The Court (24 page)

Simmons said nothing, just inhaled deeply on the cigarette.

Pesta continued. “If that sucker goes down during rush hour, it will take sixty or seventy cars along with it. It's a long fall to the river. I doubt if many would survive, even if they could get out of the car before it sank.”

“God, that many?”

“That's just counting the cars. Counting car pools, couples, and so on, you have to figure a loss of a hundred people. Of course, if she went down during the night, you'd only lose the few who zipped in before it was discovered.”

“And you honestly think it can fall?”

“As I said, I used to drive it every day. I take the long way around now. I drove over it just now but that was to show you about the sway. I stay off the damn thing.” He paused, then continued. “It's a shame you can't alert the people who use the bridge.”

Pesta looked over at him. “I thought you guys could print anything you wanted to.”

“Yeah, so did I,” Simmons said. He rolled down the window and flicked out the cigarette. “But then I believed in Santa Claus until I was almost sixteen.”

*   *   *

The headwaiter escorted Professor Harold Orwell toward Jerry Green's table. Orwell walked with military bearing, spine straight, shoulders back, his chin elevated slightly. He moved very well, displaying none of the usual uncertainty of movement associated with old age, although he was nearing eighty. Tall, lean, and with close-cropped white hair, he sported a British-style white mustache. There was a definite aura of imperial elegance about him. He cooly surveyed the others in the restaurant much as a reviewing general might inspect troops whom he suspected to be less than battle ready.

Green stood up and extended his hand. “Professor Orwell, this is a pleasure.”

The man's grip was firm although a bit tremulous. Orwell nodded and took the chair the headwaiter held in readiness.

A waiter appeared almost instantly. “Can I get you something from the bar?”

Green looked across the small table at the tall man who sat as he walked, straight and military.

“I should prefer coffee,” he said in a strong, deep voice. Orwell made an effort to smile although it looked as if he was out of practice in that expression. His teeth were too perfect, obviously a plate. False teeth seemed grossly out of place in such a magnificently aristocratic face.

“Scotch and soda,” Green said.

The waiter hurried away.

“
Orwell on Torts
was our case book at law school,” Green said. “Meeting you is like talking to a historical figure.”

The cool blue eyes flickered over Green for a moment. “That's what I am, a historical figure. I worry constantly about being kidnapped by agents of the Smithsonian and put on display like Lindbergh's airplane. After all, I am older than his
Spirit of St. Louis.
” A small smile curled beneath the trim mustache. “What school did you attend, Mr. Green?”

“The University of Michigan.”

The professor nodded. “Not Harvard, of course, but respectable. I understand you're with Harley Dingell, on loan to the White House?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, to business. The president of this godforsaken university asked me to meet with you. He said you would be interested in my observations of Dean Roy Pentecost. He asked me to be candid, which is redundant in my case, since I am always candid.”

“You don't like Michigan State?”

The white eyebrows raised in mock astonishment. “Have you ever put any time in here? And I mean it just that way, putting in time.”

“My father was on this faculty. I was raised here.” Green snapped out the words.

There was no change in the old man's stern face. “Obviously, since you are now in Washington, you left this agricultural center as soon as you reached the age of reason and could escape. Please don't protest, your actions speak louder than any words.” The icy eyes seemed to sparkle. “Mr. Green, they say the football field here is covered with that false grass carpeting—astro something or other—so that the homecoming queen won't graze during half time.”

“That's an old joke, invented by the people at the University of Michigan.”

“Perhaps. In any event, in answer to your question, Mr. Green, this is the mid of the midwest. As a cultural center, it leaves something to be desired. In other words, sir, this is not Boston.”

Green felt a growing irritation. “If you miss Boston, why not go back?”

This time the smile was a bit wider. “Do you know why I left in the first place?”

“You got a girl in trouble?”

The icy blue eyes grew even colder, and the long face became stern. “You know, Mr. Green, I came here prepared to dislike you. But perhaps we shall get on after all.” A short staccato burst of laughter erupted from the thin lips. “I wish to God it had been that. At my age sex has become just a memory, a fond memory, mind you, but no more than that. No, Harvard was about to make me professor emeritus. In other words, I was being given the sack. Oh, the money would be there, and maybe once a year they would trot me out for a lecture, provided I hadn't become too senile. But as far as Mother Harvard was concerned my active teaching life was over.”

Their waiter brought Green's drink and then poured the professor's coffee.

“It was just then that your Mr. Pentecost came a-calling.” Orwell took a tentative sip at the coffee. “I have a theory, possibly erroneous, but I believe in it. If a man quits, gives up so to speak, then he starts going downhill. I did not wish to become a doddering old man confined to a nursing home to be fed baby food by some illiterate moron. So between my imagined nursing home and Michigan State University I chose the later. I am active. I keep a full schedule, as a matter of fact, much fuller than my old duties at Harvard. I am, therefore, a vital productive human creature, and I plan to keep it that way for as long as possible. However, as I say, this is not Boston. Culturally, it is as distant from Boston as is Hindustan, as far as I am concerned.”

“Better than baby food, though.”

“Much. But enough about me, although it is my favorite subject. You have some questions, I believe, about the man who rescued me from diapers and bed sores.”

“Based on that statement, I take it that you're one of Dean Pentecost's fans.”

The old man's thin lips again curved into just a hint of a smile. “The young men and women of this area, and on this campus, are unable to verbally express themselves without employing that ancient Anglo-Saxon word ‘shit.' It can be used as a verb, noun, and anything else including a heartfelt exclamation of admiration. Since you come from this area, you are, I presume, familiar with the word?”

Green laughed. “And several others.”

“Oh yes. Well, to speak as a native of this region might, and in answer to your question, it is my considered opinion that Dean Roy Pentecost is a shit. Not only a shit, sir, but a perfect shit. It is very difficult these days to find perfection, but the dean has attained it.” He sipped his coffee again.

“As America's leading expert on torts, I presume you know that you have just commited slander.” Green grinned.

The old man cocked his head. “It depends on where the alleged wrong takes place, Mr. Green. Here in Michigan truth is a defense. Therefore, I feel that no dent will be put in my purse because of my words.”

“How is it that you feel this way? As you say, the man did rescue you from retirement.”

The waiter returned and they ordered.

Professor Orwell returned his menu to the waiter and continued. “In all fairness, I did him more good than he did me. As you say, my name has become rather associated to the word ‘tort.' Just like old Wigmore. It was always
Wigmore on Torts
until my book came along. Anyway, my being here attracted other professors and a number of serious students. A sort of a snowball effect occurred. A few well-known professors gave this place credentials. Then more joined because of that prestige. Pentecost, by the way, is a genius at manipulating publicity. As you know, in the nation's press this became the miracle school, a beacon of learning shining out in the dark night of ignorance. Students who ordinarily would have found their way into the Ivy League, or even your old school, soon started beating at the door of this cow palace.” He stopped and finished his coffee. “You are, I believe, looking Pentecost over for a possible place on the Supreme Court. Is that correct?”

“Well, that's been suggested.”

The blue eyes flashed. “This lunch was your idea. You're the one who wants information. A simple answer with no evasion is a small price to pay, Mr. Green.”

Green could well understand the terror felt by generations of law students. The old man hadn't raised his voice, or even changed inflection, but his words seem to cut like a lash.

“Yes, it is the Supreme Court.”

“Howell's spot, I presume?”

Green nodded.

The old man remained ramrod straight as he talked. “If you were considering Pentecost for a cabinet position, or some post in the executive branch, I would give him a glowing recommendation. The man is a gifted administrator, organizer, and, as I say, public relations expert. He could run any federal department very well indeed. Unfortunately, he is a foggy-headed lawyer who has no real feeling for the basic processes of justice. He just doesn't understand it. And you can't teach him. It's an impossibility, like trying to teach a blind man about color. Well then, that is my beloved dean. He is many things, but he is no lawyer.”

“What about his book on constitutional law?”

The waiter returned with their food. Green asked for another drink. The professor picked at his plate for a moment, then returned to the subject. “Ah yes, the book. Well, as I say, the man is a gifted organizer. If you read the dedication in that book of his you will find at least forty names listed. They were students of his at the time. And they are the people who actually wrote the book, sir. Pentecost merely served as a sort of senior editor, if that. As I say, he can organize very well.”

“What would happen, do you think, if he were appointed to the Supreme Court?”

The faint smile reappeared. “Probably be running the place within a few months, no matter who the chief justice was. He's that kind. But he would make all his decisions based upon considerations other than legal.”

“A lot of that happens now.”

“Always has. These are men, not angels. The history of the Supreme Court, the real history, is full of self-serving men. But if appointed, Roy Pentecost would end up as number one in that particular hall of fame. He would always do whatever was expedient at the time. He would view each decision in light of what it could do for him personally. Justice, abstract or real, would be the last thing he would consider, if at all. He lacks integrity. Do you understand the full implication of that word, sir?”

“I think so.”

“I doubt it. Not many do. The dictionary defines integrity as the adherence to moral and ethical principles. In other words, sir, it means a man must sometimes do the unpopular thing because of morality. Brother Pentecost is quite incapable of that.”

“That's rather harsh.”

“Is it? He has the classrooms monitored. Did you know that?”

“Pardon me?”

“Oh, not mine. Or Johnson's. Or any of the other recruited professors who drew the faculty and students here. Even he would not dare to do that. But the junior faculty, the younger instructors, all are recorded by video cameras. The whole place is wired.”

“Why doesn't someone complain?”

“They have. They took it to the university trustees. Pentecost pointed out that such devices are common in many high schools and other teaching institutions to monitor the instructors. That was the reason he gave, it was done to insure excellence in teaching.”

“He may be right. What other motive might he have?”

The old man did smile. The teeth again seemed very out of place. “To discover faculty disloyalty, sir. Just one joke about the dean and that man or woman is out. Big Brother is watching.”

“I doubt if he has the time.”

“Oh, he doesn't. He uses third-year law students, and only a handful whom he feels he can truly trust. They watch and monitor all that goes on.”

“But he doesn't bother you?”

Orwell shook his head. “No, he knows better.” His cold eyes seemed to lock on Green's. “Perhaps the taping is forgivable, or at least understandable. But I have had a number of discussions with Pentecost and he is just not a lawyer. Oh, don't misunderstand, he has a degree with honors, but despite that, he just doesn't think like a lawyer. He's clever. So if you seek a self-serving, clever man on the Court, pick him. However, if you desire a lawyer with basic integrity, look elsewhere.”

“You honestly feel that strongly?”

“I am of the opinion that the American people, once in a while, would enjoy a little justice with their law. They won't get it from Pentecost. I wouldn't trust him to decide a traffic ticket. On the other hand, if you're looking for, say, a secretary of defense, he may be just the man for you.” Orwell's false teeth, exposed by the wide grin, looked almost mechanical.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dr. Kaufman was waiting for them on the floor. His round face was somber.

“You know my son and daughter,” Mrs. Howell said to the doctor. “This is Mr. Whitefield. He is our pastor. He was kind enough to come along.”

Kaufman shook the clergyman's hand. Both men merely nodded to each other.

The hospital page system called for a Dr. Pringle, repeating the call again and again in a well-modulated but metallic sound. Nurses and doctors bustled about with their usual energy and purpose. The hospital seemed alive with noise, movement, and life. To Martha Howell it all, seemed dreadfully inappropriate.