Supreme Justice (19 page)

At seven thirty the next morning, Ginny booted up her computer and typed “Sarah Woodruff” into Google. She was worried that her search would be traced back to her, so she entered a password she’d seen one of the junior partners use. It didn’t take her long to find the case that was before the Supreme Court and newspaper articles about Woodruff’s two trials for killing the same man.

When she was finished, Ginny could see why digging into the case was very dangerous. Once the
China Sea
disappeared, Masterson must have thought he was home free. Then Max Dietz charged Woodruff with murder, and Mary Garrett started poking her nose into the
China Sea
affair. Masterson must have taken another deep breath when the first case was dismissed and no one had any reason to look into what happened in Shelby anymore. But the specter of the
China Sea
rose again when John Finley turned up dead for real and the only way Mary Garrett could defend her client was by proving that Finley was involved with CIA assassins and drug dealers.

Masterson must have thought he was safe when the trial judge blocked Garrett after the government asserted the state-secrets privilege, but Sarah Woodruff was sentenced to death, the Oregon Supreme Court ruled that the defendant’s right to exculpatory evidence in a death case doesn’t trump the state-secrets privilege, and the issue in the case became one of national importance. If cert wasn’t granted, the case would die. If cert was granted, the case would get national scrutiny. While Masterson was with the CIA, he had a million ways to keep the lid on it, but he was on his own now, and he had to get rid of Justice Moss because she stood in the way of the Court denying cert.

As soon as Ginny felt she knew enough about the facts of the case, she ran an internal search in the firm’s files for TA Enterprises. She was disappointed when the computer could not make a match, but she wasn’t surprised. Anyone clever enough to run a major drug-smuggling operation under the nose of the federal government was going to cover his tracks.

If Price had created the papers used to incorporate the company and they weren’t stored on a hard drive, there was another place they might be stored. During her first week on the job, Ginny had needed a file from a closed case that had been handled for a major client in 1970, before the firm had computers. When she couldn’t find the file online, she had asked the secretary for the partner who’d assigned her the project where she could find it. The secretary had taken a distinctive key from a drawer in her desk and sent Ginny to the subbasement where the paper files were stored.

Ginny’s secretary wasn’t in yet, but her desk wasn’t locked. Ginny found the key and took the elevator to the subbasement. When the doors opened onto the reception area of Rankin Lusk, they revealed a world of sparkling glass, shiny chrome, and polished wood. The subbasement was the dark side of the force. When Ginny got out of the elevator, she walked into an unpainted concrete corridor dimly lit by low-wattage bulbs. The air was clammy, and the odor of decay hung in the stagnant air. Both sides of the corridor were divided into storage bays. The file cabinets in the bays were vague shadows protected by chicken wire attached to a wood frame. The strands of a cobweb brushed across her face and she started before wiping it away. A flashlight would have come in handy, and she cursed her lack of forethought.

Each bay had a number. From her previous visit, Ginny knew that the first four digits referred to the year. She found a bin labeled with the year in which the smuggling operation had occurred. Gray metal filing cabinets filled the space. Each drawer in each cabinet had a label with letters in alphabetical order, so she opened the drawer labeled “Ta–Tm.” She had to move aside to let the ceiling light shine on the files. To her delight there was a file for TA Enterprises. Ginny opened it. The file contained papers of incorporation in the Cayman Islands for the company, and correspondence. The letter on top had Millard Price’s name on it. Ginny took out her cell phone and snapped pictures of each page in the file. She was almost through when she heard the elevator doors open. Ginny replaced the file and closed the drawer. Then she snapped her phone shut and hid it in her pocket. When she turned around, Greg McKenzie was standing in the doorway, his massive body blocking the light from the corridor.

“What are you doing?” McKenzie demanded.

Ginny had prepared a fallback position in case someone discovered her in the basement. Her heart was tripping, but she smiled and held up a thick file from an insurance case with a claimant whose last name began with a “T.”

“I’m checking to see if there were any prior insurance claims by this guy. We think he might be a flake. What are you doing here?”

McKenzie stared at her for a few seconds before answering.

“Mr. Masterson sent me. He wants to see you.”

“I’ll be right up.”

“He wants you now.”

Ginny debated telling McKenzie to back off, but she was all alone and he scared her. McKenzie stood aside to let her out of the bay. Then he followed her to the elevator. The associate made no effort to give Ginny space. One massive shoulder was only inches from hers and she could smell the cloying scent of his aftershave.

On the ride up, Ginny wondered how Masterson knew she would be in the subbasement. Did he suspect she was looking into TA Enterprises? She wondered if her computer inquiries had raised a red flag somewhere. But how would anyone know that she was making them? She’d used the partner’s password. But she’d used her own computer. Was the CIA or NSA tracking anyone who looked into TA Enterprises? Was there technology that could trace her search back to her computer?

When Ginny returned to the surface, the sight of people on the other side of the elevator doors made her feel safe, at least for the moment. McKenzie herded her toward Masterson’s office.

“Tell Mr. Masterson that I’ve got Ginny Striker,” McKenzie snapped at Masterson’s secretary. Ginny assumed that a secretary for a senior partner would normally be shown a lot of deference by someone who wanted to be made a partner, but McKenzie showed the woman none, and the secretary was clearly intimidated. She buzzed her boss. A moment later, she told McKenzie to go in and told Ginny to wait. Ten minutes later, McKenzie came out and glared at Ginny.

“He wants you,” he said. Then he turned his back on her and walked off.

Masterson smiled when Ginny walked into his office, but he didn’t offer her a seat. He was sitting at his desk, the sleeves of his white silk shirt rolled back to reveal corded forearms. The knot of his tie was pulled down and his shirt collar was open.

“How are you getting along at the firm?”

“Fine. It’s very interesting work, especially my assignment with Miss Stewart’s nomination hearing.”

“And you’re fitting in, feeling comfortable?”

“Definitely.”

Masterson leaned back in his chair. “I imagine a day at the firm is a lot less exciting than what you were used to in Oregon.”

“Quite honestly, Mr. Masterson, not having to dodge reporters is a big relief.”

“I can empathize with you from my days at the CIA. Everywhere I went, there were cameras flashing and microphones shoved in my face. Knowing what we know, I wonder how you and I would have voted if we were back in colonial times and considering what to do with the First Amendment.”

Ginny forced a laugh. Maybe it was a coincidence that she’d been sent for while she was looking for the TA Enterprises file.

Masterson picked up a thick folder and held it out to Ginny. “There are articles in here that Audrey has written on national-security issues and memos from her days in the CIA. I want you to make a digest of them with a synopsis of her position on torture and the limits of interrogation. She’s going to be grilled on that for sure, and we need to be able to cite her actual opinions word for word.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Good. I’d like it by the day after tomorrow.”

“No problem,” Ginny assured him, though she knew that creating the digest and finishing her other assignments by the deadline meant working late into the night.

“Is your fiancé enjoying his work at the Court?”

Ginny felt a chill pass through her. “Very much.”

“And he likes working for Justice Moss?”

“Yes.”

“That was something.” Masterson shook his head. “If a Supreme Court justice isn’t safe in the sanctuary of the Court, none of us are.”

Ginny nodded, afraid to speak.

“I understand you were in the subbasement.”

“Yes,” Ginny answered.

“That place has always unnerved me. It’s like a medieval dungeon, don’t you think? A woman was attacked down there a few years ago. A janitor tried to rape her.”

Ginny’s stomach rolled.

“Retrieving files from that graveyard is the job of a secretary or legal assistant. Who sent you down there? I’ll make certain it doesn’t happen again.”

“Actually, no one sent me. I was just looking for a file in an insurance case.”

“You won’t need to go to the subbasement to complete this assignment,” Masterson said. “It was nice talking to you.”

Ginny felt sick as she walked to her office. What had McKenzie told Masterson? Had the associate seen Ginny taking pictures of the TA Enterprises file? Had Masterson assigned her the task of digesting Stewart’s articles and memos because it would make her work into the night? There would be few other people in the office after six. She would be vulnerable. How could she protect herself? There was only one person she could think of to call. As soon as she was in her office, Ginny shut her door and phoned Dana Cutler.

Dana had neglected her other cases while she was in Oregon, and she played catch-up starting the morning after her visit to Brad Miller’s apartment. She was finishing a report in an industrial-espionage case when she heard the ringtone of the cell phone with the number few people knew.

“Yeah?” Dana said.

“It’s Pat; I’ve got an assignment for you. We’re going to do a feature on Indian legends like shape-shifters and Indian vampires.”

“Do Indians believe in vampires?”

“Don’t be a bigot. Surely you don’t think that the only cultural group that can have vampire legends are lily-white Eastern Europeans? You’re not an Aryan supremacist, are you?”

“Definitely not where vampires are concerned. Go on.”

“Anyway, a good place to start is the National Museum of the American Indian. Have you been there?”

“Not yet. Jake did a photo shoot inside, but I was out of town conducting surveillance.”

“Well, here’s your chance to level the cultural playing field with your boyfriend. Somebody in that place should know a few legends you can use. Why don’t you drop over as soon as you can so you can get a jump on the story.”

***

The National Museum of the American Indian, part of the Smithsonian Institution, was located at Fourth Street and Independence Avenue. The museum was one of the more interesting architectural structures on the Mall. The adobe brown, curvilinear building was designed to resemble natural stone formations and was a stark contrast to the buildings that surrounded it.

The height of the tourist season had passed, and the crowds at the museum were sparse this early in the day. When Dana entered, she found herself in a large open space where she could look up unimpeded to a dome ceiling five stories above her. A ramp wound upward to the exhibits on each floor. From the top of the ramp, an observer could look down on the visitors as they entered. It was an excellent place to check to see if someone you were meeting had a tail.

Gorman had not given Dana a description of the person she was going to meet or a name, but she assumed he’d given her contact her description. After wandering aimlessly around the entryway for a few minutes, Dana concluded that no one was going to approach her there, so she started up the ramp and began wandering through the exhibits. She was alone in one of the galleries studying an exhibit of Pacific Northwest Indian artifacts when a man walked in front of the display case. He was wearing a Washington Nationals baseball cap, a shiny Nationals jacket, jeans, and running shoes. His complexion was pale, and his brown eyes were focused on a collection of Tlingit cedar-bark baskets.

“Do you think the Tlingit Indians believed in vampires?” he asked.

“Beats me,” Dana answered, “but I’m a reporter working on a story for
Exposed
about Indian legends, so read the paper next week and you’ll know the answer to your question.”

“If you go to the end of this exhibit and look left, you’ll see a stairwell. Why don’t you go up to the landing on the top floor and check for vampires. I’ll join you when I’m satisfied you haven’t been followed.”

Dana entered the stairwell and walked to the highest landing. A few minutes later, Gorman’s contact joined her.

“What do you want to know?” he asked. Dana appreciated the lack of chitchat. She also noticed that he hadn’t told her his name, and she assumed he’d only give her a false one if she asked.

“I was working on a story and I was threatened. I’m guessing the person who threatened me was sent by Dennis Masterson. How worried should I be?”

The man chuckled. “That one is easy. Having Masterson mad at you is like being on the receiving end of DEFCON 1. When Masterson was head of the CIA, he could send a drone with a nuclear warhead into your bathroom while you were on the potty.”

“But he’s not head of the CIA now, so how dangerous is he?”

“Very. He can’t send the drone anymore, but someone like that has assets that will do whatever for a price, and Masterson has the money to pay the price.”

“OK, you’ve succeeded in scaring me,” Dana said.

“Then I’ve done you a favor. Do not fuck with this guy.”

“One more question. The person who made the threat was about six two; solid build like a linebacker, blond, and I thought I heard a Scandinavian accent.”

“The Swede. I think his name is Thomas Bergstrom, but I wouldn’t bet on it. He uses a lot of aliases. When Masterson was with the CIA, Bergstrom was the person he used for the dirtiest assignments. I would take any threat he makes very seriously.”

“Would it do me any good to go to the authorities?”

The man laughed. “Masterson
is
the authorities, even if he’s not in government anymore. My advice, do what you were told to do or be prepared to sit up with a shotgun every night for the rest of your life. Oh, and don’t start your car, ever.”

“You’ve made your point.”

“Good, because the person who set up this meet likes you and wants you to live to a ripe old age. That story you were working on is not worth your life.”

“One more thing. I know where I can find Masterson, but where can I find Bergstrom?”

The man’s face lost all trace of humor. “Are you wearing earplugs? Did you fail to hear everything I just told you? The last thing you want to do is find this guy, because it could be the last thing you do.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I still want to know.”

“Yeah, well, that’s something you can do on your own. It’s a crime to help someone commit suicide.”

The man shook his head before stalking off. He looked sad, like a patient teacher who had tried his best but had finally given up on a spectacularly dull student. Dana knew that she’d screwed up. Pat had called in a chit for her and she’d blown it. She was deciding whether she should go after the contact and apologize when her cell phone rang.

“Dana,” Ginny Striker said, “I may be in trouble and I need your help.”