by Brad Meltzer
“His name is Jonathan Kord. He works in Senator Greiff’s office.”
“Oh my God! Jonathan Kord? I know that guy! A friend of mine, may she rest in peace, went out with him.”
“You don’t know him,” Lisa said, grabbing a handful of paper clips and throwing them at Ben.
“I don’t need to. With a name like Jonathan, I can tell he’s stale.”
“What are you talking about? Jonathan’s a great name. His friends all call him Jon.”
“But he goes by Jonathan, doesn’t he?” Lisa was silent. “I knew it!” Ben shouted. “He’s stale.”
“He didn’t taste stale,” Lisa shot back.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ben said, sitting up straight on the sofa. “Did you really get some play last night?”
“I might’ve,” Lisa teased. “But even if I didn’t, I get to know that you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“Then why does your face match the sofa?”
“Trust me, I’m not jealous. Now tell me what happened.”
“It wasn’t much. We went to dinner and then we walked around the Washington Monument.”
“Oh, please,” Ben said, throwing his hands in the air. “This guy played you like a fiddle. He buys you dinner and then takes you to walk around a giant erection? What kind of message does that send?”
“I paid for dinner, stud-boy. And it was my idea to go to the Monument.”
“Now that’s a date,” Ben said, nodding his head. “I’m impressed.” He crossed his arms and said, “Go on.”
“And then I dropped him off.”
“That’s it?” Ben asked suspiciously. “You took him out and dropped him off?”
“I don’t know,” Lisa said, her eyes focused on her feet. “I think I scared him off. I might’ve been too aggressive.”
“You? Aggressive?”
“No, I was definitely too aggressive,” Lisa said, suddenly serious. “I think he was really intimidated when I told him that I could teach him a thing or two in bed.”
“You said that?” Ben blurted.
“See, I knew I was too aggressive.”
“Lisa, don’t beat yourself up. You were just being yourself. You can’t be faulted for that. You’re an aggressive woman, and most men are intimidated by aggressive women. You’ve seen the talk shows—the average guy in America wants a complacent, weaker woman, simply because they’ve been taught to feel threatened by strong women.”
“Okay, Freud. Now where does that leave me?”
“You’re left with much less to choose from, but the quality of those men is three hundred percent better than the average loser. The gene pool you’re fishing from is more confident, more sophisticated, more intelligent…”
“They’re men like yourself,” Lisa said sarcastically.
“Exactly. We’re a new breed of men. We’re not afraid to let our feelings show. We like strong women. Sexually, we enjoy being dominated.”
“You’re not afraid to cry at the end of the Rocky movies,” Lisa added.
“Correct. And we like the smell of potpourri.”
“Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but what if I don’t want the sensitive type? What if I want a big, dumb jock who’ll be fun to fool around with, and who won’t care if I don’t call him?”
“You like big jocks?”
“For a few thrills, sure. I’d never marry one, but they’re fun to hook up with.”
Confused, Ben scratched his forehead. “How can you like big jocks? How can you go to bed with someone who just thinks of you as a sexual conquest?”
“Let me tell you something, the sexual conquest is a two-way street, and I’m driving a Ferrari.”
Laughing, Ben said, “I take back what I said before. You’re way too aggressive to find a man. You’ll probably be lonely for the rest of your life.” Getting up from the sofa, Ben flipped through the newest pile of paper on his desk. “What’s happening today?”
“A whole new batch of cert petitions just came in. Hollis wants us to really tear through them since he expects we’ll write the opinion for the Grinnell decision.”
“They didn’t vote on that already, did they?”
“Take a look at your watch, moron,” Lisa said. “Conference isn’t until tomorrow. Hollis doesn’t think they’ll even get to it, but it’ll definitely be done by next week. Osterman’s been stalling. And Justice Veidt’s clerks said Veidt’s on the fence, so Osterman has been working on him since the cert petition came in.
“What’s wrong with Veidt? Do you think he has a thing for Osterman?”
“I doubt it,” Lisa said. “Veidt’s an intellectually unimpressive justice who knows he was selected because he was confirmable. I think he figures that by hanging with the chief justice, it’ll give him some credibility.”
“That could be,” Ben said, “but my way’s much cooler. Can you imagine? Two Supreme Court justices caught in a sordid love affair? How great would that be?”
“It’d sure be more interesting than reading cert petitions all day.”
After a quick lunch in the Court’s cafeteria, Ben walked down to Mailboxes & Things on Constitution Avenue. Time to break out the overcoat, he thought as a chilly November wind pulled the last leaves from the trees. Fighting off the impending arrival of winter, Ben blew warm air into his cupped hands. Within ten minutes, he arrived at the store, which was painted red, white, and blue—the color scheme of choice for so many D.C. vendors.
“Can I help you?” a cashier wearing a turtleneck asked.
“Yes, I received an overdue payment notice for a P.O. box. Not only did I pay for my box in advance, but the number on the bill wasn’t my box.”
“Oh, I’m sure we just made a mistake,” the cashier said. “Let me look up your name.”
“My name is Be—” Catching himself, Ben remembered the fake name he’d given to open the box. “My name is Alvy Singer.”
“Singer, Singer…” the cashier said, looking through his files. “Here it is.” He pulled out the file and continued, “You opened box twelve twenty-seven on October twenty-eighth, and you paid for that in advance. You then opened box thirteen twenty-seven on October twenty-ninth, requesting that you be billed for it.” Reading the file, the cashier added, “It says here you also paid an extra twenty-five-dollar lock fee so that both boxes could be opened with the same key.”
“Of course, how stupid of me,” Ben said, wiping away the cold sweat that had suddenly formed on his forehead.
“Would you like to pay your balance today?”
“Sure. That’s fine,” Ben said. He pulled out his wallet and paid the bill.
When he reached the room of P.O. boxes, Ben was in a full-fledged panic. Looking around, he was relieved no one was watching him. He pulled the key from his pocket and opened his box, 1227. Empty. Directly under his was box 1327. Inserting his key, he opened the box. Inside was a single manila envelope. Taking out the envelope, he locked the box and walked to a small counter.
Inside the envelope was a single typed sheet of paper. “Dear Ben,” he read. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch, but, as you’ve probably guessed, I’ve been quite busy. Needless to say, all went extremely well. I realize you’re frustrated with what’s happened, but please stop trying to find me. You’re wasting your time. Tearing apart my flowers was useless, your bribery attempt at my old apartment was pathetic, and as far as your telephone bill idea—do you really believe I would make important calls on a line so easily traceable? Come on, now. Since you still haven’t gone to the authorities, I assume you understand the consequences to your own career should you reveal your story.
“At this point in time, I propose a truce. If you are interested, please meet me at Two Quail on Saturday at eight P.M. The reservation has been made under your name. If you do need to contact me, please feel free to use our P.O. box, number 1327. Yours, Rick.”
Ben stuffed the letter back into the envelope, left the store, and walked briskl
y back to the Court. How the hell does he know everything? he asked himself. Bounding up the Court’s steps, Ben waved his I.D. card at the guard and sidestepped the metal detector. Within a minute, he was charging through the reception area on the way to his office. Slamming the door behind him, he threw the envelope on Lisa’s desk. “You won’t believe it,” he said.
“Where did you get this?” Lisa asked as she read the letter.
“He opened a P.O. box right under mine—under my fake name,” Ben said, his voice shaking.
“How did he know you had a P.O. box?” Holding up her hand, Lisa stopped Ben from answering. “Let me finish reading this first.” Eventually looking up, she asked, “Okay, now, how did he know you had a P.O. box?”
“How did he know my fake name? How did he know what we did with the flowers? How did he know I called the phone company? How did he know we broke into his old apartment building? He knows my parents’ address, for Chrissakes! He billed me for the P.O. box at my parents’ house!”
“Calm down a second,” Lisa said, putting her reading glasses on the desk. “Let’s think about this.”
“If he goes near my family, I swear I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him.”
“Relax, I’m sure he did that just to scare you.”
“Well, it’s working,” Ben said, taking off his suit jacket. “He’s obviously been following me for the last month of my life. He knows everything I do, everywhere I go. He knows where my family lives…”
“You have to calm down. Let me think for a minute.”
Pacing up and down the office, Ben remained silent.
“I can understand that he knew we broke into the apartment building, but I don’t understand how he knew about the phone bill. Both times you called the phone company, you called from his office, didn’t you?” When Ben nodded, she added, “I doubt he’s tapped the phone in here. I mean, this’s the Supreme Court.”
“There’s no way he could tap this phone—not with the security system we have here,” Ben agreed. “But how did he know what we did with the flowers? We’re the only ones that knew about that.”
Still focused on the phone bills, Lisa said, “Most likely, he didn’t change his address on purpose. Then he just waited to see what we did. The phone company probably told him you ordered a copy of the bill.” After pausing to reflect, she continued, “I just can’t believe he knew we’d do that.”
“This guy is no dummy,” Ben said, unable to stand still.
“Do you really think he has someone following you?”
“How should I know? How else would he know my fake name for the P.O. box?”
“Are you going to meet with him?”
“Of course,” Ben said. “This guy is all mine. I’m gonna nail his ass to the wall.”
“You sound like a bad TV movie,” Lisa said. “I think you should come up with a serious plan first.”
“Definitely,” Ben agreed. Sitting at his desk, he pulled out a sheet of paper. “I’d like to get everyone together for a little brainstorming session. Can we do it at your place?”
“Why my place?”
“Because I think he might have my house bugged.”
“Listen, you have to calm down,” Lisa said. “This isn’t The Firm.”
“This guy has the resources to reach Charles Maxwell, he pulls off one of the greatest insider information scams of the decade, and you’re telling me he doesn’t have the resources to bug my crappy house with its nonexistent alarm system?”
“Fine,” Lisa said. “We’ll meet at my apartment.” Rising from her seat, she walked over to Ben and leaned on his desk. “Meanwhile, want to hear some fresh gossip?”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Okay. Fine. Then I won’t tell you that Justice Blake is stepping down.”
“That’s nothing new,” Ben said. “People have been saying that for years.”
“But now it’s official,” Lisa said. “He gave his notice today to Osterman.”
“Are you serious?” Ben asked as his raised eyebrows creased his forehead.
“Scout’s honor.”
“Is this confirmed, or is it just what you heard?”
“Let’s put it this way—when you were at lunch, Hollis came down here and told me Blake just gave notice of his resignation. He’s calling the president this afternoon and the press will be notified within the next week or two. You think that source is trustworthy enough for you?”
“If Hollis said it, it’s the gospel.”
“The thing is, I don’t think most of the justices have told their clerks, so keep it a secret. Hollis said it was just for our information.”
“What else did he say?” Ben asked.
“He said that Grinnell won’t be decided until the end of the week. Justice Veidt still hasn’t responded, and all the conservatives have pushed it back so they can work on getting him aboard.”
“Excellent gossip,” Ben admitted. “Sounds like Hollis was running at the mouth today.”
“You know how he is,” Lisa said. “Sometimes he won’t say a word, and other times he won’t shut up. Today was just a good day.”
“So I guess that means we won’t be working on Grinnell this week.”
“That’s what I wanted to tell you,” Lisa said, slapping Ben’s desk. “Since Blake is stepping down, he’s going to be lightening his workload. So he’s no longer writing the Pacheco v. Rhode Island decision.”
“And I suppose we are?” Ben asked. Lisa nodded. “Why do we have to do it? That’s a solid bankruptcy issue. It’s a good case.”
“It’s a good case, but it’s not a great case. Hollis said that when a justice steps down, he gets the pick of the litter when it comes to cases. All the other justices defer to him so he can make his last great pronouncements on the law.”
“So that means he’ll get all the best cases this session?”
“Pretty much,” Lisa said. “He can’t write all of them, but I’m sure he’ll get a good number.”
“That’s great,” Ben said sarcastically. “Did Hollis say when Blake’s office would send us the materials?”
“The Clerk’s Office will transfer them later today.”
Turning on his computer, Ben said, “And Hollis still hasn’t looked over our Oshinsky opinion.”
“Actually, he did,” Lisa said, passing Ben a stack of paper.
“And still not satisfied,” Ben said, unable to avoid the bright red marks covering the front page of the document. “What is this, draft six?”
“Seven if you count our original outline.”
“He’s never going to be happy with this decision,” Ben said. “I think we should just realize that and move on.”
“You have to stop complaining,” Lisa said. “It’s not that bad.”
“Are you kidding? We get here at seven every morning, we have four pending cases that we’re simultaneously working on, a fifth that a retiring justice just passed off on us, and now a sixth case arriving just as soon as Veidt caves in to the conservatives. At the same time, we have a dozen or so cert petitions to get through every week. How much busier can we be?”
“I don’t know,” Lisa said. “I guess we could also be involved in a chase for a psychotic mastermind who’s trying to undermine the entire court system.”
At nine-thirty that evening, Ben and Lisa arrived at Lisa’s apartment, which was a short walk from the Tenleytown Metro. Ober and Nathan were waiting in front of the drab brick apartment building. “What took you so long?” Ober asked as they walked inside. “You said to meet at nine.”
“Sorry,” Ben said sharply. “We were only busting our asses rewriting history at the Supreme Court. Some of us aren’t lucky enough to have jobs that end at five.”
“Hey, who crapped in your Apple Jacks?” Nathan asked as they stepped into an elevator. “We’re the ones trying to help you.”
Getting out on the fourth floor, they walked down the hallway and eventually reached Lisa’s apartment. “I
’m sorry,” Ben said to Ober as Lisa opened the door. “I didn’t mean to snap like that.”
“Here we are,” Lisa said. “It’s not much, but it’s mine.” Sparsely decorated, the living room consisted of a worn brown leather couch, a coffee table, and a desk, which was actually a piece of finished wood balanced on two small file cabinets. Both the coffee table and desk were submerged under papers. On the wall opposite the sofa was a huge picture of cats playing poker. Over the couch were two portraits done on black velvet, one of the Mona Lisa, the other a Smurf standing next to a flower.
“Nice art,” Ben said, intrigued to see how his co-clerk lived.
“I’m into neo-garbage,” Lisa said. “The trashier, the better. The Smurf is the prize of my collection. I won it at a carnival.”
“This is actually a pretty cool place,” Ober said.
“You sound surprised,” Lisa said. “Were you expecting pink and purple satin pillows thrown everywhere?”
“I’m not sure,” Ober said. “I think I was expecting maxi pads and other feminine hygiene products.”
“Expecting or hoping?” Nathan asked as he took a seat on the couch.
Lisa threw her attaché case full of Court documents on her desk and headed toward the kitchen. “Does anyone want something to eat or drink?”
“I’ll take a rack of lamb and a white wine spritzer,” Ober said.
“Where’s Eric?” Ben asked, sitting on the couch.
“He’s working late tonight,” Ober said. “He said he’s sorry he couldn’t make it.”
“Typical,” Ben said.
“Are you okay with this?” Nathan asked, watching Ben rifle through the magazines on the coffee table.
“Huh?” Ben asked. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just want to get started.”
Lisa pulled a chair from the kitchen, put it down in the living room, and faced the couch. “What I don’t understand is why Rick sent you the letter through his P.O. box. He could’ve just mailed it, or better yet, he could’ve put the letter in your box.”
“I was thinking about that,” Ben said. “I think Rick was just showing off. In that one action, he ripped apart my new plan and sent the message that my attempts at secrecy were a joke.”