The Court (3 page)

Michael Wright sipped his drink. He formed a mental picture of an ancient Roman emperor. The high court's swing man and the emperor weren't so different. The fallen gladiator lived or died as signaled by the emperor's thumb. Thousands of modern lives would be decided on the stroke of one justice's pen. That would be the signal, just a scrawled signature.

But the swing man wouldn't hear the roar of the crowd, nor would he see the death agony. At least the old Romans had to look at the results of their decisions.

Wright left some money on the bar and walked out. He had a lot to do.

*   *   *

Justice Brian Howell eased his car around a slow-moving minivan packed with clothes and children. The children were gawking at the lighted Washington Monument. As he passed he noticed the woman, presumably the mother, her face illuminated by the street lights. She was young, but she looked as worn as the battered minivan. He thought they were tourists until he saw the woman. He decided they were more likely a family migrating to a southern state and to a new life. He put them out of his mind as he increased his speed and left them behind.

It was late and traffic was light.

He enjoyed driving in nighttime Washington. It always had a special fascination, a special aura created by its many illuminated monuments and the massive government buildings; structures that surpassed the awesome fortresses of Europe. And like their European counterparts these giant citadels seemed to proclaim impregnability and mighty power. He wondered if the architecture of ancient Rome had spoken so eloquently of its place in the world and history as did these huge limestone houses of American government.

Road repairs forced him to use the Arlington Memorial Bridge. He guided his car past the monuments at the foot of the bridge. The dark Potomac River reflected lights from the opposite shore. He sped toward the Virginia side and the looming National Cemetery. He hated the cemetery. His wife had dragged him to see it and the memory always depressed him. Crossing the Potomac was like crossing the River Styx, and going into that cemetery was like walking into the land of the dead. Acres of countless graves seemed to stretch on forever. They were all there, the presidents, the generals, the heroes of American history. Judging from the daily crowds that thronged aboard the parade of cemetery tour buses, others did not share his feelings of dread. The buses rolled through the sloping land of graves, each bus with a tour guide who pointed out the historic graves and shrines. He recalled being appalled at the time. He felt a sense of special horror because he realized that by being both a veteran and a member of the Supreme Court it was most likely that this would one day be his own gravesite. He had commanded his wife to cut that tour short, and he had never again returned to the place. He didn't even want to look at it.

Exiting from the bridge he turned right and sped past the lighted statue of the Marines raising the flag at Iwo Jima. He followed a course leading to Wilson Boulevard.

Wilson Boulevard passed through the land of office buildings, retail shops, and Vietnamese restaurants.

He stopped for a traffic light. Howell glanced down at the copy of the news magazine on the seat next to him. He was on the cover, a good, brooding photograph with half his face in shadow. The large print on the bottom read “America's Most Powerful Man.”

He smiled to himself. The beauty of that statement was that it was true. Officially he was just one of nine, an associate justice of the United States Supreme Court, and the most junior at that. But he was the swing man.

The other eight justices split on most issues. His vote decided which side won. He held the balance of power in the Court. His vote had come to be the deciding factor in the nation's law. The law was what Brian Howell said it was. Considering the vast importance of many of the issues soon to come before the Court he was considered by many as being even more important than the President himself.

The light changed and he continued, still thinking about the magazine article.

He knew that his name, Brian Howell, had become a household word. There had been the tremendous fight over his Senate confirmation. The Senate had destroyed the first two men put up for the vacancy. He was the third man nominated and he had made it. The publicity at the time had been enormous. Then he quickly became known as the swing man. Now, as he well knew, law professors all over America were telling their students about Justice Howell and how important he had become. Some, he had been told, compared him to Cardozo, Holmes, and Marshall.

He turned toward home but he knew there would be no one there. Martha was visiting the kids in Chicago. He had encouraged her. He had to study every evening, the work was backing up, and he was glad to be free of the distractions of her attentions and attempts at conversation. Most of the other justices relied upon their clerks to do the reading and research. But they could afford to, they didn't hold the balance of power. He read every case, every brief. His clerks worked long and hard but he declined to rely on their efforts. He was in the spotlight. There could be no mistakes. He checked everything.

He was hungry and developing an annoying headache. There were frozen dinners at home but he was growing tired of the same fare. On impulse he swung the car into the parking lot of a small restaurant.

The restaurant was almost empty. Several young men in civilian dress but with military haircuts quietly ate dinner at a corner table.

A young waitress guided him to a small table at the rear of the restaurant. He liked it. It was neat, clean, and inviting. The girl brought him a menu and water as he again read the magazine article about himself.

“Pardon me,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Is that you? I mean, the man on the cover of that magazine?”

He smiled. He enjoyed recognition.

“I'm afraid so.”

She smiled warmly. “You're Justice Howell?”

He nodded.

His confirmation took her smile away. Her eyes grew wider and her friendliness was replaced by awe.

“My boyfriend,” she said haltingly, “is a law student. He's in his first year at Georgetown. He's talked about you.”

“Anything printable?” He grinned up at her.

She grew even more serious. “He says you are the law in America.”

Howell chuckled. “Well, you wait until he gets to his senior year. Maybe his opinion will be different by that time.”

“Before you go, would it be improper if I got your autograph? It would please my boyfriend.”

“No problem.”

There was an awkward silence as she just stood there. Finally she forced a hesitant smile and spoke. “We don't get many famous people in here. Please excuse me.” She blushed. “I'm forgetting my job. Can I get you a drink?”

He wanted a drink, but he wanted to preserve her lofty image of himself. “Just coffee,” he said.

The dinner was excellent. Word of the important guest had apparently been passed along to the kitchen. The steak was large and cooked just as he had ordered. He was brought too much butter and too much bread, and his salad would have fed a platoon for a week. The food wasn't fancy but it was tasty. He ate more than usual to please his unseen benefactors in the kitchen.

As promised, he autographed a menu for the waitress.

The headache grew more severe on the drive home. It seemed to be affecting his vision. He had difficulty getting his key into the lock of their condominium. He called for his wife, then recalled she wasn't home. He felt a wave of nausea as he switched on the lights. He regretted having eaten so much. Something was wrong. He wondered if he was suffering from food poisoning.

A young doctor lived a few doors down. A Chinese man. Martha had introduced them at a neighborhood party. He recalled the name. It was Chen. He knew that Martha would have the doctor's home phone number. She was very businesslike about that kind of detail. He tried to extract her telephone memo book from its drawer and found he couldn't seem to make his right hand obey him. He felt confused, uncertain as to what he should do. The pain had become an agony.

He had trouble walking. His right leg seemed to drag, but he managed to get out the front door. He knew where Dr. Chen lived. He stumbled up to his door and pushed the button with his left hand. The pain was blinding. He had to lean against the doorway to keep from falling. His right leg refused to hold him.

The door opened and he looked down at the small Chinese woman. She was very pretty and he couldn't understand why she screamed. Then he recognized Dr. Chen, as the equally small doctor helped him into their home.

Howell tried to speak, but the wrong words came out. He was embarrassed and frustrated. He needed to tell the doctor about the pain, it was unbearable.

He collapsed and fell to the floor.

“My God, Charles, what's wrong with him?” Mrs. Chen stared down at Howell's distorted face.

“It's a stroke. Get my bag! Quickly!”

She ran and returned with his medical bag. Her husband was kneeling over Brian Howell. The man was unconscious and seemed to be fighting for breath.

“Is he dying?” She asked quietly.

“Maybe.” He rifled through his bag. “Jesus, you never seem to have what you need.” He looked up at her. “Call and get an emergency team here. This may be touch and go. We have to get him to a hospital fast.”

She obeyed instantly, then returned. Howell had not changed. “He looks as if he is strangling,” she said.

“Very common in stroke victims. It looks bad, but it isn't dangerous. It's not his breathing that's the problem. He may have blown a blood vessel in the brain.”

“Will he live?”

Dr. Chen monitored Howell's pulse. “You never know with these things. It depends on the damage. Sometimes they can recover in hours. If there's severe brain damage sometimes the people end up dead or just vegetables. We have to do tests to see what's happened.” He looked up at wife. “You better go get his wife.”

“She's away.”

“After we get him into the hospital we'll have to try and contact her. It would be terrible if she saw this on the television.”

“Television?”

The doctor looked at his patient. “This guy is big news. As soon as they find out what has happened the hospital will be crawling with news crews.”

“If he wakes up, he'll be angry about that.”

The doctor slowly shook his head. “That's the least of his worries. Some of these people never wake up.”

*   *   *

“Boss wants to see you.” The news assistant's manner grew more insolent the longer he stayed on the newspaper. He was consumed by envy of those staff members who did the actual writing. He desperately wanted to be a reporter so he endured the daily humiliations suffered at the hands of staffers, who took great relish in responding to his arrogant attitude.

Abbot Simmons looked up from his computer and smiled. “Which boss? Practically everybody here is my boss.”

“The head asshole himself. You must'a really fucked up.”

Simmons leaned back and studied the messenger. “How the hell old are you now, Eddie? Thirty-two, maybe thirty-four?”

“I'm twenty-three!”

The tall reporter slowly stood up, the same whimsical smile on his horselike features. “When I was twenty-three I was the night city editor on the Jacksonville paper.”

The news clerk's face reddened. “Fuck you,” he snapped as he strode away.

Abbot Simmons fished through his coat pocket to get his cigarettes. He had no heart for torturing the news assistant, but it had become a habit. Eddie was too easy. Not only did he have an unpleasant personality, he lacked simple common sense. Abbot Simmons lit a cigarette. “With those qualities he should be an editor,” he said aloud and to no one as he walked down the row of desks toward the office door of the managing editor.

He knocked. Simmons always knocked ever since the night he caught the old man humping Kay Cochran, the feature editor. That night he had just walked in without warning. It had been embarrassing. He knew and liked Kay's husband, and he knew and liked the managing editor's wife. That night no one moved, they had all just stared at each other until Simmons frowned at the lady and said, “Does this mean we're through, Kay?”

He thought it was a funny exit line, but later Harry Phillips, the managing editor, had a talk with him consisting of half bluster and half wet-eyed pleading. No one had a sense of humor anymore.

“Come in,” Phillips called.

Simmons walked into the cluttered office. “What's up?”

“I liked that story you wrote about the 14th Street Bridge.”

The reporter sat down in a worn easy chair. “Yeah, it practically wrote itself. That whole fucking thing is going to fall right into the water one of these days.”

“I agree, but I can't run the story.”

Simmons blinked. “Why not?”

Phillips pushed his eyeglasses to the top of his head. He had seen the gesture in a movie once and liked it. It made his glasses greasy but he thought it gave him a touch of glamour. “It's that new law,” he said.

“Harry, there isn't even a hint of libel in that story. Everything is perfectly true. I got a written affidavit from the city inspector. Hell, I don't accuse anybody of being crooked. I don't even blame anybody. Somebody just fucked up in building the thing, that's all. I just truthfully reported the situation.”

“I'm not talking about libel law.” Phillips, a rotund man, leaned back and put one thick leg up on his desk. “It's that other law, the written negligence thing.”

“You mean like in the Booker case?”

“Yeah.”

“That's a bunch of crap, Harry. My story doesn't even come close. No mob is going to drag somebody out of jail and hang him over a lousy bridge.”

“Maybe not, but our new state statute makes a newspaper liable for reckless or negligent reporting.”