The Advocate's Daughter (31 page)

As Sean drove into the Georgetown Law parking lot, he saw two men holding cameras waiting for him. He slowed and said to Ryan, “I have to go, but we'll talk more this afternoon. I love you.”

Sean pulled into a parking space and glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. His sunglasses concealed his red eyes, so he would look fine in any photos captured by the reporters. He wasn't sure how they knew he'd be here. Someone must have leaked that he would be at Georgetown for the murder boards. The media's interest in Sean had waned for a time, but his nomination to the high court put him back in the news cycle. It didn't help that every few weeks rumors surfaced that the FBI had a bead on former Justice Thaddeus Carr, who had eluded capture for a month now. Some speculated that he was living in Switzerland under an assumed name. Others thought he had jumped off the Eleventh Street Bridge and drifted into the Anacostia River, a hypothesis supported by the fact that the handwritten confession found in Carr's vehicle read like a suicide note. The spatters of his blood on the note—presumably a botched attempt to slash his own wrists—seemed to corroborate. But others speculated that the blood was from Carr removing the security GPS chip implanted under his skin. In the blogosphere, conspiracy theorists charged that the entire episode was part of a plot to change the makeup of the Supreme Court. So many questions remained.

Sean pulled the briefcase from the backseat and said hello as camera flashes went off. His handlers had advised that a nominee
must
act dignified at all times. Smile, say
no comment,
and move on. And that's what he did. Before entering the building, he called Blake Hellstrom's office and left him an urgent message.

Inside the Hotung building, he was met by a young lawyer holding an iPad like a clipboard. Sean's eyes darted about the room and after a moment he was back to the day he'd found Abby; he was at a function in this very space that day. Bile crept up his throat.

He walked into the moot courtroom. He'd been in this room many times when he was at the Justice Department. Georgetown's moot courtroom was designed to look like the courtroom in the Supreme Court. The bench was mahogany like the bench at One First Street, albeit a third the size. The red-rosette carpet matched the high court's. And the podium was the precise size and distance from the bench as the real thing. Everything aimed at making the practice argument sessions as real as possible for the advocates. Today, though, Sean wouldn't be questioned about a case, but rather interrogated about his background and judicial philosophy. Preparation for the Kabuki theater that was modern Supreme Court confirmation hearings. The art of giving the non-answer.

At the bench were six murder board participants assigned to play members of the Senate Judiciary Committee. At the last confirmation hearing for Mason James, the committee had taken it easy on the nominee, surprising everyone except for Sean and Emily—well, and the committee members James blackmailed. Without his own Sebastian Finkle to deliver dirt files to hostile committee members, Sean would have to prepare the old-fashioned way.

The spectator gallery was filled with administration handlers, justice department lawyers, and their respective entourages. Sean's old friend Professor Jonathan Tweed, who was charged with organizing the murder boards, greeted him with a big smile.

After hellos and small talk, Tweed began the session. “Don't go easy on this guy,” he said to the mock senators.

And they didn't. The questions were tough. Sean floundered as his mind meandered: From thoughts of Ryan to Mason James. From Billy Brice to Abby's last days. To Kenny Baldwin dying in the rain. He realized that he was like the man in Jack's joke, the man fired from the orange juice factory—unable to concentrate. Tweed was a good moderator and kept the proceedings moving along. But Sean wasn't performing well.

Seeming to sense Sean was struggling, Tweed called for a break. The room cleared. Sean assumed that Tweed had directed the others to leave so he could give a pep talk. Tweed sauntered over and put a hand on Sean's shoulder.

“You're doing great,” Tweed said.

“No, I'm not.”

Tweed didn't correct him. “You okay? You look tired.”

“Yeah, I'm sorry I'm distracted. Maybe some coffee will help.”

“Did you watch the RBG and Elena Kagan videos I e-mailed you?” Tweed asked. “Just do what they did and you'll be fine.”

“I did. I'll do my best to emulate them. This is such a waste of time. Have the senators
ever
gotten answers that revealed the nominee's real views?”

“Yeah … Robert Bork,” Tweed said, with a laugh.

Sean smiled. “You want to come over for dinner tonight?”

“I'd love to, but I have a bit of a drive. Staying at the lake house.”

“The life of a law professor.”

“Hey, you're going to be a Supreme Court justice. You know what John Roberts once said about the job: ‘Only Supreme Court justices and schoolchildren are expected to and do take the entire summer off.'” Tweed grinned. “You got a little more prep in you?”

“I think so.”

“Good, go get yourself some coffee.”

Sean walked out of the moot courtroom. He nodded to the mock senators and other members of the team who brushed by, intent to get to Tweed when they saw Sean leave the room. Concerned, no doubt. The café just outside the moot courtroom was closed, but there was a table in the atrium set up with coffee and snacks.

He checked his phone. Two missed calls from Blake Hellstrom. Sean dialed the number, and Hellstrom picked up on the first ring.

“Sean, I'm glad you called, I was just about to call you myself. I have some news.”

“Ryan didn't kill Brice,” Sean blurted into the phone. He told Hellstrom what he'd learned from the detective, that Brice died not from a blow to the head but from a crushed larynx.

“If that's true, let's talk about coming forward. The State's Attorney will be receptive to helping, and I think they'll be open to a confidential immunity deal.”

“I think that sounds right. Maybe we should—”

“Sean,” Hellstrom interrupted. His voice had a hint of concern to it.

“Yeah?”

“I was actually calling about something else. My team has been looking into Japan. We found something unexpected.”

 

CHAPTER 83

Sean's shoes clacked on the marble floor of the Supreme Court. Like every summer, the building was virtually a ghost town. Jon Tweed was right, only school children and justices take the summer off.

It was almost noon, and Sean lingered near the cafeteria on the ground floor. As expected, at twelve sharp, bodies began appearing from the offices. Lunchtime. Sean watched the door to the police office across the hall. His mind flashed to Abby visiting the office the day she was killed.

After a group of staffers left the office, Sean headed through the door. From his days as a law clerk he knew that only one receptionist would be left behind to cover during lunch.

“Can I help you?” The receptionist smiled, seeming to recognize Sean. He was a nominee to the high court now, a celebrity in the insular world.

“Hi. Is Police Chief Martinez in?”

“The chief is actually in the courtroom for the daily security check. Can I help you, Mr. Serrat?”

Sean forced a smile. He moved quickly past the receptionist to the chief's private office. “I left my phone in the office when I visited Carl yesterday. He told me I could stop by to pick it up.”

The receptionist stood quickly, but Sean already had rushed by and into the chief's private office. He shut the door and locked it.

He scanned the room quickly. The receptionist was already tapping softly on the door.

“Excuse me. Mr. Serrat … Mr. Serrat…”

He didn't have much time.

The space was meticulously organized and tidy. The desktop had no papers or clutter. Just a nameplate, a fountain pen, and a small picture frame.

“Mr. Serrat…”

And then he saw it.

Sean swallowed hard. Blake Hellstrom was right. He scooped up the small picture frame and moved quickly to the door, turning the latch.

The receptionist stood there, looking flustered.

“I'm sorry, the door must have locked behind me. I don't see my phone. I'll go check with Carl.”

The receptionist looked conflicted.

“You said he's in the courtroom, right?” Sean asked, nonchalant.

The woman exhaled, then straightened herself, the concern leaving her face.

“That's right.”

“I'll go see him now.”

In the courtroom, Sean marched down the center aisle toward two officers who were doing a sweep with a bomb-sniffing dog. Tight security even when The Nine were off in their summer homes or frolicking abroad on all-expense-paid teaching or speaking gigs.

“I'm looking for Police Chief Martinez,” Sean said, not seeing Martinez in the gallery. His voice seemed to pinball around the twenty-four marble columns that encased the room.

“Sean,” a voice called out. In the back of the room, behind the bench. The police chief stepped through the burgundy curtains that hung from the ceiling. He was standing at the center of the bench next to the chief justice's high-backed leather chair. Above him the famous clock, the one advocates were advised never to look up at during their oral arguments, hung from a steel cord.

Sean walked through the brass trellis to the bar-member section of the chamber. How many times had he been in this courtroom? Too many to count. But like everything else, the place didn't feel the same anymore. Not after his confrontation with Thaddeus Carr. Not after Abby. He suspected today would be the last time he'd ever step foot in this building. It would end where it all began. At One First Street.

The police chief nodded to the officers to give them some privacy, and they scuttled out with the dog.

Sean stepped up to the counsel table, which was less than ten feet from the elevated bench. Advocates were always surprised at how close the lectern was to the justices. The proximity, and that the bench was raised and the justices lorded down on you, was what first-timers seemed to remember the most. But today it wasn't the chief justice of the United States looking down at Sean with a black stare.

“What can I do for you?” Martinez walked the length of the bench and stepped down into the well. The two locked eyes.

“I know who you are,” Sean finally said. Sean held up the picture frame he'd taken from the chief's desk, and displayed it to him. It was a photo of a teenage kid. The chief's son. Sean's boyhood friend.

Juan.

The chief gave a resigned nod. Then: “So you know who I am. Well, Sean, I know who you are too.”

Sean held his gaze. Martinez navigated around the long counsel table and stood right next to him. He calmly reached for the picture frame, and took it from Sean. He examined the photo for a moment, then said, “I know that
you
are the man who killed a storekeeper in cold blood. That
you
let an innocent boy take the blame.”

Another cold stare from the chief.

“But unlike my son,” Martinez said, his tone still calm, “
you
got to live your life. A perfect little life with your perfect little career and perfect little family.”

In other circumstances, Sean might pity the man. But rage was the only thing flowing through him right now. “I wasn't alone that night in Misawa,” Sean said. “And I didn't know that Juan would kill himself, so don't you try to turn this on me.”

“Kill himself?” He spit out the words like they were rotten food. “Don't you dare.”

Sean didn't understand.

“They put him in the cell and those animals sexually assaulted him, six of them. And I don't care what the Japs said, he didn't hang himself. Those monsters strung him up like a dog.” The chief's voice broke. “Because of
you.
”

“What cell? What are you—”

“Don't you dare!”
The chief eyes filled with tears and fury. “And you almost got away with it.” He swallowed and seemed to plant himself more firmly.

Sean's thoughts were swirling. None of it fit with his narrative of events.

“All these years, I thought my Juan was a killer.” Martinez's tone softened. “But then I learned the truth.”

Sean stared at Martinez. “I don't—”

“Last year,” Martinez interrupted, “one of my oldest friends became the Supreme Court's marshal and offered me the job as police chief. I didn't want to move to D.C. Plus I was thinking about retiring, so I was gonna turn it down.” He stared off a moment into some middle distance. “But then Charles Baldwin got cancer and didn't want to die with the guilt of what you all did.” The chief's eyes turned back to Sean. “And he told me everything.”

Sean just stood there. Charles Baldwin? Kenny's dad.

“That's right, just like your father, Kenny's old man got what was coming to him for what he did. What you
all
did.” The reference to Sean's father took some of the air out of him. And what did Kenny's father have to do with this? Sean tried, but couldn't picture Charles Baldwin's face. Nor did he recall ever meeting Juan's dad back then. They were just grown-ups at a time when such people were invisible to Sean.

“The famous General couldn't have his son go down for murder. No, not precious Sean Serrat. They needed someone to pin it on.”

Kenny once said that Sean's dad had hindered the investigation of the storekeeper's murder. But Martinez was suggesting something more sinister.

“That's not what happened.” Sean heard the desperation in his own voice.

“Oh, it's true. Your father and Baldwin cooked it up. Got you safely out of the country, then got Kenny to point the finger at my Juan. Your father didn't think he could trust me because I was military police, so they blamed my son. Baldwin said your dad called it ‘collateral damage.' Well, I showed Charles Baldwin what collateral damage was when I wrapped my hands around his throat. Cancer was too good for that man. I wanted my face to be the last thing he saw in this world. I only wish he got to see me blow his idiot son's head off.”