The Court

by William J. Coughlin

  The student became even more wary. “This is a good school,” he said as if he hoped that would end the discussion.

  “Well, that’s understood, isn’t it? I mean, everyone recommends this place. But I’ve bought many recommended products that haven’t been worth a damn. It’s always been my practice to inspect the merchandise first.”

  Green looked around. “Frankly, I’m not impressed. Oh, this is a great place for show, a nice building and all that, but after all it is just a modern school set down in the middle of a damn cow college, if you see what I mean?”

  Suddenly the defensive look was replaced by irritation. “Hey, you’re dead wrong about that, mister. This has the best legal faculty in the country. It’s a national school, the students come here from all over. There’s no part-time students here. The work is too demanding. The dean doesn’t allow outside employment.”

  “That doesn’t sound American to me. Working your way through is a tradition.”

  “Yeah, maybe it is, but you can’t do it here. The courses are just too damn hard, and they throw so much law at you that you haven’t time for anything but study.”

  Green smirked. “And you like that?”

  “Hey, I don’t like it, but because of it I know I’ll be one hell of a better lawyer when I get out of here. We all will.”

  Green shrugged. “It’s still a cow college.”

  The young man’s eyes narrowed with hostility. “Look, I was accepted at Harvard and Yale. I’m an honors graduate from the University of Chicago, an engineer. That’s a tough degree to get, in case you don’t know it. Hell, I had no trouble with Harvard or Yale, but I really had to work to get in here.”

  “You’d have been better off at Harvard.”

  “Like hell! They have the very best professors here, many of them came from Harvard. The whole purpose of this school is to turn out the absolutely best lawyer produced in America, and it works.” His eyes narrowed even more, as if coming in for the kill. “Do you know how many of our graduates passed the bar last time?”

  “No.”

  “Well, the University of Michigan never scores better than an 80 to 90 percent pass ratio. The University of Detroit, a tough Jesuit outfit, gets only 70 percent of its people by, sometimes less.”

  “So?”

  “So this. Our school, the Michigan State School of Law, passed 100 percent! Everybody who took it made it. First damn time in the history of the state bar exam that’s ever happened. What do you think about that?”

  “It probably means that this school targets everything toward just the bar. I want someplace for my son that provides a complete legal education. Besides, I understand the dean here is something of a screwball.”

  The young man’s face was stiff with suppressed rage. “Dean Pentecost may show no mercy, but, by God, he’s fair. And he’s not a faculty stooge, he’ll listen to the students, and they know it. He may rule this place with an iron hand, but the results are worth it.”

  “Did you ever talk to him?” Green asked quickly.

  The young man seemed flustered by the question. “I’ve attended many of his talks and lectures.”

  “But have you ever talked to him, man to man?”

  The youth stopped, surprised for a moment. “Well, come to think of it, no. But that’s not important. If I wanted to, I could walk right in there,” he pointed to the administration office, “and talk to him. He has an open door policy.”

  “But you haven’t ever used it.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

  Green nodded, as if agreeing. “I take it then that you’d recommend that my son pick this school, say in preference to the University of Michigan?”

  The student snorted. “Damn right.”

  Green shook his hand. “You’ve been a big help.”

  The young man, still wary, quickly gathered up his books and jacket, then hurried away.

  Green took a moment to survey the place once more. It was truly awesome. Did it reflect the dean? The student firmly believed that the dean was a great man, even if he never actually talked to him. Green presumed the young man was typical. Dean Pentecost had constructed an image for himself; the supreme father figure, the firm but fair god, dwelling just beyond those administration doors—a god seen only at a distance.

  Green walked outside and buttoned up his coat against the chill. Well, Green reflected as he trudged through the snow, if you were going to be a deity, that was the only way to do it: keep a good distance, create a little fear.

  Distance and awe were the keys to success. Gods cannot afford to be human, Green thought ruefully, because someone was always waiting with a cross and nails.

  * * *

  Ben Alexander wanted to get away from the Supreme Court Building for at least a few minutes, so he took a short walk. It had been hectic. He was in charge of packing up all the papers of his late boss. He had to be careful, he discarded only the obviously unimportant things. He knew the family was discussing giving the justice’s papers to one of several colleges that had expressed interest. Besides the work, there was the anxiety. He had come to feel like a target himself.

  He no longer enjoyed the mantle of protection afforded by a sick but living boss. Now, with the shortage of manpower at the Court, he knew he was being watched by some of the justices with greedy eyes. The damn female justice had even come in to see him, to discuss the differences he would find in her style of approaching a case compared to that of his late boss. The news of Howell’s death was only minutes old when she had presented herself. She obviously wasn’t a lady of great sentiment. He had felt like really telling her off, to vent some of the genuine sorrow he felt for Howell, but he restrained himself. Voluntarily leaving the Court, as opposed to being fired from it were two decidedly different things. Besides, he had been assured by Floyd Grant, the head clerk for the Chief Justice, that he would not go to the woman. He was given no other assurance, but that was enough.

  As he returned to the Court building he saw the people. The line extended halfway down the steps. They seemed to be moving along briskly. He guessed they were more curious than honestly mourning. Howell had become well known during his short tenure, but not beloved. Alexander surmised that most of the people in line were Capitol Hill workers finding an excuse to get out of their offices for an hour, together with the usual tourists.

  He started to move toward the other entrance when he saw Floyd Grant signaling to him from the top of the stairs near the line of people. Alexander trotted up the stairs and joined him.

  “How would you like to see something, something you can tell your grandchildren about?” Grant was grinning.

  “Sure.”

  “Come on.” The senior clerk lead Alexander past the guards. As members of the Court staff, Grant and Alexander were known and did not have to obey the signs or follow the roped-off pathway leading into the Court and toward the bier.

  The closed casket was almost engulfed in huge banks of flowers, decorations sent by unions, businesses, and others who figured it was just good business to let the living justices know how much they thought of everybody down at the Court. A silver-framed colored photograph of Justice Howell, in his black robe, was propped up on top of the bronze casket. Lights had been arranged to spotlight the picture and the American flag nearby.

  “Take a look at that,” Grant whispered.

  A stout, florid-faced man stood at the foot of the casket, greeting the mourners as they approached. He had stark white hair and an imposing manner. The mourners mumbled to him as he looked properly solemn and managed just the hint of a sad smile as they passed by.

  “Family?” Alexander thought he knew most of the Howell family and this man was a stranger.

  “No. Guess again.”

  “The funeral director?”

  Grant shook his head. “Heavens, no. He has too much class to be doing that.”

  “Then who is it?”

  Grant studied the big man shaking hands with
the passing line. “That’s what you can tell your grandchildren about. There is one of the finest specimens of Politicus americanus you’ll ever see.”

  “A politician?”

  Grant nodded. “And not just any politician. That is the Honorable Joseph Michael O’Malley, distinguished judge of the United States Second Circuit Court of Appeals.”

  “You have to be kidding me.”

  Grant snorted. “Can you imagine that? He showed up about a half hour ago, went through the building glad-handing everybody from Chief Justice to janitor, and then parked himself right there by the coffin like he was the sole surviving heir of the deceased.”

  “Why doesn’t someone ask him to leave?”

  “Very practical reason. He’s just liable to be picked by the President to fill your late employer’s shoes. In other words, that ward-heeling, glad-handing boob may be the next associate justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.”

  “Does the Chief Justice know about this?”

  “Yep. And he understands the tactics too. He told me that good old Judge O’Malley flew in this morning because he knew the President will be making an appearance here at two o’clock. The Chief says that as soon as O’Malley latches on to the President, shakes his hand, and reminds him that he need look no farther than Judge Joseph Michael O’Malley, then he’ll hit back for the National Airport and fly out again. This is just a part of his continuing campaign for the job.”

  “That’s bizarre.” Alexander watched O’Malley skillfully shake a dozen hands as a cluster of people passed by him.

  Grant chuckled. “Hey, he’s a judge of the second highest court in the land, and that’s part of the technique that got him there. It may not be dignified, but it apparently works.”

  “He’s a clown!” Alexander turned away in disgust and began walking toward the Court offices. Grant followed along and caught up to him.

  “Ben, I thought you would be amused. I’m sorry if that offended you.”

  Alexander stopped. “Floyd, whoever gets that job will be making decisions that will profoundly affect every American, even our national way of life. Damn it, think of the important issues coming up in just this term alone. If the Court absolves that nun, suicide clinics will spring up all over the country. The police case will affect hiring practices across the nation. My God, don’t they realize the new man will be the one who will make the key decisions? I just can’t believe that the act that clown is putting on back there would help qualify a man to assume such tremendous power.”

  “You missed a few key cases,” Grant laughed. “Freedom of the press, that’s a big one this term. The Chief is really interested in that one. And the Marchall Industry case, that could blow General Motors and most of the other giant companies right out of the water.” He shook his head. “But what the hell, this term is no different than most. The Court picks only the key cases to hear, the life and death stuff, it’s always been that way.”

  “But with a split Court,” Alexander said, “this vacancy becomes crucial. The new man will actually decide most American law, at least until the Court shifts to one side or the other. God, there must be some way to keep creeps like O’Malley from getting in.”

  Floyd Grant shrugged. “I don’t know if you can properly call him a creep. The American Bar Association found him fully qualified, at least they did the last time, when the woman was finally selected.”

  “Then there’s something very wrong with the system of selection, it shouldn’t come down to a political pick.”

  Grant sighed. “Oh, I don’t know about that. It would finally work out to be a political choice no matter what system you chose, except maybe a lottery. The Court is part of the political process, and there’s usually too much at stake to ignore politics. Besides, the next man will be faced with the most crucial decision in the world, at least from one point of view.”

  “Oh?”

  Grant laughed. “Hell, yes. He will either keep you on or fire you. That’s the important decision. You know what I’d do if I were you?”

  “What?”

  “I’d go back there and get in line. Then when you’ve worked your way up to O’Malley, buttonhole him and get a commitment from him to keep you on.”

  Shock registered on Alexander’s features, then he slowly smiled. “Floyd, why don’t you go take a flying fuck at yourself?”

  Grant pretended dismay. “These imitation Grecian walls may tumble down in presence of language like that. Oh well, it was just a suggestion. But I can see from your attitude that you lack the chutzpah to become a Supreme Court justice, or, for that matter, even a member of a lower federal court.”

  Alexander laughed. “I think you’re right.” He thought about the man at the coffin, grasping at passing hands. “In fact, I know you’re right.”

  * * *

  Jerry Green had been busy. He interviewed another professor recommended by Whittle. The man was the dean’s neighbor. It proved to be a fruitless contact. The professor, an engineer, equated virtue with cut lawns, snow removal, and neat garbage. The dean scored high on all three counts, therefore, the professor counted him as an exceptional man, clearly qualified for anything good the universe had to offer. The neighbor only had contact with the dean at the annual block cocktail parties. He said he was favorably impressed by the dean and his wife, describing them as well bred and dignified.

  Green presumed “well bred and dignified” probably meant they were a pair of stuffed shirts. But so long as the lawn was cut and the garbage neat this neighbor would have forgiven anything.

  Green called the law school to inquire if arrangements had been made to meet the dean. They had been waiting for him, and this time he received royal treatment. He had a three o’clock appointment, and the dean’s secretary almost purred as she suggested that if Mr. Green wished to meet someplace other than the law school, the dean would be quite agreeable. Green had the feeling that the dean might be listening in, at least to her end of the conversation. She was overdoing it a bit, as if playing for an audience. The news accounts would have alerted the dean. He would be ready.

  Green informed the woman that the law school would be just fine and he would be there at the appointed time. The secretary sounded so absolutely thrilled that Green knew the dean was listening. Pentecost knew the prize and he wasn’t about to allow anyone to muck it up for him with a display of the wrong attitude, at least that was Green’s speculation.

  Green felt he now had a fairly complete composite mental picture of the man he was yet to meet. Both from the FBI check and his own sources he had discovered no hint of possible criminal or erratic behavior. There were no unexplained lapses in the dean’s history that might have suggested a period of drying out or a stay in mental hospitals. No drugs. Judging from all the evidence gathered, there was nothing psychiatrically questionable about Dean Roy Pentecost. Green mentally checked off that part of his general investigation as complete. However, it was still subject to revision when he finally met the man. He had a sense about people, an uncanny gift for sniffing out hidden drunks and broken souls. He supposed that was the real reason he had been selected for this job. But despite all the information he had gathered, much of his appraisal would still depend upon the face-to-face encounter.

  The dean’s personal life was as clean as a whistle. He lived for his career and it seemed, based upon investigation, that nothing else was of any real importance to him. Certainly not his wife. They had no kids. Green wondered if the dean knew about Mrs. Pentecost and the young professor. He supposed that he did, and if not about that particular man, he probably sensed the unfaithfulness. Green wondered if he might be reading into the dean’s supposed attitude a reflection of himself and his own situation. Perhaps he was. In any event, Mrs. Pentecost was discreet and the problem was not the kind to raise alarm bells that might obstruct appointment.

  The White House was aware of Pentecost’s background. They knew he wasn’t a true scholar, despite his teaching credentials. His gift was organizi
ng. And he could handle people. He could be a cloying bootlicker or a petty tyrant, depending on the need of the moment. But he was effective. His legal writings demonstrated no great ability, but on the other hand they didn’t espouse any radical theories, nor would they embarrass or trouble anyone. Pentecost looked good politically, and that was the primary consideration. Green speculated that the dean would be a much better candidate for a cabinet post or an executive position than for the judiciary. His talents were undeniable, but they would be of little use on the high court. Still, he could obviously handle the job, although his real talents woulds be wasted.

  The decision would turn on Green’s judgment of the man, the real man. The President wanted to take no risks on this Supreme Court appointment. He wanted a man who would appear to be a scholar and above petty politics, but he damn well wanted a man who would commit himself on one important case and who would honor that commitment, taking that secret with him to his grave.

  Green wondered at how he could delicately put the proposition, and what kind of answers Pentecost might make. The exchange would be vital. It would be, he knew, an elaborate dance between them, each watching the other, each feeling for what might be expected, probing for weakness—it would be an intellectual fencing match. And it promised to be interesting.

  But Green, despite the importance of the task ahead, found his mind wandering, disturbed by thoughts of his own life problems. And the storm centered around Regina Kelso. It was most unsettling. He had never before questioned what he considered to be the holy calling as a partner in Harley Dingell. That partnership had been his own personal Holy Grail, and he had searched for it and found it. It had never before even occurred to him to question its value. But that was before the snowy nocturnal walk with Regina. Green realized that he was coming into that age when men did begin to question their life aims, themselves, and their desires and dreams. He wondered if his thoughts didn’t merely reflect the expected midlife turmoil, but he knew the answer wasn’t as easy as that.