Midtown North Precinct, West 54th Street, Manhattan
y early afternoon, Milstein and Assad were at their station house desks, which faced each other, eating sandwiches from a neighborhood deli. Milstein talked on the phone while Assad did Web searches on Solicitor General McKenna.
"You need to rest, Dad," Milstein said into the phone, "and listen to your doctors." In just a year, she had seen her vibrant, gregarious dad become wheelchair-bound, hunched and haggard beyond his years from his battle with cancer. She paused from lecturing him to look over at Assad. "Yes. He's sitting right here," she said, then cupped the receiver. "My dad wants to know when you're gonna get me under control."
Assad peered at her over the top of the computer monitor and smiled. He then got up and stood by the printer that sat on a table immediately behind Milstein's desk, close enough to the phone so her father could hear him. "Tell Harry to go to the window and look up ... Any pigs flying up there?"
Her dad laughed, which triggered a coughing fit. When Assad returned to his desk, Milstein was off the phone, eyes welling up.
"How's he doing?" Assad asked.
"He's so stubborn."
"A stubborn Milstein-imagine that," Assad said. In a softer tone, he added, "He'll be okay, Em."
She was spared further discussion by the phone's ring.
"Milstein," she said in her brisk, official voice.
"Hello, Detective, this is Tucker lhornberry from the Washington Post. I got a message you were trying to reach me?"
"Yes, hello. Thanks for calling me back," Milstein said. "We're investigating the murder of a man named Parker Sinclair, and we have reason to believe that he may have been in contact with you."
Silence.
"Mr. lhornberry?"
"Yes-sorry," the voice finally said. "I was just taken by surprise. I had no idea Parker had been killed. When did this happen?"
Milstein heard the soft clicking of computer keys in the background.
"How about we start with my questions," Milstein said. "How'd you know Parker?"
"I'm not really comfortable discussing that,"lhornberry said.
"He was a source?"
"Detective, you know I can't reveal information about sources."
"He's dead," Milstein shot back. "I don't think he'll mind."
Another pause. "Can I ask you one question, Detective?"
"You can ask."
"Do you plan to speak with the solicitor general about Parker?"
Milstein felt a little surge of adrenaline. "Why do you ask?"
"Please answer my question, Detective."
"Answer mine." The discussion was starting to sound like something she might overhear in a school yard.
"Tell you what,"Thornberry said. "How'bout we compare notes?"
La Guardia Airport, New York
cKenna sat at the gate as he waited to board the shuttle to D.C. He was reading the Supreme Court Commission briefing book and periodically glancing up at a cable news program on the television that hung from the ceiling. He had left the meeting before it adjourned, and managed to sneak by the reporters staking out the front of the MetLife Building. He looked up when he heard something about Black Wednesday.' he commission's spokesman appeared on the screen with several microphones pushed near his face.
"The Supreme Court Commission had a very productive meeting today," he said. "The full commission met until early this afternoon, and the law enforcement task force will meet throughout the rest of the day. Everyone involved feels that progress is being made. To avoid compromising the process, however, I'm not going to discuss any specifics about the meeting or the ongoing investigation."
"Did you discuss Chief Justice Kincaid's widow?" a reporter shouted. "Is she a suspect?"
The question unsettled McKenna since it meant there was a leak. Someone on the commission was talking to the press. The Kincaids had a troubled marriage, and Liddy Kincaid had made unusual cash withdrawals shortly before Black Wednesday, but the information had not been made public.
"As I said," the spokesman replied, "I'm not commenting on any specifics of the investigation-or unfounded rumors, for that matter."
"Any progress on the tattoo on the assassin's neck?" another reporter asked.
"Again, I won't comment on what was discussed today, but I can say that we continue to urge the public to contact our hotline if you have any information."
The best lead had been a guarded secret until a few days ago, when the commission, desperate for something to go on, had disclosed that the assassin was caught on a security camera outside the Supreme Court Building. It was the best image they had of the man, who had skillfully avoided having his face captured on any of the court's outdated security cameras. This image, the result of weeks of FBI computer enhancements, also provided no clear view of his face. It did, however, reveal one distinguishing feature: a mark on his lower neck. It looked like a tattoo or a burned brand of the letters "CB." The mark was visible in only one frame, taken right after the assassin had shot and killed a young officer who was trying to lockdown the building. The officer had fallen onto the shooter, pulling down his shirt collar, exposing his neck for a crucial half-second. The image had since appeared on the front page of every newspaper in the country.
As the commission's spokesman continued fencing with the press, the screen switched to the anchor, a woman in her early thirties with blonde hair and plastic-framed glasses, who segued to another story.
"In related news, the administration and congressional leaders appear close to an agreement on a deal to fill the vacancies on the high court, but not everyone is happy about it." The screen flipped to a well-known pundit: "I think this so-called three-three deal, in which both sides get a free pass on three nominees of their choosing, is nothing less than a gamble with the future of American law. It is dumbfounding why the administration couldn't have just chosen to nominate six moderates. History has shown that moderates get confirmed with little problem. But what this three-three deal will mean is that the court will be packed with three liberal extremists and three conservative extremists. The president apparently thinks this is acceptable since two of the three surviving justices, who are sometimes considered swing votes, are still solid conservatives, giving his side the majority. The administration's tactics to rally public support for the deal, going so far as to use Twitter and Facebook, are shameless and the American people should know better."
Another talking head flashed on the screen. "I don't see anything wrong with reaching a compromise on the nominations. It's not like there's a manual on the right way to deal with this unprecedented situation. And let's not forget that all the Constitution says is that the president shall seek the `advice and consent' of the Senate, which is effectively what's occurred. If there's a bipartisan agreement, that's got to be better than having gridlock in the process. 'hat's why the public is behind this."
McKenna looked over to his gate to see if they were boarding the flight, when a boy about four years old ran by with his arms outstretched, pretending to be an airplane. A few travelers looked on disapprovingly as the kid circled a terminal bench, making a loud vroom sound. Then, on his third lap around the bench, he tripped and fell, smacking the floor hard. McKenna was already on his feet when the father scooped the boy up, hugging him tight as if trying to absorb the pain into himself.
It was these unexpected reminders that hurt the most. McKenna thought of a game he used to play with his four-year-old, Colin. He would grab his son and squeeze him and say, "I'm stealing all the good in you. I've got all the good in your heart now." Colin would giggle back, "You can't steal my good. I grew ten jillion gazillion back." McKenna smiled for just a moment before the familiar pain wedged itself in his chest.
I'm stealing your good.
Ten minutes later, he was buckled into his seat on the plane. He checked his BlackBerry e-mail, an every-ten-minutes fix he couldn't do without. Isabel used to call it his "crackberry."
After Colin
died, the "crackberry" comment lost its playful lilt as McKenna spent more and more time at the office. Being at home-or with Isabel, for that matter-simply reminded him of his staggering loss. Work was a legal drug that allowed him, for brief moments, to escape the pain.
Then, when Isabel, too, was snatched away from him, he needed a new fix. He found it in bourbon, the same third-shelf stuff his foster parents used to drink. It had been thirty-two days since his last drink. Not because he had found God or AA or his senses, but because the alcohol reacted adversely to his medication for the brain-splitting migraines that had come back in recent weeks.
He closed his eyes for just a moment, then woke to the bump of the wheels hitting down at Reagan National in D.C. He rolled his neck and reached for his BlackBerry. Scrolling down, he noticed an e-mail, marked urgent, from Kate Porter, his right hand at the office. It read, "Friend at Washington Post called me. Wild story. We need to talk A-S-A-P."
McKenna immediately dialed Kate's direct line at the office. She answered on the first ring.
"Hey, it's me," he said. "What's the emergency?"
"I can't talk now," she said in a low whisper. "Meet me at my place."
"Your place? Now? What's going-"
"Go," she said, and hung up on him.
McKenna paid the cabbie and walked up to Kate Porter's condo building in D.C.'s Adams Morgan neighborhood. The area, known for its nightlife, eclectic restaurants, and sporadic violence, was more urban than most of the lawyers at the Office of the Solicitor General would tolerate. But then, that was Kate: brave and unpredictable. A tall red head with disarming freckles and a girl-next-door smile, she also was an amazing legal talent. A Chicago Law graduate and former Supreme Court law clerk, at thirty-eight she already was a star in the D.C. legal community, and as McKenna's principal deputy, she was the number two person at the OSG.
McKenna pushed the buzzer next to the building's front door. Kate had more than once offered him a key of his own, but he had declined. She never asked why-she didn't need to.
"Jefferson?" a voice bellowed out of the speaker next to the door.
"Kate, what the hell is-" The buzz of the lobby's electric door latch cut him off.
McKenna was barely inside her condo door when Kate blurted, "My friend Margo works at the Post. She called and said I needed to be prepared for something big and unpleasant. Then Sarah got a call from a reporter. He wanted a comment on a story that's coming out tomorrow, and FBI agents came and wanted to speak with you. They were at the office when I left."
Kate seemed to be having trouble catching her breath. "The Post is running a piece that says you took a bribe when you were a judge. They say your former law clerk was the source for the story, and that you're under investigation for the clerk's murder. They think the bribery is somehow connected to Black Wednesday. They say Griffin Nash arranged the bribe. They know we identified Nash and Nevel Industries in our report to the commission."
McKenna stood shell-shocked for a moment. Trying to rein in his racing thoughts, he said nothing.
Kate stared at him. "Well?" she said.
"I need to go," he finally said.
"Go? That's all you have to say? `I need to go'?"
He looked away. She put her hand on his chin and turned his head to her. "Look at me," she said. The light crinkles at the corners of her eyes were more pronounced than usual.
"To protect yourself," McKenna said, "you should tell no one I was here. It's best this way."
"I'm a big girl, Jefferson," she said. "I can judge what's best for
"Can you?" he said, holding her gaze.
This time it was Kate who looked away. Lately she had begun to push back against McKenna's efforts to keep her at a comfortable emotional distance.
"Where are you going?" she asked as he went to the door.
"To see an old friend."
The WHotel, Manhattan
etectives Milstein and Assad watched as crime scene unit detectives sprayed luminol around the hotel room where they had met McKenna only fourteen hours ago. Now that the room was vacant, they could enter without a warrant. Milstein peered into the bathroom, watching the CSU spray the marble floor and pedestal sink. The detective turned off the lights; the sink had a bluish-green glow.
"Blood?" Milstein asked.
"Looks like it," the CSU replied." Sinks are tricky, though, because you can get false positives from bleach-based cleaning products-but usually that's more of a green flash, not the blue we're getting here, so I think this is blood."
That was confirmed when the CSU sprayed the carpet. A droplet trail led into the hall.
Another CSU detective entered the room. He was carrying a large brown paper bag that contained blood-stained clothes a detective had found behind a Dumpster at the back of the hotel.
"How much you wanna bet those clothes fit McKenna?" Milstein said to Assad.
Assad started to reply, but his cell phone rang. Scanning the caller ID, he walked to the back of the suite. He looked out the window with the phone pressed to his ear and watched the raindrops splatter against the glass.
When Milstein caught up with him, he held up a finger. "I understand," he said into the phone, his tone cold and professional. "Thanks, Lieutenant. I appreciate that. No, I'll tell her." He clicked the phone off.
"Tell her what?"
"The feds are taking over the investigation. They want it because of McKenna."
Her eyes flashed. "This is a murder case! They have no jurisdiction. They can't just-"
"Watch'em," Assad said. "Murdering a Supreme Court justice is a federal capital offense."
"Supreme Court justice?" Milstein said. "What's that have to do with this?"
"I don't know. That's just what filtered down to the boss. He said the feds are in damage control mode. McKenna's one of the top officials at the Department of Justice, and Griffin Nash, the guy they say bribed him, is the former White House chief of staff. I suppose they don't want some lowly city cops besting them."
Milstein pulled out her cell phone.
"Don't,"Assad said. "Nothing you can say is going to change this." He grinned, just barely. "Look on the bright side-they've agreed to let us work with the agents on the commission. The boss said they're doing that as a gesture of good faith."
"Pacifying the department, more like," Milstein said.
"Maybe, but it's a lot better than nothing. And it could be interesting. When's the last time you got to work on a high-profile task force?"
Milstein hesitated, then returned the cell phone to her handbag. "We've got an appointment with Sinclair's parents. They're expecting
Upon learning of their son's murder, Parker Sinclair's parents had cut their Bermuda vacation short and rushed to New York. Milstein, sensing that they were surely overwhelmed after having just identified the body of their only child, had offered to go to their hotel rather than force them to find their way to the precinct.
"I told them we'd be coming, and I'm not calling it off just because the feds think they can push into our case."
"I know, Em," Assad said, treading lightly. "We'll go, but then we need to get hold of our contact from the Supreme Court Commission."
Milstein turned and stormed out of the room.
Woodley Park Metro Station, Washington,
cKenna walked to the subway station-the "metro," as D.C. locals call it-from Kate's condo. A cold front was rolling in, and the sky was filling with dark clouds. Griffin Nash's office at Nevel Industries was near the corner of Thirteenth and F streets downtown, and at rush hour the metro was the fastest route. McKenna stepped down the steep and chronically out-of-service escalator into the mouth of the subway.
As he waited under the concrete arch for the red line train, his thoughts turned to Nash. They had met when McKenna was then-Governor Winter's counsel and key adviser. He had felt an immediate dislike for the brash, cocky CEO the moment they met, but the man was a big donor and a college friend of Winter's, so McKenna had always kept it
cordial. During the campaign for the presidency, McKenna soon found himself on the outside, while Nash and those allegiant to Nash had Winter's ear. So he had been surprised when Nash called him after the election and asked him to lunch to discuss whether McKenna would be interested in a seat on an Ohio federal court. McKenna sat at Lindey's restaurant in Columbus' German Village neighborhood, expecting to be grilled on his judicial philosophy and qualifications. Instead, Nash arrived late, ordered a salad and sparkling water, and asked him only one question.
"What would you say if the Judiciary Committee asked you about rumors that President Winter had illicit affairs while he was governor? Bear in mind that, unlike your statements to the press during the campaign, testimony to the committee would be under oath."
Without a moment's pause, McKenna had replied, "As I said during the campaign, I'd say I think those allegations are baseless."
And later,when asked that very question by one of the Democrats on the Senate Judiciary Committee, he was true to his word. And so he became the Honorable Judge Jefferson McKenna. It was one of the reasons, he now believed, that God was punishing him.
The train pushed into the station. Stepping aboard, he straightened his striped tie and starched white collar in the train window reflection. To get to Nash, he needed to look the part. He got off at the Metro Center station, which was crowded with commuters escaping downtown after a long day's work. Fifteen minutes later, he was walking through the dazzling glass and steel atrium of the Nevel building.
The Last Justice Page 4