The Tenth Justice Read online

  “No, I think my dad’s pretty much narrowed it down to my mom.”

  “Funny.”

  “I live with my three best friends from high school.”

  “You ever been in love?”

  “You ever been called intrusive?”

  “Just answer the question,” Lisa said.

  “Only once, though I’m not sure I can call it love. After law school, I took a two-month trip around the world—Europe and Asia, Bangkok and Bali, Spain and Switzerland, everything I could see.”

  “I take it you like to travel.”

  “Very much. Anyway, in Spain, I met this woman named Jacqueline Ambrosio.”

  “How exotic. Was she a native?”

  “Nope. She was a marketing consultant from Rhode Island. She was starting her travels in Spain, and I was at the end of my trip. We met in Salamanca, took a weekend trip to that beautiful little island, Majorca, and parted ways five days after we met.”

  “Please, you’re breaking my heart,” Lisa moaned. “And let me guess, you lost her address, could never find her again, and to this day, your heart aches for her.”

  “Actually, on my last day there, she told me she was married, and that she’d had a great time revisiting the single life. Apparently, her husband was flying in the next day.”

  Lisa paused a moment, then asked, “Is that story bullshit?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Wasn’t she wearing a wedding ring?”

  “Not when we were together.”

  “Well, then, it’s a good story. But it definitely wasn’t love.”

  “I never said it was,” Ben said with a smile. “How about you? What’s your story? Just the juicy stuff.”

  Lisa swung her feet up onto the red sofa. “I’m from Los Angeles, and I hate it there. I think it’s the toilet of the great Western restroom. I went to Stanford undergrad and Stanford Law only because I enjoy being near my family.”

  “Boorrrrrrrring!” Ben sang.

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. My dad is originally from L.A.; my mom’s from Memphis. They met, and I swear this is true, at an Elvis convention in Las Vegas. They collect Elvis everything—plates, towels, napkin holders, we even have an Elvis Pez dispenser.”

  “They have Elvis Pez heads?”

  “Some lunatic collector in Alabama put sideburns on a Fred Flintstone Pez, filed down the nose, and painted on sunglasses. My parents went nuts and paid two hundred bucks for it. Don’t ask; they’re total freaks.”

  “I don’t suppose your middle name is…”

  “You got it. Lisa Marie Schulman.”

  “That’s fantastic,” Ben said, impressed. “I’ve always wanted to scar my kids with a really funny name, like Thor or Ira.”

  “I highly recommend it. Being taunted throughout childhood is great for your self-esteem.”

  “Let me ask you this,” Ben said. “Do you twirl spaghetti?”

  Lisa raised one eyebrow, confused.

  “I think there are two kinds of people in this world,” Ben explained, “people who twirl spaghetti on their fork to make manageable bites, and those who slurp it up, getting it all over themselves. Which are you?”

  “I slurp,” Lisa said with a smile. “And when I was little, I didn’t eat anything white, so my mom had to dye my milk and my eggs with food coloring.”

  “What?” Ben asked, laughing.

  “I’m serious. I used to hate the color white, so she used to make my milk purple and my eggs red. It was tons of fun.”

  “You used to cut the hair off your Barbie dolls, didn’t you?”

  “As soon as I pulled them out of the box,” Lisa said proudly. “The little bitches asked for it.”

  “Oh, I can see it now,” Ben laughed. “We’re gonna get along great.”

  After a ten-minute Metro ride to Dupont Circle, Ben climbed one of Washington’s many oversized escalators and headed home. A block from the subway, he spotted Tough Guy Joey, the neighborhood’s angriest street person. “Hey, Joey,” Ben said.

  “Screw you,” Joey snapped. “Bite me.”

  “Here’s some dinner,” Ben said, handing Joey the turkey sandwich he had brought to work. “Lucky me, they feed you on the first day.”

  “Thanks, man,” Joey said, grabbing the sandwich. “Drop dead. Eat shit.”

  “You got it,” Ben said. Passing the worn but cozy brownstones that lined almost every block of his neighborhood, Ben watched the legion of young professionals rush home to dinner down Dupont Circle’s tree-lined streets. Almost home, Ben inhaled deeply, indulging in the whiff of home cooking that always flowed from the red-brick house on the corner of his block. Ben’s own house was a narrow, uninspired brownstone with a faded beige awning and a forty-eight-starred American flag. Although it was August, the front door was still covered with Halloween decorations. Ben’s roommate Ober was quite proud of his decorating and had refused to take them down before they got another year’s use out of them. When Ben finally walked through the door, Ober and Nathan were cooking dinner.

  “How was it?” Ober asked. “Did you sue anybody?”

  “It was great,” Ben said. He dropped his briefcase by the closet and undid his tie. “The justice is away for the next two weeks, so my co-clerk and I just worked through some introductory stuff.”

  “Your co-clerk—what’s he like?” Ober asked, adding pasta to his boiling water.

  “She’s a woman.”

  “What’s she look like? Is she hot?”

  “She’s pretty cute,” Ben said. “She’s spunky, very straightforward. There’s no sense of bullshit about her. She’s got nice eyes, pretty short hair…”

  “She’s a lesbian,” Ober declared. “No question about it.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Nathan asked as Ben shook his head.

  “Short hair and straightforward?” Ober scoffed. “And you think she’s not a lesbo?”

  “She did offer to fix my car today,” Ben added.

  “See,” Ober said, pointing to Ben. “She just met him and she’s already strapping on the tool belt.”

  Ignoring his roommate, Ben opened the refrigerator. “What’re you guys making?”

  “Anita Bryant is boiling the pasta, and I’m making my stinking garlic sauce,” Nathan said. His square shoulders didn’t budge as he moved the large pot of spaghetti to the back burner of the stove. Military in his posture, Nathan was still wearing his tie even though he had been home for a half hour. “Throw some more pasta in—there’s only twenty boxes in the cabinet.” Carefully, he moved his sauce pan to the front burner. “So tell us how it was? What’d you do all day?”

  “Until the Court officially opens, we spend most of our day writing memos for cert petitions,” Ben explained. Looking to make sure his friends were still interested in the explanation, he continued, “Every day, the Court is flooded with petitions seeking certiorari, or ‘cert.’ When four justices grant cert, it means the Court will hear the case. To save time, we read through the cert petitions, put them into a standard memo format, and recommend whether the justice should grant or deny cert.”

  “So depending on how you write your memo, you can really affect whether the Court decides to hear a case,” Nathan reasoned.

  “You can say that, but I think that might be overstating our power,” Ben said, dipping his finger into the sauce for a taste. “Every other chamber also gets to see the memo, so you’re kept in check by that. So let’s say an important case comes through that would really limit abortion rights. If I slant the memo and recommend that Justice Hollis deny cert, all the conservative justices would go screaming to Hollis, and I’d look like a fool.”

  “But I’m sure on a marginal case, no one will really notice—especially if you’re the only one who reads the original petition,” Nathan said.

  “I don’t know,” Ben said, shaking his head and leaning against the counter. “I think your Napoleonic side is showing tonight. This is the Supreme Court. There’s a fierce code o
f ethics that goes along with it.”

  “I still can’t believe you’re clerking for the Supreme Court,” Ober said as he peeled garlic over the sink. “The Supreme-fucking-Court! I’m answering phones, and you’re hanging out at the Supreme Court.”

  “I guess you didn’t get your promotion,” Ben said.

  “They completely dicked me over,” Ober said quietly. With two dimples that punctuated his pale cheeks and light freckles that dotted his nose, Ober was the only one of Ben’s roommates who still looked like he was in college. “The whole reason I went to Senator Steven’s office was because they said I’d only answer phones for a few weeks. That was five months ago.”

  “Did you confront them?” Ben asked.

  “I tried everything you said,” Ober explained. “I just can’t be as aggressive as you are.”

  “Did you at least threaten to quit?” Ben asked.

  “I kinda hinted at it.”

  “Hinted at it?” Ben asked. “What’d they say?”

  “They said they’re sorry to hold me up, but they’re gearing up for an election year. Plus, there are at least a hundred people who would take the job in a heartbeat. I think I might have to urinate on the personnel manager’s desk.”

  “Now that’s a good idea,” Nathan said. “Urination is a solid response for a twenty-eight-year-old. I’ve always heard it’s the best path to a promotion.”

  “You have to be more forceful,” Ben said. “You have to make them think losing you would be the end of the world.”

  “And how do I do that?”

  “You have to present the total package,” Ben explained. Noticing Ober’s white oxford shirt, he added, “And you have to dress the part. I told you before—don’t wear that shirt. With your freckles and that blond hair, you look like a total kid.”

  “Then what am I supposed—”

  “Here.” Ben took off his jacket and handed it to Ober. When Ober put it on, Ben said, “That fits you pretty well. I want you to wear my suit and tie. It’s a good make-an-impression suit. Tomorrow morning, you’ll go back into work and ask again.”

  “I can’t ask again,” Ober said.

  “Maybe you can write them a letter,” Nathan suggested to Ober. “That way you don’t have to do it face-to-face.”

  “Absolutely,” Ben said. “If you want, I’ll draft it with you. Between the three of us, you’ll have a new job in no time.”

  “I don’t know,” Ober said. Taking off the jacket, he handed it back to Ben. “Maybe we should just forget about it.”

  “Don’t get frustrated,” Ben said. “We’ll get you through it.”

  “Why don’t you tell Ben your scratch-off story,” Nathan said, hoping to change the subject.

  “Oh, my God, I almost forgot! I’ll be right back.” Ober ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

  “We’ve really got to help him,” Ben said.

  “I know,” Nathan said. “Just let him tell his story—it’ll put him in a good mood.”

  “Let me guess. Does it have anything to do with the lottery?”

  “P. T. Barnum would’ve loved him like a son.”

  “How can he be so addicted?”

  “I don’t know why you’re surprised,” Nathan said. “You were in Europe for six weeks. Did you really expect the world to change while you were gone? Some things are immutable.”

  “What took you so long?” Ben asked when Ober returned.

  “You’ll see,” Ober began, his hands hidden behind his back. “So there I am, walking home from work in a pissy mood. Suddenly, I see a new poster in the window of Paul’s Grocery: WE GOT LOTTERY!”

  “Grammar is everything at Paul’s,” Nathan interrupted.

  Undeterred, Ober continued, “First I bought a scratch-off. I scratch it and I win a dollar, so I buy another ticket. Then I win two dollars!” His voice picked up speed. “Now I know I can’t lose. So I get two more tickets and I lose on one and win another dollar on the second.”

  “This is where normal people stop,” Nathan interrupted.

  “So I get this last ticket!” Ober continued. “And I scratch it off, and I win three bucks, which I use to buy Snickers bars for all of us!” From behind his back, he threw Snickers at Ben and Nathan.

  “Unreal,” Nathan said as he opened his candy. “Do you realize that you jumped through every hoop that the lottery commission set up for you?”

  “Who cares?” Ober asked. He swallowed a huge piece of his candy bar. “I haven’t had a Snickers in months. I figured it’d be a nice way to celebrate Ben’s first day of work.”

  A half hour later, the three friends were seated at the kitchen table. “Honeys, I’m home!” Eric announced as he kicked open the front door.

  “Can he have worse timing?” Nathan put down his fork as Ben and Ober headed toward the living room.

  “The good son has returned!” Eric announced as soon as he saw Ben.

  “It’s about time,” Ben said. “I thought you ran away.”

  With a half-eaten sandwich in hand, Eric embraced his roommate. Wearing an unironed button-down and creased khakis, Eric was the sloppiest of the four. His thick black hair was never combed, and his face was rarely shaven. The darkness of his sparse beard was heightened by his bushy black eyebrows. Only a few millimeters from touching, they created the perception of a constantly furrowed brow. “Sorry about that,” Eric said. “I’ve had a deadline every night this week.”

  “Every night?” Ben asked, confused. “For a monthly?”

  “He doesn’t know about your job,” Nathan said, walking into the living room. “Remember? He hasn’t been here for six weeks.”

  “No more Washington Life magazine?” Ben asked.

  “No, sir,” Eric said. He scratched his head with vigorous pride. “Just when I thought I was going to spend the rest of my journalistic career covering local antique shows and the best new restaurants, I get a call from the Washington Herald. They had a staff writer opening in the political bureau. I started two weeks ago.”

  “You’re working for a bunch of right-wingers?” Ben asked.

  “Hey, it may be this city’s secondary paper, but it’s got circulation of eighty thousand, and they’re all mine!”

  “That’s fantastic.” Ben slapped his friend on the back.

  “And by the way,” Eric said to Ober, “guess what they’re putting on the crossword page?”

  “Don’t toy with me…a word jumble?” Ober said, grabbing Eric by the front of his shirt.

  “WORD JUMBLE!” Eric screamed. “Starting next month!”

  “WORD JUMBLE!” Ober repeated.

  “JUM-BLE! JUM-BLE! JUM-BLE!” the two friends chanted.

  “Ah, what entertains the ignorant,” Nathan said, putting his arm around Ben’s shoulder.

  “I have to admit, I really missed this,” Ben said.

  “They don’t have simpletons in Europe anymore?” Nathan asked.

  “Funny,” Ben said as he turned back to his jumble-obsessed roommates. “Hey, wonder twins, how about getting back to dinner?”

  “I can’t,” Eric said. Taking another bite of his sandwich, he explained, “This is dinner for me. Tomorrow’s edition beckons.”

  Later that evening, Nathan walked into Ben’s room, which was arguably the best-decorated room in the house. With his antique oak desk, oak four-poster bed, and oak bookcase, Ben was the only one of the four roommates to actually care about matching anything. Nathan had once thought about working on his room, but he reconsidered when he realized he was doing it just because Ben had done it. Three professionally framed black-and-white pictures hung on the wall over Ben’s bed: one of a half-completed Washington Monument, one of a half-completed Eiffel Tower, and one of a half-completed Statue of Liberty. Ben was a pack rat when it came to memorabilia. On his bookshelf were, among other things, the keys to his first car, a personalized belt buckle his grandfather had given him when he was nine years old, the hairnet Ober used to wear when he worked at Burg
er Heaven, the hideous tie Nathan had worn to his first day of work, the visitor’s pass he’d been given when he interviewed with Justice Hollis, and his favorite—the gavel Judge Stanley had given him when his clerkship ended.

  “Still catching up on your mail?” Nathan asked, noticing the stack of envelopes Ben was flipping through.

  “It’s amazing to see how much junk mail one person can amass in a six-week period,” Ben said. “I’ve gotten three sweepstakes offers, about fifty catalogs, a dozen magazine offers, and remember last year when Ober was watching Miss Teen USA and he called the eight hundred number to order us applications? I’m still on their mailing list. Listen to this: ‘Dear Ben Addison. Are you the next Miss Teen USA? Only the judges know for sure, but you can let the world know about your participation by ordering from our selection of Official Miss Teen USA products.’” Looking up from the letter, Ben added, “I think I’m going to order Ober a Miss Teen USA sports bra. Once he’s on their mailing list as a buyer, he’ll never get off.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” Nathan said, sitting down on Ben’s bed.

  “So, tell me, what else is going on around here?” Ben said, throwing aside the letter.

  “Honestly, nothing is different. Eric’s around less because he’s always on deadline.”

  “I guess he still hasn’t done the deed?”

  “Nope, our fourth roommate still remains a virgin. And he still contends it’s by choice—waiting until marriage and all that.”

  “I guess Ober’s still riding him about it?” Ben asked, knowing the answer.

  “He’s been riding him since eleventh grade,” Nathan said. He smoothed back his red hair, which he wore cropped short to disguise his receding hairline. Nathan was the first of the roommates to start losing his hair and if he was in the room, baldness and hairstyles were forbidden subjects. Extremely competitive, he didn’t like to lose at anything, and to him, his retreating hairline undermined his entire appearance, eclipsing everything from his determined posture to his angular jaw.

  “And this new job at the Herald? It seems like Eric’s really happy with it.”

  “Are you kidding?” Nathan asked. “Eric’s been flying since he got this position. He thinks he’s king of the world.”