by Alan Sears
Chapter One
“HANDS OFF OUR rights! Hands off our rights! Hands off our rights!”
John Knox Smith released a small sigh. “Pitiful.”
The slate gray Mercedes E350 pulled to a stop beside the Indiana-limestone-clad Robert F. Kennedy Department of Justice Building, at the corner of Tenth and Constitution in the heart of the nation’s capital.
“Me or the protestors?” The driver was a pretty woman in her early thirties.
He looked at her. “The protestors, of course. Why would I call my wife pitiful?”
Her mouth tightened. John couldn’t tell if she was attempting a smile or a frown. She had always been a hard woman to read.
“They’re just a bunch of fundamentalist nut-jobs. Those kinds of people always have something to complain about.”
“How tolerant of you.”
“Don’t start with me, Cathy. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
Cathy Smith turned her gaze back to the protestors. “Some of them have duct tape over their mouths.”
“If they all did, then it would be a lot quieter around here.”
Those without self-applied gags changed the chant. “Don’t tread on me! Don’t tread on me!”
John released his seatbelt. “Well that’s original. That phrase has been around for a couple of centuries. I doubt those morons know who Christopher Gadsden was.”
“I must be a moron too, then.”
John let slip another sigh. Cathy wasn’t stupid, just not well educated, something John considered a greater tragedy. Ignorance was curable, after all.
“General Christopher Gadsden designed the “Don’t Tread on Me” flag in 1775. Of course, it has been used by others.”
“Silly me.”
“I take it you’re still miffed at me.” He picked a bit of lint off the lapel of his dark blue suit coat.
“What do I have to be miffed about?” The heat in her response sealed it for John.
“I’ve told you why I haven’t invited you to the ceremony. I’m trying to make a statement about tolerance and openness.”
Cathy laughed. “I may not have known who Christopher Gadsden was but I’m pretty good at recognizing irony.”
John stared across the hood of the aging car. He loved few things in life. This car was one of them. It had been a gift from his father. If Cathy knew what he was thinking, she’d play the irony card again. Truth was he loved the car but had little affection for his old man.
“Let’s not fight, Cathy. I have a very long day. I appreciate you taking the time to drive me into the city. I don’t know how late I’ll be. I’ll catch a ride home.” He thought about giving her a little kiss. Instead, he opened the door and pulled his six-foot-two body from the vehicle. The moment he closed the door, Cathy hit the gas and pulled onto Constitution Avenue, causing several cars to hit their breaks then hit their horns.
“Ding my car woman and I’ll…” He let the thought pass. She had a right to be angry and a lesser man might feel bad about that.
“Don’t tread on me!”
John adjusted his shirt collar and cuffs, straightened his red tie and took a moment to make certain his suit hung as it should. He smoothed his blond hair, checking for wayward strands. Photographers loved it when a powerful man’s hair rebelled. Across the street, in front of the Natural History Museum, the small band of protestors holding signs he didn’t bother to read carried on their interminable shouting. There was good news: He wouldn’t be able to hear them once inside the building.
He gave one more glance down the busy road to see if his wife had rear-ended a police car or something, then turned sharply and walked to the security checkpoint just inside what was once called the attorney general’s entrance.
JOHN KNOX SMITH went through the familiar motions, passing his smartphone and his Burberry calfskin briefcase through the screening equipment at the security checkpoint. He had been going through the process since he first came to work in the AG’s office six years before. In some ways it was annoying, but security remained an issue in every government building. Homeland Security considered the Department of Justice a prime target, so security was as tight as any modern airport.
“Have a good day, sir.” An older guard handed the phone and briefcase back to John.
“I plan too, Fred. Give my best to the family.” John knew the guards by their first names and did his best to show a little interest in their lives. After all, they were the first line of protection between him and the crazies picketing across the street.
Once he cleared the security area, John allowed himself a moment to relax. The past six years had passed in a blur and he often had trouble believing that over half a decade had come and gone. It seemed so much less. He loved this town, this building, this place. Most of all, he loved his work. This was his turf. This was where he belonged.
With his new position as assistant attorney general and director of the Diversity and Tolerance Enforcement Division, he would be coming through these VIP doors a lot more often.
Who knows? One of these days the big office on the fifth floor may be mine as well. He liked the idea, but for now he was content with becoming an assistant attorney general. This was his big day and he planned to enjoy every second of it.
Upstairs, in the attorney general’s office, he was scheduled to meet briefly with the vice president, the recently appointed chief justice of the Supreme Court, and the attorney general of the United States. They were to coordinate the order of the march and make sure that everyone was on the same page. But before going up the elevator, he couldn’t resist the urge to take a look inside the Great Hall where the morning’s announcement would take place.
John took a slow, deep breath. He loved being where so much history had been made. Official programs, placed on stands around the atrium, offered a reminder of the building’s history.
“Shall I read it to you?”
The voice caught John’s attention. A young woman, college-age, was seated next to an elderly woman. The older woman, dressed in professional garb and hair that looked as if it been touched up in the beauty shop just an hour ago, wore glasses. Thick, heavy-looking spectacles. John expected them to slip from the woman’s face at any moment. A white cane with a red tip, the kind that can be broken down and folded, rested on the woman’s lap.
“If you don’t mind, dear.”
“Okay.” The young woman opened a DOJ brochure, no doubt given to the pair when they first arrived. The young woman was a beauty, coal black hair, dark eyes, and only a hint of makeup. John wondered if she was the daughter or a caregiver. She cleared her throat, and directed her gaze to the brochure.
“Dedicated in 1935, the Justice Building is a 1.2 million square-foot structure. It was renamed the Robert F. Kennedy Justice Building in 2001, in honor of the former attorney general and presidential candidate who was assassinated in 1968. Fronting on Pennsylvania Avenue, mid-way between the White House and Capitol Hill in the Federal Triangle area, this magnificent building has often been referred to as ‘the heartbeat of American justice.’
“The Department of Justice (DOJ) includes the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Bureau of Prisons, the Board of Parole, the Immigration and Naturalization Service, and the Drug Enforcement Administration. Altogether, there are eight major divisions, a half-dozen federal agencies, and at least three dozen separate offices and bureaus administered by the DOJ, along with the newest federal agency, the Diversity and Tolerance Enforcement Division, better known as DTED.
“As head of the DOJ, the attorney general is a member of the president’s cabinet and is responsible for enforcement of all federal laws. The attorney general represents the president in all questions of law, and advises federal agencies and departments on legal matters. As the popular humorist Will Rogers once observed, ‘This is where the long arm of the law begins.’”
John had read the brochure several times himself, allowing his attention to linger over the line mentioning his de
partment: DTED. He moved deeper into the Great Hall.
Looking across the magnificent atrium as if seeing it for the first time, John realized that, at long last, he had earned his seat at the center table. His career had been on the fast track ever since law school, but now he was in the center of it all—exactly where he was meant to be. Some in the DOJ liked to work from the shadows. Not John. He needed the spotlight, and today, that light would be brighter than any time before.
“Ah, the man of the hour.” The voice came from behind him, but he didn’t need to turn to know Matt Branson was approaching.
“Hi, Matt.” They shook hands. “How are you doing?”
The top of Matt’s head barely reached six feet. He seemed taller at Princeton, but he sported longer hair in those days. Now he kept his locks cut to just the right length for a DOJ attorney. “Fine, John, but I bet you’re feeling even better.”
“How so?”
Matt looked stunned. “Come on, John, you know what I mean. This is your big day. Don’t play the humility card with me. I’ve known you for a long time.”
John smiled. “Yeah, I am kind of enjoying it.”
“No nerves?”
“What is there to be nervous about? The AG made the right call.”
“Ah, now there’s the arrogance I’ve come to know and love.” Matt gave John a friendly punch in the shoulder, then turned his attention to the Great Hall. “This place still impresses me.”
“It should. From here ripples of change roll over the country.”
“Poetic. You planning on using that in your speech?”
“Nope.”
John glanced at the two enormous statues on each side of the Great Hall bracketing the speaker’s rostrum—the male figure known as “the majesty of law,” and the female figure representing “the spirit of justice”—both nearly nude, and both without the traditional blindfold. Each cast-aluminum art-deco figure stood twelve feet high. Both stood with arms raised.
“If you ever make AG, you think you’ll cover up Minnie Lou like Ashcroft did in 2002?” Matt pointed at the female figure.
Matt was kidding, but the comment irritated John. “Of course not. That little stunt cost taxpayers eight thousand dollars. Three years later the drapes were taken down. Foolish, puritanical waste of money and time. All done in the name of false modesty. It’s that kind of nonsense that I plan to put an end to—”
“Ease up, John. I’m just having a little fun with you. I think C. Paul Jennewein’s work is beautiful.”
“I thought it would offend your Christian sensibilities.”
Matt shook his head. “If you don’t loosen up, John, your mainspring is going to break.”
John took in the elegant tile work and magnificent paintings that surrounded the entire room. The atrium reflected the opulence and sophistication of the Roosevelt era, with all the excesses of the 1930s.
The scale of the place is imposing, John thought, but certainly appropriate for an arm of justice with the authority to reach into every aspect of American life.
Beyond the Great Hall, John passed the large paintings of famous lawgivers from former times, including Socrates, Solon, Sir Edward Coke, Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, St. Thomas Aquinas, Moses with the Ten Commandments, and even Jesus. They were portraits of men who had left their mark on history—whether they were real or merely “legends.”
By any measure, the Great Hall was a grand and elegant place, and shortly a contingent of the most powerful people in the country would gather here to participate in his crowning achievement. It would be the beginning of a new era in American jurisprudence.
“I know you have a lot to do before things kick off.” Matt set a hand on John’s shoulder. “I just wanted to say congrats. I’ll be here for your speech.”
“Thank you, Matt. Don’t think my promotion means we won’t be having our usual lunch get-togethers. They might not be as frequent, but I’ll make sure to make time for you.”
“As long as I pay, you mean.”
John smiled. “I’m just a lowly public servant.”
“Sure. Just remember, I’m lowlier.” Matt moved away.