The Court (7 page)

“We need a man investigated.”

Green frowned. “You have the FBI, what the hell do you need me for?”

“Justice Howell has had a stroke.”

“Is that what happened? The news accounts didn't disclose the illness, they just reported he was in intensive care.”

Deering nodded. “We're trying to control, at least for a, while, what gets out, but it's a stroke.”

“Bad?”

“He's in a coma. The doctors aren't sure. He may die.”

“That's too bad,” Green said.

“You bet your ass, that's too bad. Howell was the Court's swing man. That bitch who was appointed was supposed to be a conservative, but she switched to the liberals as soon as she was sworn in. So the Court went back to four against four, plus Howell. You know, you just can't trust a woman. Anyway, the Court's evenly divided and Howell was flopping back and forth as it suited him.”

“I'm in the law business. I know what was happening.”

“Right. Of course, Howell hadn't been our first choice. You remember the chop job the Senate committee did on our first two nominees?”

“The whole country remembers. Clarence Thomas all over again—twice.”

Deery exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Okay, here's the picture. We have to come up with another nominee, just in case. We have to be ready. There are several big cases coming up for decision and the President wants a man he knows he can count on. You understand? If anything happens to Howell, we'll have to move fast. Congress will adjourn shortly and the Democrats will do everything they can to block any appointment, so we have to make sure we can come up with someone good.”

“Go on,” Green said.

“We wouldn't be meeting here, you and I, unless we had some people in mind, right? You might even be in the running, Jerry, except you're a Reagan graduate. They'd shoot your ass off in the committee on that basis alone.”

“I can live with the disappointment.”

Deering laughed. “Yeah. We have two men set up for consideration. We were ready to go with them last time, in case the committee cut up Howell. Now we have to take another look and decide which man stands the best chance of getting through those long knives up on Capitol Hill. And we have to know we aren't getting a lemon.”

“Who are they?”

“You know one, at least by reputation: O'Malley of the Second Circuit Court of Appeals.”

Green nodded. “A sound lawyer and a good judge, at least from all I've heard.”

“Yeah. But he's a Catholic. That damn broad is a Catholic. It wouldn't look good, at least under these circumstances, to appoint two Catholics in a row. Besides, O'Malley has handled some hot cases over the years. And you can be sure all the losers will troop into the Senate hearings to raise a howl. That's the problem with nominating a sitting judge, he's got a record, and unless the guy's a wire walker he's probably made some controversial decisions. Of course, O'Malley's personal life is clean. He's been in public life for a long time, so at least everything in that area is known, or so we hope.”

“Who's the other candidate?”

Deering drew deeply on his cigar, then flicked the ash into his dish. “Ah, that's where the mystery comes in. He's dean of a law school. He worked for the President when he was trying for the nomination. The President likes him. And those are pretty good cards for openers.”

“What's the problem then?”

“In a way there isn't any problem. He hasn't decided any cases, so nobody is sore at him. He hasn't taken any controversial public stands. He wrote a book on constitutional law, but it's harmless; just a recap of a high school civics course, only in fancier language.” Deering sighed. “We had the FBI do the usual check. But you know how they do those things. They talk to a few coworkers, a neighbor or two, run his fingerprints, and that's that. They don't really dig down. The report says he's great, but for all we know the guy might be a pervert or a spy. We really know very little about the real man.”

“What do you want from me?”

Deering again grew very serious. “Jerry, we want to know what makes this guy tick. We don't want any surprises like that damn woman. The President wants to know what he can expect. And he thinks you're the man who can do it. Anyway, it'll give you a chance to go home again. You know, renew old acquaintances and all that.”

Green was startled.

“The guy's name is Roy Pentecost. Dean of the law school at Michigan State University. Isn't that where you come from, Lansing, Michigan?”

Green nodded slowly, experiencing a rush of conflicting discomforting emotions. “Yes. The university is in East Lansing, but it's all part of.…”

“And it's also the state capital, right?”

“Yes.”

“When can you leave?” Deering asked. “Time is of the essence.”

Green didn't reply at once. He felt a sense of panic. It was not unlike the sensation aboard a roller coaster as it chugged to a towering summit; that breathless moment when the car is about to scream down the plunging track. It was fear. But the advantages of the White House offer outweighed any reservations about returning home, no matter how strong. “I'll have to check with the other partners. I have to get their approval. I'll call you this afternoon.”

Deering looked at his watch. “Oh, Christ, I have to run. Listen, Jerry, here's my card. Call as soon as possible, okay? The President is really anxious about this.”

Green looked at the card. “And if I pass this guy?”

Deering grinned as he stood up. “He'll probably end up on the Supreme Court.”

“And his vote will probably decide the law, at least in many cases,” Green said, almost to himself.

“Ah, just think of the power, Jerry. You're going to be like the recording angel. It will be up to you whether this guy gets into heaven or not.”

“And what kind of man he is will determine what kind of heaven it will be,” Green said, looking up.

Deering laughed, then hurried out of the cafeteria. Green didn't follow. He just sat quietly for a moment. He wasn't thinking of the Supreme Court, or of the importance of what he had to do. He was thinking of Lansing. It was home, but he felt a terrible sense of dread.

*   *   *

“Hey, Ben, do you have time for a quick cup of coffee?” Floyd Grant stood in the doorway, looking around at the cluttered cubicle. Grant was the Chief Justice's senior clerk. The Court staff always referred to him as “the messenger from God.”

Ben Alexander looked up from his work. “I'm up to my armpits, Floyd. With my boss sick, I don't know exactly what to key on, so I'm trying to do it all.”

Floyd Grant eased past a stack of open law books and cleared off a chair, carefully preserving the order of the papers he displaced. “Actually, I don't think I could stand another cup of coffee. I've been appointed as a committee of one to talk to you. The coffee was merely a civilized excuse.”

Alexander put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. “Shoot.”

Grant grinned. “You're new, Ben. You have to learn to horse around before you get to the point. It's expected. We should talk about each other's golf first, or racketball; maybe discuss our future plans. You see, we should talk about our families, old school chums, or anything but the thing in point. Finally, once these tribal preliminaries are over, it's only then that we carefully start to approach the real issue. That's how it's done here in the Supreme Court.”

Alexander shrugged. “Okay. I don't have time for golf anymore. Anyway, I was never very good. When I leave here next year I hope to go with a big New York law firm as an associate. As a former Supreme Court clerk, I expect to make partner quickly. If all goes well, I should be a millionaire before I hit forty. I hope to meet and marry a beautiful girl whose father owns a giant conglomerate. If I don't make it in the law business, I expect my father-in-law to take care of me. Does that sufficiently meet the qualifications for small talk?”

“Any of it true?”

“No. Except the golf. I'm a lousy golfer.”

Grant nodded wisely. “As long as you avoid the truth, you'll do very well here, Ben. You'll fit into the big picture, as the Chief likes to say.”

“Good. Now what's up?” Alexander asked.

“Racketball is my game,” Grant replied, smiling. “I plan to leave here and accept an associate professorship at Stanford. From there, God willing, I'll end up one day back at Harvard. I will write
Grant on Evidence
and be quoted by every good law journal in the country. Predictably, I will teach thousands how to try a case without ever once stepping into a courtroom myself. And when you are divorced by that beautiful conglomerate heiress, I will marry her, and let her old man take care of me.”

“I hope all this satisfies your preliminaries, Floyd. I have work to do.”

Grant nodded. “Has to be done. It's all part of the mystique of being a clerk to the greatest legal minds in the land.”

“Greatest?”

“Bite your tongue, Alexander. Men have died for even thinking such thoughts.”

“Look, Floyd, I really am up to my ass in work.…”

“Obviously a Yale man.”

“Pardon me?”

“We never say ‘ass' at Harvard. Columbia people do it, and obviously Yale, but never Harvard. Unless, of course, we are speaking about the animal so named.”

“Look.…”

Floyd Grant grinned and held up his hands in surrender. “All right, Ben. If you insist, I'll almost come to the point. What's the word on your justice?”

Alexander instinctively became defensive. “I only know what you already know. He's had a stroke. He's still in a coma. The doctors, at least according to his wife, aren't able to predict what may happen. He could recover completely, he could be a cripple, or he could die. They just don't know at this time.”

“The Chief went to see him in the hospital,” Grant said. “The Chief reports he looks fine, has good color, and regular breathing, just as if he were sleeping. Only he can't wake up.”

Alexander nodded. He too had seen his boss, and the description was accurate.

“He may never come back to the Court,” Grant said.

“That's a possibility.”

Floyd Grant had lost all hint of playfulness. He had become very businesslike. “And if he does come back, he may be severely impaired.”

“That's another possibility.”

“Ben, the newest lady member of this Court is complaining that she doesn't have enough staff to handle her work.”

“So?”

“She's putting a lot of pressure on the Chief to have Justice Howell's staff, or at least part of it, assigned to her.” Grant took out a pipe. “Mind?”

Alexander shook his head.

Grant lit the pipe, sending up clouds of gray smoke. “They say she's very tough to work for.”

“I've heard that.”

“The Chief doesn't like to bow to pressure, but she does have an argument, seeing as how your boss is out of commission.”

Ben Alexander sensed an invisible cord tightening about him. The woman justice was the terror of the Court. Her clerks were treated badly, overworked, and humiliated. She was following in the footsteps of several distinguished previous justices who had established historic reputations as petty tyrants. He did not want to be assigned to her.

“Of course,” Grant continued, “the Chief pointed out that Justice Howell's work continued even if he wasn't physically present. But you know women, Ben, logic seldom works. At least it doesn't on this woman.”

“So I'm to be assigned to her?”

Grant puffed on his pipe. “Well, you are Howell's leading clerk. Of course, there are others. I'll tell you what's in the Chief's mind, then you can see our quandary.”

Alexander knew it was the Chief Justice talking. Grant was only a conduit. The Chief Justice of the United States would never sink so low as to bargain with a mere law clerk. He used other means, quite as effective, if not as direct. And the Chief Justice knew very well when to use the stick and when to use the carrot. Assignment to the woman justice was the stick. Ben Alexander sat back and waited for the carrot.

“As you well know, there are some very hot cases coming up this next term. The Chief has taken an informal poll. He can be very effective, in his own way. The Court will be evenly divided on most of the important issues. If your boss were here he would constitute the swing vote again.”

“He has that reputation,” Alexander said, carefully choosing his words.

“Yes. Well, if he isn't able to make it back, the lower court decisions will stand. That is, of course, unless someone changes his or her vote. But that isn't likely. The Chief is hoping your boss will be able to make it back, at least physically.”

“Physically?”

“Strokes are funny things, Ben. The effects can't be predicted. Remember, Justice Douglas spent many of his last days here in a wheelchair. At that time there was some question about his mental abilities.”

“So you want me to influence Justice Howell if he comes back impaired, is that it?”

“How harsh and illegal you make it sound, Ben. I'm surprised. You aren't being invited into any grand conspiracy, if that's what you mean. But the work of the Court must go on. If, God willing, Howell makes a complete recovery, he will have the energy and ability to do the work and make the necessary decisions. However, if he doesn't, he'll need help. That's all I'm saying.”

Ben Alexander leaned forward. “That's not what you're saying. You're threatening to reassign me unless I play ball with you. You want me to influence Howell if he does come back and isn't fully capable of making his own decisions. You know, Grant, that really stinks.”

Floyd Grant's expression revealed no reaction as he quietly drew upon his pipe. “I'm leaving at the end of this year, Ben. The Chief is on the lookout for a chief clerk. You know what that means. The position is quite a springboard. I wasn't kidding about Stanford and then Harvard for myself. That's almost guaranteed. And only because I have served as the head clerk to the Chief Justice of the United States.”