by Misty Evans
“Coming!”
Hope scooped up her legal pad and a pen and hustled to the boss’s office just twenty-five feet away. Working at the Public Information Office of the U.S. Supreme Court meant each day brought something new. It could be working with reporters wanting to cover a case, preparing transcripts, or press releases, all of it fascinating and tedious and ripe with possibilities.
Today was no different. Eight hours earlier, the Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court had been accidently gunned down on the Gaynor Bridge while trying to resolve a road rage dispute.
And now, it was all over the news and her boss, Amy Ripling, the Public Information Officer, had been in full-blown crisis mode all day.
“Denby!” Amy screamed again.
Hope kicked off her sky-high heels, left them sitting in the corridor—no time to stop—and picked up her pace. She swung around the doorway, grabbing the frame to slow her down. “I’m here. Sorry.”
Amy sat at her desk, random files and papers and notes strewn across the top. Two ringing cell phones sat on top of the mess joined by the incessant beeping of the desk phone. Amy picked up the handset, tapped the hold button and handed Hope a note. “Call this guy. He’s bugging the shit out of me and I’m trying to deal with the networks.”
She glanced down at the name. The First Amendment Patriot. Interesting. But, woohoo! Finally, her boss ponied up an assignment on a major case, albeit a tragic one. “Yes, ma’am. Who is he?”
“He’s a blogger.”
A blogger.
The Journalism major in her wailed.
“Damned, bloggers. I am on it, Amy.”
“I knew you’d love it. You’re an animal, Denby.”
“Thank you. I think.”
Amy waved it away. “Yada, yada. He wants a statement, but be careful. He’s one of the those conspiracy theory nutcases. Tell him something that won’t hurt us. Until we have more on what happened on that bridge, we’re going with what we know.”
“Sure. But—”
Amy glanced at the still beeping phone, beep-beep-beep, then came back to Hope, her taut skin barely restraining her impatience. “What, Denby? What?”
Ignoring Amy’s tone, she stood a little straighter. “Yes, ma’am. What is it exactly that we know?”
All day long, Hope, like everyone else in the office, had been monitoring the news channels to see who was saying what. For their part, the Public Information Office had released very few details. Mainly because they’d been given very few details.
The police and the FBI were handling the press on this nightmare.
“What we know,” Amy said, “is that the Chief Justice and his security detail, consisting of one Supreme Court police officer, were en route to work today and got stuck in a traffic jam on the bridge. The FBI is looking into that. Apparently, there’s some confusion as to why that lane was closed. They’re talking to DDOT. Anyway, two cars ahead of the Chief Justice some whacko jumped out of a cab and started arguing with the driver of the car next to them. The argument became heated and the judge’s officer got out to diffuse the situation. Justice Turner—God rest his soul—defied his security officer’s order to stay in the car and got out to see if he could help. While the officer tried to convince the judge to get his ass back in the car, the guy who jumped out of the cab fired a gun; the shot missed and accidentally hit the judge. The shooter ran. That’s what we know. But you’re not telling our blogger friend that. For him, you’re keeping it simple. Road rage, two men arguing, gunshot. D.C. Metro and the SC police are handling it from here.”
“Got it. No problem.”
“Good. I’m heading into a meeting with the Justices. I’m guessing it’ll be a while. Make sure everyone knows they should only disturb me if the building is on fire. Or someone else is dead.”
Ew. “I’ll handle it.”
She spun toward the door.
“Denby?”
“Yes?”
“Where the hell are your shoes?”
Hope pointed over her left shoulder. “In the hallway. They were slowing me down. I didn’t want to irritate you.”
“Ah. That’s what I like about you. You’re good on the fly. Now get rid of this goddamned blogger. Bloggers we don’t need.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hit the hallway, found her shoes in the exact spot she left them as people stepped over them in a rush to get to wherever they were heading. How insane were the people she worked with that no one questioned a pair of shoes, wickedly pretty shoes, sitting in the middle of the floor?
Craziness.
She slipped her shoes back on and swung into her cubicle. Of all the assignments she could have gotten, a blogger wasn’t on her wish list. Bloggers were trouble. They had the freedom to write whatever they wanted. To be careless. To say “oops” when they screwed up. Fact check, people! Second sources, people!
Well, she wouldn’t have it.
No pain-in-the-rear blogger would spread unvetted information about a murdered Supreme Court Justice. Not on her watch. She studied journalism for four years and was halfway to earning a Masters and these hacks thought they knew how to report the news?
Forget it. Everything with them was fair game. Off the record didn’t exist. At least not in Hope’s mind.
She ditched her notepad just as Rob’s head appeared over the top of the wall.
“Whatcha got?”
“Blogger.” She glanced at the note. “The First Amendment Patriot.”
“Shit.”
Hope rocked her chair back. “He’s that crackpot, isn’t he? The one involved with the case against the deputy AG. He’s the king of conspiracy theorists.”
“That’s him. People love him. We’re talking cult following.” Rob scrunched his face and made a tight fist, squeezing until his veins and knuckles popped. ”Balls of steel, this guy. He outs the ATF like they’re a bunch of toddlers. I want to be him when I grow up.”
Okay. So maybe that fearless thing was impressive, but she didn’t trust him or any other blogger. She’d deal with it lickety-split before he sent something viral.
Stabbing the buttons on her desk phone, she dialed the number on the note Amy had given her. “Rob,” she said, “do me a favor. Make sure everyone knows Amy is in a meeting with the Justices. She said, and this is a direct quote, not to disturb her unless the building is on fire or someone else is dead.”
“Ew,” Rob said, echoing Hope’s earlier thought. “How incredibly tacky.”
Tacky. That was one word for it.
On the other end of the line, the ringing stopped and Hope dropped into her chair, receiving the usual squeak.
“‘The duty of a true patriot is to protect his country from its government.’ This is Hawkeye. Go.”
Hawkeye! Dear God.
“Hello, Mr. Hawkeye.” Mr. Hawkeye? Whatever. “This is Hope Denby from the Supreme Court Public Information Office.”
“Finally,” he said. “I’ve been calling you people for hours.”
Hope rolled her eyes. A Supreme Court Justice—the Chief Justice—was dead and the blogger had issues because they hadn’t returned his call earlier? “Well, guy, kinda busy here. What can I do for you?”
“I received a tip regarding Turner.”
That earned him a second award-winning eye roll he couldn’t see. “I’m sorry, we’re not commenting on it at this time. We’ve released information and it can be found on our website.”
Gotta go. Buh-bye. She shook her mouse to bring her computer out of sleep mode and scanned the latest emails.
“Yeah,” he said. “I got that. Didn’t help. My source said it’s no coincidence that Turner got stuck on that bridge.”
Hope stopped scanning. Did he say…? She abandoned the mouse and picked up her pen because crackpot or not, this blogger had just referenced the lane closing the FBI was looking into. “Wait. What?”
“That got your attention. The Chief was about to deliver a ruling on whether or not a landma
rk case got a hearing.”
It sure did get her attention. Particularly when he was insinuating the Chief Justice had been assassinated due to a ruling. “Mr. Hawkeye—”
“Just Hawkeye. No mister.”
“Fine. Hawkeye. I have no comment on that. It was an unfortunate and tragic road rage incident and the police are doing everything they can to apprehend the shooter. Whatever the judge’s ruling would have been, we’ll never know. Obviously, you cannot quote me on that.”
And now she should shut up. She’d already gone off script and with her luck this Hawkeye character would bury her with it.
“Quote you on what? You didn’t give me anything.”
“Check the website. We’ve released everything we have.”
“Ms. Denby, you do realize I’m going to run with what I have if you don’t give me something.”
“Mr.—”
“No mister.”
“Hawkeye.” Whatever. “Who is your source of this information?”
She didn’t expect he’d tell her. Any reputable journalist wouldn’t. Maybe she was testing him. Maybe not. Either way, trying to identify his source wouldn’t hurt.
His chuckle was low and deep. “Ms. Denby, did someone hit you in the head with a two-by-four? I’m not telling you my source.”
For a split second, she smiled. That two-by-four line was a good one. She’d maybe use it herself some time. Bonus, he’d passed one test. That got him a rung up on the credibility ladder. The chuckle gave her a couple of goose bumps. Not more than two or three, but still. His voice had a definitely goose-bump-inducing quality.
“One moment please.”
She punched the hold button and hopped up to peer over the cubicle wall.
Without a glance up from whatever he was working on, Rob pursed his lips and slowly moved his head back and forth. “You gotta get rid of this guy. He’s totally playing you.”
Voices from her right closed in and she waited for two of her co-workers to pass. “I know,” she said, keeping her voice low. “But he got a tip that Turner might have been assassinated because he was about to rule on a hearing for an important case.”
“Shit.”
“Amen to that. Still want me to get rid of him?”
“Even more so, but—” Rob flopped his lip out as he considered her question, “what are we categorizing as landmark? This is the Supreme Court. Could be anything.”
“Dang it.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
Rob laughed. “Okay.”
She sat back down, took a deep breath. She could do this. No blogger would bring her down, even one with a sexy voice and dangerous sounding chuckle. She’d get rid of him and quietly poke around about cases the Chief Justice might have been about to grant hearings on. Easy-peasy. If nothing else, she’d blow this crazy conspiracy theory—and Mr. Hawkeye—out of the universe. Just blow them both to bits.
Easy.
Peasy.
Still standing, she punched the button again. “Let me call you back.”
“I’m so looking forward to it.” The sarcasm in his voice hinted that that was a lie. “When?”
“I guess that depends on when I have information, doesn’t it?”
“Uh, no.”
“No?”
“I’ll give you until 8:00 PM. After that, I piece together what I have and run with the story.”
Great. Threats. “But you don’t have a story. That’s why you called me.”
Another chuckle, and yep, a couple more goose bumps rose on her skin. This time in the area right under her ear as if his lips had just made a trail there. And hello? They had a situation here and she was fantasizing about a blogger?
“I have enough to write a post planting the idea that the Chief Justice was murdered over more than road rage.”
Dammit. Eight o’clock. She tapped the mouse again and bent over to check the clock on her computer. Four hours to figure out what case may or may not have gotten a Supreme Court Justice murdered.
“Eight p.m., Ms. Denby. Please don’t let me down. I’m out.”
She straightened, throwing her shoulders back. “Wait.”
The line went dead. Well, the line went dead after the extremely loud click. He hung up on her. Balls! She dropped into her chair and sent the usual annoying squeak echoing through the cubicle. Stupid chair. Feet planted on the faux wood mat that allowed her to roll her chair within the cube, she shoved off. Momentum carried her into the corridor where she could see Rob.
“Comin’ in hot.” Cliff Cody walked by, swerving to avoid a collision.
“Sorry, Cliff.”
From inside his cube, Rob spun to face her. “Don’t even tell me you’re gonna get into this. Company line, Hope. That’s it. Until Crazy Pants Amy gives us something else to distribute, it’s company line.”
Forget that. Sort of. She couldn’t get too aggressive on this thing or her butt would wind up with a major spanking and the potential loss of her career. But something told her this Hawkeye wasn’t going away. And given his success on the case against the deputy AG a few months back, he had—God save her—credibility on his side. Oh, she could see it now, the blogger writing a column about how the now deceased Chief Justice planned on denying a hearing on some big case the same day he was gunned down.
The Internet would explode.
People would tweet and retweet and post and share and within an hour the Public Information Office would be doing major spin control.
She glanced down the hall to Amy’s office where just minutes before her boss had told her she wasn’t to be disturbed.
Hawkeye had only given her four hours.
She went back to Rob. “I have until eight o’clock or he’s running with what he has. So, I can sit around wasting time until Amy is available, then ask permission to pursue this.”
Again Rob slowly moved his head left and right in his signature move. “Hope—”
“—or I can start gathering info, just background stuff, and be ready when Amy comes out of her meeting.” Hopefully before eight o’clock. With a dead Chief Justice, what were the chances of that? “Rob, you yourself said the guy has a cult-like following. I need to debunk this.”
He laughed. One of those sarcastic you-have-lost-your-mind laughs. “Good luck to you then because I’m not touching it. No way, sister.” He pulled himself back to his desk. “All I know is I want your desk when you get your ass fired. You’ve got an end unit.”
“Oh, ha-ha.”
“Seriously, what are you gonna do?”
She rose from her chair, entered Rob’s cube and leaned close enough so she wouldn’t be overheard. “Relax. I’ll just chat with one of Turner’s clerks.”
“Which one?”
“Bigley. He has the loosest lips.”
This she knew from rumors and her general snooping and digging around about the court staffers. A little research for her files for emergencies—like now—never hurt.
“Oh. My. God!” Rob said, his voice sotto voce but total drama queen. “There is no way a clerk will comment.”
“I guess we’ll see about that, won’t we?”
Chapter Two
Each year, out of somewhere around one thousand applicants, thirty-six of the country’s youngest and brightest legal minds were awarded the coveted position of Supreme Court law clerk. The nine justices typically chose four clerks each. Those clerks were required to prepare the justices for hearings, do research, draft opinions and make recommendations on which cases might be presented.
They were also forbidden to discuss their work. In any way. At least until the justice retired.
Or died.
That dying thing might have been Hope’s only chance to break Joel Bigley.
She’d just stepped out of a cab after being stuck in the evening rush on Dupont Circle and thought perhaps it might be a good time in her life to find another city to live in. One devoid of traffic jams and cab drivers that leered at
her while stuck in said traffic jams. Montana maybe? There she’d find a hot rancher wearing a cowboy hat and studly boots. If she got really lucky he’d make her holler yee-haw after her fifth orgasm.
Orgasm? What was that? It had been so long since she’d had one, a male generated one anyway, she might need a refresher course.
Cowboy boots and orgasms.
A girl could dream.
Standing in the crisp spring air that was moist with the threat of rain, she double-checked the address on the apartment building. Right place.
A doorman spotted her gazing up at the building and wandered over. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. Hello. I’m here to see Joel Bigley. Apartment 3C.”
“Yes, ma’am. Is he expecting you?”
“No, sir. I work with him.”
Stretch the truth much? Nah. But she’d just spent hours storming the halls of the Supreme Court trying to find Joel Bigley, all the while leaving voicemail after voicemail. She’d even tried the other three clerks who worked for Justice Turner and managed to run into one of them in the hallway, but he was with another man and the clerk couldn’t spare her even a minute. She’d managed to finagle a promise to call from him.
And, yes, she was still waiting.
With the definite lack of ringing phone from any of Turner’s clerks, she’d basically hacked—well, called in a favor from—Amy’s assistant who had access to all sorts of interesting files and really should work for the CIA. In five minutes Amy had done her magic and supplied Hope with Joel Bigley’s home address.
Hope then sat in traffic for forty minutes. Right now, with seventy-five minutes until the Hawkeye deadline, if she knew nothing else, she knew she needed to get through this doorman.
“I’ll ring him, but I haven’t seen him arrive yet.”
“Well, darn.” She reached into her purse-slash-briefcase and pulled out one of the files she’d shoved in there to work on when she got home. Right now it would make the perfect prop. “I need to give him this file.”
Another lie, but heck, she seemed to be on a roll so why not?
The doorman held his hand out. “You could leave it with me.”