Murder in the Supreme Court (Capital Crimes Series Book 3) (6 page)

“Give him credit. He’s a classic American success story.”

“Yeah. I got a hold of that series
Life
did on him, the one written by Dan Brazier. It was good.”

She nodded. “I read that series too. That was an interesting story in itself, the relationship between Childs and Brazier,” she said, referring to a close friendship that had developed between the two men.

Brazier had been a UPI reporter assigned to Korea. Like Childs, he’d been captured by the North Koreans while covering a front-line skirmish, and they’d ended up in the same prisoner-of-war camp. The escape masterminded by Childs included five other prisoners, Brazier among them. They became inseparable after that, and Brazier had what amounted to an exclusive pipeline to the war’s leading hero, the
Life
series representing only one of several rewards for that closeness.

After the war, Brazier ran into serious medical problems
directly linked to his captivity. One of his legs was amputated. A year later his other leg had to come off and he retired from journalism. As far as Susanna knew, he lived in obscurity in San Francisco.

“Does Childs still support him?” Teller asked.

“I don’t know. The last I heard he did.” Morgan Childs had sent a check to Dan Brazier every month for years. He’d tried to do it anonymously, but the press learned of it and reported on his generosity, which only added to his public image of a heroic, loyal and dedicated human being.

“An after-dinner drink?” Teller asked.

“Thank you, no. I really should get home. I was supposed to spend the weekend with my kids but this morning’s meeting with Justice Childs threw a monkey wrench into my plans. I want to get out to see them first thing tomorrow.”

“I don’t see much of my kids. Two daughters, both in college. They come through once in a while, but most of their free time is spent with their mother in Paris.”

Her eyes widened. “Paris, France?”

“Paris, Kentucky. She married some guy from there. Nice guy, takes good care of her, which got me off the alimony hook… By the way, I don’t know what you like to do when you aren’t working, but I’ve got two tickets to Cav-Pag at Kennedy Center next weekend.”

“Cav-Pag?”

“Two one-act operas,
Cavalleria Rusticana
and
Pagliacci
. They usually play them together and call it Cav-Pag. Do you like opera?”

“I take it you do.”

“Love it. I’m a hell of a tenor in the shower.”

“Can I let you know later in the week?”

“Sure.”

Her car was parked a short distance from the restaurant. He walked her to it.

“Thank you for a lovely dinner,” she said. “I didn’t intend for you to pay, especially since I chose the restaurant.”

“You chose good. Besides, it was worth every penny. I like talking to you.”

“Thank you. I don’t know much about opera, but I’d like to go to… what’s it called?”

“Cav-Pag. That’s great. I’ll talk to you during the week.”

He watched her drive off, then got in his own car and drove to M Street, Northwest, in Georgetown. He parked illegally even though the new police commissioner had called for a crackdown on cops taking advantage of their position, walked a block and turned into Club Julie.

It was dark, smoky and crowded. The room was long and narrow, and a bar ran half its length on the right. In the center of the left wall was a tiny bandstand. Seated on it was the Julie of Club Julie, surrounded by keyboard instruments, an organ, acoustic and electric pianos and an electronic rhythm machine that duplicated the sound of percussion instruments.

“Hello, Marty,” Julie said as Teller sat at the only empty stool at the piano bar. There were ten stools, seven of them occupied by middle-aged women, all of whom knew him. A waitress brought him gin on the rocks without being asked, and Julie launched into a medley of old sing-along tunes—“If You Wore a Tulip,” “Down by the Riverside,” “Ain’t She Sweet,”… Teller sang along with the others. One hour and four gins later, he was holding a microphone and doing his best Frank Sinatra act, pulling notes up from the heart, closing his eyes and belting them out to the delight of the crowd.

“Good night, Marty,” Julie said as Teller stood unsteadily and waved to hangers-on as he headed for the door.

“Sing ‘My Way,’” a drunk at the bar muttered.

“Next time,” Teller said. He took deep breaths of chilled night air, found his car and went home, singing “My Way” all the way to the front door.

“Generation gap, my ass.”

“Let’s go over it,” Teller said to detectives gathered in his office. A sizable contingent of them had descended on the Supreme Court and had taken preliminary statements from almost everyone, including the nine justices.

“I felt like a fool asking a Supreme Court judge for his whereabouts the night of the murder,” one of them said.

“What did he say?” Teller asked.

“It wasn’t a he, it was a she, Justice Tilling-Masters.”

“What did she say?”

“That she was at a party with her family.”

“Did it check out?”

“Yup.”

“Who else?” Teller asked.

They ran down a list. Of the nine justices, six had alibis that could be confirmed.

“Whose alibi has holes?” Teller asked.

“Conover, Poulson and Childs.”

“They lied?”

“No, but they aren’t solid,” a hefty detective named Vasilone said. “For instance, Marty, Poulson was supposed to be at a party too, but I talked to somebody else who was there and he puts Poulson’s departure at a different time than what Poulson told me. I’m still trying to get hold of other people who were there.”

“What about Conover?”

“Says he was home alone working on a manuscript.”

“Wife?”

“Out at a party, at least that’s what her husband says. I asked him about household help and he told me he gave them all the night off.”

Teller twisted a little finger in his ear. “How about Childs?”

Another detective reported on Childs. “He says he was tinkering with his airplane at the airport that night.”

“At that hour?”

“That’s what I said, Marty, but he told me it’s the only time he can get away.”

“Any corroboration?”

“An airport guard says he saw him earlier in the evening but doesn’t know what time he left.”

“Okay, that takes care of the top. What about everybody else in the Court?” He was handed a list of people who could not definitively account for their activities.

“There’s lots more to interview,” Vasilone said. “You can only do so much.”

“I know,” Teller said. “Keep plugging. I want daily reports.”

When they were gone from his office he sat back, feet
on the desk, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them he looked at framed photographs of his daughters on his desk. “If you knew what I had to do for a living you wouldn’t be so quick to ask for money.” Which reminded him that they were due their monthly allotment. He wrote each of them a check, included a note in the envelopes which he signed “Love, Dad,” and mailed them in a box just outside MPD.

He hoped they appreciated him.

Chief Justice Poulson walked briskly through his reception area, nodding to secretaries and clerks as he passed. He entered his main chamber, tossed a stack of files on the desk and looked at a clock-barometer on a shelf behind his chair. The meeting of the judicial conference had run a half hour longer than planned, and everything else that afternoon would be affected, pressured, compressed.

Poulson hated the administrative aspect of being Chief Justice. He’d thought about it when offered the position by President Jorgens. There were many advantages to being an associate rather than the Chief. The other eight justices concerned themselves only with law, but the administrative details of running the Court fell to him, all the bureaucratic nitty-gritty. He was also expected to preside over such
organizations as the judicial conference, which in reality was nothing more than a lobby of federal judges.

On the other hand, he thought as he opened a small walnut-faced refrigerator and took out a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream, there were compensating factors. Because he was Chief, the Court was known as the “Poulson Court.” He officially ranked third in federal government protocol, although there were those who felt that because of the vice-president’s political impotency, the chief justice was actually second in power only to the president.

Then again, he told himself as he poured a small portion of the liqueur into a glass and replaced the bottle in the refrigerator, there was a price to be paid for that power. The other justices were relatively anonymous, could live their private lives without gawkers and autograph seekers, all except Marjorie Tilling-Masters, of course, whose appointment to the Court had garnered wide media attention.

There was a knock on his door. “Come in,” he said.

A secretary entered carrying a yellow legal pad. She came around behind him and placed the pad on the desk. “Justice Poulson, these are the phone calls that came in while you were gone.”

“Thank you,” he said. He glanced at the names on the paper. “Pinscher? She called again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right.”

“And Mr. Smithers is waiting.”

“What’s that about?”

“The film, sir.”

“Oh, right. Give me a minute, then send him in.”

“Yes, sir.”

He waited until she was gone before draining the glass. He took a tissue from a desk drawer and wiped the glass clean, then placed it in its customary spot on the shelf behind him, where the cleaning crew would find it. He rubbed a
flat area of his right thumb with his other fingers. His wife, Clara, referred to his right thumb as his built-in worry stone. He massaged his nose where his glasses had left their mark, told his secretary, “Send him in.”

Walter Smithers came through the door. Tall, and carrying the leather attaché case, he represented the American Bar Association.

“Mr. Smithers,” Poulson said, standing and offering his hand.

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Chief Justice. It’s good of you to find time for me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of that commodity this afternoon. I try to keep to a tight timetable, but things can sometimes get out of hand.”

Smithers sat and opened his case. He handed a set of papers to Poulson and said, “I think this accurately sets forth our proposal, Mr. Chief Justice. When I heard that you were interested in having the visitor film replaced, I immediately took it up with our public-information people. There was unanimous agreement that the new film should reflect the Court as it is today. After all, it no longer is the Burger Court. It’s now the Poulson Court.”

Poulson glanced at the proposal. “Mr. Smithers,” he said, “the cooperation and support of the ABA is gratifying. I’ve been at the receiving end of some good-natured kidding about replacing the film. A few of my colleagues, in their more whimsical moments, accuse me of what seems to be called ego-tripping. My goal is to present to the American people the most accurate and up-to-date portrait of the nation’s highest court. The Supreme Court has changed dramatically, not only in its faces but in its philosophy, a philosophy which, I might add, accurately reflects the sense of the American people, as I believe it should. Since assuming office I’ve brought about a number of changes within the Court that reflect this new philosophy,
and I feel the visitor film should too. However, I have a reservation.”

“What is that, sir?”

“It seems to me inappropriate for the American Bar Association to finance this new film. Even though a conflict of interest obviously does not exist, certain factions might take exception. That’s why I expressed the idea to you on the phone of having the ABA work with the Supreme Court Historical Society in producing a new and more up-to-date motion picture. I’d prefer that the society receive credit for having produced it.”

“We have no problem with that, Mr. Chief Justice.”

“Good. I’m anxious to see the project get underway, and I assure you the full cooperation of the Court.”

Smithers realized Poulson had effectively ended the meeting. He rose, shook hands and promised to get back shortly with a more detailed schedule. After he left the chambers, Poulson took a toothbrush and toothpaste from a cabinet and went to a private lavatory, where he enthusiastically brushed his teeth. He returned to his chambers, checked his appearance in a mirror and buzzed his outer office. “Please have the Court limousine wait in the basement for me,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

Minutes later he climbed into the back seat. “The Treasury Department,” he told the uniformed driver.

A young man met them, and Poulson followed him to an elevator leading to Treasury’s basement. The young man led him along a dimly lit steam tunnel until reaching the White House. They rode an elevator to a higher floor and stood in front of the Oval Office.

“Please wait, sir,” the young man said as he crossed a large carpeted area and spoke in hushed tones to a woman behind a desk. He returned to the Chief and said, “He’ll see you in a moment, sir.”

A few minutes later the woman said, “Please follow me.” She opened the doors and he stepped into the Oval Office.

President Jorgens was behind his desk. He smiled, stood and came around to shake Poulson’s hand. “Good to see you, Mr. Chief Justice. I appreciate your taking time out from a busy schedule.”

“Any time, Mr. President. How have you been?”

“Splendid. The sharks may proliferate but I still know how to swim. Sit down, make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you.”

Jorgens touched an American flag as he passed it, settled in a large leather chair and propped his feet on the desk. “Jonathan, what’s happening with the abortion case?”

The directness of the question took Poulson aback. He shifted his legs and squeezed the tip of his nose. After a few moments he said, “It’s very close, Mr. President. No one, on the Court or in public life, is
for
abortion. But there is a legal issue here as defined by
Nidel
v.
Illinois
. Individual philosophies are rendered mute—”