A Thriller
Anthony J. Franze
18 U.S.C. §§ 351,1111
"The reason that the Solicitor General of the United States has the greatest lawyering job in the world is that one of his two responsibilities is to handle litigation for only one client, the United States of America, before only one court, the United States Supreme Court. In other words, he represents the world's most interesting client before the world's most interesting court."
- Rex E. Lee, Solicitor General, 1981-85
"[Solicitor General was] the best job I've ever had."
- Thurgood Marshall, Solicitor General, 1965-67, Associate Justice, U.S. Supreme Court, 1967-91
Black Wednesday
olicitor General Jefferson McKenna fell forward onto a screaming woman, smearing her crisp blue blazer with his blood. The government's top lawyer, bleeding from the shoulder and chest, lay helpless on the floor of the United States Supreme Court, watching the chaos unfold.
Pop! Pop! Pop! That horrible sound again. McKenna tried to get up, but managed only to roll onto his side before a violent pain ripped through him. He felt himself slipping in and out of consciousness but was determined to stay alert. He shifted his eyes toward the sound and strained to make out the blurry silhouette standing at the center of the elevated mahogany bench.
It can't be. The black-robed, silver-haired figure waving a pistol came into focus: Chief Justice Thomas W. Kincaid.
To Kincaid's right, four other justices were slumped over, blood and brain matter spattered across their high-backed leather chairs. To his left, another black robe down ...
Pop! More screams. A Supreme Court police officer staggered and landed on the floor with a thud next to one of the Siena marble columns that encased the courtroom. McKenna's eyes trailed the two black wing tip shoes that stepped calmly over the officer's body.
Four more quick pops, and Chief Justice Kincaid grabbed his chest with his left hand. He paused, jumped onto the long wooden counsel's table, and then collapsed over the edge and hit the floor. And there he and McKenna lay, staring at each other across the courtroom's red rosette-patterned carpet.
The next instant, two officers jumped onto Kincaid and secured the gun still clenched in the elderly justice's hand. Blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, Kincaid gazed into McKenna's eyes.
My fault,was McKenna's last thought before losing consciousness.
All my fault ...
Six months later Midtown Manhattan, New York
efferson McKenna reached for his cell phone, vibrating on the nightstand in his suite at the W Hotel. Head still pressed to the pillow, he squinted at the alarm clock near the bed, its green glow the only light in the room: 2:32 a.m. The phone vibrated again, crawling toward the edge of the nightstand. Snatching it before it got away, he pressed the answer button.
"Hello?"
"This is Detective Assad with the NYPD. With whom am I speaking?" the voice said in too demanding a tone for the hour.
McKenna sat up and switched on the bedside lamp.
"This is Solicitor General Jefferson McKenna," he said, matching the detective's tone and waiting for the name to register. It didn't seem to.
A year ago this would have been no surprise-few outside the Beltway had even known there was a solicitor general's office, much less the name of its holder. But that was before Black Wednesday; before the vigils, the flags at half-staff, and the media frenzy over the bloodbath at the high court. Now, to the mild amusement of his staff, McKenna appeared in People magazine's most-eligible bachelors list for his "brooding, darkly handsome appeal," and weekly his office received letters from female admirers wanting to meet the striking thirty-eightyear-old widower the media had anointed a national hero.
"Where are you right now?" the detective asked. "I need to speak with you."
"The W Hotel, Lex and East Fiftieth. But right now? It's nearly three in the morning. What's this about?"
Detective Assad declined to explain. He was on his way, he said, and in the meantime, McKenna should get dressed, drink some coffee, and wait for him. And before McKenna could protest, the detective hung up with a click.
Twenty minutes later, there were three loud raps on McKenna's hotel room door. He opened it cautiously and stared for a moment. The handsome, Middle Eastern man in the sharp navy suit and white open-collared dress shirt was not what he had expected to find standing in the doorway. Nor was the attractive woman with large caramel eyes that stood next to him.
"Mr. McKenna," the man said, giving his hand a firm shake, "Detective Chase Assad. Sorry to bother you at this hour."
McKenna nodded as he looked intently at Assad. Tall, with a square jaw and a day's worth of stubble over olive skin, the guy looked more like a cocky investment banker than a New York City detective.
"My partner, Detective Emma Milstein," Assad said. Milstein's dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, which drew attention to her elegant angular face. Those caramel eyes peered directly into McKenna's as they shook hands. He judged her to be about five five, though she carried herself taller.
He invited the detectives in, determined to be cordial despite Assad's curt manner on the phone. The two detectives sat on the velvet couch in the sitting room of the master suite. McKenna sat in the armchair facing them. Looking down at his frayed running shorts and bare legs, McKenna suddenly felt self-conscious. Other than his suit and tie, all he had in the hotel were his workout clothes. Eyeing Milstein, he immediately decided that he should have gone with the suit.
"You'll have to forgive me," he said, gesturing feebly at his attire. "My street clothes disappeared from the hotel gym locker room. They think housekeeping may have accidentally picked them up." His voice trailed off. He rarely got flustered, but right now, barely awake and thrown off by the surprise visit from the detectives, he exuded all the timidity of one of his junior staffers.
Milstein gave a fleeting smile, pulled a digital camera from her handbag, and directed his attention to the camera's tiny screen.
"Do you recognize this man?"
McKenna pulled the camera to his face and examined the digital picture.
"Aw, Jesus," he said, quickly looking away. "It's Parker Sinclair." He tried to shake off the picture of Parker, lying dead on a city sidewalk, the front of his white button-down shirt soaked in blood.
"His wallet was missing," Milstein said. "Your phone number was in his pocket. I take it you knew him?"
"Yes. Parker used to work for me a couple of years ago," McKenna said, letting the disturbing picture sink in. "I'm in town on business. We were supposed to meet for dinner earlier this evening." McKenna ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. "He never showed."
"Do you know how we can reach his family?" Milstein asked, scribbling something on a small notepad.
"I'm not sure," McKenna said. "We haven't kept in close touch. I know where he works, though. Parker's a law clerk for the Second Circuit Court of Appeals. I'm sure you can get the information you need from Judge Petrov's chambers."
McKenna was still reeling inwardly from the picture. Parker Sinclair had been his law clerk two and a half years ago, when McKenna was a federal district court judge just before he was nominated for solicitor general. He had recommended Parker for a prestigious federal appellate clerkship with the legendary judge Ivan Petrov.
"So you two had dinner plans?" Milstein asked, watching him closely.
"I gave a speech at Columbia Law School earlier this evening. Parker happened to be there and said hello. Since we hadn't seen each other in some time, I agreed to meet him for a late dinner after my speech. He had to leave early, so we planned to meet at Aquavit, a restaurant on East Fifty-ninth. We were supposed to meet at ten o'clock, but I ga
ve him my cell number in case something came up." "And he just didn't show?" Assad asked.
"That's right."
"Did he call and say he wouldn't make it?"
"No. And I didn't know how to reach him, so I just came back to the hotel and ordered room service."
McKenna noticed Milstein casually scanning the room, no doubt looking for a room service cart or dirty dishes.
"Did you notice anything unusual about him?" she asked. "Anything at all out of the ordinary?"
"Nothing sticks out in my mind, but we spoke for only a couple of minutes."
Milstein looked thoughtful. "Have you and Mr. Sinclair had any problems in the past?"
"No," McKenna said decisively.
"No disputes?"
"No," he repeated, this time with a bit of edge to his voice. "Look, I know you're just doing your job, but I've told you, this was the first I've seen Parker in years. And it was for two or three minutes, max."
"Was there a particular reason you two were having dinner?"
"A reason? No, we were just catching up. Given my current position, it's not unusual for former colleagues to want to get together. Parker had been a good clerk, so I just thought it beat dining alone." McKenna was not one to throw his weight around, but he didn't like the suggestion implied in Milstein's questions, and he thought it was time to remind the detectives of just whom they were dealing with.
"Your position?" Assad asked, taking the bait.
"As I said to you on the phone after you woke me up, I'm the Solicitor General of the United States."
Milstein looked up from her notepad and examined McKenna. Her expression showed a glimmer of recognition.
"Black Wednesday, right?" she asked. "You were shot when the-" she started to say, but he cut her off with a clipped nod.
"The speech at Columbia was just a favor to a friend. The reason I'm in town is for a meeting with the Supreme Court Commission."
The detectives may not have heard of the solicitor general's office, but surely they knew of the commission. It had been six months, but the nation was still coping with the tragedy of Black Wednesday, and the commission's investigation into the slaughter at the high court remained a staple of front-page news.
As it turned out, Chief Justice Kincaid had not murdered his brethren. On the contrary, he was one of the few people in the courtroom who had seen the mysterious man, dressed as a lawyer with business at the court, who calmly shot five justices dead before vanishing from the scene. As long rumored, the chief justice packed more than just his conservative ideology under that robe, and sure enough, he had surprised the assassin by returning fire. McKenna and five others were hit in the crossfire.' he Supreme Court police officers who mistakenly shot Kincaid had killed the only witness to see the shooter's face.
"You're on the commission?" Assad asked.
"Yes, my office has a small role. As I'm sure you can understand, I'm not at liberty to say more."
McKenna didn't mind disclosing his participation in the commission since it was a matter of public record. It had been widely reported that his office had been assigned to help assess whether any cases pending in the Supreme Court had a connection to the murders.'hough there were protests that McKenna, himself nearly killed in the attack, had a conflict of interest and thus should not be part of the investigation, his office's participation was essential. For one thing, the solicitor general's office is involved some way in every one of the cases filed each year in the Supreme Court. Indeed, the office is so influential with the nine-member court that the solicitor general sometimes is referred to as "the tenth justice." In less than six hours, he would appear at a commission meeting to present his office's findings to the multi-agency law enforcement arm of the commission.
Detectives Milstein and Assad questioned him for another thirty minutes. Assad, who had become more deferential after learning that McKenna was a high-level Justice Department official, chose his words carefully. Milstein, however, was unflinching. What had McKenna done after giving the speech? Had anyone seen him at the restaurant? Could anyone else account for his whereabouts after leaving the restaurant? Was he sure that he and Sinclair had no disputes?
After finishing the interview and thanking McKenna, the detectives walked to their car. Lexington Avenue was quiet, and the October mist covered the blacktop.
Assad reached for Milstein's hand.
"We're on duty, Chase," she said, pulling away.
"It's after three in the morning, Em," he muttered. "I don't think we have to worry too much about anyone seeing us."
"That's not the point."
"This is getting old fast," he said, sliding into the front seat.
"It's late, Chase," she said. "Let's not have this fight."
The drive to his apartment was silent except for the rhythm of the windshield wipers and the faint hiss of water off the tires.
Assad looked over at Milstein, who sat staring out the window clenching her jaw. She was just as beautiful angry.
"So, what did you make of him?" he said, breaking the silence.
"I'm not sure. He seemed like he was holding back."
"Didn't feel it. Maybe you were just sensing his embarrassment from that Speedo he was wearing. I haven't seen short-shorts like that since Bill Clinton used to jog by the precinct house."
Milstein smiled.
"That's what I wanted to see," Assad said.
"I'm serious," Milstein said. "There's something he isn't telling us."
"Women's intuition?" said Assad playfully.
"You want to sleep alone tonight, don't you," she replied. "Seriously, there's something he didn't tell us. I just know it."
Poospatuck Indian Reservation, Long Island, New York
beige ten-year-old Buick Century pulled into the dark gravel lot of Squaw's Smoke Shop and parked under a scraggly stand of trees.' "shop" was nothing more than a dilapidated trailer covered with faded cardboard signs advertising "tax free" cigarettes.
A tall man with black, lifeless eyes and a pockmarked face got out of the car and scanned the lot. He wore a camouflage hunting jacket and his heavy boots thumped loudly as he walked up the wooden steps to the trailer's door. He knocked and a few moments later Bobby Ray Cherry's unshaven face peered out the window, and then broke into a toothy grin.
"I been waitin' on you," Bobby Ray said, beaming, as he opened the door. "It went perfect."
The visitor with the pockmarked face took another quick look around him, then followed Bobby Ray inside. The trailer was divided roughly in half. To the right, a beat-up cash register sat on top of a long counter, behind it stood rusted metal shelves filled with cigarette cartons. To the left, a frayed green curtain hung from the ceiling. A handwritten sign taped to the curtain read "EMPLOYEES ONLY." Bobby Ray led the man through the curtain, then plopped down on the ripped sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. Also on the table, next to a rumpled copy of Hustler, was a laptop computer, a wallet, and a plastic security badge with a photo and the caption "LAw CLERK-PARKER SINCLAIR."
Without a word, the pockmarked-face visitor slid Bobby Ray's feet aside, picked up the wallet and rifled through the cards and bills, then opened and closed the laptop without turning it on. He nodded approvingly then reached into his back pocket, pulled out an envelope, and threw it on the table next to Sinclair's wallet.
"Here's the rest of what I owe you."
Bobby Ray smiled as he picked up the envelope, ripped it open with his thumb, and sank back into the sofa.
The visitor gave a dry cough. "You got something to drink?"
"Help yourself," said Bobby Ray, pointing to a small refrigerator, not looking up from counting his money.
Going over to the refrigerator, the visitor made some rummaging sounds while pulling a small bottle and a folded bandanna from his jacket. He quietly poured the liquid from the bottle onto the bandanna.
An instant later, he had Bobby Ray in a choke hold, with the bandanna clamped over his mouth and nose.
He held on while Bobby Ray let out a muffled yell, bucked and kicked, and went limp.
When he woke up, Bobby Ray found himself duct-taped to a chair.
"What the fuck is goin' on?" he sputtered.
"Who knows about me?" the pockmarked-face visitor said in a calm tone. "Who did you tell about me?"
"I didn't say nothin'to nobody!"
"Tell me the truth, and nobody has a problem." From his ankle he unsheathed a short, double-edged hunting knife.
Bobby Ray's eyes widened. "I didn't say shit!" He struggled to free his arms and began rocking the chair from side-to-side.
The pockmarked-face visitor walked slowly to the chair, casting a shadow over his frightened prisoner. When Bobby Ray continued to thrash about, the visitor placed the tip of the blade at the center of his forehead. Bobby Ray instantly froze.
"Who'd you talk to about me?"
"I told you, I didn't say a word, I swear-"
The visitor cut around Bobby Ray's left eye, down his cheek to the center of his chin. He liked to start with the face because there was always a lot of blood.
Bobby Ray screamed in agony.
"Who'd you tell about me?"
"No one," Bobby Ray screamed. His face was soaked in blood and he started to cry.
"Who?" the visitor's gravelly voice boomed.
Bobby Ray just sat limp in the chair and whimpered.
The visitor crouched down, so the two were eye-level. Bobby Ray held his gaze for a moment then looked down at his lap.
"Look at me," the visitor demanded. When Bobby Ray did not comply, he grabbed a fistful of his stringy hair and jerked his head up. The visitor's black eyes stared intently into Bobby Ray's.
"I'm gonna give you one more chance, Bobby Ray. Who'd you tell?"
"I... didn't ... tell... nobody."
the visitor stood and gave an exasperated shake of the head. "How about your girlfriend? Did you tell her?"
"She don't know nothin' about you!" Bobby Ray said in a desperate tone, spittles of blood shooting from his mouth.
The Last Justice Page 1