Chandler had put some inquiries of his own into play, and when he returned to his office he found a stack of paper on his desk. One standard line of investigation had been to obtain the phone records of Michael Fiske’s office and home phones over the last month. The results were catalogued in the ream of paper. The phone call to his brother was on there. There were others to family. A dozen of them to a phone number that had been identified as Sara Evans’s. That was interesting, he thought. Had both Fiske brothers fallen for the same woman? When Chandler got near the end of the list, his pulse quickened. After all the years on the job, that rarely happened anymore. Michael Fiske had called Fort Jackson in southwest Virginia several times, the last only three days before his body had been discovered. Fort Jackson, Chandler knew, housed a military prison. And that wasn’t all. Chandler scattered the piles on his desk until he found what he was looking for. The telex had been sent nationwide asking for assistance on apprehending the man. When he had seen it earlier, Chandler hadn’t thought much about it.
Now he intently studied the photo of Rufus Harms. He picked up his phone and made a quick call. Chandler needed one piece of information and he got it within a minute. Fort Jackson was approximately four hundred miles from Washington, D.C. Had Harms been the one to file the appeal John Fiske had mentioned? And if he had, why, according to Fiske’s “theory,” had his brother taken it?
Chandler looked back at the list of phone calls. His eyes flitted over one number without registering, perhaps because it was to some law office and there were several law-related calls on the list. But the name Sam Rider would have meant nothing to the detective even if he had focused on it for some reason. Chandler put down the phone list and contemplated bringing in Fiske and Sara Evans, and making them tell him what was going on. But then the instincts built up over thirty years kicked in with one precept clearly emerging: You can’t trust anyone.
* * *
“Come on, John,” Sara pleaded. They were in her office near the end of the workday.
“Sara, I don’t even know Judge Wilkinson.”
“But don’t you see? If someone at the Court is involved, this would be a perfect opportunity to find out some information because practically everybody from the Court will be there.”
Fiske was about to protest again but then stopped. He rubbed his chin. “What time does it start?”
“Seven-thirty. By the way, have you heard from your JAG friend?”
“Yeah. There are actually two files that are applicable. Harms’s service record, which contains not only his record of service, but also evaluations, personal info, enlistment contract, pay and medical histories. The second file, the record of his court-martial proceedings, would be with him at Fort Jackson. His lawyer’s work product would be maintained at the JAG office that handled Harms’s defense. That is, if they’ve kept it all these years. Jansen’s checking. He’ll send what he can.”
As Sara started gathering her things to leave, Fiske remained sitting. “So what can you tell me about the Knights? Their pasts and all that?”
“Why?”
“Well, we’re going to a party that they’re hosting. She’s a big part of the Court and he’s a VIP in his own right. That qualifies them to be part of our investigation, don’t you think?”
“You probably know more about Jordan Knight’s past than I do. He’s from your hometown.”
Fiske shrugged. “True. Jordan Knight is big business in Richmond. At least he was until he entered politics. He made a lot of money.”
“And a lot of enemies?”
“No, I don’t think so. He’s given a lot back to Virginia. Besides, he’s a low-key, nice guy.”
“Then he’s an odd match for Elizabeth Knight.”
“I could see how she’d bruise a few egos on the way up.”
“More than a few. It came with the territory. Tough federal prosecutor turned tougher trial judge. Everybody knew she was being groomed for a seat on the Court. She’s the swing vote on most of the major cases, which drives Ramsey crazy. I’m sure that’s why he treats her the way he does. Kid gloves most of the time, but every once in a while he can’t resist jabbing her.”
Fiske thought back to the confrontation between the two justices at the conference. So that’s what it was.
“How well do you know the other justices? You seem to know them well enough to believe they couldn’t commit murder.”
“Like in any other large organization, I know them mostly superficially.”
“What’s Ramsey’s background?”
“He’s the chief justice of the country’s highest court and you don’t know?”
“Humor me.”
“He was an associate justice before being elevated to the top spot about ten years ago.”
“Anything unusual in his background?”
“He was in the military. Army or Marines, maybe.” She caught Fiske’s look. “Don’t even think it, John. Ramsey is not going around killing people. Other than that, just what’s in his official bio.”
Fiske looked puzzled. “I would have thought you’d know everything about the other justices by talking to the clerks.”
“The clerks for one justice tend to stick together to a certain degree, although every Thursday afternoon there’s a happy hour when we all get together. And periodically the clerks of one justice take another justice out to lunch just as a get-to-know-you sort of thing. Otherwise, each chamber is pretty self-contained” — she paused — “except for the famed clerk opinion network.”
“Mike mentioned something like that to me after he first came to the Court.”
Sara smiled. “I’m sure he did. The clerks are the mouthpieces for their justices. We send up trial balloons all the time, feeling each other out on a justice’s position. For example, Michael used to ask me what Knight needed in a majority opinion to join Murphy.”
“But if Murphy is already writing the majority opinion, why does he need to court other votes?”
“You really are in the dark about how we work.”
“Just a simple country lawyer.”
“Okay, Mr. Simple Country Lawyer, the fact is if I had ten bucks for every time a majority opinion turned into a dissent because enough support wasn’t garnered for it, I’d be wealthy. The trick is you have to craft an opinion that’ll get five votes. And of course the opposition doesn’t just sit idly by. One or more dissenting opinions might be circulated simultaneously. The use of dissenting opinions, or even the threat of them, is a fine art.”
Fiske looked at her curiously. “I thought the dissenters were on the losing side. What kind of leverage could they have?”
“Let’s say a justice doesn’t like how a majority opinion is shaping up, so the justice either circulates a draft of a scathing dissent that may make the whole court look bad if it’s published or that even undercuts the majority’s opinion. Or better yet, and easier, the justice will let it be known that he intends to write such a dissent, unless the majority opinion is scaled back. They all do it. Ramsey, Knight, Murphy. They go at it tooth and nail.”
Fiske shook his head. “Like one long political campaign, always scrounging for votes. The legal version of porkbellies. Give me this and you got my vote.”
“And knowing when to pick your battles. Let’s say one or more justices doesn’t like how a case was decided five years ago. Now, the Court doesn’t lightly overturn its own precedent, so you have to think strategically. Those justices might use a case in the present to start laying the building blocks for overturning the precedent they didn’t like years from now. That also goes for case selection. The justices are always on the outlook for just the right case to use as a vehicle to change a precedent they don’t like. It’s like a chess game.”
“Let’s hope one thing doesn’t get lost in all the game playing.”
“What’s that?”
“Justice. Maybe that’s what Rufus Harms wants. Why he filed his appeal. You think he can get justice here?”
Sara looked down. “I don’t know. The fact is the individual parties involved in the cases at this level really aren’t all that important. The precedents established through their cases, that’s what counts. It all depends on what he’s asking for. How it will impact others.”
“Well, that really sucks.” Fiske shook his head and gave her a penetrating look. “A damn interesting place, this Supreme Court.”
“So you’ll come to the party?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Josh Harms assumed the police would now be covering the back roads, so he had taken the unusual tactic of driving on the interstate. It was dusk, though, and with the windows rolled up, they were okay; a police cruiser would have a tough time seeing inside. But despite all his precautions, he knew they were steering toward disaster.
Funny, he thought, after all the hell his brother had been put through, that he would even think about wanting to do the right thing at the risk of dying, of losing the freedom that never should have been taken away from him in the first place. He felt like both cursing and praising Rufus in the same breath. Josh’s outlook on life wasn’t complicated: It was him against everybody else. He didn’t go looking for trouble, but he had a hair trigger when confronted with anybody looking to piss on him. It was a wonder he’d lived this long, he knew.
Still, you had to admire a person like Rufus, who could fight through all that, through people who didn’t want to see the world change one iota since they were riding on top of it. Maybe the truth will set you free, Rufus, he thought. Suddenly out of the corner of his eye he saw something in the truck’s sideview mirror that made him ease his hand over and grip his gun.
“Rufus,” he called back through the open window connecting to the camper, “we got a problem here.”
Rufus’s face appeared at the window. “What is it?”
“Stay low! Stay low!” Josh cautioned. He again eyed the police cruiser, which was a fixture in the truck’s side mirror. “Trooper’s passed us twice and then dropped back.”
“You speeding?”
“Five clicks under.”
“Something wrong with the truck, taillight out?”
“I ain’t that dumb. Truck’s fine.”
“So what, then?”
“Look, Rufus, just because you’ve been in prison all these years doesn’t mean the world’s changed any. I’m a black man in a real nice-looking vehicle on the highway at night. Cops think I either stole it or I’m running drugs. Shit, going to the store for milk can be a real adventure.” He looked in the side mirror again. “Looks like he’s just about to hit his light.”
“What we gonna do? I can’t hide back here.”
Josh didn’t take his eyes off the mirror even as he slipped his gun under the seat. “Yep, any second now he’s gonna hit that light, and we are done. Get down on the floor and pull that tarp on top of you, Rufus. Do it now.” Josh pushed his baseball cap down low so that only the white hair of his temples showed. He stuck out his chin and pushed his bottom lip out, giving the impression that he had no teeth. He leaned over, flipped open the glove box and took out a tin of chew and put a big plug of it in his mouth, which made his cheek bulge. He let his strong frame collapse. Then he rolled down the window and stuck his arm out, motioning in long, slow waves for the police cruiser to pull over to the highway shoulder. Josh eased the truck off the road and stopped. The cruiser quickly pulled in behind the truck, its roof lights throwing off a startling, ominous blue into the darkness.
Josh waited in the truck. You let the boys in blue come to you, no hurried movement. He winced as the cruiser’s searchlight beam reflected off the side mirror. A cop tactic to disorient you, he knew well. Josh heard the boots crunching on the bite of gravel. He could envision the trooper approaching, hand on his gun, eyes trained on the door.
Three times in the past, cops had pulled him over and then Josh would hear the tinkling of glass as the baton just happened to collide with a taillight, with the result that he had been cited for an equipment infraction. It was done just to piss him off, see if he’d do something that would warrant some jail time. It had never worked.
Yes sir, no sir, mister policeman, sir, even as he wanted to beat the man unconscious.
At least they had never planted drugs in his car and then tried to pin that on him. He had several buddies idling in prison right now after being hit with that shit.
“Fight it,” his ex-wife Louise had always said.
“Fight what?” he had retorted. “Might as well be fighting God for all the good it’ll do me.”
As the footsteps stopped, Josh looked out the window.
The state trooper stared back at him. Josh noted that he was Hispanic.
“What’s the matter, sir?” the trooper asked.
The chew bulging against his cheek with each syllable, Josh said, “Wanta git me on Luzzana.” He pointed down the road. “Dis a’ight?”
The puzzled trooper crossed his arms. “Now where do you want to go again?”
“Luzzana. Bat’ Rouge.”
“Baton Rouge, Louisiana?”The trooper laughed. “You’re a long way from there.”
Josh scratched his neck and looked around. “Got me chil’ren on down dare ain’t seen they’s daddy in a while.”
The trooper’s expression turned serious. “Okay.”
“Man say I gone git dare from dis here road.”
“Well, the man didn’t tell you exactly right.”
“Huh, you know’s how’s I git dare, den?”
“Yeah, you can follow me, but I can’t drive the whole way.”
Josh just stared at the man. “My chil’ren, dey bin good. Dey wanta see Daddy. You hep me?”
“Okay, I tell you what, we’re close to the exit you need to take to head on down that way. You follow me there, and then you’re on your own. You stop and ask somebody else. How’s that sound?”
“A’ight.” Josh touched the bill of his cap.
The trooper was about to return to his cruiser when he glanced at the camper. He hit his light through the side window and saw the stacked boxes. “Sir, you mind my taking a look in the camper?”
Josh didn’t flinch, although his hand edged toward the front of the seat, where his gun was. “Hell, no.” The trooper went to the rear of the camper and opened the upper glass door. The wall of boxes stared back at him. Behind the stacks, Rufus huddled under the tarp in the darkness of the camper.
“What you got in here, sir?” the trooper called out.
“Food,” Josh called back, leaning out the window.
The trooper opened one box, shook a soup can, opened the box of crackers and then replaced it, closed the box and then the camper window. He walked back to the driver’sside window.
“Lot of food. The trip isn’t that long.”
“Axed my chil’ren what dey want. Dey say food.”
The trooper blinked. “Oh. Well, that’s good of you. Real good of you.”
“You got chil’ren?”
“Two.”
“A’ight, den.”
“Have a safe trip.” The cop walked back to his cruiser.
Josh pulled back onto the road after the cruiser did.
Rufus appeared at the camper window. “I was sweating a damn river back there.”
Josh smiled. “You got to take it cool. You play badass, they cuff you. You act too polite, they figure you scamming their ass and they cuff you. Now, you be old and dumb, they don’t give a shit.”
“Still a close call, Josh.”
“We caught us a break with the Mexie. They’re real big on family, kids. Talk that shit and they’re cool with you. If he’d been white, we might have had us a big problem. Once he made up his mind to look, Whitie would’ve pulled everything out of that camper until he found your ass. Now, a bro’ might’ve cut me some slack, but you never know. Sometimes, they got that uniform on, they start to act white.”
Rufus stared at his brother with a
look of displeasure.
“Now, the Asians, they the worst,” Josh continued. “You can’t say shit to them. They just stand there and look at you, not listening to a damn word, and then go off and do what they’re gonna do. Might as well just shoot them mothers before they kung fu your ass. Yeah, it’s real good we met up with Officer Pedro.” Josh spit the chew out the window.
“You got everybody figured out?” Rufus said angrily.
Josh glanced at him. “You got a problem with that?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, you live your life the way you want, I live mine the way
The Simple Truth Page 29