Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy

by Nicolas Kublicki

  Forbes shook his head. “This isn’t a courtroom or a Navy sub. This is Washington. You can’t just—”

  “Enough! I don’t recall you giving a damn about political impossibility when you sent Tom and I on our suicide mission to recover the Russian stockpile. You send us into hell to clean up your mess, and you’ve got the balls to tell me I can’t do my own job as a prosecutor? You know, Tom here may be afraid of you, but I’m not. And with all due respect, sir, fuck you!”

  “Revenge does not make for good strategy.”

  “Revenge?” Carlton stared back hard. “This isn’t revenge. This is justice.” He glanced at Pink before he turned and walked out of the office, slamming the door.

  Pink stood, was about to follow Carlton when Forbes raised his pipe. “Let him go.” He punched an intercom button. “Dirk, get Lieutenant Carlton a car and tail him. Stay invisible, but make sure nothing happens to him. Otherwise let him be.”

  82 JUDGE

  Pasadena, California

  4:10 P.M.

  The flight from Washington Dulles to Los Angeles International was long. Carlton’s body craved sleep, begged him to check into the nearest airport hotel. He was still furious at Forbes for refusing to arrest Fress, but the anger didn’t prevent his mind from being focused on his new objective. As the saying went, he could sleep when he was dead, which might happen sooner rather than later.

  Carlton maneuvered his rented Chrysler LHS north on the 405 freeway, then east on the 134 toward Pasadena. He tried to stay awake by puffing on an Upmann 1844 Corona and listening to the news on the radio.

  More unrest in Saudi Arabia against the corrupt and dictatorial royal family that had kept the wealth of their country from them for so long. More terrorist attacks in Israel. More violent crackdowns and incarcerations of dissidents seeking basic freedoms in China. North Korea had fired another missile toward Japan. The white supremacist Afrikaaner Volksfront still held on tightly to the South African Orange Free State despite heavy fighting with the South African Security Forces and would agree to unbrokered peace negotiations only upon the condition that the Orange Free State remain under self-rule. Supreme Court Justice Daniels was retiring. More reactions to the Vatican’s flooding of the diamond market.

  The winter sun began its rapid descent below the horizon. Forty minutes after leaving the airport rental lot, he recognized a large 1880s edifice on the edge of Pasadena. First serving as a hotel, then as a psychiatric hospital after World War II, it now housed the Los Angeles branch of the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Federal Circuit.

  He parked the car and walked to the entrance of the court building. An overweight guard shepherded him through the metal detector and asked for identification. In his exhausted state, he nearly produced his DOJ ID but caught himself in time. He went through the credit cards and other items Pink had temporarily given him upon his return from Rome, produced a driver’s license.

  “Josh Tobias to see Justice Kemsfield.”

  “Down that hall and to the right.”

  “Thanks.” Adrenaline pumped through his body as he proceeded down the hall and into the federal judge’s anteroom. Alicia Kemsfield had been appointed by the previous president. For that reason, Carlton considered her a perfect choice to issue an arrest warrant for Scott Fress.

  “Josh Tobias to see Justice Kemsfield,” he repeated to the judge’s assistant.

  “I’ll inform her you’re here. Please have a seat.”

  Carlton did as he was told, watched the brightly colored fish that swam lazily in a hexagonal tropical aquarium. It reminded him of the palatial penthouse bathroom in Atlantic City. He let his mind drift back to the warm memory, smiled.

  A striking woman in her fifties opened the door near the receptionist’s desk. “Mr. Tobias?”

  “Yes.” Carlton stood.

  “I’m Alicia Kemsfield. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

  “No, not at all, Your Honor. I was admiring your fish.” He walked to her, shook her hand. She responded to his firm handshake in kind.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they? Please come this way. Would you like some coffee? You look tired.”

  “Yes, I would, and yes, I am, Your Honor. Thank you.”

  “Fred, could you get Mr. Tobias some coffee, please?”

  Her assistant complied immediately. Carlton accepted a Ninth Circuit Court mug with a smile and sat opposite the justice’s glass and chrome desk. Carlton had always encountered judges in carved oak and leather-lined offices. The stark modern style seemed odd for a federal judge. Justice Kemsfield shut the door and sat behind her desk.

  “Out of all the names out there, ‘Tobias’ isn’t the name I would have used,” she stated flatly, brushing a strand of blond hair away from her pale blue eyes.

  He stared at her in surprise. “I beg your pardon, Your Honor?”

  “Save it, Mr. Carlton. I spoke with Randall Forbes this morning. That’s how you were able to get an appointment on such short notice. He didn’t reveal much. Perhaps you can start by telling me why you’re here. I’m always happy to accommodate the good people at Justice, with or without artificial identities. Still, I’m rather busy. So let’s make it brief, shall we?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Here is what I have.” He pulled a manila folder from his attaché case, placed it on the desk facing her. “And this is what I respectfully request.” He pulled a much thinner manila folder from the case, placed it next to the first.

  He waited for several minutes before Kemsfield looked up from the documents and stared at him with a puzzled expression. She brushed the same strand of hair from her eyes and closed both folders.

  “Assuming this information is true, which I will assume for the moment—”

  “It is true, Your Honor.”

  “There is simply no way I can give you what you want.”

  Carlton sat up in his chair and cocked his head. “Why not, Your Honor?”

  “Washington is outside my jurisdiction. You know that. You should get one of my colleagues on the D.C. circuit to issue this.”

  “You are a federal judge, Your Honor. You have the authority to issue a federal arrest warrant for any jurisdiction in the United States. From Hawaii to Maine.”

  “Technically, yes. But politically, it would serve you best to speak with a D.C. circuit judge.”

  Politically? “Thank you for your concern, Your Honor, but I’m willing to take—”

  “And that brings me to an even more important reason why I can’t grant your request.”

  “Your Honor?”

  “It would be a complete violation of procedure.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “Again you surprise me, Mr. Carlton. In a case of this magnitude, the request for an arrest warrant must be made by the Attorney General herself. Or a United States Attorney at the very least. I can’t sign an arrest warrant for a lower level attorney.” She held up her hand. “I’ve pulled your record. I know you’re quite the rising star. But that’s of no moment here. I’m sorry. Get the AG or a USA, otherwise, no warrant.”

  Carlton waited for her to finish, nodded. “I understand, Your Honor. But this will explain why that’s not possible.” He removed a third folder from his case and placed it on Kemsfield’s desk. “It’s classified, strictly need-to-know.”

  “I need to know.” She scanned the documents, then looked back up at him. “This goes all the way to the top.”

  “It does. That’s why I can’t produce a request from the AG. Or the Assistant AGs. I don’t even want to risk a USA.”

  “That’s an ever bigger problem.”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Honor?”

  “The Chief of Staff alone, perhaps you could arrest with a warrant. But something this pervasive in the federal government can’t possibly be handled by a simple arrest warrant.”

  “Your Honor?”

  “This demands a special prosecutor.”

  “A special prosecutor has to
be appointed by the Attorney General, Your Honor. That’s part of the problem.”

  “Or Congress.”

  “Congress?” He nearly laughed. “Your Honor, by the time Congress argues this, Fress will be in South Africa or Russia or God knows where. We can—”

  “I’m not a fool. I understand your desire for quick action, and I respect the enormous risks you’re willing to take. But for the reasons I stated, I cannot grant your request.”

  Carlton was about to push harder, but knew that it was no use. “I see.” He stood, collected his manila folders. “Thank you for your time, Your Honor. I assume this will remain classified?”

  “No one else needs to know. Of course.”

  By the time Carlton got to his rented car, it was dark. He should have been furious at Kemsfield, but he was too tired for that. Instead, he kicked himself for his political naïveté.

  Politics. It was always about politics. He hated politics. Why couldn’t people just do what was right? Wouldn’t that just be easier all around instead of feigning, lying, posturing, and fighting over the meaningless while leaving the meaningful untouched?

  Exhausted, he drove the Chrysler carefully and a few minutes later pulled into the Doubletree Hotel. Ironically, it was where he had faced his first real legal battle many years ago: the grueling, three-day, eighteen-hour California bar examination. He continued his charade by checking into the hotel with his Josh Tobias driver’s license and credit card, placed an early wake-up call with the operator, and went to sleep without bothering to remove his clothes or undoing the bed.

  The following morning, refreshed by a long sleep, a shower, a shave, and a fresh suit of clothes, Carlton stared out of his seventh-floor window. It was one of those rare days, to paraphrase Larry Niven, when God rolls back the smog from Los Angeles to determine if the city is still there, then covers it back up a day later so He doesn’t have to bear the sight of the city. Not a wisp of smog obstructed the view of the purple and green mountains to the North and the tight agglomeration of skyscrapers in downtown Los Angeles to the south.

  He attacked his room-service breakfast of bacon and eggs, reading the front section of the Los Angeles Times between bites of food and sips of coffee. Southern Californian though he was, it seemed an eternity since he had moved away from the sun-drenched Left Coast. He shook his head at some of the headlines. He had forgotten how little the provincial city cared about the rest of the world, how much it obsessed about the inanity of Hollywood, the stars’ half-baked political opinions, their forays into weird cults that exchanged money for continued success, their musical-chair divorces. Unless they were so important that even Hollywood would notice, most articles about the real world were mostly buried ten pages deep.

  The one that commanded his attention was the article about Thomas Daniels, the retiring Supreme Court Justice. A leader of the civil rights legal reforms in the 1960s and the author of a host of landmark Supreme Court opinions on racial equality, environmental protection, and the safeguarding of the little person against the powerful giants of government and corporate business, Daniels was retiring, he said, while he was still young enough to enjoy life with his wife of fifty-five years. The article went on to describe some of the candidates reported to be on the president’s list of replacements.

  Alicia Kemsfield was on the list.

  Bingo.

  Kemsfield had not been appointed by President Douglass, and thus had not been selected by Scott Fress. But she was a moderate U.S. Court of Appeals judge, which meant that she had a chance of filling Daniels’ vacant seat, albeit a small one, given her disagreement with the president on several issues.

  Improper procedure my ass.

  If Kemsfield wouldn’t sign the warrant, it was likely that no other federal judge who hoped to be on the Court would be willing to do so. The others wouldn’t want to rock the boat and make waves in a sea that craved the calm of certainty. Oddly, it made Carlton happy. Instead of having to run down a dozen justices for an arrest warrant, his next step was clear.

  Draining the rest of his coffee, he dialed American Airlines, booked the next flight back to D.C., and left a message on Pink’s voicemail.

  83 JUSTICE

  N Street, NW

  Georgetown, Washington, D. C.

  3:27 P.M.

  Carlton squeezed another rental car into a tiny space between a Cadillac and a 1960s VW bus covered with Grateful Dead, Greenpeace, and “No U.S. War in Afghanistan” stickers. Either would have one heck of a time getting out. Too bad. In D.C., parking was war. Looking at the Cadillac behind his rental car, he wondered mournfully what sad fate had befallen his beloved Shark.

  The Tobias alias appeared to be working. No assassins in his hotel room, no shootouts on the Beltway, no threatening letters. Carlton felt safer now, partly because of his cover identity, but mostly because he knew Forbes had assigned an agent to watch his back. He never identified the agent, but sensed he or she was there and allowed himself to relax a little.

  The sun had pierced through the gloom of the Washington winter. Though it stopped short of warming the city, it had succeeded in melting what little snow remained along the streets. Its rays filtered through the naked branches of the elms and oaks that lined N Street in Georgetown, one of the pinnacles of Washington residential neighborhoods.

  He glanced at the address on a scrap of paper. One more block. Not wanting to be late for his appointment, he walked briskly, admiring the red and painted brick multimillion dollar colonial manors recessed from the narrow street behind tall forged iron gates, holly bushes, and long paths.

  The serenity stopped abruptly in front of the house bearing the address on Carlton’s paper. The place was a zoo. News vans bristling with antennae and satellite feed dishes were jackknifed in the middle of the street among a jumble of police cruisers. Reporters mobbed the front gate of the blue and white Cape Cod style house, lilliputian beside its behemoth brethren. Carlton fought past the feeding frenzy of reporters to a rotund police officer at the front door.

  “Josh Tobias. I have an appointment,” he shouted above the clamor of the reporters, some of whom asked if he was from the White House.

  The officer checked his roster, allowed him inside, and immediately shut the door behind him. Drawn curtains draped the small entryway in darkness. Carlton stood for a few moments, getting his bearings in the hazy darkness.

  “Insane, aren’t they? At least it’s better than in the ’60s. Back then it was the Klu Klux Klan,” a man’s voice said calmly.

  Carlton had not seen anyone in the entryway. He turned, saw an elderly man on the second step of a narrow staircase. Had Carlton not known the man’s identity, he would have assumed that he was a retired physics professor about to invite him for milk and cookies. Dressed in a dark red cardigan and slightly rumpled khakis, the man was tall, slender, with a kind, wrinkled face crowned with a generous tangle of white hair. He leaned against the wooden stairway with a strong grip of his bony left hand. In the other, he held a long cigar, blue smoke curling upward in front of his face, giving the larger-than-life giant of jurisprudence an otherworldly air amid the small beams of light that shot through the drawn velvet drapes.

  Carlton found himself speechless before the man. He had read his legal opinions during his constitutional law classes in law school. Some of them had brought him to tears.

  His mouth dry, Carlton forced himself to say something. “Justice Daniels. Your...Your Honor. This is a great honor for me, sir. I read your opinions in law school. Your retirement is a great loss for the law.” The words sounded so corny, but Carlton meant every one.

  Daniels could sense his genuineness. “I appreciate that.” He smiled disarmingly; the smile of a kindly grandfather, not of a fearsome judge. “But don’t let’s turn me into a law school statue before I’m dead, shall we, Mr...Tobias, is it?” He winked at the mention of the name, placed his hand to his ear, then motioned to the walls, indicating they had ears too.

  Forbes mus
t have told him, too. Carlton stuck out his hand. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Daniels placed the cigar in his mouth, squeezed Carlton’s hand surprisingly tight. “Follow me.”

  He walked up the creaking stairs slowly, gripping the railing, and ushered Carlton into a study at the rear of the house. A gray Persian cat followed them.

  “It’s more quiet here. Please sit down. Care for a drink? I could use one myself. The fourth estate is driving me bats.”

  “I’d love one.” For a moment, Carlton’s mind placed the purpose of his visit on hold, focusing on the fact he, Patrick Carlton, was having a drink with Supreme Court Justice Thomas Daniels. In the man’s personal study. He felt like a bright-eyed first year law student again and soaked in the surroundings.

  A fire crackled in a miniature fireplace underneath an oil painting of Thomas Jefferson, darkened by time and the smoke of countless fires and cigars. Columns of books were stacked six feet high on the hardwood floor. Sheafs of paper were pressed into submission by a wood gavel on a large oak desk. It was exactly what a Supreme Court Justice’s private study should look like, Carlton concluded.

  Daniels poured two glasses of McCallan twelve-year-old single-malt scotch into cut crystal drams, handed one to Carlton. “I’m afraid scotch is all I have.” He seated himself carefully in a cracked leather button chair next to Carlton and winked. “It’s the only thing our housekeeper doesn’t drink.” He smiled, lifted his glass. “Cheers.”

  “To your health, Your Honor,” said Carlton, lifting his glass in return. The Persian jumped on Daniels’ lap as he relit his cigar.

  “May I, Your Honor?” Carlton asked politely, slipping an Upmann 1844 Robusto from his suit pocket.

  “Ah, a fellow cigar smoker. Please, by all means.” Daniels cradled the cat, who half-closed its eyes and purred with contentment.

  “I see you received a call from the man in Virginia, Your Honor.” Carlton excised the cap of his cigar with a guillotine cutter, lit it slowly with his DOJ Zippo to Daniels’ amazement, who considered lighting a cigar with anything but a cedar match barbaric.