The Tenth Justice Read online

  “You’ll have to forgive him,” Eric said as he shook Lisa’s hand. “He’s so proud of me, he can’t contain himself.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Lisa said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “You, too,” Eric said.

  Ignoring Ober, Ben asked Eric, “Do you want to have some dinner? We ordered Chinese. It should be here any minute.”

  “That’d be great,” Eric said. “Meanwhile, have you heard about the CMI merger?”

  “No. What?” Ben asked.

  “I was in the newsroom when it came across the wire. Just as the market closed, Charles Maxwell bought another twenty percent of Lexcoll stock. Lexcoll stock shot up fourteen points in the closing three minutes, and investors are predicting CMI will rocket up thirty percent by nine-thirty-five tomorrow morning. The traders on the floor were ripping their hair out.”

  “Maxwell couldn’t have known, could he?” Lisa asked Ben.

  “No. No way,” Ben said, a chill running down his back as he remembered his conversation with Rick. Maxwell couldn’t have known, Ben told himself. “There’s no way. It was a lucky guess. The Court’s decision isn’t completely unpredictable. Maxwell must’ve spoken with his legal experts.”

  “Whatever he knew,” Eric said, “they’re calling it the riskiest decision Maxwell’s ever made. If he’s right, he’s a billionaire, but if the Court denies the merger, he’s invested all of his money in the worst communication alliance in history.”

  When Ben arrived at work the next day, a memorandum was sitting on his desk. Addressed to all clerks, the memo stated that due to the recent circumstances regarding the CMI merger, everyone should be reminded that all Court information is extremely confidential and should not be released under any circumstances. Suddenly, Ben felt a hand on his shoulder. “Who the f—” he yelled, spinning around.

  “Take it easy, big guy,” Lisa said.

  “You scared the shit out of me,” Ben said, wiping his forehead.

  “Can you believe this memo?” Lisa was holding up her own copy. “Who the hell do they think they are? Is this an accusation or what?”

  “I don’t think it’s so bad,” Ben said as he fidgeted with his tie. “I think it’s just a reminder. I’m sure the press is all over them to see if Maxwell’s guess was correct.”

  “Well, the decision’s been pushed up to next week, so all the vultures will know soon enough it he’s a guru or a goofball. Listen, I’m going to get some coffee. You want anything?”

  Ben shook his head. When Lisa left the office, Ben went straight to his Rolodex and looked up Rick’s number. After picking up the phone and dialing the number, he was surprised to hear a mechanical female voice say, “The number you have reached is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.” Confused, he redialed, double-checking each digit. “The number you have reached is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.”

  Slamming down the phone, Ben crumpled the Rolodex card in his hand and threw it against the wall. Damn, he thought. What the hell do I do now? He picked up the phone, and quickly dialed information. “In D.C., I’m looking for the phone number of a Rick Fagen. F-A-G-E-N.” Ben tapped his pen nervously.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the operator said. “I have no Fagens listed.”

  “How about if I give you his old phone number? Can you see if there’s a forwarding number?” Ben asked.

  “I can try,” the operator said. Ben ran to the other side of the room to retrieve the Rolodex card. “Sir, are you there?”

  Ben raced back to his desk and sat in his chair. “I’m here.” He read off Rick’s old number.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the operator said, “that number is no longer in service.”

  “I know that,” Ben snapped. “That’s why I asked if there was a forwarding number.” Bristling, he asked, “Can you tell me where the bill was forwarded to?”

  “I’m sorry, we cannot give out that information.”

  “Thanks,” Ben said, hanging up the phone. In a full-fledged sweat, he put his forehead down on the desk. There must be an explanation for this, he told himself. Rick just moved. There’s no reason to panic. There’s nothing to be upset about. He redialed information and got the number for the phone company. “Hi, my name is Rick Fagen,” Ben said to the operator. “I recently disconnected my number, and I think I might’ve given you the wrong forwarding address. Can you check it, because I don’t want to be late on my payments.”

  “Let me transfer you to the accounts payable department, Mr. Fagen,” the operator said.

  “Can I help you?” the new operator asked.

  Ben described his situation again.

  “What was your old phone number?”

  Ben read the number off the crumpled Rolodex card and waited. Finally, the operator said, “Mr. Fagen, I’m glad you called. You never left a forwarding address.”

  “Are you sure?” Ben picked up a pen. “What address do you have?”

  “All we have is the old one,” the operator said. “Seventeen eighty Rhode Island Avenue, Northwest. Apartment three seventeen.”

  “That’s the old one, all right,” Ben said, writing down the address. “Well, as soon as I have a new address, I‘ll be sure to let you know.” Ben hung up, then slid back in his chair, trying to think of another way to track down Rick. After checking the index on the Supreme Court directory, he left the office and ran down the hallway. Ben raced down the suspended spiral staircase, an architectural marvel that was off limits to everyone but staff. Running through the Great Hall, he followed his mental road map of the Court’s layout, weaving his way through the corridors to the personnel office.

  “Can I help you?” a woman asked from behind the counter.

  “Hi, I’m Ben Addison, a clerk with Justice Hollis. We were trying to have a reunion for all of Hollis’s old clerks, and I remember filling out all that paperwork for this office when I first started. Do you happen to have a list of where some of the old clerks might live?”

  “Oh, we’ve got everyone here,” the woman said, proudly. “Since we do the security forms, we know every place you’ve lived in the past ten years.”

  “Well, all we need is the address of one past clerk. We have everyone else.”

  “Security card?” the woman requested.

  Ben reached into the front pocket of his dress shirt, pulled out his Court I.D., and gave it to the woman. After swiping it through a small, electronic machine on her desk, she stared at her computer, waiting for Ben’s security clearance to appear.

  “C’mon,” Ben thought, his thumbs tapping against the high counter.

  “What’s the clerk’s name, honey?” the woman finally asked as she handed Ben his I.D. card.

  “Rick Fagen,” Ben said, returning the card to his shirt pocket. “I guess it could be under Richard.”

  After typing the name into the computer, the woman said, “I don’t have anyone under that name as a clerk for Justice Hollis.”

  Surprised, Ben said, “Maybe our master list is wrong. Can you check the list of clerks for the other justices?”

  As the woman reconfigured her search, Ben continued tapping.

  “Sorry,” the woman said, “I have no one under that name listed as a clerk.”

  “That’s impossible,” Ben said, his voice rising in panic.

  “I’m telling you,” the woman said, “I checked our entire personnel database. No one named Rick Fagen ever worked at the Supreme Court.”

  Chapter 4

  BEN DARTED UP THE STAIRS, THEN SPRINTED full speed back to his office. He ran toward the farthest file cabinet and pulled it away from the wall. Rick Fagen’s signature wasn’t there. “Damn!” he yelled, punching a huge dent into the cabinet. “How could I be so stupid?” Turning around, Ben noticed the giant bouquet of red, yellow, and purple flowers on his desk. He pulled the card from the oversized wicker basket and opened the miniature envelope. “Thanks for all your help,” he read. “Sincerel
y, Rick.” Ben’s stomach dropped. He felt like he was going to vomit. When the room started to spin, he put his head down on his desk. I’m in serious trouble, he thought. What the hell am I going to do?

  Eventually catching his breath, Ben pushed aside the basket of flowers, picked up his phone, and called Nathan. “It’s me,” he said.

  “Are you okay?” Nathan asked. “You sound like you’re out of breath.”

  “Can you meet me at home?”

  “It’s not even ten o’clock.”

  “Nathan, please, can you meet me at home? It’s important.”

  “Of course.” Nathan sounded confused. “I’ll leave right now, but what’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you,” Ben said, and hung up.

  Ben wrote a quick note for Lisa, grabbed his briefcase, and headed for the door. As he left the building, he saw Lisa walking up the steps of the Court. “Where’re you going?” she asked.

  “I’m having bad stomach cramps,” Ben said. His face was ashen. “Can you tell Hollis I had to go home sick?”

  “Of course. Are you okay?”

  “I just need to go home.”

  When Ben entered the house, he walked straight up to his room, sat on the bed, and tried his best to relax. He slowed his breathing. He imagined a walk in a quiet forest. He thought about the silence of scuba diving. Keep calm, he told himself. It’s okay. Worse things can happen. Cancer. The plague. Death. Unable to sit still, he paced inside the little room. Over and over he repeated the sequence of events. “Damn!” he finally said aloud. “How could I have been so stupid?” Moving back to the bed, he again tried to relax. It was no use. He wondered what he should do. Should he go to Hollis? If he did, he’d be fired on the spot. No, there had to be a better way out. As his mind played through the different alternatives, he kept coming back to the same conclusion: The first step was finding the person who caused this disaster. Ben knew he had to find Rick. His thoughts were interrupted when a car pulled into the driveway.

  “Ben!” Nathan yelled from downstairs.

  “I’m up here,” Ben called.

  Nathan dashed up the stairs two at a time and charged into Ben’s room. “What happened?”

  Ben sat on the bed, his head in his hands. “I totally blew it,” he said.

  “What? Tell me.”

  Ben raced through the story. “And I think this guy Rick might’ve leaked the info to Maxwell.”

  Nathan stared out the window. “You don’t know that,” he said. Speaking calmly and slowly, he explained, “There’s no reason to believe the worst.”

  Looking up at his friend, Ben recognized Nathan’s consoling-but-lying voice. “Nathan, I know Rick did it. No one risks millions on a guess like that. He even sent me flowers to say thank you. He set me up and I fell for it completely. It was easy for him. All he had to do was some quick research and make a call to the Court once the new clerks started. The justices aren’t there; we’re wet behind the ears. It’s simple.”

  “I don’t understand.” Nathan leaned on the windowsill. “You never asked Hollis about Rick?”

  “No way,” Ben said. “I didn’t want Hollis knowing I was getting advice from the outside. Lisa and I have to look as smooth as possible.” Ben’s gaze dropped to the floor. “FUCK!” he yelled, pounding the bed. “That was so damn stupid of me!”

  “There’s nothing you can do about it,” Nathan said, trying his best to comfort his friend. “Maybe we can try to find Rick. Do you have his phone number?”

  “I already checked it. Disconnected. But I do have his address.”

  “You really don’t have to come,” Ben said as he opened the door to Nathan’s old maroon Volvo.

  “You make me take off work, and then you want to dump me while you go check out this guy’s house?” Nathan asked. “Forget about it.”

  “It’s not that I’m trying to leave you out of anything—”

  “I know,” Nathan said. “And I’m not here because I’m afraid of being left out. I’m here because I want to help you.”

  “I appreciate it,” Ben said as Nathan pulled out of the driveway. “I just didn’t want to get you involved with my problems.”

  Nathan drove up Seventeenth Street, and pulled into a parking spot a few blocks from the address. “Let’s walk up.”

  Ben looked up at the dark clouds. “Do you have an umbrella? It’s about to pour.”

  “There should be one under your seat,” Nathan said.

  Located near the city’s business district, 1780 Rhode Island was a building displaced in time. Designed in the late 1970s, it was bilious green, eight stories tall, and had tinted, full-story glass windows. A sore thumb on any architectural hand. After pushing open the heavy glass doors, Ben and Nathan walked into the lobby and approached the doorman, who was sitting at a slightly rusted metal desk in the otherwise renovated surroundings.

  “Can I help you?” the doorman asked.

  “I’m here to see my brother, Rick Fagen,” Ben said. “He’s in apartment three seventeen.”

  The doorman stared at the two friends for a few seconds. Eventually he said, “Follow me.” Ben and Nathan glanced at each other, hesitating for a moment. But when Nathan nodded approval to Ben, they fell into step behind the doorman. Leading them up a small set of steps and past the building’s only elevator, the doorman turned down a long hallway that ran along the right side of the building. He stopped at a room marked PRIVATE and opened the door, leading them inside. “Take a seat,” the doorman said, pointing to two worn leather sofas in the waiting area. Nathan and Ben obliged, and the doorman walked through another door, which looked like it led to an office.

  “You think this’ll work?” Nathan asked.

  “Can’t hurt to try,” said Ben.

  Nathan looked around the empty waiting area, paneled in fake knotty pine. “This place has Mafia written all over it,” Nathan whispered.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It does,” Nathan said. “It smells musty like my cousin Lou’s house. We should get out of here.”

  “You can go,” Ben whispered. “I’m staying.”

  “This was a bad idea,” Nathan said. “For all we know, Rick could be in that room.”

  Before Ben could respond, the doorman and a small man with a mustache stepped out of the office. “I’m the manager. Can I help you?”

  “Hi, I’m Rick Fagen’s brother,” Ben said, extending a hand to the manager. “He told us to meet him here.”

  The manager ignored Ben’s extended hand, and examined Ben and Nathan. Putting his hands in the pockets of his slacks, he smirked. “If you’re his brother, how come you didn’t know he moved out of here two weeks ago? Listen, people like their privacy here. If you think you’re going to fool us, you’ll have to make up a better line of bullshit than saying you’re his brother. Now, unless you’re cops, get the fuck out of here.”

  The doorman opened the door, and roughly escorted Ben and Nathan outside. “I think that was pretty successful,” Nathan said as the glass door closed behind them. Standing under the building’s awning, Ben stared out into a furious downpour. Opening his umbrella, Nathan said, “Well, at least we won’t get—”

  “I’m a dead man,” Ben said as he rushed into the rain, toward the car.

  Throughout the drive back, Ben was silent. “C’mon, snap out of it,” Nathan said when they returned home.

  “I just need to think,” Ben said, heading straight for the kitchen.

  “You’ve been thinking for the past fifteen minutes. Say something.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Ben raised his voice. “I just got screwed, and I jeopardized my entire career. Boy, what a wonderful day!”

  “Listen, don’t take this out on me,” Nathan said. From the refrigerator, he poured himself a glass of iced tea. “I’m here for you, and I’ll do my best to help you, but don’t make me your whipping boy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ben said as he sat at the small kitc
hen table. “It’s just—I just—this’s a disaster.”

  Nathan handed the iced tea to Ben. “That’s okay. But let’s at least do something. Focus your energy. How about we plan Rick’s death?”

  “I’ve been doing that for the past three hours,” Ben said, clutching the glass. “So far, the best I can come up with is slicing off his eyelids and sitting him in front of a mirror. He’ll go insane watching himself since he won’t be able to shut his eyes.”

  “That’s one way to deal with him.”

  “I’m not screwing around,” Ben said. He took a gulp of tea. “I have to find this guy. If word gets out that I leaked a decision, my life is over. And without Rick, I can’t prove my innocence. At least with him, I can try to prove his link with Maxwell. Otherwise, I don’t know what else to do. Can’t we put a search on him through the State Department?”

  “Not without saying why we’re looking for him. And if you do, you can say good-bye to your job.”

  “And my entire career.”

  “But we can do a confidential search,” Nathan blurted, his voice racing with newfound confidence. “All we need is a member of Congress to—” Hopping off the counter and grabbing the phone, Nathan dialed Ober’s number. “Hello, Ober? It’s me. We need some serious help. Are you still answering constituents’ letters?”

  “Absolutely,” Ober said. “I’m the master of junk mail.”

  “Then you still have access to the pen-signing machine that fakes the senator’s signature?”

  “Of course,” Ober said. “Did you really think Senator Stevens signed your birthday card?”

  “I need a favor,” Nathan said. “I need you to write an official request on Senate letterhead. Address it to my attention at the State Department and ask that a confidential background check be done on—what’s his name, Ben?”

  “Richard or Rick Fagen,” Ben said with a wry smile. “Here’s his old phone number and address.”

  After relaying the information, Nathan told Ober, “Make sure that the letter says that all correspondence should go to me.”

  “What’s this for?” Ober asked suspiciously.