Murder in the Supreme Court (Capital Crimes Series Book 3)

by Margaret Truman

  The banquet chairman called to inquire whether everything was satisfactory, and to go over the schedule for that night’s dinner, which would be held downstairs in the Peacock Court. He invited Childs to have drinks with the officers of the organization but Childs declined, claiming he had reading to do on matters before the Court.

  He showered, napped for an hour, then called home. Sue, the youngest of his four children, answered. They chatted for a minute before Childs asked to speak with her mother.

  “Mom’s not here, dad. She had a fashion show to go to, at Garfinckel’s, I think.”

  “Yes, I forgot. By the way, honey, anything new about the report I heard that they found the gun that killed Clarence Sutherland?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Somebody from NBC called and asked to talk to you, but I told them you were gone until Sunday. I guess it was about the gun. Mom told me not to say anything to anybody.”

  “That’s right, honey. Well, take care. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “Okay, dad. Give a good speech.”

  “I’ll try.”

  He turned on television and searched for a newscast. It was too early in the day; he’d have to wait until that night to pick up new information about the gun.

  He looked at the phone, then at the TV screen. A college football game was in progress. He turned down the sound, picked up the phone and dialed a number. A woman answered.

  “Hello,” Childs said, “may I speak to Dan Brazier?”

  “He’s not here. Who’s calling?”

  “A friend. Who is this?”

  “Sheryl. I expect Dan back in an hour or two. Give me your name and—”

  He dropped the phone in its cradle, got up, dressed in tan corduroy slacks, a white shirt and a dark brown crewneck sweater and rode the elevator to the lobby. He entered a waiting cab and gave the driver an address in North Beach.

  He walked along Broadway, stopping to peer in shop windows and to read large, garish signs extolling sexual favors available inside. His reaction to them was visceral. He hated pornography, and had voted in a number of cases to curtail its proliferation. The First Amendment, he felt, did not grant the right to create and prosper from materials that were blatantly offensive, that degraded women, victimized those who were exposed to it and generated revenue for mob-controlled interests to feed a mushrooming drug traffic. His eldest daughter had recently joined a women’s march against porn in New York’s Time Square, and he’d been very proud of her.

  Still, he deeply believed in the First Amendment and, in most court cases, had focused on the distribution of pornography rather than the curtailing of its production. If there were those in society who needed pornography to compensate for inadequate personal lives, all right, so be it, but no one should be exposed to it who did not want to be…

  He glanced up at a number above a doorway, crossed the street and looked at it from that perspective. He tried to see through the windows of an apartment on the second floor but a reflection made it impossible.

  He stayed for a half-hour, watching, checking his watch, leaning against a building. He might have stayed longer if a teenage girl dressed in a pea coat, jeans and wearing a purple feather in her hair had not approached him and asked, “Want to party?” Childs walked away from her, found a cab and returned to the hotel, where he read briefs until it was time to dress for dinner.

  There were two hundred people gathered in the Peacock Court. Childs was warmly welcomed by the officers of the group, who led him to the dais, where he was seated in the center of a dozen people.

  “I hope you don’t mind the publicity, Mr. Justice,” a woman to his immediate right said. “We were so excited when we heard you’d decided to accept the invitation that we crowed about it.”

  “I haven’t seen any,” he said.

  “It was in the papers today,” she said, “and on radio and television. We have working press here tonight to cover your speech.”

  “Well, I hope I say something worth their trouble.”

  She laughed and touched his forearm.

  The banquet chairman asked whether he’d consider holding a brief press conference with reporters, informal, of course, and guaranteed not to take more than fifteen minutes. He agreed and followed the chairman to a tight knot of men and women at the end of the dais. One of the group, a bearded young man with an intense expression on his face, said, “Justice Childs, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Go ahead,” Childs said, “but first let me ask you one.” They laughed. “What’s this rumor I’ve heard about the gun used to kill Clarence Sutherland being found?”

  “We wanted to talk to you about that,” a young woman said. “I was told as I was leaving the office that the gun belongs to Justice Conover, and that his wife was the one who delivered it to the police.”

  “I didn’t…” Childs held back words that would betray his shock at what she’d just said. He smiled. “I hadn’t heard that, and naturally would not want to comment on it until I had a chance to confirm the facts.”

  “But what if it’s true, Justice Childs? You’ve sat on the bench with Justice Conover for quite a long time now. Do you think he’s the sort of man who would be capable of—?”

  “I think that’s an inappropriate question, young man. I don’t want to discuss the Sutherland matter any further. If you have questions about my appearance here tonight, please ask them.”

  “Do you have an advance copy of your talk?” another journalist asked.

  “No. I work from notes.”

  “Please, Mr. Justice, just one more question about the gun that was found. Were you aware that Justice Conover kept a weapon in his chambers, and if so, do you—?”

  “I’d better get back to my seat,” Childs said. “Thank you for coming.”

  He returned to the center of the dais. His speech went well. He was confident he’d struck the right note, combining a stated reverence for the First Amendment with a call for responsibility among the media.

  Afterward he took advantage of the first lull to excuse himself, said good-night to his hosts and made his way toward the door. Eventually, after being stopped numerous times enroute, he reached the lobby. Piano music drifted from the lower bar, and Childs recognized the familiar strains of “Tomorrow.” He paused in the center of the lobby, unsure whether to return to his suite or to go outside for a walk. He decided to go upstairs and call Peg. As he walked toward a bank of manually operated elevators, an anachronistic nicety he always enjoyed about the Mark Hopkins, a voice from behind said, “Play ball.”

  Childs stopped in his tracks, the words ringing in his ears.

  “Home run,” the voice said.

  Childs slowly turned his head. Ten feet away in a wheelchair was Dan Brazier, dressed in a brown suede jacket, flowered open shirt and khaki pants pinned over the stumps of his legs.

  “Dan?”

  “In the flesh, Morgan.” He closed the gap between them and extended his right hand. Childs took it, held it for a moment, then vigorously shook it.

  “What are you doing here?” Childs asked.

  “Waiting for you. Hell, when my old buddy hits town to give a speech I figure I have to catch him. Your picture was in the paper today. Thanks for looking me up.”

  “I called.”

  “She told me, but you didn’t leave a name.”

  “I was… Well, it doesn’t matter. How’ve you been, Dan? You look good.”

  “I feel great, ready to run the mile.”

  Childs winced, then stepped back a few paces and said, “When I heard you say, ‘Play ball,’ I couldn’t believe it.”

  “I figured it would grab your attention.”

  They had used the phrase “play ball” to signal their escape from the North Korean prisoner-of-war camp. Baseball terms had been used as a code throughout their days of internment, and the system had worked, their captors having little idea of what they were saying to each other.

  “How’d your talk go?
” Dan asked.

  “Fine.”

  “I used to belong to SDX but dropped out years ago. If I was still a member I would have been there.”

  The initial shock at seeing Brazier was now replaced by awkwardness, a need to escape to the solitude of his suite. But he knew he couldn’t simply shake hands and walk away, not after so many years, and memories.

  “Buy me a drink,” Brazier said.

  “Sure,” Childs said. “In there?” He pointed to the lower bar, which was just off the lobby.

  “Why not?”

  They found a table and ordered. Childs was quickly aware that Dan was a little drunk. He slurred some of his words, his eyes had a hard, glassy cast to them. After they’d been served, Childs asked, “What’s new, Dan?”

  “What can be new for a former hack without legs? I keep going.”

  “Who’s Sheryl?”

  “The woman I live with.”

  “You look good, Dan. You live around here?”

  “You know where I live, Morgan, the place you stood across from and watched this afternoon.”

  Childs started to protest but Brazier added, “Sheryl told me about this guy standing across the street and looking at the place for an hour.”

  “What makes you so sure it was me?”

  “Old newshawk’s intuition. It’s like a woman’s. It was heartwarming to know that you cared enough to check out where you’ve been sending the checks. The neighborhood ain’t great but it has its advantages. By the way, Mr. Justice, you should have taken the kid up on her offer.”

  “What kid?”

  “Bobbi, the hooker who sent you hightailing it from the street. Word is she’s good, gives—”

  Childs cut him off. “Are you doing any writing?” he asked.

  “No. I decided sitting at a typewriter and putting little marks on paper is a dumb way for a grown man to spend his day. No, I just sit and watch the flow go by my window and live the retired life, thanks to a little help from the United States Government and my friends.”

  The bitterness was not lost on Childs. He held up his glass of bourbon. “Here’s to baseball, Korean style.”

  Brazier looked at him without picking up his own glass. His stare was hard, unremitting. A thin smile formed on his lips.

  “Please, join me,” Childs said.

  “Why not?” Brazier lifted his glass and clicked it against Childs’s. “Here’s to life, Mr. Justice, or to what passes for a reasonable facsimile.”

  Childs looked over his glass. “I’m sorry you’re so bitter, Dan.”

  “Bitterness is in the mouth of the taster. I’ve tasted. It’s bitter. Period.”

  The pianist returned and launched into a medley of Broadway show tunes.

  “What can I do for you, Dan?” Childs asked. “I often wish we’d stayed close, but it was your decision to put space between us. I’ve continued to do what I think is right—”

  “And necessary? You always were the ultimate pragmatist, Morgan, a survivor above all else—”

  “Is that so wrong? We all survived, didn’t we—?”

  Brazier looked down to where his legs should have been.

  “Forgive me, Dan, and I know it’s easy for me to say, but it beats being dead.” Childs slowly turned the glass in his hands and gazed into its amber contents. “I remember a story about Louis Armstrong. He had an old black fellow who traveled with him. They called him Doc because his only job was to see that Armstrong took his medication while on tour. Artie Shaw came backstage during an intermission, noticed that Doc wasn’t around and asked where he was. Armstrong said, ‘Doc’s dead.’ Shaw asked what was wrong, and Armstrong said, ‘When you’re dead, everything’s wrong.’”

  “Jesus, Morgan, you’re a little too old to play Pollyanna. I don’t need parables, especially from you.”

  “What do you need from me, Dan? More money?”

  Brazier shook his head. “No, I don’t need more money. It may not look it to you but I live pretty good. Sheryl’s a good woman, takes good care of me. I eat good, drink good, even make love good, and…” He held his index finger in the air. “And, Morgan, I sleep good. How are you sleeping these days?”

  Childs glanced around the lounge, which had filled up. He said firmly, “I sleep fine.”

  “The survivor at the height of his powers. I need another drink.”

  “I have to go. I’m catching an early flight.”

  Brazier gripped his arm. “Another drink, Morgan, for old times. Who knows, we may never see each other again.”

  Childs checked his watch. A woman at a nearby table recognized him, came to their table and asked for his autograph.

  “I really don’t give autographs,” he said. “I think—”

  “Don’t disappoint your public, Mr. Justice,” Brazier said, tightening his grip on his arm.

  Childs scrawled his name on a slip of paper the woman handed him. “Thank you, sir,” she said. Childs forced a smile as Brazier caught a waitress’s attention and ordered another round.

  Brazier talked about the Jorgens presidency. He didn’t like Jorgens. Childs said little, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

  Eventually, the conversation shifted to Clarence Sutherland’s murder.

  “I heard on the news they found the weapon. Know anything about it, Morgan?”

  “Just what I read.”

  “Sounds like a break in the case.” Before Childs could respond, Brazier added, “When I heard it, I immediately thought of you.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “You’ve been a big gun collector since the service. I saw your collection when I was in Washington. Very impressive.”

  “If you’re wondering whether the gun belonged to me, it didn’t. Apparently it belonged to Justice Conover.”

  “I know. Who do you figure killed Sutherland?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “He called me, you know.”

  “I heard.”

  “From him?”

  “Who else? You didn’t bother telling me.”

  “He was a nasty little bastard,” Brazier said.

  “He wasn’t exactly liked.”

  “What did he tell you about the call to me?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it doesn’t. He’s dead, which is good for you.”

  “I resent that.”

  “Resent it, but it’s true, isn’t it?”

  Childs downed the remaining bourbon and ran his fingers over his mouth. “It was good seeing you again, Dan. Best of everything.”

  “Don’t dismiss me, Mr. Justice.”

  “Call me Morgan. We’re friends.”

  “That’s right, Morgan, maybe even more so these days. Sutherland saw to that.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Yes, you do. Do you have a nice room here? They give you the bridal suite? By the way, how’s Peg and the kids?”

  “They’re fine.”

  “Are you staying in a big suite?”

  “Dan…”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “Another time, Dan.”

  “How about now, buddy?”

  “Don’t push me, buddy.”

  “I’m not pushing. Dr. Sutherland would term it being assertive, stating my needs and wishes, being up-front. He taught me to take stock of my assets and to ignore my failings—”

  “Damn it,” Childs muttered as he searched the crowded room for a waitress.

  “Calm down, Morgan. You were always so calm in Korea.”

  Childs ignored him and continued looking for the waitress. He found her, literally yanked the check from her hands and put down cash on the table. “I have to be leaving.”

  “There’s more to talk about,” said Brazier. He tipped over his empty glass.

  “Another time.”

  “Now, damn it.”

  The people who’d recognized Childs were aware of the rising voices at his table, which embarrassed him. He turned his back to them an
d looked at Brazier, who smiled and said, “Invite me up, Morgan. Like I said, we have more to talk about.”

  They rode up in the elevator, Brazier in his wheelchair, Childs standing rigidly in a corner. The operator called their floor and wished them a good night. Childs opened the door to the suite and held it as Brazier wheeled himself inside.

  “Very nice,” Brazier said as he pivoted in the center of the living room.

  Childs took off his suit jacket and tossed it on a chair. “There’s only wine,” he said.

  “We can order up.”

  “I’d rather not.” He turned around and leaned over Brazier, his hands on the wheelchair’s arms. “Get it out, over with, Dan. The only reason I accepted this speaking engagement at the last minute was because I intended to look you up. I tried, said the hell with it. Fine, you looked me up and here we are. I’m tired. I have an early flight in the morning and there are things I need to do tonight before turning in. Get to the point you want to make and then get out.”

  “Wine always gives me heartburn. If you have Tums around I don’t mind. If you don’t, I’d just as soon have a bottle of gin, on me, of course.”

  “I don’t need Tums.”

  “Looks like gin it is.” He went to the phone and called room service. “A bottle of Beefeater, two glasses and some cold shrimp.” He turned in his chair, raised his eyebrows at Childs, then said into the phone, “And a bottle of Old Grand Dad, lots of ice.”

  “I have to call Peg,” Childs said after Brazier had hung up.

  “Let me say hello when you do. I always liked Peg. She’s real people.”

  Childs dialed the number and, after preliminaries, said, “There’s an old friend here with me, Peg. Dan Brazier. He wants to say hello.”

  It was obvious to Brazier that Peg said something that would have been awkward for Childs to respond to. He took the phone and said, “Hello, Peg, a voice from the past.”