Decision

by Allen Drury

  For just a moment, a split second that passed so swiftly he was able to persuade himself that it had never happened, there clamped upon his being an unexpected and inexplicable thought that sickened him so that he almost literally swayed with its impact:

  Suppose it all meant nothing, when all was said and done? Suppose his Purpose, his Manifesto, his lifelong pretense that he represented some kind of valid social justice and reasoned challenge to the social system were only that—pretenses? Suppose it was all just empty blood lust, prompted always by pointless rebellion, spurred on now by nothing more than blind revenge? Suppose he was psychotic, insane, forever and eternally twisted, deranged and damned, just as Yahoo and Debbie and the rest had said. Suppose there really was nothing to Earle Holgren at all?

  The abyss opened for an instant at his feet, was as instantaneously forced shut.

  A shudder shook his body for one awful, searing second.

  Then it was gone.

  His world was back in place.

  A smile, arrogant, contemptuous and as always superior, crossed his lips.

  The only damned problem at that point was, how was he to achieve his final objective? For the moment he felt himself stymied. It wasn’t a feeling he liked and after a while—it was by now almost 6 p.m.—he got up, hailed a cab and went downtown to the Capitol Hilton at K and Sixteenth streets N.W. He had a couple of drinks in the bar, ate a leisurely meal in the Twigs restaurant—the clothes Debbie had bought for him were quite respectable and anyway it was summer, he looked no more casual than any other sports-shirted tourist—and then decided, restlessly, to go back up to the Court. No particular reason. It just kept drawing him, somehow. And suddenly, as he stood on the street looking for another cab, the idea hit him.

  Somewhere out of the two tours he had taken—he hadn’t dared take any more because a couple of the guards (they would recall him the next day, but it would be pointless, he would be gone by then) were beginning to look at him a little funny—some words came back about the Supreme Court Library. Brief tribute was paid to its beauty and excellence, his group was told regretfully that they couldn’t see it because it was only open to “Justices, their staffs, specially qualified lawyers and occasional researchers from Congressional committees or staffs.” The guide had been one such researcher herself, she said, checking on some legal point for her Senator, and that was what had started her interest in the law. Now she did guide work just as a part-time thing while she studied law at Howard University Law School and hoped to be a clerk to Justice Demsted someday. Everybody had smiled encouragingly but probably only Earle remembered.

  He spun around abruptly, walked along K Street until he came to a stationery store, went in and bought himself a couple of yellow legal pads and a couple of ball-point pens. Then he found a cab and went back up to the Court. At least he could give it a test and find out how easy it would be to get in. If he succeeded he could scout around a little and get the lay of the land, maybe even pinpoint exactly where Tay’s chambers were. He knew they were on the first floor, all of the Justices were. If he got in he might even do the same thing several nights running, that way everybody would get used to him. Hell, he might even come back a lot of times, if that’s what it took to find Tay. He had plenty of time and plenty of money, both the defense fund money he had removed from Debbie and what he was sure Harry Aboud would get him from the trust if he asked him for it (Harry would be startled to hear from him, but not surprised: he ran a lot of errands like that, for the right people). He could spend the whole summer waiting for Tay, if he had to.

  But the miracle happened; and he didn’t have to.

  He hadn’t gone right into the building when he got back to the Hill. Possibly it was because for the first time he felt a little afraid that he might be challenged and denied entry: not because of who he was—nobody up here, he was confident, would have the slightest inkling—but just because the guide might have been wrong about the relative ease of access. That soon passed. He had learned long ago that if you approached people with an easy air, a show of certainty and a reasonable amount of charm, you could crack most places. So he couldn’t say exactly why he lingered for a while outside in the hot, oppressive night air, but linger he did. And there, amazingly, came Tay, for some reason not going into the garage but instead parking his car alongside and coming up the steps like any tourist.

  It did not occur to Earle that this might be because Tay simply wanted to see the building against the night sky, that he might consider it beautiful and moving and still be in considerable awe of it. Earle wasn’t constructed to be touched or moved by beauty and he wasn’t in awe of anything. If he had any thought about the building at all, it was to calculate idly how many pounds of explosives it would take to blow it up; but blowing it up wasn’t his thing, tonight. His thing was good old half-assed wishy-washy Tay.

  And here he was.

  Instinctively Earle started to shrink back a little toward one of the trees along the sidewalk. And then he thought scornfully, Hell! Why hide? I don’t have my beard anymore, this is the last place he’d be expecting me. Why worry?

  And straightening up, he had walked quietly along the street as Tay went up the steps. He had even whistled a bit in a thoughtful, unconcerned way, not looking at him.

  Tay had not even noticed him.

  So, presently, he had followed, walking meanwhile along to the Library of Congress, going in casually for a few moments to look at the exhibit of photographs from the annual White House Correspondents dinner for the President, acting like a tourist, killing time. After what he considered a decent interval, about twenty minutes, he had walked back, made sure that Tay’s car was still there, and gone on in. The stupid dope on the door had let him by without a quibble, further confirming Tay’s presence by his blatant lying about it, and had sent him along up to the library, virtually on his own. There was only one thing missing now, he thought as the elevator came to a halt and the doors opened.

  He didn’t have a weapon.

  He hadn’t dared bring the gun this first day, not knowing what the security would be.

  But one miracle had happened and maybe another would. He smiled at the third-floor guard, asked, “Library?” received a nod of the head, saw the entrance and stepped through. For just a moment he was really impressed.

  Stacks and stacks and stacks of books; an enormous high ceiling; dark wood paneling everywhere; soft lights glowing over long desks piled with tumbled volumes; a librarian or two moving quietly through the silence, perhaps ten people at work, scattered through stately rooms opening one upon another; painted medallions of famous lawgivers whom he didn’t know, decorating the paneled ceiling above; a hush of study, concentration, devotion—majesty.

  For just one split second Earle Holgren was in awe and across his mind shot again the frightful conundrum that he had to banish again and forever, since to try to solve it would be to destroy himself: Who am I, what have I done and what am I doing here?

  He shook his head to clear it of such nonsense, smiled at one of the librarians, an older lady with an earnest face and gray hair; went to an isolated table and sat down, opened a book at random and pretended to read.

  “Is there something particular you want, sir?” the librarian whispered in his ear, making him jump. He laughed deprecatingly, shook his head.

  “No ma’am, thanks. I know where to find what I want. I’ll get to it in a few minutes.”

  “Good,” she said. “Just make yourself at home.”

  “Thanks,” he said with a sudden sunny smile that quite touched her, he looked so young—well, not really, but at least a lot younger than she was—so serious and so handsome. “I will.”

  For perhaps ten minutes, surreptitiously but with a fierce intensity that fortunately for him remained unsensed by anyone around, he studied the library and its occupants. Weapon—weapon—weapon. There must be one, but what? Where?

  His fearsome concentration was broken for a moment when he heard a l
augh, quickly stifled, and looked up at the librarian’s desk to see her chatting discreetly but with obvious enjoyment with a friend. In her hand she held the weapon.

  A couple of minutes later when the friend left he closed his book and his notepads, sauntered up casually, engaged her in conversation, diverted her attention, bade her a pleasant good-bye and walked out with it.

  The elevator reached the first floor. He got out, glanced quickly to right and left. A gleaming wooden barrier marked “Private” barred the way to the Justices’ corridor. No one was in sight. He stepped over swiftly, shifted the barrier, which was not anchored, enough to get by, and moved swiftly on tiptoe, almost running, down the empty marble hallway. Just as he turned the corner he ran into a guard, walking toward him with a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “Hey!” the guard said, startled. “Can I help you, mister?”

  “I’m a friend of Justice Barbour,” he said quickly, pleasantly, firmly. “He’s expecting me.”

  “Oh,” the guard said, accepting as people always did when Earle Holgren commanded them for his special purpose. “On down the hall a bit.”

  “Thank you,” he said, smiled again pleasantly and moved on. He heard the guard’s footsteps die away, glanced back quickly, saw the corridor empty, kept going.

  Justice McIntosh… Justice Demsted… Chief Justice… Justice Wallenberg… Justice Hemmelsford… Justice—He had found it.

  He stopped and listened intently. Outside, no sound broke the silence of the hallway.

  Inside, he heard someone moving, coming toward him.

  He wrapped the weapon’s handle swiftly in his handkerchief, flattened himself against the wall to the right of the door.

  It opened. Tay backed out. Earle raised the weapon. Tay turned.

  “No!” he cried. There was no doubt of recognition here.

  Earle raised the letter opener high, plunged it into his chest, withdrew it, stabbed again.

  Tay started to fall forward upon him, blood beginning to spurt, arms flailing wildly. Earle leaped back, out of the way. Tay slumped to the floor.

  Earle threw the letter opener on his body.

  He ran quickly back along the corridor, slowed abruptly at the corner, saw no one, ran on to the barrier, swung swiftly through, replaced it; turned right into the Great Hall, slowed instantly to a walk, began to amble casually toward the door. The man on duty had changed. The one he had encountered in the hallway was at the desk.

  “Did you find him?” the guard asked.

  “Yep,” he said. “He’s still busy but he said he’d be along in a few minutes. Told me to wait for him outside.”

  “Better wait in here,” the guard said. “It’s kind of a dangerous neighborhood around here at night.”

  “No, thanks,” he said pleasantly. “I’ll stay under the lights. I won’t go far. I’ll be safe.”

  “Well,” the guard said doubtfully. “Okay. But be careful.”

  “I will,” he said. “Thanks a lot, and good night.”

  “Good night,” the guard said. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Right,” he said as he went out through the great bronze doors. “I’ll do that.”

  In the house off Stanton Square Cathy busied herself with the kids for a while. They watched television and then at ten o’clock she sent them to bed.

  At 10:05 the news program was interrupted by a flash.

  “The bodies of two more of the principals in the Earle Holgren murder case have just been discovered in South Carolina,” the bleached blonde, exuding personality, informed the world with the exact proper degree of hushed concern. “Holgren’s lawyer, Debbie Donnelson, has been discovered strangled in a run-down motel outside Columbia. The body of Boomer Johnson, the black youth who was the only witness to place Holgren definitely at the scene of the Pomeroy Station bombing six weeks ago, has been discovered near his home in that small rural community. A nationwide alert has now been issued for Holgren and law officers everywhere are being mobilized to try to find him.”

  Cathy’s first impulse was to call Tay and tell him. Then she thought, No, he’s still working, he’ll be here soon, I won’t disturb him.

  Then she thought, But perhaps I should. After all, he’ll want to know.

  Then she thought, Oh, that’s silly, I just want to talk to him because he’s such a wonderful guy and we’re going to have such a really great life together.

  Then she thought, I wonder when he is coming.

  Then she thought, Tay—I wish you were here, Tay.

  Then she thought, Where are you, Tay? Tay, it’s getting late, where are you?

  Then she told herself sternly once again, But this is silly. He said he’s perfectly all right and he is perfectly all right. This is really silly!

  She did have a strong character, and for a few more minutes she was almost able to convince herself of this.

  It was not until a couple of minutes past eleven that she suddenly began to be really afraid.

  At 11:06 she called the Court.

  His chambers did not answer.

  At 11:07 she called the guardroom.

  Earle walked casually out the door and down the steps. At their foot he turned and looked back. Stately, white and serene, the great building defied the night. EQUAL JUSTICE UNDER LAW, it assured the world. Nothing, he told himself with a happy exultation, could be more fitting at this particular moment.

  EQUAL JUSTICE UNDER LAW! That’s what it was, all right; that’s what it was. All scores were settled, justice had been done. The crazy law had been set right. The world that had tried to bend Earle Holgren to its stupid will had been shown that his was a spirit that did not fit such narrow categories. His was a spirit that was free. He was a being who could not be chained. He had shown them, once and for all.

  He felt utterly divorced from reality, floating out there in some great high from which he would never come down.

  Yet there was nothing to distinguish him, really, as he decided he had better cover his tracks and on sudden impulse turned right and started off through the dimly lighted tree-shrouded streets behind the Court.

  Anyone who had been watching then—and as he moved deeper into the shadows, only one person was—would have had the impression of an individual stocky, open-faced, pleasant, amiable. No one to notice, particularly—not one to stand out in anybody’s mind as worthy of any particular attention.

  Not the sort you would turn to look at twice.

  Or even once, for that matter.

  The kind of face that gets lost in a crowd.

  An ordinary guy.

  So passed Earle Holgren—or Billy Ray Holgren, or Billy Ray, or Holgren Williams, or William Holgren, or Henry McAfee, or McAfee Johnson, or Everett Thompson or Everett Ray.

  Normally, no one would have noticed: except that this time, in this place, someone did.

  He was about to meet, although he did not know it, a classic case.

  ***

  Chapter 6

  Bubba Whitby, unlike Boomer Johnson, was not a good boy. Bubba, as his mother Julia was always telling her employers, the Barbours, was a bad, bad boy. Yet there was, possibly, something to be said for Bubba—much, some would assert, because Bubba in many ways was a classic case.

  It was rather too bad, actually, that he had not been the Pomeroy Station bomber. All those who found it a little difficult to sympathize with Earle—though they felt they must—would have been able with a clear conscience to sympathize with Bubba.

  He fitted so snugly into so many patterns.

  Bubba had just turned eighteen, as Julia had told Mr. Barbour; and Bubba’s immediate family, aside from earnest, God-fearing, hardworking Julia and her other three kids, had contained some fairly worthless stuff.

  Two weeks after their marriage, with Bubba already in utero, Julia had found Bubba’s father with another woman; and since she was a small woman herself, rather frail, which was why she was allowed to take her own time about doing the housework, she did not respond
as one of her girl friends might have, with shrieks and wails and teeth and nails and hair-pullings and face gougings, to hold her man. Not that she didn’t do a lot of wailing, of course, but that was all she did, and it didn’t do her much good.

  After that, Bubba’s dad was right back where he’d always been, cattin’ around; and Julia, unable to do much else, put her head down, hired herself out for housework and plowed ahead, only taking time out to have Bubba, his two younger brothers and their kid sister. When Bubba was six years old and his sister three, after Julia and Bubba’s dad had been “married,” if you could call his occasional visits that, for five hectic years, Bubba’s dad left to go off on some mysterious life of his own that nobody knew much about but that everybody suspected might have something to do with numbers and, later on, more fashionably and profitably, dope. From then right on up to now, Julia was on her own in raising the kids.

  Bubba, in the minds of many, might have been said to have two strikes against him.

  Julia herself, though, was a pretty powerful strike in the other direction, because Julia was, as Janie Barbour used to say back before that terrible accident, “a very good lady.” She was decent, she was kind, she was hardworking, she was devoted and loyal and God-fearing and church-going and a lot of other good things that weren’t as fashionable as dope, maybe, but still were pretty nice. She was also absolutely devoted to her children and absolutely determined that they should be reared to be “a credit to me and to your race.” She often told them this, and she lavished a lot of love and care and attention upon them. So much so that some might have said that Bubba had a mother problem and was being smothered.