Supreme Justice

by Phillip Margolin

  "So, you're seeing someone," she said, as she read the quote.

  "We're engaged."

  "Hmm. This is cute," Willie said when she finished. Then she wandered over to a photograph of a much younger Felicia Moss and Martin Luther King taken the day of King's assassination.

  "I've heard they were lovers," Willie said.

  "That's an unsubstantiated rumor."

  Have you ever asked her?"

  "Of course not."

  Willie laughed and walked over to the justice's desk. "You're not uptight about sex, are you?"

  "No," Brad answered, too quickly. The truth was that he'd never been someone who took sex lightly. He was a one-woman man, and the women he'd slept with, with rare exceptions, were women with whom he'd had a serious relationship. His exhausting and painful relationship with one of those women, Bridgett Malloy, was the reason Brad had moved across the country from New York to Oregon after law school. When he'd arrived in Portland, Brad had wondered if he'd ever get over Bridgett, but Ginny had cured him of the symptoms of his tragic romance.

  Willie ran her hand along the underside of the desk as if she were stroking a lover, while glancing at the papers stacked on top of the desk.

  "I don't think you should be looking at the judge's work," Brad said. He crossed over to Willie to protect Justice Moss's privacy, even though he didn't want to get any closer to her than necessary.

  "Sorry. Are those the covers of the cases Justice Moss argued in the Court?" she asked, crossing to the far side of the room.

  Brad let Willie wander around the judge's chambers for a while longer. Then he told her that he had to meet Ginny for dinner. Horst took the hint and left. Brad noticed that she hadn't shown a lot of interest in the justice's memorabilia, and he wondered if the request for a tour had been a cover for something else.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dennis Masterson's driver powered down the tinted window of the limousine and identified his passenger to the guard at the east gate of the White House. The guard checked to see if Masterson was expected, then checked the attorney's identification before waving the car through. As the limo made its way along the horseshoe-shaped driveway, Masterson thought about the brief affair he'd had with President Gaylord when the then United States senator from Ohio was starting her second term. After Masterson had briefed the Senate Intelligence Committee in a closed-door session about a clandestine operation in sub-Saharan Africa, Gaylord had asked him to join her for drinks, ostensibly to pick his brain about what she would need to know to be more effective in her new assignment. Masterson suspected that Gaylord had more on her mind than self-improvement and was delighted when his suspicions were confirmed. The senator had been a Miss Ohio and had worked hard to keep her figure and looks. Masterson grinned as he remembered the few nights they'd spent together. Gaylord was unquestionably the only president who would have looked good as a Playboy centerfold.

  The affair ended almost as soon as it began, and Masterson had no illusions about Gaylord's reason for beginning it. Every move she made was calculated to give her an edge. The president had grown up dirt-poor and had financed degrees in business and law with scholarships won in beauty pageants. She'd made a personal fortune and important contacts while serving as counsel to a major corporation, and her rapid rise in politics was well documented. The president was a shark with a dangerously high IQ, and Masterson knew he would have to be careful to gain what he wanted without being eaten.

  The Rose Garden came into view, and the chauffer pulled up in front of a door that stood between the Oval Office and the State Dining Room. A Secret Service agent led Masterson upstairs to the private quarters and left him in a small study. After making Masterson wait for fifteen minutes, Maureen Gaylord walked in. The stately brunette was dressed in an understated outfit that the truly discerning would know was the product of a top fashion designer.

  "Dennis," she said, flashing a warm smile that lit up her wonderful features. Masterson savored the moment. He knew the smile would disappear as soon as Gaylord learned the reason for his late-night visit.

  "The presidency hasn't aged you a bit, Maureen," Masterson said after they'd cheek-kissed and were both seated.

  "You were always great at flattery, but keep it up. I need to hear something nice after dealing with that asshole from North Korea all day."

  "Then you should welcome my visit. I'm here to ease the burden of your office."

  "Oh," Gaylord said. The president knew there was no such thing as a free lunch when the ex-CIA director was involved.

  "Vivian Chalmers is a wonderful woman. It's got to be tough for Ron."

  "He's devastated. I was one of the first people he told," the president said.

  Masterson nodded sympathetically. "Ron is going to be tough to replace."

  "I agree."

  "But I believe I've found the perfect person for you to nominate." Masterson was relaxed. A calm smile illuminated his handsome features. "You know I had some terrific people working for me at the CIA. Well, the brightest person in the group is now a respected academic with a deep understanding of the world around us."

  "And who would that be, Dennis?"

  "Audrey Stewart."

  "You're kidding?"

  "You can use another woman on the Court."

  "Audrey is to the right of Attila the Hun. There would be a donnybrook in the Senate, and the liberals would go insane."

  Masterson stopped smiling and fixed Gaylord with a cold stare. "I guarantee that I can deliver the votes, Maureen."

  "And how exactly will you do that?"

  "The same way J. Edgar Hoover kept a string of presidents in line. The director of the CIA has access to secrets. I've kept proof of some very dark ones for a rainy day."

  For the first time, Maureen Gaylord looked less sure of herself.

  "Why Stewart? She's very smart, but so are any number of qualified candidates I could name."

  "I regard Audrey very highly," Masterson answered evasively.

  "Well, I don't, but I'll place her in my pool of possible nominees, and I'll see what my advisors think."

  "I'd prefer something more substantial," Masterson said, his tone hardening.

  "That's the best I can do, Dennis. You're not the only person advocating for a candidate. All I'll promise is that I will consider your suggestion seriously."

  Masterson reached into his pocket and slid a DVD case across the coffee table that separated them. Under the DVD was a seemingly innocent photograph of Gaylord and a man who appeared to be of Middle Eastern origin sitting in a hotel lobby. Masterson watched the color drain from the president's face as he stood up.

  "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I'd appreciate it if you'd consider Audrey as a possible nominee to the Court. Why don't you give me a call when you've made a decision?"

  The president of the United States was still staring at the photograph when Masterson closed the door to the study behind him. Although he appeared supremely confident, the encounter had left him drained. As an attorney, he was well aware of the federal criminal statutes he'd violated by blackmailing the president, but the consequences of having cert granted in Woodruff were potentially far worse. Besides, he was certain that Gaylord would not want the conversation that had been recorded on the DVD he'd given her heard by anyone who didn't already know about it.

  Masterson told his driver to take him home. Then he opened the bar in the back of the limousine and poured a glass of fifteen-year-old single-malt scotch. He took a sip and closed his eyes. When he was calmer, he considered his problem.

  Masterson's mole in the Court had told him that if Moss was going to vote to bring Woodruff to the Court, the justices were just one vote shy of the four votes needed to grant cert. If Stewart was appointed, it wouldn't matter what Moss did, but Masterson didn't like leaving anything to chance. Moss was the wild card. She was the Court's brightest legal mind and she had a knack for bringing other justices over to her way of thinking. Gaylord w
as right when she said that the liberals would go berserk if Audrey was nominated. Masterson was pretty certain that he could leverage the votes he needed to get Stewart the appointment, but nothing was certain in politics. It always helped to have a contingency plan, and Masterson decided to put his into action.

  Chapter Twelve

  Daphne Haggard had grown up in New England. Then she'd moved to Chicago and Wisconsin. She should have been used to the cold, but she hated it. If the temperature had been in the eighties while she was standing in this land of majestic trees with its coat of sparkling white snow, she would have appreciated the forest's serene beauty. But each time she tried to lose herself in the picture-postcard landscape, a gust of wind would whip through the trees and lacerate her cheeks. If she had half a brain, she told herself, she'd be living in San Diego or Miami.

  What was she doing out here supervising the search for more body parts? How likely was it that the search teams would find anything? Daphne hunched her shoulders, pulled her navy blue watch cap more firmly over her ears, and took a long sip of steaming hot coffee from the thermos she clutched in her gloved hands. She should be home in front of a fire instead of freezing her butt off on a fool's errand. Still, this might be their only chance. The storm that had prevented a search when the thigh had been discovered had lasted several days, but the weather had warmed and a lot of the snow had melted. It was getting cold again, but no more snow was predicted until the weekend, which meant they had a narrow window to blanket the area and pray for a miracle. Once the bad weather came in earnest, the search would have to be suspended for months. Of course, by the time they could resume, a match with a missing person would probably have been made from the DNA taken from the tissue sample that had been forwarded to NamUs and all of this suffering in the cold would have been for nothing.

  Daphne was working herself into a deep depression when two Explorer Scouts crashed through the trees.

  "We found a leg!" one of the boys shouted.

  "It's on the other side of the stream," the second boy chimed in.

  "Show me," Daphne said.

  The two scouts raced to a place where the stream narrowed, and Daphne hurried to keep up. The water was high because of the runoff from the snow and moving fast. Daphne almost unbalanced on the slick stones that covered the streambed, but she caught herself before she fell into the freezing water. The bank on the other side was a gentle incline, and she made it to the top in time to see the scouts disappear into a copse of birch trees. The limbs were bare, and she kept her eye on the red ski parka one of the scouts was wearing. By the time Daphne entered the forest, the two boys had stopped.

  "You're going to love this," said Patty Bradford, the county medical examiner, a tall, heavyset woman with dirty blonde hair and lively blue eyes, who was always upbeat despite the gruesome nature of her work. She and Daphne were standing over a stainless steel table on which lay a section of a decomposed leg.

  "See this scar?" Bradford asked as she pointed to a strip of scar tissue that started beneath the kneecap and stopped about an inch above the stump. "Someone operated on this person. We X-rayed the leg as soon as we saw the scar, and this is what we found."

  Bradford held up an X-ray for Daphne. She stared hard and noticed a straight dark line.

  "That is an orthopedic appliance," Bradford said. "This person broke his or her leg, and this stainless steel rod was used to stabilize the fracture. When I take it out, we should find a maker's mark and a serial number. If we're lucky, the manufacturer will be able to tell you where this rod was shipped, and if we're luckier, the hospital that received it will be able to identify the patient."

  "How long should the whole thing take?" Daphne asked, excited by the breakthrough but anxious about the speed with which the discovery of the victim's identity would occur.

  "That I can't tell you. It will depend on how long ago the operation was performed and if all the records exist, but the rod will definitely give you something to work with."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Justice Moss was working on an opinion in a securities-fraud case in which Brad was not involved. Arnie Copeland, the clerk who had researched the case, had been in and out of the judge's chambers all day. Brad had finished a memo in a labor-law dispute out of the Deep South a little after five, and the judge had told him she wanted to see it as soon as he was done, but Brad knew better than to interrupt her. Justice Moss had tunnel vision when she was working and didn't appreciate distractions.

  Harriet went for a run at six, leaving Brad alone. He kept watching the door to the judge's chambers, hoping to catch her before she left. At six thirty, Brad went to the restroom. When he came back to his office, he noticed the door to Moss's chambers was open. He peeked in and saw that she was gone.

  "Where's Justice Moss?" Brad asked Carrie Harris, who was shutting down her computer.

  "She just left."

  "For home?"

  Harris nodded. "If you hurry, you can catch her. She's headed for the garage."

  Justice Moss had told Brad that she wanted the memo the minute he was finished, and he hated to disappoint her. He grabbed it and raced down the corridor to the elevator that went to the underground garage where the justices parked, his footsteps echoing off the walls of the nearly deserted building.

  The elevator doors opened, and Brad found himself at the bottom of the ramp that led down to the garage from the street. A policeman sat in a booth at the top of the ramp to make sure that only authorized personnel got into the Court. Barriers blocked the entrance to the ramp until the policeman pressed a button and they retracted into the concrete to clear the way.

  To Brad's right was another guard shack manned by another policeman. In front of him was the top of the ramp leading down to the first parking area. Justice Moss was limping down the ramp to her car. Brad was about to call out to her when a figure in black appeared from behind the concrete pillar at the bottom of the ramp. The intruder was wearing a ski mask and gloves and holding a gun with a silencer. Fear coursed through Brad as he flashed back to the only other time he'd encountered a man with a gun. His brain told him to flee but his legs moved on their own and he found himself racing down the ramp.

  "He's got a gun!" Brad screamed.

  The assassin turned toward Brad. Justice Moss didn't hesitate. She braced herself on the car beside her and whipped her cane across the killer's wrist. The gun clattered to the concrete and skidded across it toward Moss. Brad launched himself and the assailant sidestepped gracefully before delivering a crushing blow to Brad's ribs. Brad crashed to the concrete floor chin first. He was dazed but he rolled onto his side so he could keep the assassin and Justice Moss in sight.

  Moss was bent over, reaching for the gun. The killer started for her. Brad buried his pain and grabbed an ankle. The killer stumbled and Moss grabbed the gun. Brad struggled to his feet and the assassin ducked behind him, encircling his neck with a forearm.

  Moss was unsteady on her feet without her cane. She grasped the gun with two hands and tried to aim. The killer dragged Brad up the ramp, using him as a shield, and the judge fired into the air to attract the attention of the policeman in the guard shack.

  "Help!" Brad screamed as he clawed at the arm that encircled his throat. The stranglehold tightened, cutting off Brad's air. The policeman stepped out of his booth. The assassin dropped Brad and rushed at him. The policeman reached for his gun but a crushing kick buckled his leg. A knife strike to his throat, delivered with the killer's rigid fingers, dropped the officer to the concrete. Moss fired. The shot was wild and ricocheted off the guard shack. Brad covered his head and ducked. Moss fired again, just as the killer disappeared into the building. This shot hit the wall and was nowhere near its target.

  "Stop!" Brad shouted. "You'll hit one of us."

  Moss lowered the gun and fell against Justice David's tan Mercedes. Brad staggered toward his boss.

  "Are you OK?" he asked.

  "Better than you," Moss said. "That mig
ht need stitches."

  Brad saw where she was looking and put his hand to his chin. It came away covered in blood.

  Moss took a deep breath and shook her head. "I've never fired a gun before."

  Given her lack of accuracy, Brad hoped that she never did again.

  "Please get me my cane, Brad. Then see to the guard. I think his leg might be broken. And get the police down here."

  Brad handed the cane to the judge and started up the ramp toward the policeman, who was holding his shin and writhing in pain. He was halfway to the officer when he noticed the pages of his memo scattered across the concrete. He picked them up on his way to help the policeman.

  A security guard accompanied Brad and Justice Moss to her chambers. An EMT cleaned the cut on Brad's chin, decided that it didn't have to be stitched up, and applied a large Band-Aid. Then a member of the Supreme Court police force took their statements.

  Brad was badly shaken. He and Dana Cutler, a private investigator from Washington, D.C., had been in a shoot-out in Oregon while investigating President Farrington's involvement in the murders of several young women, and it had been Brad's fervent wish to never be involved in another. His voice shook as he recounted what he remembered of the action in the garage, and his hand was trembling when he signed his statement. Before the police officer left, he assured them that a search of the building was under way, a guard was stationed outside Justice Moss's chambers, extra security was being provided for the judge, and the FBI had been notified.

  Aside from asking for a glass of water, Justice Moss seemed unaffected by the mayhem in the garage. Unlike Brad, her voice had been steady when she recounted what she'd seen.

  "How can you be so calm?" Brad asked as soon as they were alone.

  "When I was a teenager, I ran with a pretty tough crowd. We didn't have the firepower that you can get so easily today, but I was in my share of knife fights, and there were chains and zip guns." She shook her head. "Of course, that was a long time ago. I haven't been in a fight since high school, and this took the wind right out of me."