Mr. Justice (7 page)

Charles Jackson had never given up on
his
dream. He was currently living it. Ever since the day his high school history teacher had played a videotape of one of John F. Kennedy’s legendary press conferences, Jackson had wanted to be president. Now he was … the first African American elected to the most powerful office in the world.

Jackson shifted his attention from the squirrel in the rose garden to the guard dog in the Oval Office. “What’s the news from the hospital, Jim?”

Jim Westfall was the president’s chief of staff. He had served Jackson in the same capacity when Jackson was governor of Connecticut. He had quickly acquired the reputation around Washington for being a highly skilled spokesman for the president and highly protective of him. Hence, he was often described as Jackson’s “guard dog.”

Westfall said, “Professor McDonald made it through surgery, so that’s good news. Unfortunately, the bullet ruptured his spleen, and he’s lost a tremendous amount of blood. Bottom line: we still don’t know whether he’s going to make it.”

“Shit,” the president said. “Hasn’t this poor man been through enough? He lost his wife and daughter because of me.” Jackson again stared out the window at the squirrel.

Westfall rose from his seat and walked over to the president. “You need to stop blaming yourself for that, Mr. President. Professor McDonald doesn’t hold you responsible for what happened in Charlottesville.”

The president continued to watch the squirrel try to pry the acorn loose. “But if I hadn’t asked him to serve, his family wouldn’t have been put at risk. Everybody knew that anyone nominated for Crandall’s seat might be in jeopardy. I certainly did. I saw the Secret Service report. People feel very strongly about affirmative action, especially during tough economic times. Folks who can’t find work often try to go back to school. If they’re white, especially if they’re white and male, it’s tough to get into the best institutions.”

Edwin Crandall was the Supreme Court justice whose seat Peter McDonald had been nominated to fill. Crandall was eighty-nine years old, and he had retired from the bench because he could no longer keep pace with the Court’s workload. When asked by a reporter at the news conference announcing his retirement about why he was leaving the Court, Crandall had quipped, “Because I’m old and falling apart.” It was a classic line from the sharp-tongued jurist. But the real interest around the nation was in how Crandall’s replacement would vote in
Tucker v. University of South Carolina
, the most highly anticipated civil rights case in a generation.

Westfall returned to his chair. “So you were only allowed to nominate a bachelor?
Please
, Mr. President, you’re blaming yourself for nothing.”

“I guess you’re right.” Jackson rubbed his tired eyes. “I guess risk just comes with the territory. But that doesn’t make me worry any less about Professor McDonald’s health.”

The Oval Office became surprisingly quiet. Usually there was a constant hum of activity in the nation’s most important room. Now it felt like a church on a Monday.

Finally, Westfall said, “I don’t mean to sound insensitive, Mr. President, but have you thought about a replacement for Professor McDonald … you know, in case he doesn’t make it?”

Jackson’s jaw tightened like that of the squirrel who had managed to pry the acorn free. “I refuse to think about that, Jim. Professor McDonald will pull through. I know he will. I just know it… .”

CHAPTER 22

Kelsi Shelton could barely concentrate on the lecture. She never had cared much for Corporate Tax, but that wasn’t the reason she was having trouble paying attention on this particular morning. She was worried about Professor McDonald.

Kelsi still would have been waiting at the hospital if it hadn’t been for her mother. Brian Neal, the Secret Service agent assigned to protect McDonald, hadn’t been able to convince the strong-willed young woman to make the two-hour drive back to Charlottesville, and the doctors and nurses hadn’t been able to convince her, either. But after a tear-filled conversation with her mother in the wee hours of the morning, Kelsi had decided to return to school. “It’ll help take your mind off him for a while,” Kelsi’s mother had said. “Besides, there’s nothing you can do for him at the hospital. You’re a lawyer, not a doctor, and it’s up to the doctors and nurses now.”

Kelsi wasn’t a lawyer
yet
, but she understood her mother’s point. She drove back to Charlottesville and arrived just in time for her nine o’clock Corporate Tax class.

“We’ll pick up here next time,” the tax professor said.

Kelsi had no idea where “here” was. The entire class had passed in a blur.

Sue Plant, Kelsi’s best friend since their first year at law school, realized that Kelsi was lost. She said, “He wants us to re-read the double taxation of dividends material.”

Kelsi blushed. “Thanks, Sue.” She tossed her casebook and statutory supplement into the daypack that seemed to accompany her everywhere she went. “I’m a bit out of it this morning. I didn’t get enough sleep. Who am I kidding? I didn’t get
any
sleep.”

Sue switched off her laptop. She snapped the screen shut and returned the computer to its carrying case. “Any more news about Professor McDonald?”

The assassination attempt on the life of Professor Peter McDonald was about all anyone could talk about at UVA law school at the moment. After all, Professor McDonald was one of UVA’s own. In fact, the dean had considered canceling classes for the day, and perhaps for the week, but he had decided against it because he wanted to try to maintain as much of a sense of normalcy in the law building as he possibly could. However, he had scheduled a meeting with the faculty, staff, and students for 10:00
A
.
M. Kelsi and Sue were on their way to the meeting now that Corporate Tax was done for the day.

CHAPTER 23

“No drinks in the library.”

Clay Smith twisted in his seat, and his eyes met the eyes of an elderly woman pushing a cart full of law books. “Sorry,” he said to her. He got out of his chair, walked to the end of the row of library carrels, drained the remnants of a Sprite, and tossed the soda can into the wastebasket.

He stopped for a minute and glanced out the window toward the Blue Ridge Mountains on the horizon. The morning fog blanketed the peaks like mist on a Scottish moor.

Clay Smith had mixed emotions about what he had been asked to do. On the one hand, his future looked bright. No other member of the Smith family had attended college, let alone law school. He also had a summer job lined up with the Charleston office of the largest law firm in South Carolina. On the other hand, his Uncle Earl had served as a surrogate father to him ever since his real father—Earl Smith’s younger brother—had been shot and killed in a barroom brawl when Clay was seven. There also was the undeniable fact that the Smith men had always been active in the Ku Klux Klan. Always. Clay himself had been initiated into the brotherhood during his sophomore year of high school, and he attended Klan meetings whenever he was home on break. He might have been an honors student at a top-ranked law school, but he knew that niggers had to be kept in their place. His Uncle Earl had reminded him of that at six o’clock this very morning.

One of Clay’s classmates walked by and tapped him on the shoulder. She said, “Stop daydreaming, Mr. Dershowitz.” Alan Dershowitz was the most famous lawyer in the country. “It’s time to get your butt out of the library for a change. The dean has called a meeting in the auditorium. It starts in five minutes.” She smiled and added, “Kelsi will be there.”

“I know,” Clay said, blushing. “I know.”

The law school was like high school as far as gossip was concerned, and seemingly every law student in the building knew that Clay had a crush on Kelsi Shelton. Unfortunately, Kelsi was now Clay’s responsibility. That was what his uncle had called to tell him.

CHAPTER 24

Kelsi Shelton and Sue Plant spotted two seats in the rear of the auditorium. Almost everyone in the law school knew that Kelsi was Professor McDonald’s research assistant. Consequently, words, looks, and hugs of support were in ample supply as she and Sue squeezed through the crowd. But just as Kelsi was about to take her seat, the assistant dean for student affairs asked her to step back out into the aisle for a moment.

Kelsi felt a knot in her stomach. The assistant dean was almost never the bearer of good news. Kelsi tripped over more than a few stray feet as she scrambled to the aisle. “Wh … what is it?” she said. “Wh … what’s wrong? Is it about Professor McDonald?”

The assistant dean, a woman in her late fifties who looked an awful lot like Kelsi’s favorite aunt—round face, pear-shaped build, constant smile, compassionate eyes—brushed a loose strand of hair from Kelsi’s concerned face. She said, “Yes. But it’s not what you think. The dean was hoping you would say a few words about the professor from a student’s perspective.”

Kelsi never had been one for speaking before large groups of people. In fact, she shared the preference for death over public speaking that opinion polls showed the majority of Americans favored. (
Death
over public speaking.) Her aversion to talking in front of crowds explained most of her curriculum choices; she tended to avoid, except for bar exam preparation purposes, courses that were courtroom-oriented (Evidence, Trial Advocacy, Criminal Procedure, etc.). This time, though, she decided to face her fear. This time, it was about something—about some
one
—larger than herself. “I’d be honored to say a few words.”

Dean Diego Rodriguez was addressing the audience of law faculty, staff, and students. Dean Rodriguez reflected the commitment—some called it an obsession—the nation’s colleges and universities had to diversity. He was a competent man—he had done pretty well at a pretty good law school, his practice and clerkship experiences were respectable, and he had published two or three decent pieces of legal scholarship—but many of the candidates against whom he had competed for the deanship at the University of Virginia School of Law had accomplished more than he had. Much more. But they weren’t Hispanic or gay. He was both. As a result, the other candidates hadn’t had a chance against him in the hiring process, especially given that only 10 percent of the law professors in the United States identified themselves even in part as conservative. Indeed, as one lonely legal conservative had colorfully quipped, “Just as it was said in late-nineteenth-century England that the Anglican Church was the Conservative Party at prayer, American colleges and universities today were the Democratic Party at play.” They weren’t much interested in hiring straight WASP men to work at—let alone lead—their institutions of higher education.

The dean sang Peter McDonald’s praises. He said that McDonald was what every law professor should aspire to be: a terrific colleague, a world-class scholar, and a teacher who actually cared about his students. Then he glanced over at Kelsi Shelton. Their eyes met, and she appeared ready to address her peers. The dean said, “I’ve asked Kelsi to say a few words to you about Professor McDonald. As most of you know, Kelsi is Professor McDonald’s research assistant. She has been helping him prepare for his Supreme Court confirmation hearing. Few know him better than Kelsi does. I think it’s more appropriate, particularly under current circumstances, for her to say a few words about Professor McDonald than it is for me to go on and on about him. And believe me, as a dean, I know how to go on and on.”

Awkward laughter came from the audience.

Then Dean Rodriquez said, “Kelsi.” The dean smiled warmly as Kelsi approached the podium.

Kelsi had received no advance warning that she would be speaking to an auditorium full of people. She certainly wasn’t dressed for the occasion. She was wearing typical law student attire: jogging shoes, jeans, and an oversized sweatshirt with the school’s logo embossed across the chest. Unlike most law students, however, she still looked like she had just stepped off the runway of a Paris fashion show. Only a handful of people could make a sweatshirt look like high style. Kelsi Shelton was one of them. And only a handful of people could address a standing-room-only crowd on a moment’s notice. Unfortunately, Kelsi Shelton was
not
one of them.

She clutched the podium for support. Even then, her hands were quivering like a rabbit about to be slaughtered for stew. “H … hi,” she said.

Her classmates couldn’t help but sense her discomfort. Many of them called out, “Hi, Kelsi!” It was like a greeting at an Al-Anon meeting.

A brief smile spread across Kelsi’s beautiful face. “I only found out about five minutes ago that I was supposed to say something today. I haven’t prepared anything, obviously.” She glanced over at Dean Rodriguez and then returned her attention to the audience. “The dean asked me to say what it’s like to work for Professor McDonald.” She made sure to speak in the present tense. Professor McDonald wasn’t dead… . “It’s great. He’s brilliant, hardworking, and very considerate. He always makes sure that I’ve got more to do than just xeroxing and filing. He says he wants me to learn something, not simply assist him with what he needs to get done. Even now, during his confirmation hearing, he’s always talking to me about the process and about the Supreme Court’s role in the justice system. Believe me, he’s got plenty of things to worry about, but he worries about
me
, about whether
I’m
learning something. So, all I can really say is that Professor McDonald is the best boss I’ve ever had, and the best teacher. It’s been my privilege to work for him.”

Clay Smith sat in the back of the auditorium and listened to Kelsi Shelton commend Professor McDonald to the UVA law school community. Clay, a first-year student at the law school, shared Kelsi’s high regard for Professor McDonald, but he also shared his Uncle Earl’s desire to see the professor’s nomination to the Supreme Court go down in flames. Unfortunately, killing Kelsi was part of the plan to ensure it did.