The Tenth Justice Page 35

  “You have a half hour.”

  “I won’t be here in a half hour. I’ll be at lunch with Osterman.”

  “I’ll call you back at exactly two o’clock,” Rick said. “At that time, I want an answer. Obviously, from my recent mailing, I’m sure you understand the consequences.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ben said. “What about—”

  “There’s nothing else to talk about,” Rick said. “Good-bye.”

  “What’d he say?” Lisa asked as Ben hung up.

  “I have to go,” Ben said, looking at his watch. “I’m late for Osterman.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Lisa said.

  Ignoring her, Ben left the office and ran down the stairs to Osterman’s office on the first floor.

  “You’re two minutes late,” the secretary said. “Expect him to mention it.”

  “Great.” Ben walked into Osterman’s office, the largest in the Court. Across the sea of burgundy carpeting, Osterman was seated at his desk, which was a perfect replica of the one used by John Jay, the first Chief Justice. In an ornate gold frame on the desk was Oliver Wendell Holmes’s 1913 description of the Court: “We are very quiet there, but it is the quiet of a storm centre….” In no mood to acknowledge the accuracy of the quotation, Ben stood in front of the desk and waited for the Chief Justice to look up from his stack of papers.

  After waiting almost a minute, Ben cleared his throat.

  Osterman abruptly looked up at his guest. “You’re late. Now give me a moment.” Small and lanky, Samuel Osterman had thick glasses and a thin comb-over of black hair. At fifty-nine, he was one of the youngest Chief Justices in history, but his poor selections in eyewear and hairstyle made him look old beyond his years. Looking back up at Ben, he said, “Rather than facing the weather outside, I’ve asked that our food be delivered to us.” He pointed to the antique table on the right side of the room. “I figured we’d eat up here.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Ben said.

  “Sit, please.”

  “Thank you,” Ben said, easing himself into the leather chair opposite Osterman’s desk.

  “Columbia, Yale Law, and some time with Judge Stanley,” Osterman said, recalling the facts from memory. “So how has your term been so far?”

  “Very enjoyable,” Ben said.

  “Nervous about something?” Osterman asked, pointing to Ben’s foot, which was tapping against the carpet.

  “No,” Ben said as he stopped tapping. “Just a bad habit. How was your vacation?”

  “It was fine. And yours?”

  “Wonderful,” Ben said dryly.

  “Tell me,” Osterman said, “any new cert petitions come through that sound worthwhile?”

  “Actually, there’s one that challenges the president’s new farm subsidy program. It seems intriguing.”

  “Farmers are Jeffersonian reactionaries who haven’t had a progressive thought in their lives,” Osterman said.

  “That’s one way to look at it,” Ben said, surprised by Osterman’s reaction. “But don’t you feel that—”

  “Ben, don’t feel. Law is not about feeling. If you learn one thing during your time with the Court, you should learn that life is a tragedy for those who feel and a comedy for those who think.”

  “And it’s a musical for those who sing,” Ben offered. When he saw Osterman’s eyebrows lower behind the rim of his eyeglasses, Ben quickly added, “I know what you mean, though.”

  Before Osterman could say another word, the office door opened, and his secretary walked in. “Lunchtime.”

  An hour later, Ben returned to his office. “Finally,” Lisa said. “Tell me—what’d Rick say? What’d he want? How was lunch?”

  “Taking the easiest question first, I’d say lunch was a complete disaster,” he said, collapsing on the sofa. “And y’know how everyone says Osterman has Coke-bottle glasses? He doesn’t. He has bank-teller windows attached to his face.”

  “Forget about him,” Lisa said. She had picked up a huge salad from the deli and was eating it at her desk. “What happened with Rick?”

  “Oh, yes, asshole number two. He wants American Steel.”

  “But that comes down Monday,” Lisa said. “It’s already Friday.”

  “I assume that’s the point,” Ben said, slumping on the sofa. “I’m sure the last thing Rick wants is to have us try to scheme around him.”

  “Do you think everything will be ready?” Lisa asked through a mouthful of greens.

  Ben paused. “I honestly have no idea.”

  “What do you mean, you have no idea?”

  “I have no idea,” Ben said, raising his voice. “I have no idea where the marshals are; I have no idea if they’re doing anything right; I don’t even know if they’re on my side anymore. For all we know, they could be the ones working with Rick.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “How is that bullshit?” Ben asked defensively. “They promised to contact me, but I haven’t heard from them in a week. Rick is demanding a brand-new case, and he wants it two days earlier than we can give it to him. He has information that’ll get my friends fired and put us all in jail. I’ll be disbarred, and every single thing we’ve worked for will be gone. If the plan doesn’t work out perfectly, I face those consequences. Now where’s the bullshit part?”

  “It can still work out perfectly.”

  “It’s already screwed up. Involving my roommates makes the whole thing a mess.”

  “I don’t want to have this argument. It can still work out. Now what else did Rick say?”

  Ben looked at his watch. “He should be calling back any minute. That’s when I have to tell him whether I’ll hand over the decision.”

  “Was he adamant about getting it tonight?”

  “He seemed to be.”

  “Try and stall until Sunday. That way we can contact—” There was a knock at the office door.

  “Come in,” Ben yelled. Nancy stepped into the room.

  “And how are you two doing today?” Nancy asked, carrying a small pile of books and papers. “Don’t you look tired,” she said to Ben as she handed Lisa a thin manila folder.

  “Are these the corrections for the commercial speech dissent?” Lisa wiped the salad dressing off her hands with a napkin before she picked up the folder.

  “You got it,” Nancy said. Walking past Ben’s and Lisa’s desks, she approached the back wall of the office and straightened the framed picture of the justices. She then turned toward Ben, who was still stretched out on the sofa. “Have you been getting enough sleep?”

  “Oh, yeah. I got a full hour last night.”

  “You really should take a day off,” Nancy said. “Every year I watch the clerks here kill themselves. It’s just not worth it.”

  “I know…” Ben began. His phone started ringing. He jumped from the sofa and put his hand on the receiver.

  “Thanks for the delivery. I’ll give you the rewrite before the end of the day,” Lisa said to Nancy.

  “Take your time. He doesn’t expect it until Monday,” Nancy said, leaning on Lisa’s desk. “So do you have any interesting plans for the weekend, or are you working?”

  Convinced that Nancy was not leaving the office anytime soon, Ben reluctantly picked up the phone. “Justice Hollis’s chambers,” he said. “This is Ben.”

  “Are you ready to deliver?” Rick asked.

  “Hey, how are you doing?” Ben said, as he struggled to sound as cheerful as possible.

  “I’m not joking anymore.”

  “I’m fine,” Ben forced a laugh. “I’m just visiting with some colleagues.”

  “What’s your answer?” Rick asked.

  Ben turned his chair away from Lisa and Nancy. “I need more time.”

  “This isn’t Grinnell. You don’t need more time.”

  “I do,” Ben said. “It’s not done yet.”

  “Don’t bullshit me,” Rick warned. “I know that decision is finished.”

  “I swea
r—” Ben began.

  Rick hung up.

  “Hello? Are you there?” Replacing the receiver, Ben turned around and faced Lisa and Nancy, who were staring at him.

  “Is everything okay?” Nancy asked.

  “Yeah. Fine,” Ben said nonchalantly. “I got disconnected.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nancy said. “They’ll call back.” Walking to the door, she added, “Lisa, I’m serious about the corrections. I can tell Hollis won’t look at it until Monday.”

  “Thanks,” Lisa said as Nancy left the room. As soon as the door closed, Lisa looked back at Ben. “What’d he say?”

  “The son-of-a-bitch hung up on me!” Ben said. “He asked for the decision, I tried to stall, and he hung up. I don’t believe it.” Ben and Lisa waited for the phone to ring again. After a full minute, Ben said, “He’s not calling back. What the hell is going on?”

  “He’s just trying to make you crazy,” Lisa said.

  “It’s working,” Ben said. “What should I do?”

  “Relax. I’m sure he’ll call back.”

  “He’s not calling back. What the hell is going on?”

  “He’s just trying to make you crazy.”

  “It’s working. What should I do?”

  “Relax. I’m sure he’ll call back.”

  Smiling as he paced across Lungen’s office, Fisk was thrilled that the microphone was finally working. “I don’t know what they’re up to, but there’s no way this kid is innocent.”

  Lungen’s eyes were focused on the small charcoal-gray speaker on his desk. “I don’t know,” he said. “Whoever this Rick is, he’s got Ben terrified. It sounds like he’s being blackmailed.”

  “Blackmailed or not, he broke the law.”

  “We don’t know that,” Lungen said. “I still think we’re missing half the story.”

  “You must be kidding,” Fisk said as he stopped pacing. “Within the first five minutes we put this thing on, we hear them talking about leaking a decision to an outside party.”

  “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  “Who needs to jump? The answer is staring us in the face. Regardless of how they got involved, these two are up to no good.”

  “The microphone was just installed last night. It took us until lunch to finally get it working, and we’ve heard a total of five minutes of conversation. All I’m saying is that we should give it a bit more time. I want all the facts before we run in with guns blazing.”

  “Trust me, we’ll get the facts,” Fisk said as he turned up the volume on the speaker. “The way these two are talking, by next week, Justice Hollis will be interviewing new clerks.”

  “That’s it,” Rick said, slapping shut his cellular phone. “I’ve had enough of his shit.” He opened the passenger-side door and got out of the car.

  Getting out of the driver’s side, Richard Claremont, American Steel’s executive vice president of marketing, asked, “What’d he say?”

  Slamming the car door shut, Rick looked up the block, where he had a perfect view of the Court. “He was trying to stall.” Unfazed by the frigid wind that whipped down First Street, Rick didn’t even button his overcoat. “He sounded nervous, but he was definitely trying to stall.”

  “He should be nervous. From everything you’ve said, it sounds like his life is ruined.”

  “I don’t want him to be scared, though,” Rick explained, approaching the Court. “If he’s scared, he’ll go to the authorities. But if he still thinks he has a chance of catching me, we have a better chance of getting the decision.”

  “So you think he may still go to the police?” Claremont asked.

  “Actually, no,” Rick said, watching a busload of bundled-up tourists snap pictures of the nation’s highest tribunal. “Ben’s too concerned about his résumé to do that. That’s the reason I picked him in the first place. He’s got a great deal to lose.”

  “Then why didn’t you pick Lisa? From your file on her, she’s got a similar background.”

  “Ben’s a much better mark. Between the two, Lisa’s smarter. She never would’ve given up the original decision. Ben’s more anxious to please. I knew he’d bite.”

  “If you say so,” Claremont said. “Though it sounds like he hasn’t been as predictable as you’d hoped.”

  “He’s had his moments,” Rick said. “But this week has really worn him down. He’s exhausted.” Rick reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Besides, he’s about to realize that this is no game.”

  Even two-dimensional, you look good, Ober thought as he admired the most recent photocopy of his face. Sitting at his government-issue desk, he pulled open the bottom-left drawer, removed a thick file folder and added that day’s photocopy to the three hundred and twenty-six other photocopies already in the folder. Every day, Ober placed his face on the photocopier and posed for the world’s quickest portrait in an attempt to create a photo album unlike any other. After writing the date on his newest copy, he placed it in the folder with the others. As he returned the file to its drawer, he saw Marcia Sturgis, the staff director for Senator Stevens, standing in the doorway of his office.

  “Ober, can I see you in my office?” Marcia asked abruptly. A Capitol Hill veteran, Marcia had started as a receptionist for Senator Edward Kennedy soon after she had graduated from college, then spent almost twenty years working her way through the bureaucratic ranks. In her view, the years of toiling in obscurity were well worth it—she was currently the most important member of Senator Stevens’s staff. With a workday that began at six in the morning and ended at eleven at night, Marcia controlled most of what the senator saw and heard. She attended committee meetings, organized floor appearances, and edited the senator’s speeches and press releases. She was also responsible for the most important decisions affecting the senator’s staff.

  Following Marcia to her office, Ober tried to guess what he had done wrong this time. Since his promotion to administrative assistant, visits to Marcia’s office had become commonplace. There was one when his reply letter to an irate constituent simply said, “Relax.” There was another when he misspelled Mrs. Stevens’s name on a letter to another senator. And there was another when Marcia caught him making prank calls to Republican staffers, telling them to “Give up.”

  As he stepped into Marcia’s office, Ober noticed the stiff-shouldered stranger sitting in one of the chairs facing Marcia’s desk. When he saw the solemn look on the man’s face, Ober knew this visit wasn’t about the coffee he had spilled on Marcia’s computer.

  “Take a seat,” Marcia said, pointing to the empty seat next to the stranger. “This is Victor Langdon, from the FBI.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Ober said, extending his hand.

  “Can we get to the point?” Victor asked.

  Marcia’s eyes were focused on Ober. “I wanted to tell you about an anonymous fax I got a few hours ago,” she explained. “It said that the death threat you investigated a few months ago was actually written by you. The fax also accused you of writing the threat to Senator Stevens in an attempt to advance your own career. Considering that your promotion was based on your handling of that situation, we were wondering what you had to say for yourself.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ober said. Crossing his legs, he tried his best not to panic.

  “I don’t want to play that game,” Victor said, pointing a finger at Ober.

  “Ober, don’t lie about this one,” Marcia pleaded, her hands in tight fists on her desk. “This is serious.”

  “It’s not the way it looks….” Ober stuttered.

  “Do you deny it?” Victor asked.

  “If you didn’t write it, and you know who did, tell us,” Marcia said.

  Ober leaned away from Victor. “It wasn’t a real death threat. The senator was never in danger.”

  “I already told the FBI that,” Marcia said. “Just tell them who wrote it.”

  Trying to figure out a way to avoid implicating Ben,
Ober was silent.

  “If you don’t tell us who wrote it, I’ll be forced to ask for your resignation,” Marcia said.

  “Attempted assassination means you’ll get life in prison,” Victor added, grabbing Ober’s armrest.

  Ober pushed Victor’s hand away. “It was never an assassination.”

  “Then tell us what happened,” Victor said. “Who wrote the letter?”

  Again, Ober fell silent.

  “Ober, please make this easier on yourself,” Marcia said, leaning on her desk.

  “That’s it,” Victor said, standing up. “It’s clear we can’t do this here. I’m taking him in for questioning.”

  Marcia shot from her chair. “No, you’re not. You promised me full jurisdiction with this. It’s clear the senator was never in danger.”

  “Why are you protecting this kid?” Victor asked.

  “I’m not protecting him. I just—”

  “I wrote it,” Ober interrupted, whispering into his chest.

  “What?” Marcia asked.

  “I wrote it,” he repeated, his eyes focused on the floor. “I wrote the letter.”

  “You did?” Marcia asked.

  “I knew it,” Victor said, returning to his seat.

  “Why would you do that?” Marcia asked.

  “I can’t explain it,” Ober said, refusing to look up. “I wrote it. That’s it. That’s all I want to say.”

  Victor grabbed his notepad from Marcia’s desk and started taking notes. “Was it a real threat to the senator?” he asked.

  “No,” Ober said. “Not at all. The senator’s been nothing but terrific to me.”

  “So it was for the promotion?” Marcia asked. “The fax was right?”

  “It’s not a hundred percent right, but it might as well be true,” Ober said. “I wrote the letter, and the letter got me the promotion.” As silence filled the room, both Marcia and Victor stared at Ober. Looking up at his two interrogators, Ober’s eyes welled with tears. “What?” he asked. “What else do you want me to say? I wrote it.”

  Victor turned to Marcia. “If you like, I can take him down to—”

  “Leave him alone,” Marcia said. “We’ll handle this in-house. And I expect you to keep your promise—I don’t want to see one word about this in the press.”