The Outsider

by Anthony Franze

  Jorge glowered at Gray, but finally nodded.

  Gray released his hold. Jorge then swung at him. Gray ducked, feeling the breeze from the clumsy punch over his head. The momentum nearly spun Jorge around. Gray pushed the back of Jorge’s shoulder, kicking his feet out from under him. Jorge was on the sidewalk now.

  As Gray walked away, Jorge muttered something, but he wisely stayed down.

  Gray climbed into the U-Haul. Camila started the engine and pulled from the curb. In the side-view mirror, Gray saw Jorge ranting at the truck as they drove away. Camila didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Club soda, really?” Scott Cartwright said with a frown as Milstein ordered her drink from the bartender. She was wedged next to Cartwright on a stool at the crowded dive bar near the field office. The place smelled of beer and greasy food.

  “It’s the fifth of the month,” Milstein said. “I wanna be sharp if something happens.”

  Cartwright hesitated, then said to the bartender, “Cancel the beer. I’ll have a Coke.”

  Milstein stared at the TV mounted to the wall, her thoughts wandering. Why wasn’t anyone taking the threat seriously? On July 5, someone had set a fire at the Franklin Theater just outside D.C. in Silver Spring, Maryland. A dozen people were killed from the flames, smoke, and stampede. On August 5, someone killed a lawyer and the woman’s daughter and mother at Dupont Underground. And on October 5, a man attacked the chief justice. But it wasn’t simply the dates that connected the crimes—they now had evidence suggesting it was the same perp. But for some inexplicable reason, here they were on November 5, and the Bureau, the Supreme Court Police, and Homeland Security acted like she was Chicken Little.

  “You really think he’ll strike tonight?” Cartwright said. “I mean, the dates could be a coincidence.”

  Milstein pulled her gaze from the television. “That’s what Neal said.”

  “Let’s hope you’re wrong.” Cartwright superstitiously knocked twice on the bar. “You have Agent Simmons monitoring Metro police for any homicides tonight?”

  Milstein nodded. “D.C. Metro, as well as Fairfax, Montgomery, and PG counties.”

  “Supreme Court Police still being a pain in the ass?”

  Milstein heaved a sigh, nodded again. Since the attack in the garage, Milstein had been trying to interview the chief justice and other court employees. The court’s police chief, Aaron Dowell, had shut her out.

  “Aaron’s territorial,” Cartwright said. “Has a chip on his shoulder and thinks the Supreme Court’s squad gets no respect.”

  “No, I think he’s just a dumb ass.”

  Cartwright’s brow creased into a rail yard of horizontal lines. He looked around to confirm no one was listening. In a quiet voice, he said, “Aaron’s no dummy. He’s just an inside-the-box guy.”

  “We can connect all three crimes, and all happened on the fifth of the month, what’s so outside-the-box about that?” Milstein was anxious, frustrated that they had so little to go on—that the other agencies were stifling her ability to get more to go on. They should be working together.

  One of the agents from the field office stopped at the bar and gave Cartwright one of those handshake man-hugs. After the guy sauntered off, Cartwright said, “Oh, I almost forgot.” He pulled out his mobile and started swiping at it. “I set up a Google Alert using names and search terms for anything related to the investigation. Look what popped up on my screen today.” He handed Milstein the smartphone.

  Milstein squinted to see the tiny print on the screen. It was a blog entry or news story, she couldn’t tell.

  “It’s a legal site called Above the Law. Popular with law clerks, law students, associates at the big law firms,” Cartwright explained. “It’s a story about the guy who helped save the chief, Grayson Hernandez.”

  Milstein was still having trouble maneuvering the story on the phone. She looked at Cartwright. “They found out he was there when the chief was attacked?”

  “No. It’s a puff piece, reporting that the kid was promoted to Supreme Court law clerk, which I guess is a big deal. The story says it’s highly unusual for a justice to hire someone after the term has started, much less someone who went to D.C. State. There’s a lot of speculation about why the chief justice hired him, but nothing relating to the case. Yet, anyway.”

  “Sounds like the chief justice was grateful to Hernandez.”

  “I’d say so,” Cartwright said. “So you’re really sticking around until midnight?”

  Milstein nodded. “You don’t have to stay.”

  Cartwright pondered this for a few seconds. “I already told Peggy you’re acting crazy, and that I’d be late.”

  Milstein gave him a long stare. “You can call me crazy tomorrow morning when there’s no dead bodies.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Gray had Camila pull into a McDonald’s so he could buy Marianna the ice cream he’d promised. The restaurant had only one customer, an elderly black man seated in the back reading a newspaper. Gray bought a sundae and also some hamburgers and fries, food for the long drive to Camila’s sister’s house in Baltimore where she planned to start their life anew. He saw an ATM machine across the parking lot next to a dollar store. He was making good money as a law clerk—$77,490 a year—so he decided he could afford it. He sauntered over to the machine, took out the $500 maximum allowed, and tucked the bills inside the McDonald’s bag.

  “You’re not coming with us?” Marianna asked as Gray handed her the sundae and fast-food bag through the passenger-side window.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’ll miss you,” she said in her sweet little girl voice.

  Camila mouthed thank you, and they pulled out of the McDonald’s lot.

  Gray contemplated going home, but he wanted to give Jorge time to sober up. Gray sent a text to Sam:

  Long day, want company?

  It was only a few seconds before Gray’s phone pinged:

  Come!!

  Gray took an Uber to Sam’s place. She answered the door wearing a tight top and PJ bottoms, and greeted him with her customary punch in the arm.

  Her loft was a large, open space, a former dance studio—tall mirrors, railings along the walls. She was a photographer and the place was both her home and workspace. A section was cordoned off with expensive-looking lighting equipment, tripods, and camera gear.

  In the living area, Sam’s work hung on the exposed brick. Lots of black and whites of people, working people, living their lives. She had a knack for catching moments, the tiniest gestures or facial expressions. Love. Pride. Disappointment.

  As she made them both drinks, Gray casually scanned the latest books on her expansive shelf. Since they were kids she was a reader. There was a new biography of Lincoln, a photography book, and drugstore paperbacks. Sam had once told him that she loved to read anything but what she called RPP fiction (rich people problems)—stories about affluent people finding themselves or twenty- or thirty-something angst. More with the acronyms, she ought to work at the Supreme Court. His eyes stopped at a small framed photo on the shelf. Not her professional work, but a shot of Gray, Sam, and Arturo when they were kids at the rusted playground in the courtyard of the apartment complex. They’d been inseparable. The three amigos, as Gray’s dad called them, a reference to some dumb old movie.

  Sam handed him the glass, noticing him examining the photo. They had an unwritten rule to never discuss Arturo, but Sam broke it. “He got out last month,” she said.

  Gray didn’t take the bait. Whatever Sam thought of him, Arturo wasn’t the sweet kid in that photo. And if he was out of prison, it wouldn’t be for long.

  Sam pulled the sad look she got whenever Arturo came up, and her body gave a small quiver, like she literally was trying to shake it off, and she changed the subject.

  “So, is this your new thing, going around starting shit with muggers and drunk neighbors so you can play hero?”

  Gray laughed. Sam always kept him grounded.r />
  “So really, what’s new?” Sam sat on the couch and gestured for Gray to join her. “How’s the job? No one’s seen you since you started.”

  “It’s been crazy busy. Intense. And a huge learning curve.”

  “But you like it?”

  “No,” Gray said. “I love it. It’s probably the most important job I’ll ever have.”

  Sam smirked, which made him feel a little silly. He imagined how he must sound.

  “What’s the chief justice like? He seemed pretty cool at the hospital.”

  “I honestly don’t see him much. The court runs in a cycle, sittings, so he’s there for two weeks during the sittings, then gone two weeks for the recesses.”

  “They get recess, like school kids?”

  Gray laughed again. “Yeah, so most of my time is spent alone in my office writing memos.”

  “What about the other law clerks? How are they?”

  Gray hesitated. “You wouldn’t believe their resumes. There’s this guy Praveen, his father is chief of staff at the White House, mom is assistant secretary of state. He won the National Spelling Bee and College Jeopardy. He’s quiet, but ridiculously smart. Then there’s Mike and Keir, I think I told you about them. Before clerking, Keir spent two years writing for The Atlantic and his dad is a pretty famous court of appeals judge. Mike played college baseball and was the editor in chief of the Harvard Law Review.”

  “Is Mike the JFK guy or the frat boy?”

  “Frat boy,” Gray said.

  “No girls in this star chamber?”

  “Just one, Lauren. She keeps things close to the vest. But I heard she’s from old, old money.”

  “Sounds like you fit in perfectly,” Sam said.

  Gray smiled. He didn’t mention that his co-clerks hadn’t exactly taken to him. But there must have been something in his voice—hurt, maybe—that Sam picked up on, because all she said was, “You’re just as good as them, you know.”

  When he didn’t reply, she added, “And don’t let them make you think different.”

  Everyone should have a friend like Sam. “Enough about me,” Gray said. “How are you doing?”

  Sam’s face lit up. “I’m great, actually.” She crossed her legs and nestled her drink between them. “I got a call today. They’re giving me my own show.” An exhibition at the prestigious Alexander Gallery. She’d been struggling for years. Life was finally coming together for both of them.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to get away from work to come?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “You’d better not,” she said. “I need to know I’ll have at least one person there.”

  He hated it when she did that. But they’d both developed these defense mechanisms, knee-jerk reactions, to praise or accolades. It was a way to beat the world from pulling the rug out from under them. They’d throw themselves on the floor instead.

  “You hungry?” she asked.

  Gray thought about it. “Yeah, starving, actually.”

  “Mr. Fong’s?” Their favorite Chinese place. And most important, the only place in the neighborhood—probably in all of D.C.—that was open late for deliveries.

  “You don’t know how good that sounds,” Gray said. Then his cell phone chimed. Sam’s gaze locked on the iPhone. She frowned when he tapped its face.

  “Hey, Lauren, what’s up?” He used his gravelly cool-guy voice, which prompted an eye-roll from Sam.

  “You need to get to the court,” Lauren said.

  “To the court? Now? What’s up?”

  He listened as she explained. The second task of a law clerk: an emergency petition to stay an execution.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sakura Matsuka mopped the convenience store’s floor. It was almost midnight, so the rest of her shift should be quiet, save the drunks who started rolling in around 3:30 a.m. after the bars closed. She had just two semesters left in community college and hopefully she’d never have to deal with them again. The store would be her family’s problem. She’d been an indentured servant long enough. Soon, she’d never have to sell another pack of cigarettes or replace the filters in the filthy coffee makers or smell the aged hot dogs rolling on the mini treadmills.

  She heard the chime from the door. With every customer this late came a twinge of fear. A druggie who would pistol-whip her for the hundred bucks in the register. A sicko who would try to rape her. But there was nothing to fear with this one.

  Sakura smiled and rolled the mop bucket back to the storeroom.

  As Sakura approached the register, she noticed the customer staring out the door, as if looking for someone. There was something unusual about it.

  Then a chill ran through her when she saw the gun, and the customer flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

  CHAPTER 12

  Gray felt an ominous electricity when he walked into the Supreme Court. He was still learning the ropes of the job, including the death penalty stays, but this much he knew: the court maintained a death watch of sorts and even had a “death clerk” whose job it was to track capital cases that may seek high court review. But something unusual happened in the Anton Troy case, Gray wasn’t sure what, and everyone was blindsided.

  Usually only one clerk from each of the nine chambers would stay late to handle a death stay, but the chief had ordered all five of his clerks to come in. Gray didn’t know if that was because of the screw-up or because Anton Troy had become one of those “celebrity” capital cases, garnering national media coverage, complete with finger-wagging movie stars and impassioned pleas from former presidents.

  The things they say about the death penalty, that it takes years and years, appeal after appeal, they’re true. Anton Troy had been on death row for more than two decades. But it changed toward the end. When a death case arrived at the Supreme Court, the proceedings moved fast and efficiently, like everything else at One First Street.

  Gray found Lauren, Keir, and Praveen in the library, the Anton Troy record spread out on the long wooden table. Mike had yet to arrive.

  “The chief has made his views on the death penalty clear,” Lauren said. She held up a booklet containing a decision from last term and read aloud from Chief Justice Douglas’s dissenting opinion: “The chief wrote, ‘There is evidence that innocent people have been executed, that death sentences are imposed arbitrarily, and that the capital justice system is warped by racial discrimination and politics. For these reasons, to paraphrase one of my predecessors, ‘I no longer shall tinker with the machinery of death.’”

  Keir scoffed. “I’m sure the families of the cop who Anton Troy killed will appreciate the poetry of his dissent.”

  “If you want to go against the chief,” Lauren responded, “good luck with that.”

  “Give it a rest, Lauren,” Keir said.

  “Guys,” Praveen cut in. “We don’t have time for this.”

  “Can I ask a question?” Gray said.

  The three looked at him, impatience in their faces.

  “The chief has said he’s done with the death penalty, so what’s there even to do? He’s obviously going to vote to stop Anton Troy’s execution.”

  “I don’t have time to babysit,” Keir said. “You tell him. I’ll try to reach Mike again.” Keir marched off, iPhone pressed to his ear.

  Lauren exhaled loudly. Gray wasn’t sure if the annoyance was directed at Keir or Gray. “It’s not the chief we have to convince,” Lauren said. “It’s the other justices. We need to give the chief information he can use to turn them his way.”

  Lauren explained that the chief and three other justices had made clear that they were done with the death penalty, so there were always four votes to stop an execution. Three other justices always voted for no stay, so that meant that it usually came down to the swing votes on capital punishment, Justice Wall and Justice Cutler. With five votes needed to grant a stay, the chief needed to convince only one of them. Their best hope, Lauren said, was Justice Wall. He and the chief were best friends
, and, in an unlikely bit of history, they’d actually grown up together. Even more unbelievable, they were ideological opposites.

  “Is Mike here yet?” Lauren asked.

  “Still not responding,” Keir said, glancing at his phone.

  Lauren then directed each of their tasks. Keir reviewed the case law on the Eighth Amendment. Praveen, background on Alabama’s death system. Gray would help Lauren. He should have been insulted that she too thought that he needed a babysitter, but he was happy to be in her orbit. By then it was 1:30 a.m. They had until 2:30 a.m., the deadline the justices had given the clerks to recommend whether to stop the execution.

  The case was the latest in the debate over lethal injections. States traditionally had used a three-drug cocktail to execute defendants. But the manufacturers of the drugs—companies headquartered in Europe that found the death penalty barbaric—decided that they would no longer partake in the United States’ use of their products in killing. That left states scrambling to find alternative drugs. With those alternatives came legal challenges. In a five-four decision, the court previously had upheld the use of a controversial drug, the sedative midazolam, but Alabama had run out of sources for that drug and sought to use a replacement. The question presented in the Anton Troy case was whether the new drug would cause Troy immense pain, something his lawyers argued was cruel and unusual punishment forbidden by the Eighth Amendment.

  Gray and Lauren worked side-by-side in the shallow light of the library. She told him to make a bullet-point list of all the horribles that had occurred in past executions using the same drug, as she pecked at her laptop, putting together a memo for the chief justice. He tried to focus on only the task at hand, but couldn’t help stealing looks at her. The intensity in her large eyes. The crease in her forehead when she concentrated.

  At 2:20 a.m., Lauren typed feverishly on the laptop as Gray, Keir, and Praveen stood over her shoulder and called out suggested changes to the memo.

  Ten minutes later, they gathered outside the chief’s office. Gray would never forget the sound of the knock on the chief’s carved oak door. Clunk, clunk, clunk.