by Brad Meltzer
“Nice to meet you,” Ben said, shaking Nash’s hand. Nash looked like the typical Blake clerk: weasely and white, with an Andover or Exeter in his background.
“So, how’s the Big House treating you?” Nash asked. “Everything the way I left it?”
“Absolutely,” Ben said, immediately annoyed by Nash’s attempt at coolness.
“You picked a great year to be at the Court,” Nash said. “This CMI thing has the whole place in an uproar.”
“It’s definitely been exciting,” Ben said.
“So what do you think?” Alcott asked. “Did Maxwell know?”
“I have no idea,” Ben said with a strained smile. “They don’t tell the clerks the important stuff.”
“Right. Of course,” Alcott said, opening up his menu. “So, what shall we have for lunch? The snapper here is wonderful.”
Looking at Ben, Nash said, “I have to tell you, the Court is the world’s most exciting place to work, but there is nothing like a free lunch at an expensive restaurant. When it comes to food, I’m like a kid in a candy store.”
Struggling to pay attention to the conversation, Ben thought about the various possibilities for escaping lunch. I bet if I set fire to the curtains, I could lose them in the confusion, he thought, staring at the menu.
“I’m not sure if you know, but we’re going to be in front of you real soon,” Alcott said. “We’re representing the respondent in the Mirsky case. Our oral arguments are set for January.”
“You have to put in a good word for us,” Nash said, laughing along with Alcott.
Maybe I could start choking on mineral water, Ben thought. That would shut them up real quick.
“So what’s the Court working on now?” Alcott asked.
“Hey, don’t even think it,” Nash jumped in as one of their two waiters placed a tiny appetizer of blackened bass on his plate. “He can’t say anything. Court business is extremely confidential. When your clerkship is over, they even make you shred any documents you still have.”
“Is that right?” Alcott said.
“Definitely. The place is airtight.” Looking at Ben, Nash said, “How’s Justice Blake doing? Still as cranky as ever?”
“That’s him,” Ben said. “The most miserable man on the Court.”
“I spoke to him recently. I’ve been calling every once in a while to give advice to his current clerks, Arthur and Steve. They seem nice.”
“They’re really nice,” Ben said.
“I just try to be helpful,” Nash said, as a waiter refilled his water. “I know how crazy it can get there.”
“Do most clerks call their former chambers?” Ben asked, taking a roll.
“Some do,” Nash said. “It depends. I think all of Blake’s clerks do because a year with Blake can be such a miserable experience.”
“He works them like dogs.”
“That’s Blake. I think all of his former clerks are bonded by knowing that we’ve all lived through a year with him. Have any of Hollis’s old clerks called you?”
“No,” Ben said bluntly. “That’s why I was curious.”
“Wait, let me think. Who was clerking for Hollis when I was there? Oh, I remember, one of them was Stu Bailey. He’s a great guy. He works at Winick and Trudeau now.”
Alcott looked annoyed at the mention of Wayne & Portnoy’s rival firm.
“I’m actually not surprised no one’s called,” Nash added. “Hollis makes you work, but deep down, he’s a big teddy bear.”
“Is that right?” Alcott asked.
“That’s not a bad description,” Ben agreed.
“Have you had any encounters with Osterman’s clerks?”
“Not really,” Ben said. “They’re the only clerks who really keep to themselves.”
“Unbelievable!” Nash said, banging the table. “Nothing changes.” Nash leaned toward Ben and lowered his voice. “When I was there, Osterman’s clerks were the worst, most obnoxious, conservative cranks in the whole Court. And the rumor I heard was that all of Osterman’s clerks were part of this tiny network. They all keep in touch, and they have a secret meeting once a year.”
“I never heard this,” Ben said with a smile.
“I’m not joking,” Nash said. “I heard they used to call themselves The Cabal, and the older clerks would teach the younger clerks how to sway decisions to their own agenda. I’m serious,” he added, noticing Ben’s doubtful expression. “You know how much influence you can have if you want it. When you write a decision, for the most part you can structure it your own way. You can emphasize certain points, or make other points extra ambiguous. It’s a subtle gesture of power, but it’s still power.”
“Yeah, but you really can’t do anything the justice doesn’t want in the first place.”
“That was the scary part. People said Osterman knew about all this and he just turned his back on it—letting his clerks do what they wanted.”
“I think that’s how Hitler trained his militia,” Ben said as a waiter refilled the table’s breadbasket.
“Didn’t I tell you this guy knows what it’s like?” Alcott said to Ben as he pointed at Nash.
“So tell me,” Ben said, “how’s everything at Wayne?”
“Fantastic,” Alcott said, putting both elbows on the table. “We just took on NFI Properties as a client, so if you need any tickets to a Redskins game, you let me know. In fact, any game in the whole country, whenever you want. We also took on Evian, so every water cooler in the firm has sparkling fresh Evian water.”
“That’s great,” Ben said, noticing that Alcott had paused for his reaction.
“And the pro bono department recently started doing work for the Children’s Defense Fund.”
“There are no free benefits from them.” Nash laughed. Shooting Nash a look, Alcott said, “But we do get invited to their annual convention, where the president usually speaks.”
“That’s great,” Ben said. “I’m on their mailing list because I did some work with them during law school.”
“Did you really?” Alcott asked. “Then we’ll have to get you in on this. Whenever you have some free time, let me know, and I’ll get you in to see the chairperson. She’s a wonderful woman. Very charismatic.”
“Meanwhile, did you tell him about the Supreme Court bonus?” Nash asked.
Alcott smiled. “Ben, this one is wonderful. The hiring committee recently met to reevaluate compensation packages for first-year associates. Since we’ve always given bonuses to associates who have clerkship experience, we thought we should add another bonus if the candidate also clerks for the Supreme Court. So in addition to that number I gave you last week, you can add another ten thousand. It’s only for the first year, but we think it’s a nice token.”
Staring at his plate, Ben wondered how he could take a $38,000-a-year job with the U.S. Attorney’s Office when a $100,000 job was staring him in the face and buying him an expensive lunch.
“Listen, you don’t have to decide now,” Alcott said. “We know it’s a hard choice. I’ll be honest, we know you can write your ticket anywhere, but we want you at Wayne and Portnoy. You’ve been with us for one summer; you know our style. It’s a relaxed atmosphere. We work hard when we have to, but we try to enjoy all the perks our profession allows us. If you come to us, I can assure you that at least twenty percent of your work will be on pro bono cases, so you can still give a great deal back to the community. Obviously, this isn’t the last time we’ll be speaking this year, but I do want to keep you informed about your choices.”
“I appreciate it,” Ben said. “You make it hard to say no.”
“Good,” Alcott said, closing his menu. “With that said, let’s order some expensive food.”
When Ben returned to the office, Lisa was still sitting at her computer. “How was lunch?”
“It was great,” Ben said, lying on the sofa and patting his stomach. “I had the best snapper I’ve eaten in my entire life. It was crusted with macadamia nuts an
d covered with the most tantalizing lemon-butter sauce. Unreal.”
“So let me ask you, how does it feel to sell your soul for a piece of fish and some designer butter?”
“Don’t even start with me. I’m at least deciding whether to go to a firm. You’re the one who’s already decided to say yes, Ms. Faustus.”
“Damn right I’m selling out. I’ve got a Saab to think about.”
“Your soul for a car. How tainted you’ve become.”
“Trust me, you’ll be right behind me. Guar-an-teed!”
“First of all, I won’t be right behind you, because there’s no amount of money in the world that can get me to live in Los Angeles. I heard that when you enter the city, the toll booths there accept dimes, nickels, quarters, and your integrity. Second of all, even if I do go to a firm, I’ll be going for ten thousand dollars more than you will.”
“You will not,” Lisa said.
“I will too.”
“Will not.”
“Okay,” Ben said, putting his hands behind his head. “Then I guess they didn’t just promise me an extra ten grand as a bonus for being a Supreme Court clerk.”
“Are you kidding me? You get ten grand more for working here? That’s bullshit. I have to get my firm on the line. I want more money. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll convince them I’m a bleeding heart who wants to save the world.”
Laughing, Ben said, “Let me ask you a question: Can we be more disgusting at this particular moment? Wait, do we have any death penalty cases coming up this week? Maybe we can kill someone for being poor.”
“You really have the worst liberal guilt I’ve ever seen,” Lisa said. “We’re going to be wealthy. Big deal. We worked hard to get where we are.”
“I know,” Ben said, “but we had so many advantages…”
“…that other kids never had. Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lisa said, playing an imaginary violin. “Listen, I don’t know what suburb you grew up in, but I grew up in a normal middle-class family. During bad years, we were lower middle class. I went to public school and no one cut the crusts off my Wonder Bread. How much class can my parents have—they met at Graceland, and they still tell people about it.”
“Y’know, there are two kinds of people in life,” Ben said, sitting up. “Those who cut the crust off their bread and those who—”
The ringing of Lisa’s phone cut off Ben’s sentence. “Hold on a second, I think that’s my pimp. He’s selling all of my intellectual skills to the highest bidder.” Picking up the receiver, she said, “Hello, Justice Hollis’s chambers.” After a second she grinned and mouthed the words “Washington Post.” Then she pulled out her press sheet. “I appreciate your concern on this matter, but as a clerk of the Supreme Court of the United States, I am not permitted to reveal any information to the press.” Lisa hung up the phone and sat back in her chair. “Are you happy now? I’m a suspect with you.”
“Yeah, but you were always a suspect. Your whole family is a bunch of shady thieves.”
“I resent you using the word ‘thieves.’ We prefer the word ‘scoundrels.’” Walking to the door, she continued, “I’m going to give Hollis our Oshinsky opinion. Hopefully, he’ll approve it by the end of today.”
“Good luck,” he said as Lisa left the room. Ben picked up the phone and dialed Nathan’s number.
“The Administrator’s Office,” Nathan said.
“Is that how you answer the phone? No wonder our government’s a bureaucratic mess.”
“Did you just get back from lunch with the castrating lawyers?” Nathan asked.
“You got it.”
“I knew there had to be a reason you were so excited. What did they try to buy you with this time?”
“An extra ten grand.”
“Are you serious? I was joking. Man, I’m in the wrong profession.”
“No, no. You have it much better off. Sitting around and thinking about social problems is probably the best way to solve them. And don’t forget, you beat me by a hundred points on the SAT, which, now that I think of it, is the square root of ten thousand.”
“Rot in Hades, capitalist sloth.”
“Listen, I meant to ask you, have you gotten all the stuff we need for Saturday?”
“I’m on it,” Nathan said. “Rick won’t know what to do when we’re done with him.”
“Is the plan done?”
“It’s pretty much the same as we first discussed.”
“I guess we’re set then,” Ben said. “We should probably meet tomorrow night just to do a run-through.”
“That’s fine. By the way, I’ll assume you haven’t spoken to Eric yet?”
“Nope. We’re meeting tonight at eight to have it out.”
“Ben, do me a favor. Go easy on him.”
“I’m fine. I’m completely calm.”
“Yeah, but did you hear what I said? Go easy on him. He’s still your friend.”
“Listen, I have to go,” Ben said, stretching. “I have to work on these opinions.” Hanging up the phone, Ben pulled his chair up to his desk. He opened the brown folder marked “Russell decision” and pulled out his first draft. Staring at the pages, he wondered if Osterman’s clerks really swayed opinions to their own agenda. No way, he thought. That story has urban myth written all over it. Lisa’s phone rang. He reached across the desk and picked it up. “Hello, Justice Hollis’s chambers.”
“Hi, I’m looking for a Lisa Schulman. Do I have the right extension?”
“You do.” Ben pulled the phone toward his own desk. “She just stepped out for a minute. Can I take a message?”
“Can you tell her Diana Martin of The Washington Post called her, and if she could give me a call back that’d be great.”
Puzzled, Ben said, “I guess she has your number?”
“No, no. She doesn’t even know me. Let me give it to you.”
After writing down the number, Ben hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. For the next half hour, he stared at the pages of the Russell decision.
At three o’clock, Lisa returned to the office. “We’re done,” she sang as she entered the room, throwing a manila file folder on her desk. “He loved it! Oshinsky is O’history!” Taking one look at Ben, she asked, “What?”
“I have a message to give you. Diana Martin of The Washington Post called. She wants you to call her.”
“Ben, I can expl—”
“Don’t bother,” he said, throwing Diana’s number on her desk. “I won’t believe it.”
“Ben, don’t be so damn stubborn.”
“Why not? All my other friends picked today to dick me over. Why can’t I be a little bit stubborn? In fact, I think I’m entitled to be a full-fledged jerk today.”
“Well, you’re doing a great job of that. And let me ask you a question: Why were you even answering my line?”
“Don’t even think of turning this one around,” he said, jumping from his seat. “Your phone rang; I picked it up. Period. What’s your excuse?”
Lisa looked at her feet. “I was worried that you would be crazy if I didn’t get a phone call from the Post, so I had a friend of mine make that first call to me and I pretended it was the reporter. I was trying to make you feel better.”
Ben fell silent. “You really did that for me?”
“I did it because I pity you,” she said with a smile.
“That’s not a bad excuse.”
“C’mon, you can’t be mad.”
“You’re lucky this time,” he said, pointing at Lisa. “Next time you try to be nice, I’m gonna really get pissed.”
At seven-thirty, Ben packed up his briefcase and left the office. Walking downstairs, he thought about his forthcoming confrontation with Eric. If he has no explanation, he’s dead, Ben thought as he swiped his card through the security door on the first floor. Even if he has an explanation, he’s dead. As he passed the marble statues in the Great Hall, Ben heard the security guard at the front entrance mumble something into his walkie-tal
kie. When the guard got out of his seat, Ben wondered what was wrong. Slowly, he approached the entrance. The guard looked at his clipboard. At the last second, Ben decided to turn around. Heading back the way he came, he swiped his card through the security door he had just left, reentering the north wing of the Court. He hurried toward the unmanned side door that exited to the north side of the building. As he approached the door, he heard the echo of footsteps behind him. Only the guilty run, he thought, remembering the advice from his criminal law professor. As he approached the exit, he once again prepared to swipe his I.D. card. Forcing it though the machine that would let him reach the exit, he was surprised when he didn’t hear the usual click of access. Again he tried the card. Nothing.
“Ben, can we speak with you for a moment?”
Ben jumped. Turning around, he saw a man in a gray wool suit coming toward him.
“Do you have a moment?” the man asked.
“Uh, is there a problem?” Ben stuttered.
“If you would just follow me.” Ben followed the man back to the front entrance. As they walked through the Great Hall, Ben loosened his tie. When they reached the front of the building, they took the elevator to the basement. Known to Court staff as Disneyland, the basement of the Supreme Court contained a snack bar, cafeteria, movie theater, gift shop, and exhibits on the history of the Court.
As Ben passed the giant statue of John Marshall, he tightened his jaw and tried his best to remain calm. On the west side of the building were the only basement offices: those of the marshals, who were in charge of all security for the Court. Entering through the main door, Ben walked through the maze of tiny cubicles and was escorted to the far left-hand corner of the room. Stopping in the doorway of a large office, Ben waited behind his guide. A heavy man in a blue pin-striped suit sat behind a faux antique desk.