him from the mirror. But what kind of pride? That was the question.

The image in the mirror was full of ambition, but for what? Green understood the dean's ambition clearly enough. The man wanted to be on the Supreme Court. If Pentecost believed he had a soul, Jerry Green knew the man wouldn't hesitate a moment to sell it for that prize. But what of his own ambition? He had been offered the choice of two paths. To choose one would mean simply a continuation of his career as a partner at Harley Dingell. At one time in his life that had meant as much to him as the Court did now to the dean, perhaps more. But now? What would it be like to no longer be the “fixer,” the workhorse of the firm? How would that compare to being a law professor, living a quiet life, but one that promised love? He could have that here, but he would never find that in Washington. But it indeed was here. And it could all be his; all he had to do was make one telephone call and give the right answer.

The dean thirsted for the canonization of the black robe, the honor of the position. Pentecost was prepared to sacrifice anything to obtain that recognition. Green smiled at his own reflection. And my own honor, he asked himself silently, what about it? How does one weigh honor in making such a choice? He knew the men in the White House trusted him and trusted his judgment. It really wouldn't make any difference if he was right or wrong, only the future could reveal that, but they did trust him. And if he violated their trust only he would know, no one else. It was like the old philosophy question: Is there a noise in the forest when a tree falls but no ear is present to hear it? Is there honor if no one knows about it? Perhaps a belief in God might make a silent sacrifice worth it, knowing that reward was only deferred. Honor, did it really exist anymore? Had it ever really existed, or was the concept itself a product of romance and not reality?

But there were rules, ethics. A man did not range over the earth alone, he existed with others, and in order to live in any peace at all there had to be rules, codes of conduct. Without guides the world would be nothing but chaos. Did the rules still have to be obeyed, even when no one was looking?

But the man in the mirror just smiled, there were no easy answers coming back from the reflecting glass.

Green shifted his gaze to the window. It was getting late. The sky was darkening. It seemed to get darker so much faster in the midwest. The clouds hung heavily above the earth. They moved slowly, looking more like gray funeral shrouds than condensed atmosphere. That thought matched his mood.

What would he tell them?

He again sought out his own reflection in the mirror. In a way, the man staring back at him seemed like a stranger. Green felt he knew more about the dean than he did about the man he saw in the reflection.

If he hadn't met Regina, if he hadn't rekindled in himself a feeling long dead, he could have been completely objective. So what to tell the White House? The question hung in his consciousness. Did he tell them he had met an old girlfriend and couldn't think straight anymore? It would sound stupid, but it would be an honest answer.

Regina was like a dream. He wondered how much he had created, and how much was actually reality. If they did finally end up with each other, what then? Would the dream continue, the walks in the snow, the closeness, or would the sandpaper of everyday living wear away the gloss until nothing remained except a formal arrangement, a treaty to avoid war, no more. That was what he had now. Would it be different with Regina, or was the whole thing just a dream?

Did he owe a duty to the President? Duty, it was a word of many meanings. They had come to him. No favors had been done for him and none promised, except the use of the special counsel title. In fact, it had been made clear that he could expect no more than the title, and that for a short time. No doors would be opened for him, no special advantage would be given, save the illusion of inferred power. But no real power was given, so what, if any, duty had been created?

Jerry Green nodded to the man in the mirror, as if in salute. In a moment he would pick up the telephone and make a decision that would mold American law for years to come. But he didn't know what to say. The call would affect people and cases for many years to come. He stared at the telephone. Considering the part it was about to play in the country's future, the instrument should be removed after his call, bronzed and placed in a suitable museum. What was about to be done merited that kind of memorial.

No more dreams, that had been his father's last message. So if you didn't believe in dreams, then what? Self-destruction?

He sighed and picked up the telephone.

“Hello, Amos. This is Jerry Green,” he said simply.

“Jesus, it's about time! I not only got the chief of staff on my ass, but the man himself called me in only minutes ago. They're anxious as hell, Jerry. What's the decision?”

Green looked at the man in the mirror.

“You mean on Dean Pentecost?”

“What else? Listen, the man was just saying to me that he hoped you cleared him. Everything has been all wired up and we can expect the nomination to go through smoothly. The man wants to appoint the dean.”

“Then why wait for me? Have him go ahead.”

“Don't go getting sensitive, sport. The man thinks enough of you that he won't make a move until he hears what you have to say. There aren't too many people whom he regards that highly, believe me.”

“Do you want to call me back from your telephone booth?” Green asked.

“No. Piss on it. If someone's tapping, let them tap. Time is running, Jerry. Let's have it; do we go with this guy, or don't we?”

“Do you want details, or just the bottom line?”

“If it was just me, I'd only want the bottom line. But I know the man; he'll want details. I'll make notes, so go ahead.”

“If this is being recorded it could prove embarrassing.”

“Look, I don't give a shit if this is going out via satellite. We have to know on this, and we have to know now!”

“All right. You have the basic facts. Pentecost is intelligent, street smart politically, and he wants the job.”

“Good. But did you pop the big question?”

“On the Electoral College issue? Oh yes. It turns out he's made quite a study of the whole question. He doesn't need the briefs or the arguments to know where he stands.”

“And where's that?”

“He believes the constitutional amendment wasn't properly ratified by the states. He will vote to keep the Electoral College, at least on the basis of this case.”

“Hot shit! That's all we needed. Baby, you did a damn good job,” Amos Deering howled into the telephone.

“Too good.”

“What do you mean?”

“My firm, Harley Dingell, has taken up the appeal in the Marshall antitrust suit. I asked him how he would vote on that. He promised that he would vote to sustain my firm's position.”

“Hey, that's not what you were sent down there for, sport.”

“I know. I asked him about the rational suicide case.”

“What the hell do I care about that?”

“You should.” Green looked at the man in the mirror. “He promised to vote to free the nun.”

“Big deal.”

“It is a big deal, Amos.”

There was a pause. “So what? People are knocking themselves off all over the place without help of medicine. Don't bullshit me, his attitude on the issue doesn't mean a thing.”

“The dean promised to vote for continuation of affirmative action in the police case.”

Again there was a pause. “I don't know where the old man stands on that. It could be an important issue. Still, I think generally he'd like it if all that civil rights crap could be cooled down, at least until after the election.”

“You're missing the point.”

“What do you mean?”

“He promised to uphold the state law making the media liable for stories a jury might consider negligent. He is for a firm stand as far as the press concerned. He believes its been granted far too much freedom, much more than was ever intended by the Constitution.”

“Well, as a former newsman, I think that's a crock, but it could help us during election. Hell, what the Court does won't reflect on us. You know the press is after our ass anyway. I think the old man might just like that.”

“Amos, you're missing the point.”

“Well, goddamn it, if I am, let me know about it!” Deering's voice snapped with irritation.

The man in the mirror smiled; it was a slightly superior smile, not triumphant, just reflecting the pleasure of secret knowledge.

“Your friend Pentecost was willing to go whichever way I indicated.”

“Grow up, Jerry. Of course he was. Damn it, he wants the job. As you say, he probably thought everything you asked was a prerequisite to getting it. You know, that's not exactly unheard of in politics.”

“I didn't get his commitment in writing, that's the problem.”

Deering again paused before speaking. “Have you been drinking?”

Green smiled. “I had one Scotch, that's all. I'm in full possession of my faculties.”

“Then what's this shit about writing?”

Green grinned at the mirror's image. “By the way, he offered me a bribe if I recommended him.”

“What?”

“He said he would make me a full professor here at the law school, for life.”

Deering snorted. “That's a bribe? Shit, you probably make five times the salary. Come on, he probably just liked you.”

This time Green laughed. “No, I'm sure that wasn't the reason.” He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from his own reflected image. “Let me tell you about the dean,” he said, looking at himself. “He's a conniving bastard and smart. He has a good head and he knows people. And he has dreams, Amos.”

“So?”

“I can read the son-of-a-bitch as if I was looking at him right now. He has the dream of being the swing man on the Court, another Brian Howell, only bigger and better. He's a genius at getting publicity, and he knows it. He'll use that skill to carve a new name into the history of the law before he's through.”

“That sounds like a recommendation.”

“That's his dream. And anything that might stand in the way of that dream will be crushed, destroyed.”

“Oh Christ, Jerry, what's the matter with you?”

The image in the mirror seemed somehow indistinct. “He's not honest, damn it.”

“I still think you've been drinking. Look, the President isn't Diogenes, he's not running around looking for an honest man. He just wants a reasonably bright lawyer who can get past the Senate and then sew up the Electoral College thing. Honesty—sure it's nice, Jerry—but it isn't essential.”

“Oh, but it is. I told you I didn't get any of this in writing.”

“Wouldn't be binding, even if you did,” Deering snapped. “You know that.”

“Right. Now listen to me carefully, Amos. This is what I want you to tell the President. Dean Pentecost made the necessary commitment, but it's my judgment that he can't be trusted to carry through on it. He will only if it suits his dream for himself, but he is totally without conscience, so he cannot be trusted ultimately to vote as promised.”

“How can you be sure?”

“He promised anything, everything. It was as if I were inside his head; he never intends any of it. Once he's sworn in, the slate is wiped clean, as far as he's concerned. Integrity, it gets down to that, Amos. The man has all the qualifications, except one; he lacks basic integrity.” Green studied the man in the mirror, whose face was now solemn. “It's an odd twist, Amos, but if he had basic integrity he would have told me, and the President, to go to hell. Politely, but that's what he would have done.”

“And he wouldn't get the job.”

“Pperhaps not. But it's that very lack of integrity that makes his word worthless. He can't be trusted.”

Again there was a pause. “Are you really sure? You're not just pissed off at this guy or something? There's a lot riding on this.”

“I'm sure.” The man in the mirror seemed different, older. “He has dreams, Amos, and that makes him dangerous.”

Deering swore softly. “I'll tell the man, but he won't be happy. He was counting on this guy. The appointment would have looked good and it would have been so easy.”

“He can still appoint him. After all, what I said is only my opinion.”

“No, I know how he feels about this.” Deering's voice reflected his disappointment. “The dean is done for.”

“Who's next in line? Judge O'Malley?”

Deering chuckled, but without humor, He sounded tired. “No. He put on quite a show over Howell's coffin. It was straight out of old-fashioned ward politics, and it should have worked, but you know the boss, he likes everything proper. It really pissed him off. O'Malley is through.”