The Last Justice

by Anthony J. Franze

  He remembered taking the picture, and how Isabel, her hair disheveled and her eyes tired, laughed joyfully when Colin splashed her.

  After Colin's death, of course, Isabel's smiles and laughs were few and brief. But she had coped with the loss far better than her husband. While Isabel made all the funeral arrangements and attended to grieving family and friends, McKenna was no more than a vacant spectator. Isabel volunteered at the hospital and brought meals to the families they had met in the children's ward. McKenna retreated to his office. Isabel sought grief counseling, never once missing a session, while McKenna sat alone in Colin's playroom in the dark. He was angry-angry at the insurance company for denying coverage for an experimental treatment. Angry at Isabel and everyone else who seemed to accept that nothing more could be done to save his little boy. And angry at God. Isabel had pleaded with him to open up, see a counselor-to try and remember the good times in Ohio. Recalling one of their last carefree nights before everything began to fall apart, McKenna sank low in the back of the cab and closed his eyes ...

  -7he Fairest of7hem "'Isabel read aloud, giggling at the headline of a story from a legal gossip Web site that catered to federal law clerks.

  "McKenna said, having already been teased mercilessly by the other judges in the Ohio federal courthouse.

  Isabel read gleefully on. -Our nominations for the annual judicial hottie list are out. This year there are twenty-seven federal judges that are making their law clerks sweat-and not from researching case

  McKenna tried to grab the printout from her, but she darted away into the kitchen, reading as she fled. "Ibis is my favorite part. `7he most recent addition to the list: Judge Jefferson McKenna from the Southern District of Ohio. A tall, dark dreamboat-Ohio never looked so good. But sorry, Buckeyes, this guy's headed to where he's been nominated for solicitor general. We can't wait to see him in the mandatory SG uniform, including the morning coat and those tight striped

  Backtracking, he dashed around the refrigerator, caught Isabel, and wrestled her to the floor. Snatching theprintout from hergrasp and throwing it out of reach, he pinned her on the floor. She laughed andfake-struggled, and he kissed her. And they made love right there-a rare exercise of freedom with Colin fast asleep.,4 week later, Colin came down with what they thought was the flu. Leukemia. Life would never be the same.

  McKenna paid the cabbie and walked up the uneven brick sidewalk to a faded yellow house with a motorcycle parked on a patch of long, uncut grass near the front door. The key was under the pot of dead geraniums, just as Kate had said it would be, and he went inside.

  The house had few windows and fewer lights. The living room had a black leather recliner that faced a television connected to a video gaming system. By the television was a bookshelf, and on the top shelf sat three motorcycle helmets, all candy-apple red. A Gibson Les Paul guitar leaned in one of the corners next to a small vintage tube amp.

  The pounding in his head continued, but the medicine was beginning to dull the edge. Focus, he told himself. He reached for his BlackBerry to call Kate. The e-mail and cell phone no longer worked. They had already cut him off from the network.

  Finding a cable news channel on the television, he winced to see himself as the lead story. The station's Supreme Court correspondent was standing in front of the Justice Department building.

  "I thought the assassination of the justices would be the most bizarre story I've ever covered about the high court, but this one may take the cake," the heavyset reporter said into the camera. "McKenna was generally well regarded as solicitor general-a surprise given that he was a virtual unknown when appointed by the president. As the Washington Post first reported on its Web site, his former law clerk apparently was the source for a story that was to break tomorrow, claiming that McKenna took a bribe when he was a federal judge in Ohio. That law clerk, who reportedly was seen with McKenna last night, turned up stabbed to death on a Manhattan street, and my sources say blood found in McKenna's hotel room connects him to the crime. And today we learn that Griffin Nash, the CEO of Nevel Industries and former White House chief of staff, was stabbed and killed on a downtown D.C. street just a short time ago. A man fitting McKenna's description was witnessed running from the scene. What's startling here is that Mr. Nash allegedly paid McKenna the bribe."

  The screen switched to an anchorwoman sitting behind a desk. "Arthur, do we know of any connection with Black Wednesday and the assassination of the justices?"

  "That's the real mystery here, Pamela. Nash's company, Nevel Industries, had a case pending at the court that was about to be argued that very day, just before the justices were massacred. My sources tell me that the Nevel matter is a case of interest being investigated by the Supreme Court Commission. How all this fits together is not yet known. We'll keep you posted as new developments emerge."

  McKenna was startled at the sound of a key in the door. Kate came in, wearing jeans and a ball cap, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She looked like a college kid.

  "Jefferson," she said, hugging him and holding him for an extra second. The reporter was right-in a few short hours the situation had gone from unbelievable to flat-out bizarre.

  Noticing the blood on his shirt, she said, "My God! Are you okay?"

  "It's not my blood."

  McKenna told her about the man in the camouflage jacket who stabbed Nash and screamed that McKenna had done it.

  "Had you ever seen him before?"

  "No, I don't think so."

  She took his hands in hers. "I think we need to contact the authorities. We have friends on the commission, people who know you'd never be capable of hurting anyone. The truth will come out."

  "You don't know that," he said. "Someone has gone to great lengths to make it look like I killed Parker Sinclair and Nash, and there's obviously a leak on the commission."

  "If you run, you just look like you have something to hide."

  "I'm not running. I'm not aware of any arrest warrant."

  "Jefferson, you know-"

  "I just need a little time to try and figure this out for myself." He placed his fingertips on his temples and massaged them in circular motions. He caught Kate's glimpse and subtle frown at his wedding ring.

  "Who would have a reason to do this?" Kate asked.

  "If I knew..."

  "Who, Jefferson?" she said. "Is there something that happened with you and Nash? I won't be able to help unless I know everything."

  "Tell me you're kidding. You believe what they're saying about the bribe?"

  "Of course not. But I can't help unless you start thinking of what it could be-and you trust me." She pulled the Supreme Court Commission briefing book from the duffel bag and threw it on the table. "You need to go through this again, and think. Is there anything here that might explain why someone would do this to you?"

  "You've read this," McKenna said as he picked up the book. "You know this is two hundred pages of nothing but dead-end leads and speculation."

  "So you're giving up?" she challenged. Kate pointed to the briefing book. "Read this again. And again and again if you need to. And think." She shoved the duffel bag at him. "I'm supposed to meet with the FBI tonight. It won't surprise me if they've heard rumors about us, so it could be a long night."

  McKenna opened the bag. There was a cell phone and what looked like about a thousand dollars in cash.

  "My rainy day shoebox money," she said. Pointing to his bloodstained shirt, she added, "If I'd known, I would have brought some of the clothes you left at my place ... Never mind-my brother's about your size, so you can grab something from his closet."

  McKenna pulled the cell phone from the duffel.

  "I bought it from that street vendor in front of the office," Kate said. "I tried it out and it works."

  "Thank you," McKenna said. "You didn't have to do this. You're taking a huge risk helping me."

  "I know. So you need to promise me something, Jefferson."

  He gazed into her eyes and nod
ded.

  "Promise me that if you don't figure this out soon, you'll stop this nonsense and let me call our contacts on the commission."

  "I promise," he said reluctantly.

  "I'll hold you to that," Kate replied. "I should go now."

  McKenna walked her to the door, where she turned and kissed him as if it would be their last. "Good-bye, Jefferson."

  7:30p.m. Home ofJudge Petrov, Upper West Side, Manhattan

  alm down, Liddy," Judge Petrov said into the phone. He fell back into his leather chair in the study of his spacious apartment and took a long sip of his glass of single malt Scotch.

  His wife, Katherine, stood nearby shaking her head. Having spent the better part of an hour on the phone with Liddy Kincaid, she had pawned the increasingly unhinged woman off on her husband. As she had reminded Petrov repeatedly, Liddy was technically his friend, since the late chief justice was his mentor.

  Originally, Katherine Petrov had humored the Kincaids because she thought it might help her husband's career. Also, Chief Justice Kincaid was from old money and the association had opened doors to a set that ordinarily would not have accepted Katherine, whose wealth was of more recent vintage-her first husband had been a successful investment banker until he died of a heart attack.

  Petrov had learned about the wealthy widow from mutual friends. Knowing that his judicial salary would never afford him the power and lifestyle that real money brings, Petrov straightaway began orchestrating his courtship. From friends, acquaintances, and even Google, he learned everything he could about Katherine: where she ate lunch (every Tuesday at Elaine's), her hobbies (antiques and bad but expensive art), her favorite flower (big, garish lilies with shirtstaining pollen). And from there, a "chance" meeting, followed by a date. Katherine had been flattered by the attention of a man nearly twenty years her junior-Petrov could always be charming when he needed to be. Now, with the marriage a fait accompli, their relationship was one of convenience.

  Katherine eyed her husband and seemed to revel in his obvious discomfort and the dreadful awkwardness of his efforts to console Liddy Kincaid. She waved sarcastically as she left the study.

  "The news says this man, the solicitor general, may be involved with Thomas's murder," Liddy hissed into Petrov's ear. "I want the bastard dead!" She had gone from sobbing just moments ago to pure rage.

  "Liddy, you shouldn't be talking that way," Petrov said in an oily, patronizing tone. Given the off-the-record reports he had gotten from friends on the Supreme Court Commission, Liddy of all people should not be talking about murdering anyone. "How are your grandchildren?" he said in a clumsy attempt to change the subject. But Liddy would have none of it.

  "Let me ask you something, Ivan. You're a lawyer. Why do they keep pestering me, an old lady, about Thomas's death if they think the solicitor general had something to do with it?"

  Petrov traced the rim of his glass with his finger. "Have you talked to Blake about this?" He was referring to Blake Hellstrom, the highprofile white-collar defense lawyer Liddy had hired the moment the FBI's questions started to feel uncomfortable.

  She started sobbing again. "I can't talk to him about everything that happens. He charged me a thousand dollars for the last call, and that was for just a little over an hour. He always says the same thing anyways: `Don't talk to anyone; you're innocent so you have nothing to worry about; get some rest."'

  "That sounds like good advice, Liddy," Petrov said, ignoring her veiled reference to money problems. Rumors that the Kincaids were having financial difficulties had surfaced even before Black Wednesday Thomas Kincaid had not been a shrewd investor, and Liddy was a notorious spender.

  "Liddy," Petrov said in the closest thing to a sincere tone that he could manage, "I want to say something to you, and I hope you know I'm saying this because you're my friend."

  No response.

  "Perhaps you should see someone who can help you get through the grief. I think you know you're not acting like yourself. I know of some excellent therapists. Maybe talking with someone would help."

  "When are you coming to D.C. again?" Liddy said, her voice suddenly upbeat.

  Petrov marveled a moment at the abrupt change but saw the opportunity to retreat. "I may be there sooner than you think, though I may be tied up at the White House," he said, hinting about his imminent nomination to the high court.

  "Oh, Ivan," she said, "I'm so happy for you. Thomas would be so proud. He was just sick the last time your nomination fell through. He told me he would call in every favor he was owed to get you nominated." Her voice trailed off.

  Sniffles crept through the line. Petrov took another drink, contemplating his exit strategy from the call.

  Amtrak train 2126

  man with dead eyes and a pockmarked face sat in the dimly lit Acela train headed from D.C. to New York. Hunched over a table, he devoured the microwaved hotdog and tepid beer he had bought in the snack car. He was in the "quiet car," the one that forbade cell phones and chatter, so he wouldn't have to listen to the pompous blather of self-important businessmen. He liked the quiet. It gave him time to think, to reflect on the past few days. He didn't care that the couple from the Indian reservation may have families who were searching for them at that very moment, nor was he troubled that the man he stabbed today may have young children who would grow up without a father.

  As a boy, he had occasionally fretted about his lack of empathy, and occasionally even flirted with change, trying for short stints to deny himself the pleasure of hurting animals or tormenting kids in the school yard. Counselors, and the few foster parents who weren't simply collecting a check, had tried to help, but they got nowhere.

  Though not remorseful, he was worried. Until a few days ago, with the exception of the chief justice getting shot dead by the idiot courtroom police, everything had gone as planned. But then the reports in the media about the mark on his neck surfaced, and he began to obsess about who could make the connection. Maybe one of his old girlfriends, maybe one of the soldiers in his unit-maybe, maybe, maybe ... He came up with only one person who would remember it. She had been there the day he got the mark-his seventeenth birthday ...

  Ire you ready?" his foster brother said. The boys huddled on the matted carpet in the bedroom of their foster home, an open bottle of whiskey between them.

  "Do he replied, taking a swig from the bottle. Clicking off the lighter under the bent wire that he held with a pair of pliers, his foster brother pulled down the younger boy's shirt collar and pressed the hot metal into his flesh. There was a brief hiss and the stink of burned skin, and it was done.

  "We're now chaos the older boy announced.

  It was the closest he had ever felt to warmth and kinship, to a bond with another human being.

  The older boy looked at him sternly. "Time for your

  "Where is the Injun girl?"

  Britney Goodhart, their new foster sister, was in her room. A little overweight, with lank, straight hair that hung over her eyes, Britney had learned that the way to survive in a new foster home was to be invisible.

  Feeling as if he had embers stuck to his neck, he took the knife and walked into the girl's room.

  Britney would spend her remaining years trying to forget that night and the months of abuse that followed. Ind yet, it served as the template that defined every relationship she would ever have with a man, and confirmed every self-loathing thought that ever entered her mind. As an adult, she would have irrational fears that the boy with the branded neck would come back, would find her.

  And then, one day, he did.

  Gotham Bar and Grill, Manhattan

  inner rush at the Gotham Grill on East Twelfth Street was in full swing. FBI Deputy Director Frank Pacini sat at the bar, nursing a beer. At fifty-nine, he was fit, though the bags under his dark eyes made him look his age. His thinning hair, which he kept short, was still mostly black, and his gray suit, though inexpensive, was well cut and downplayed his thickening waistline.

  As
head of the Supreme Court Commission's law enforcement component, he was annoyed that his bosses expected him to drop everything to meet a couple of NYPD cops. But the FBI director and the director of national intelligence had insisted.' were politics at play, and Pacini had gotten this far by knowing which battles to pick. So he agreed to slip away from the table of his daughter's eighteenth birthday dinner while his family ate dessert, so he could meet the detectives for a quick drink at the bar.

  He checked his watch and scanned the room. The Gotham Grill crowd was young and well-heeled. Pacini's daughter had chosen the restaurant to celebrate her entrance into adulthood. At dinner, seeing her all dressed up gave him a little rush of emotion, thinking back to the days when she was a little girl playing dress-up and mothering the family's pet Beagle. During dinner, his wife had caught his eye and given him a sentimental nod.

  An attractive couple entered the restaurant. They didn't look like cops, but they appeared to be looking for someone. The man's jacket also had the slight bulge of a holstered firearm, so Pacini held up his hand. The man noticed and waved back.

  "Deputy Director Pacini?" Chase Assad asked, approaching the bar.

  "Detectives," he said, nodding. His tone was friendly, but with a hint of annoyance-Pacini wanted them to know that although he was including them in the investigation, it wasn't by choice.

  After some small talk and fighting to hear one another over the loud chatter of the bar crowd, Pacini led the detectives outside, and the three took a leisurely stroll down East Twelfth Street.

  "We were surprised the commission claimed jurisdiction," Milstein said pointedly. "You all think Parker Sinclair's murder is connected to Black Wednesday?"

  "No," Pacini replied bluntly.

  "So, my partner and I are involved because..."

  "Good question."

  There was an awkward silence.