She settles into the chair behind the desk, crosses one leg over the other, her hands set securely on the arms of the chair as if she were about to take a ride. “I figured sooner or later someone would show up. I pictured an investigator, not the lead defense counsel,” she says.
“I was in New York. I looked at our list of possible witnesses as well as those the state might call, and your name popped up,” I tell her.
“Why would you want to call me—as a witness, I mean?”
“I don’t know that I do.”
“I see. The police did talk to me. An investigator from San Diego. That was about…” She thinks for a moment, then riffles some pages on her desk calendar. “About two months ago now. What took you so long?” she asks.
I could say it was the absence of a good defense theory, but I don’t. “Can you tell me what they wanted to talk about?”
“Hmm?”
“The cops.”
“Oh.” She smiles. “Three guesses, and the first two don’t count,” she tells me.
“Your relationship with Scarborough.”
She nods. “Were we lovers?” she says. “I told them what I’m telling you, that the bloom was already off that particular rose. At one time we were what you might call an item, but that ended more than a year ago. I’ve been seeing other men, and I assume that Terry had someone else. We were still friends. I saw him occasionally at social events. We ran in the same circles. But that was all.”
“So you weren’t seeing each other at the time he was killed?”
“No.”
“Do you mind telling me how the two of you met?”
She has to think about this. “I believe it was at a dinner. A judicial affair, the circuit court if I remember right. That must have been three or four years ago now. Someone introduced us. One thing led to another, Terry called me up, and we started seeing each other.”
“You dated? How long?”
“What is this, a sequel to the Kinsey Report?”
“I have to think the cops would have asked,” I tell her.
“We lived together for a while. We had an apartment in Georgetown. It wasn’t much. Given Terry’s traveling schedule, he was never there. You have to understand that with Terry there was only one person who mattered in life, and that was Terry. The live-in thing lasted about seven months. In the end I decided that living alone in Terry’s apartment wasn’t what I had in mind. I found other people, another life. So I moved out and got my own place. That’s the long and short of it.”
“No angry words? No late-night disagreements?”
She shakes her head. “I can give you the address, and you can check with the neighbors if you like,” she says. “The parting was quite amicable. I left. When Terry got back from his latest fling on Court TV or CNN or whatever it was, I was gone. Simple as that. Sorry to disappoint,” she says. “No big blowup, if that’s what you’re thinking. I sometimes wondered when he returned whether Terry even noticed that I was gone. That was Terry.” She smiles. “You had to love him. I guess you could say the relationship just sort of ran its course. In the end we simply went our separate ways. There’s a lot of that in this town, politics and human ambition being what they are.”
“And when was this parting of the ways?”
“About a year ago. We still talked every once in a while.”
“When was the last time?”
“That we talked?”
I nod.
“I’d have to think.” She does. “It must have been last Christmas.” She toys with the fingers of one hand at the arm of the chair. “Yes, it was Christmas. We had some mutual friends who’d invited us to a Christmas party. I don’t think they’d gotten the word that we weren’t living together any longer. Terry got the invitation and wanted to know what to do with it. He called me, and we talked for a while.”
“Mind if I ask what you talked about?”
“What do two former live-ins talk about? The weather, our health, mutual friends we’ve seen…”
“Did you happen to discuss Justice Ginnis?”
With the mention of his name, she looks up directly at me. “No. Not that I recall.”
“You did clerk for him?”
“Yes.”
“I’d been told that Mr. Scarborough and he were friends.”
She laughs at this. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to or what you’ve been reading, but they weren’t friends. I mean, they knew each other. They were acquainted, but they operated in different orbits. Terry was a hanger-on around the Court. Arthur Ginnis is the genuine article, a member of the Court.”
“That’s funny.”
“Why?”
“I’d gotten the sense that they were quite close, that in fact Justice Ginnis may have been the impetus for Mr. Scarborough’s book.”
“You mean Perpetual Slaves?”
I nod.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what I heard.”
She sits upright in her chair, hands gripping the arms until her knuckles turn white. “I don’t know who told you that,” she says. “But I can say with certainty that Arthur—Justice Ginnis—had nothing to do with that book, and in fact he believed that the entire concept of dredging up dead-letter law from the Constitution and using it in that way was, in a word, despicable. It would have been an embarrassment for him. A sitting Supreme Court justice. No. It was part of the reason he distanced himself from Terry. He was concerned about Terry’s lust for publicity. The fact that Terry was constantly on television, flogging his books and trying to pretend that he was some kind of a Court insider, when he wasn’t.”
As I listen to Scott, she confirms one of Harry’s witticisms: that there are two classes of people who wield immense power and who shun the public light—mobsters if they have a brain and members of the Supreme Court.
“Do you know how the two of them met, Scarborough and Ginnis?” I ask.
“As a matter of fact, I do. I introduced them. I don’t know if they’d ever actually spoken before that. It was at a reception when I was clerking. At the time I didn’t fully understand why Justice Ginnis was so reticent. But he was gracious. Arthur is always the gentleman. Terry was my date. They shook hands and talked. Briefly,” she says. “Why is all of this so important?”
“I’m looking for information regarding a letter that belonged to Mr. Scarborough. Actually, I don’t know if it was his or if he was just borrowing it.”
“A letter. What letter?”
“It could be an important historical piece, correspondence dating back to the time of the Constitution, late eighteenth century. I’m told that Scarborough had this letter in his possession when he was killed.”
“Go on.” There’s a look in her eyes. Perhaps it’s the way they’re darting at the moment, taking in everything in the room except me.
“It’s possible that the police found it. Except for one thing: It hasn’t shown up on any of the lists of evidence that they’ve produced. You wouldn’t know anything about it? This letter, I mean?”
“No.”
“Well, you lived with Scarborough for a while. I thought maybe you might have seen it?”
“Oh, I understand. No. I don’t know anything about a letter.”
“Then I guess you wouldn’t know whether Scarborough might have obtained it from Justice Ginnis?”
“What? What makes you think that?” she says.
“Some people think he might have gotten the letter from the justice.”
“Who?”
“Some people,” I tell her. “But since you don’t know anything about the letter, perhaps you would know how I might get ahold of Justice Ginnis? While I’m here in Washington, that is.”
“Why would you want to talk to him?”
“To see if he knows anything about the letter.”
“Why is this letter so important? I mean, what does it have to do with Terry’s murder?”
“I’m not sure. But that’s what I’d like to find out
.”
“No!” This seems to light a spark, a point of ignition deep inside her. “I’m sure there’s nothing he could possibly tell you—Justice Ginnis. He wouldn’t know anything about any letter. He barely knew Terry. I think they met only once or twice. At social functions. They hardly knew each other.”
“Still. Is there any chance I could talk to him? I figured you being a former clerk, you might be able to open some doors for me. Just a brief conversation is all I’m looking for. Five minutes of his time. I could truck on over to the Supreme Court building alone. But getting through the phalanx of marshals downstairs is another matter.”
She laughs. “You’re right. You wouldn’t get in.”
“I suppose I could call over there, talk to one of his clerks, mention the letter…”
“You’d be wasting your time,” she says. “I’ll tell you what I will do. I can make a phone call. But he’s a very busy man. I really don’t think he’s going to appreciate being bothered by all this. In fact, I’m not even sure he’s in town. The Court’s in recess, and Justice Ginnis is recuperating from hip surgery.”
“I understand. But if you could check, make a phone call. Perhaps he’d agree to see me. Just a very brief conversation. I really would appreciate it.”
She looks at the phone on her desk, then at me. “Where are you staying?” she asks.
“The Mayflower.” I give her my cell-phone number in case I’m out when she calls.
“It’ll take me a few minutes. I am busy this afternoon. But let me make a few phone calls. I’ll get ahold of you either at your hotel or by cell. I wouldn’t hold out much hope, though. Justice Ginnis is almost always out of town when the Court’s in recess.”
I thank her. She shows me back to the elevator, and five minutes later I’m standing on the hot concrete of the sidewalk waiting for a taxi.
FIVE
I had barely entered my hotel lobby when I felt the tickle from the vibrator on my cell phone at my belt.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Madriani.” The melodious tone of her voice was still in my brain from our meeting. “Trisha Scott here. I did as you asked. I called Justice Ginnis’s chambers. As I suspected, he’s out of town, on vacation. They didn’t tell me precisely where. They never do. Just somewhere in the Caribbean.”
“Did they say when he would be back?”
“No. But it will probably be a while. The Court doesn’t reconvene until October, and as I told you, Arthur is recovering from some surgery, so he’s on light duty. He may not be back immediately at the start of the session when they reconvene.”
“You mean a member of the Court can be absent?”
“Sure, it happens. They just have to go with eight justices until the absent member returns.”
“They can’t have someone from the circuit court sit in?”
“No. Not on the Supreme Court. It’s constitutional. No one can sit on the Supreme Court until nominated by the president and confirmed by the Senate. Arthur would have to step down, retire before that could happen. And if you knew Arthur, you’d know that isn’t going to happen anytime soon, particularly in the current political climate.”
Scott’s talking about the current partisan division among members of the Court. Anyone who thinks that judges aren’t political should buy a bridge or two. At the rarefied level of the Supreme Court, this doubles down in spades. There are justices who are thought to call the White House for direction on one side and powerful members of the Senate on the other before rendering an opinion on hot issues before the Court. Some would say that the situation has worsened in the last twenty years. Many of these are suffering from a lack of perspective when it comes to history. They forget that FDR threatened to amend the Constitution in order to pack the Court with more members to get his way on New Deal legislation back in the thirties.
“So what you’re saying is that if I want to talk to him, I’m going to have to either wait or trek down to the Caribbean and try to find him?”
“That’s about the size of it,” she says. “But I’d like to suggest another alternative. That is, if you’re in town overnight?”
“Currently I have a flight out tomorrow afternoon. I was going to extend it, if needed, in the event you could reach the Justice.”
“Listen. How about dinner tonight?” she says. “I can show you some of the sights of the city. Also, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“What?”
“Over dinner,” she says.
“All right.”
“Then dinner at seven. I’ll pick you up at your hotel. In the lobby, at six-thirty.”
Before I can say anything more, she hangs up.
“I was a little abrupt this afternoon,” she apologizes.
I’m looking at Trisha Scott through dim lamplight over a white linen tablecloth in a Georgetown restaurant called 1789, her pick since she’s driving.
The unlit fireplace, partially covered by a summer-front, and the beamed ceiling give the décor a distinctive Colonial feel, though I’m told that the building is a nineteenth-century renovation, a town house with rooms carved into intimate dining areas accented by Early American antiques. Equestrian prints cover the walls. In the background there is the light hum of chatter at nearby tables.
“I’m sorry, but you caught me by surprise. I guess I’ve been too busy lately, under a lot of pressure,” she says. “I hope you can understand?”
“Sure.”
“Of course, I’m sitting here telling you about pressure. I can’t imagine the responsibility of trying a capital case.”
“You don’t do any criminal law?”
She shakes her head. “No. I get the jitters when large sums of money are involved, and then I only see it after all the fast trial guns have fired, the smoke has cleared, and everything’s up on appeal. I’m what you would call the law’s Monday-morning quarterback,” she says. “I can’t imagine what it would be like if someone’s life were on the line, doing it in front of a jury. The thing with Terry was enough for me. His death,” she says. “No doubt he wasn’t the best of people. In the end he was just someone I’d known. But the fact was, I had known him, shared meals, slept with him. I helped his family with the funeral arrangements when they came east with the body. There was only his mother and a sister, but they seemed lost. I’d met them a few times when we were dating, so I did what I could.”
“That was good of you.”
“What else could I do? I’m sorry I took it out on you.”
“Hmm?”
“This afternoon,” she says.
“Not at all. You were very polite.”
“But not very helpful.” She smiles at me.
“Well…” I offer her an expression of concession.
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I didn’t tell you everything. In fact, I didn’t tell you the truth.”
“About what?”
“About the letter. There was a letter,” she says. “Mind you, I never actually saw it. But there were references to it.”
“References?”
“In an early version of the manuscript for Perpetual Slaves. He wanted me to proof it for him. We were still living together. He was the wordsmith writing books, I was the wordsmith writing briefs. I really didn’t have the time. I told him so. Terry never took no for an answer. It wasn’t in his lexicon. I think what he really wanted was to see if I would be shocked by the content of what he’d written.”
“And were you?”
She looks at me and nods. “He had strewn the thing with references to this letter. I only got a glance,” she says. “Because I didn’t actually proof it—the book, I mean. We got into a disagreement. It ultimately led to a rupture in the relationship. That’s what ended it.”
“Disagreement over what?”
“Whether he should use that kind of material in the book.”
“What kind of material?”
“I’m assuming it came from the letter you’re talking about. A
ccording to Terry, it was an indictment of everything American, hypocrisy piled on hypocrisy, all documented at the inception of the country’s founding. As I recall, Terry referred to it, in the manuscript, as ‘the infamous Jefferson Letter.’”
“Do you mind if I take notes?” I ask.
She looks at me. “You have to promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“That you won’t call me as a witness.”
“I can’t promise that.”
Her face is suddenly a mask of exasperation.
“How can I promise that? With Scarborough dead, you may be the only one who knows anything about the letter.”
“As I said, I never actually saw it. Whatever he told me, whatever he wrote that I might have seen, is now hearsay. I’m not a trial lawyer, but without the letter itself and some way to verify its contents it would be inadmissible. Am I wrong?”
“No. You’re right. Perhaps now you can understand why it’s so important that I find Justice Ginnis.”
Our drinks arrive. Scott picks up her tumbler, scotch and soda, and takes a sip as she looks at me over the glass. I can tell by the expression in her eyes that she’s weighing whether to say anything more. I’m worried that she may get up and walk. At the moment it’s her word against mine that she knows anything at all.
“I can’t say anything more unless I have assurances that you won’t call me as a witness,” she says.
“I won’t call you unless I absolutely have to. If I can find another source for the letter,” I tell her, “I won’t have to.”
She thinks about this.
“If you stop now, you’re my only source. I will have nowhere else to turn. If you tell me what you know, you may give me other leads, in which case there’s a good chance I may not need you.”
I’m making a sales pitch. She knows it. She considers this for a moment, the canny lawyer behind the icy tumbler. She puts the glass down. “You have to promise that you will do everything possible to keep me out of it.”
“Agreed.”
“All right.” She takes a deep breath. “As I said, I just saw references to the letter in the early manuscript. And then I only got fleeting glimpses. I never actually had a chance to look at the manuscript in detail. We never got that far.”
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