The Last Justice

by Anthony J. Franze

  Following his lead, Kate reached up and slid her fingers across a sill above the door. A key clinked down on the bricks.

  McKenna smiled and picked it up. He turned the key and opened the door slowly, only to be greeted by a loud succession of beeps.

  "Shit, it's alarmed!" he said, looking around the room for a keypad as the beeps grew louder and closer together.

  "Here!" Kate said. She was in a room near the front door, which had a large table and bookshelves stacked with biographies of justices and other books about the Supreme Court.

  McKenna went to the keypad. The beeps were accelerating. "What would Sully use for a pass code?" he said, talking more to himself than to Kate. "Wait!" he barked. "What year did John Marshall become chief justice?"

  The director of the society was an affable fellow named John Marshall Sullivan. He loved to talk about the court and play chess on a set that had belonged to his favorite justice, John Marshall, for whom he was named. McKenna had struck up a quick friendship with him when Sullivan invited him to dinner after his appointment as solicitor general.

  "In 1801, I think," Kate said.

  McKenna punched in the numbers, but the beeping continued.

  "Try 1803," she blurted, "the date of Marbury v. Madison," referring to Marshall's most famous decision.

  McKenna punched in the numbers, and the beeping stopped. Cold and dripping wet, they both caught their breath.

  "Don't turn on any lights," McKenna said. "The neighbors may get alarmed since no one's usually here past five o'clock."

  As Kate made some cocoa she had found in the kitchen area of the restored row house offices, McKenna lit a fire in the fireplace of a sitting room. Kate came into the room with two mugs and a blanket she had appropriated from a staffer's office.

  "Where should we sit?" she asked.

  "The floor, I think. It would kill Sully if we sat wet on any of his beloved antique furniture."

  They sat on the floor, close to the fire, with the dancing flames the only source of light.

  "This is much better than outside," Kate said, leaning against him.

  After sitting in silence, letting the mugs warm their cold hands, she turned to McKenna. "The truth is going to come out, and this will all be cleared up," she said, as if to convince herself as much as McKenna.

  He looked at her. "You deserve better than me, you know. I was wrong to keep you at a distance. If I could go back.. ."

  "It's not as if it's too late," Kate said.

  it is."

  "No, the truth-"

  "Stop, Kate," he said firmly. He hesitated for a moment, then said, "I need to tell you something."

  Kate looked at him intently. "What is it?"

  McKenna hesitated.

  "What is it, Jefferson?" she asked again with a tone of desperation.

  "I took the bribe."

  It hung in the air. Before Kate had time to fully process the words, he added, "Our insurance wouldn't cover the biological therapy Colin needed. It was expensive-considered experimental-and our only hope. We tried to get him into a clinical trial, but the wait was too long. My government salary was low, and Isabel had taken time off work to stay home with him. He wasn't responding to the other treatments. Nash knew, and he preyed on that."

  McKenna explained that when he was a judge, one of Nevel's subsidiaries had a class action case pending before him-a bet-thecompany case. Before he was nominated for solicitor general, he had directed his law clerk, Parker Sinclair, to draft a decision granting class certification-an event that would likely send the company's stock into freefall. Before finalizing the decision, McKenna was nominated SG, and Colin was diagnosed soon thereafter. Nash swooped in. McKenna recalled Parker Sinclair's face when he directed him to redraft the opinion, but at the time, he didn't think Sinclair knew why he had done so.

  "I think Nash knew he was going to be pushed out of the White House, so he wanted to use his position one last time to help Nevel. I think he originally planned on using the SG appointment to influence me, but he later found something more foolproof: my son. I never took any money, but I changed the decision in return for Nash using his connections to get Colin into a clinical trial."

  Kate didn't speak. She stood and walked up the stairs to an office where she would sleep for the night. McKenna didn't try and stop her. And he didn't try and get her to talk with him about it. He knew there was nothing left to say.

  Long Island, New York

  hase Assad knocked softly on the door of the modest home covered in blue vinyl siding. After catching the earliest shuttle, he had driven straight to Long Island, not stopping at his apartment. He had been to Milstein's father's house only a couple of times before, but he remembered the way. He knocked again.

  "Chase?"

  He turned around and saw Milstein. She had on jogging clothes and an iPod strapped to her arm and was catching her breath. Eyes red and no makeup, she looked tired.

  "I told you not to come," she said. "I won't be able to live with myself if being here makes you miss out on the biggest career opportunity of your life. I'm okay-really."

  Assad gave her a long embrace as her eyes filled with tears. "Let's go inside," she said, wiping her eyes. "It's freezing out here."

  Inside, Assad sat on a stool in the kitchen as Milstein pulled a bottle of water from the lime green refrigerator. "Need any help with the arrangements?" he asked.

  "'here's not really much to arrange," she said. "We have a family gathering next week. He wanted to be cremated, so that's what I've asked them to do. He wants the ashes sprinkled at Niagara Falls."

  "Niagara Falls?" Assad said.

  Milstein walked out of the room and came back with a framed photo and handed it to Assad. It was a picture of her smiling father and her very pregnant mother standing by the falls.

  "I used to gaze at that picture when I was a little girl and wonder what my father was like before she left."

  "Is there anything I can do?" Assad asked.

  "No, I'm okay. I just need something to take my mind off things. I'd actually rather be back at work-at least I'd be busy. Mind if I go take a shower? I'm sweaty."

  "No, of course not."

  Assad was surprised when, a few minutes later, Milstein came into the kitchen, hair damp, dressed in the business attire she had worn in D.C. when she rushed to the hospital. Plucking the keys to Assad's car from the kitchen counter, she went to the door, then stopped.

  "You coming?"

  By the time he had put on his coat and gotten out the door, Milstein was pulling out of the driveway. She stopped beside him.

  "Where are you going?" he asked, getting in the passenger side.

  "Read this," she said, and handed him the newspaper story on the couple missing from the Poospatuck Reservation. "There's a connection with the mark on the assassin's neck."

  Assad frowned. "Hold on, Em," he said. "Why don't we call Frank? I don't think it's a good idea for you to-"

  "You met my dad," Milstein interrupted. "Do you think he'd want me moping around his house?"

  "Em, I don't think it's a good idea."

  "Please," she said.

  Her eyes were fixed firmly on the road ahead of her, but he could see them welling with tears. She needed this. Reluctantly he said, "Well, where do you want to go, and how's it relate to the investigation?"

  Fifteen minutes later, they started seeing road signs to the reservation.

  "I think this is it," Milstein said, pulling into the gravel lot of a smoke shop. The newspaper article concerning the disappearances had said the owner of the store was a friend of the missing woman.

  As they approached the storefront, two young men with long, straight black hair passed by them and got in a pickup truck in the lot. Neither made eye contact.

  The inside of the store was clean and displayed an array of art and handicrafts amid the shelves packed full of cigarettes. A man with long gray hair smiled at them from behind the counter.

  "Hello," Milst
ein said.

  The man nodded in response.

  "My name's Detective Milstein, and this is my partner, Detective Assad. We're with the NYPD and wondered if you had a moment to discuss Bobby Ray Cherry and Britney Goodhart?"

  "I've already spoken with the tribe's liaison and with the Suffolk County cops," the man said.

  "We understand," Milstein said. "We just have a couple questions if you have a moment. It would really help."

  "If it'll help find Britney, okay." Two customers entered the store and the man nodded hello again.

  "I understand that you're a friend of Ms. Goodhart?" Milstein asked.

  "Yes. It's a small reservation."

  "What about Mr. Cherry?"

  "Know him, too. Wish I didn't, though."

  "Not a big fan of Mr. Cherry?"

  "You could say that."

  "Why's that?"

  "Bobby Ray's a menace. Everyone knows he sold more meth than cigarettes out of his smoke shop. Last year, a young guy opened a store near Bobby Ray's shop and the guy disappeared a week later. We all know Bobby Ray had something to do with it. I'm sure that if something's happened to Britney, it's his fault."

  "Do you think something's happened to Ms. Goodhart?"

  "I hope not, but I heard there was lots of blood at Bobby Ray's place. And she's missing."

  "Do you know anyone who'd want to hurt her?"

  "Other than Bobby Ray, no one would hurt that gentle soul."

  "Why would Bobby Ray want to hurt her? I thought they were together."

  "They were, but a guy like that doesn't need a reason to hurt needs to get liquored up or high."

  "What can you tell us about Ms. Goodhart?" Milstein asked. "Is she a member of the tribe?"

  "No, she's Seneca, but we took her in as one of our own," he said, ringing up a customer's seven cartons of cigarettes. "She's lived here for a long time. About a year ago, Bobby Ray started hanging around-I think they met at the club where she dances."

  "Where's that?"

  "A few miles from here."

  "Do you know where she lives? Where she's from?"

  "Her parents left her young. Don't know much else, other than that she's had it rough."

  "Do you know where she lives?"

  "Yes," the man said without elaborating.

  "Would you mind giving us the address?"

  He began scribbling on the back of a sales flyer. "An address won't help you, and your satellite contraptions won't either." He handed Milstein a map to Britney's home, but did not let go of the paper until she looked back up at his eyes. "Please find her," he said.

  Several dirt roads later, Milstein pulled the car into a small trailer park. The moment they stopped, two big Rottweilers rushed up to the vehicle, barking, scratching at the passenger doors and windows, and showing their teeth. Neither Assad nor Milstein dared get out. A short woman with very large breasts heaving under a white T-shirt came out of a trailer holding a shotgun. Assad held up his badge to the windshield. A layer of Rottweiler drool blurred the passenger window. The woman rested the shotgun against the trailer and approached the dogs. She grabbed one, then the other, roughly by the collars and yanked them to the trailer, pushing them inside and shutting the door.

  When they were confident that the dogs were secure, Milstein and Assad got out of the car. The sound of wind chimes in a nearby tree filled the air.

  "Sorry about that," the woman said. "I been a bit jumpy lately. You here about Britney?" She hugged herself against the cold, standing near the car.

  "Yes," Assad said. "Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

  "Sure."

  "Would you like to grab a coat first or go inside?" he asked.

  "I'm fine."

  "I'm Detective Assad, and this is my partner, Detective Milstein."

  "I'm Crystal, though my friends call me Tiny."

  "Nice to meet you, Tiny," Assad said. "I know you've already been asked some of these questions, so forgive me. But I want to talk with you a little more about Britney."

  "Okay."

  "When was the last time you saw her?"

  "As I told the other cops, I saw her the night she disappeared. We dance at the same club. She finished her set before me. Usually waits around until closing and we ride home together. Last anyone else saw her was when she went outside for a smoke. I first thought Bobby Ray came to give her a ride home, since he did that sometimes. But everybody's saying they found blood at Bobby Ray's store. And Britney would of never left for good without saying good-bye-she and me been through a lot together. She was like a big sister to me. She wouldn't go without me, and she wouldn't go without taking her stuff."

  "None of her things were missing?"

  "Nope. That's why I knew something was wrong. Her clothes are all still there. And she's sentimental." Tiny turned from the car and pointed at the trailer. "Got a box full of letters and pictures she treats like the Hope Diamond in there-she wouldn't never leave without

  "Before she disappeared, did she say she was scared or that anyone was bothering her?"

  "I don't think so. Usual creeps at the club, but nothing serious."

  "Did she happen to say anything about the Black Wednesday investigation?"

  "You mean them judges who got shot?"Tiny said, looking puzzled.

  "Yes."

  "She didn't say nothin' about that."

  "Do you know if she and Mr. Cherry were having problems?"

  "They always had problems, but usually nothing physical. She could handle that little weasel."

  "Did she-"

  "Wait a minute,"Tiny interrupted. Hand on chin, she said, "Come to think of it, there was somethin' had to do with them judges."

  "What was that?" Milstein asked.

  "Well, a few days ago we were watchin'the news and there was a story about the judges and that they were lookin'for a man with some mark on his neck. It seemed to bug her."

  "How so?"

  "Just not herself-a little quiet, bothered somehow. I figured it was 'cause it just reminded her of her foster brother."

  "Why would a news report about a mark on the assassin's neck remind her of her foster brother?"

  "She once told me that when she was in foster care, the boys there used to rape her and do other horrible things to her. She said she hated tattoos because it reminded her of one of the boys. He had tattoos and used to brand himself with hot metal. He even burned his initials into her back. I just assumed the story creeped her out. You don't forget when someone burns you like that. At the club she wouldn't even talk to men with a lot of tattoos if she didn't have to."

  "Did you ever see the brand marks on her back?"

  "Yeah, I covered'em with makeup before she danced."

  "You said she had the foster brother's initials. What were they?" Milstein asked, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as she could.

  "It was `T-B."'

  "You sure it wasn't `C-B'?"

  "Positive." She said his name was Terry or Travis or something. It was definitely `T-B.' I know, I covered'em up with makeup four times a week."

  "Did she say where she was in foster care?"

  "She got bounced around. I think the last place she was before she ran away was in Brooklyn. She didn't like to talk about it."

  "Would you mind if we looked through her things?" Assad said, pointing with his chin at the trailer.

  "I guess that'd be okay,"Tiny said, walking them up to the door.

  "Uh, could you lock the dogs up first?" Assad asked.

  Tiny smiled, "They're all bark-they see I like you, they'll be fine."

  Assad and Milstein looked at each other.

  "After you," Milstein said, stepping aside for her partner.

  He walked in, and the bigger of the Rottweilers approached.

  "It's okay, Pooky,"Tiny said.

  Pooky poked his snout into Assad's crotch, then nuzzled Milstein's hand and walked away. Tiny grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to the door, and the other dog followed him out
side. She then escorted Assad and Milstein to the far left side of the trailer.

  There was a small wooden dresser with a mirror hung over it, and on top of the dresser was a radio. About two feet from the dresser was a small single bed.

  "This was her room," Tiny said. "Mine's on the other side of the trailer."

  "You mentioned she had a box of personal items you thought she would have taken with her?" Assad asked.

  "Yeah. When she didn't come home, I looked for the box. It's hidden under there." She pointed to the dresser.

  As Assad reached beneath the dresser and pulled out a metal tin, Milstein was examining a crinkled photo of a man, a woman, and a young girl in Native American dress, taped on the mirror.

  "That's her folks," Tiny said. "Her dad died when she was in middle school. Mom went a little nuts after that, which is how she ended up in foster care."

  Assad looked through the papers in the box.

  "What is it?" Milstein asked.

  "Looks like little girl stuff." Lifting out a spiral notebook covered with hearts, he opened it to the first page, written in bubbly cursive.

  "It's talking about a middle school dance," he said. Lying beneath the diary were some worn school pictures of two girls about thirteen years old.

  "It was her life before they left her," Milstein said. "A time she didn't want to forget."

  At the bottom of the box was a letter addressed to Britney. Milstein took it out of the envelope, postmarked years ago. She read the letter. "It's from an alcohol rehab center," she said. "Her mother passed away there .. . doesn't say how."

  "Anything in the box about her foster brother or where she was in foster care?"

  After rifling through the few remaining scraps and wallet-size photos, Milstein said, "Nothing on him, but I think we may know how to find out." She held up the envelope from the rehab center. The address was in Brooklyn.

  Supreme Court Building, Washington,

  o one seemed to notice Kate as she headed up the damp steps to the Supreme Court Building's oval plaza. She and McKenna had spoken little that morning. McKenna had told her that he'd contacted a friend on the commission and advised that he was releasing his "hostage" this morning in the front of the Supreme Court. He told her to wait at the top of the marble stairs in front of the Court's massive bronze front doors. Agents would be coming for her.