The Court (6 page)

He felt sick. Garcia decided it must have been the whiskey. He shouldn't have taken it on an empty stomach.

*   *   *

It was a strange place for a meeting. He felt a bit conspicuous just standing in front of the Smithsonian Air and Space building. Everyone else was moving about; school classes on field trips, weary parents dragging protesting small children, and squadrons of tour groups. It was the most popular exhibit hall of all the Smithsonian buildings and always busy.

A group of well-dressed, athletic-looking tourists marched behind an authoritative blonde woman who carried aloft a small triangular flag tied to a long thin stick. The flag served as a visual guide for the group. No matter how chaotic the press of the crowd, her flag was always there to be seen. Decked out with the usual video cameras and equipment, the group moved at a determined pace. As they passed, he caught some snatches of spoken German. Mentally he conjured up a picture of steel helmets. These Teutonic tourists would look most formidable in battle dress.

Tour and charter buses were parked, one behind the other, for blocks. It was autumn and although the huge throngs of summer had dwindled, there was still no shortage of people. They were enjoying the gentle weather of late October. The trees of the Mall had decorated the ground with their splendid colored leaves, which swirled about in the soft breeze.

He glanced up at the Capitol. Like a white fortress it rose above the Mall's trees. He remembered the view from there, looking down the long green Mall with the Washington Monument at the other end pointing into the sky like a giant's finger.

They called the small rise of ground Capitol Hill. Although small, it was truly more powerful than a volcano. He sometimes missed being away from the power.

The fresh air was crisp and invigorating and he was genuinely glad to be away from the pressures of the law office. He knew he was mentally tired and stale after the long case before the Federal Trade Commission. What should have been easy had turned into a titanic struggle that lasted many weeks. It was over but the end seemed anticlimactic. It would be months before a decision was announced. But that decision would be crucial, not only to the client and the firm, but to himself. He had been taken into the firm for his political connections, no bones had been made about that. He was a full partner but there was a buy-out clause in the partnership agreement. It had seemed a great deal of money at the time, but now it only amounted to a few month's income. If the FTC case was lost, their largest client would be lost. And he had been on shaky ground with the other partners going in. There had been just too many loses lately and he knew they were looking for someone to punish. His connections weren't quite as good as they used to be and he sensed a nonspecific coolness toward him.

He impatiently searched the Mall, looking for Amos Deering. He saw a constantly moving sea of faces, but none of them belonged to Deering. He wondered if he would even recognize Amos Deering after all these years.

He stepped back to escape becoming part of a chattering Japanese tourist group that had suddenly engulfed him. He found himself staring at his own reflection in a polished steel panel, part of a display being moved into the Space exhibit. The panel was set at a slight angle, making his reflection just a bit taller and thinner. He studied himself in the steel: Jerome Green, attorney-at-law, distinguished partner of the prestigious law firm of Harley, Dingell, Spear, and Frank, known to everyone as Harley Dingell.

The Jerome Green he saw in the steel was trim, although a hint of thickness was becoming evident. He at least looked fit although he was able to manage only sporadic episodes of tennis and exercise. His hair, full but gray, seemed suited to his full, mature face. Anyone knowing clothes would instantly recognize that he was expensively dressed. Dark suit, black shoes polished to a high gloss, and a quiet tie; it was almost a uniform. Very good clothing, but conservative and without flair; it was the firm's unofficial dress code.

He glanced about. No one seemed to notice, so he once again looked at his reflection. He was Harley Dingell, no doubt about it. He at least fit in with the look of the firm, if not the people. He had no illusions about his situation. Most of the other partners had come from money, and most were WASPs with degrees from Yale. Harley Dingell was regarded as a “Yale” firm, although several of the partners had law degrees conferred by other Ivy League universities. He was the only one with a law degree from a midwestern school, the University of Michigan. He was also the only Jewish partner, although the firm did employ several young Jewish associates. He never thought of himself as Jewish, having long ago abandoned even lip service to the religion and customs, but he knew the others did.

He knew they considered him a “political” partner, even though he carried an enormous burden of trial work. If anyone in the firm had need of a phone call or a contact, they came to see him. Usually, he could conjure up someone from the past who would be of service. If the firm hadn't been so blue-blooded, with so many important clients, he would have been known as the “fixer.” But such a harsh term was eschewed in the hushed and dignified offices of Harley Dingell.

Jerome Green's face in the steel panel showed no hint of his origin or his educational beginnings. His was the regulation expression: no emotion, no passion, no humor, just the hint of a smile as if concealing the steel beneath. They all looked alike, dressed alike, and talked alike. It was as if the senior Washington lawyers—the big money men—were all produced by some magic machine, all clones, stamped out from some master mold.

Green glanced at his watch. He hated being late and had found himself growing more intolerant of others who failed to keep appointments on time.

“Hey, Jerry!” The voice was familiar, but the face, concealed behind a huge graying yellowish beard, was barely recognizable.

Green grasped the outstretched hand. Amos Deering's palm was warm and moist although his grip was firm. He was short and stout, and the beard made him look like an evil elf.

“Goddamn all tourists, I couldn't find a place to park.” Deering stepped back and appraised Green. “You look pretty good, for an old turkey. Gray as my grandma, but outside of that you've weathered well.”

Green smiled. “When did you grow that thing?” He pointed to the beard.

“A couple of years ago. I was teaching out at a college in Utah. At the time it was the only thing to do. Hell, if you didn't have a beard you weren't allowed into the faculty teas. Now everyone out there is clean shaven, but screw 'em, I don't have to worry anymore.” Deering took Green's arm and directed him toward the other side of the Mall. “I know you're accustomed to finer things now, but how about having lunch in the cafeteria in the National Gallery of Art?”

“That's all right, but why there?”

“The cafeteria's strictly for the convenience of the tourists. We won't run into any government people there, and we don't have to worry about being seen together.”

Green had no trouble matching Deering's determined stride as they crossed the Mall. “Why should I worry in the first place?” Green said. “I'm an innocent man. Of course, Amos, I was never too sure about you.”

“I'm still innocent,” Deering replied, but with no answering smile. “We're all still innocent, right? Just a couple of old Reagan alumni getting together.”

Green frowned. “You make us sound like players. As I recall, we were both rather minor functionaries in that administration.”

“You became an Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services.”

Green nodded, and a slow, almost sad smile played across his features. “But only for a few months, Amos. And it took me six years to work my way up to that.”

“Bush kept you on.”

“I was too far down the line for him to even care. Anyway, as you remember, I quit to go with Harley Dingell. I had a good offer and I took it.”

Deering guided him up the steps into the magnificent art gallery. Only a few people occupied the vaulted interior and their footsteps seemed to echo in the silence.

“C'mon, it's down these stairs,” Deering spoke in a hushed voice.

They entered the bustle of the basement cafeteria, selected their food, and took their trays to a far table. The large restaurant was only about a quarter full.

“Not so bad, eh?” Deering said, as he set down his tray. “And this place has the best pecan pie in all Washington. I think that's what I missed the most when I was away from Washington, pecan pie. I really didn't miss the politics, the excitement, or the intrigue as much as I missed pecan pie. You can't find this delicacy in Utah, believe me. Those Mormons don't really enjoy the finer things in life except maybe procreation.”

“Amos, now that you're back in the seat of power, do you really enjoy it?”

Deering swallowed a bite of sandwich and grinned. A bit of mustard remained on his beard near the corner of his mouth. “Are you asking me whether being Press Secretary at the White House beats being an associate professor of journalism in the beautiful golden West?”

“Something like that.”

Deering shook his head. “Listen, it was like being an exile out there. God knows there were plenty of politicians and politics on that campus. All professors have to be real hustlers just to survive. And you had to keep your eye on everything and everybody, just like here. But it was strictly the minor leagues. So what if you made full professor or became department head, that's about as exciting as lettuce. I missed real politics so I handled the state of Utah for the man when he was running in the primaries. He lost, but by that time I had wormed my way into the inner circle.” He grinned. “I'm good at that, if you remember.”

“I remember.”

Deering took a forkful of pie and savored it for a moment before continuing. “Anyway, I came aboard his staff when he was nominated for vice president. And I stayed on after the election. When the president died, I took over and handled all the communication work during the transition for the man. I have the title “assistant” but that's only until Harold Baker finds a job. I'm the real press secretary, Jerry. So I'm back, and at the top of the heap. Not bad, eh?”

“If that's what you wanted, I'm delighted.”

Amos Deering wiped his stained beard with a paper napkin. “The President asked me to talk to you.” The statement was made in a conversational tone, although Deering dropped his voice to a near-whisper.

“About what?”

“He remembers you from before. He was impressed by your ability to get facts quickly.”

“So?”

“We need a little job done. It shouldn't take more than a week or two. How about it?”

“I have a heavy case load at Harley Dingell, I.…”

Deering held up his hand. “C'mon, Jerry, I'm not asking you to quit your firm or anything like that. We know we can't afford you. We just need a special job done.”

“Isn't that how Watergate started—somebody needed a special job done?”

“Don't get cute, Jerry, this is important.”

“I can't take off for two weeks, at least not right now.”

Deering frowned. “Look, this is the President's personal request.”

Green toyed with his salad. “You make it sound like a royal command. Did I miss something in this morning's
Post
or are we still a democracy?”

Deering sat back. “What's so damned important that you can't give it up for two weeks?”

Jerry Green instinctively obeyed the first rule of Washington's game of negotiation: never tell the truth, at least not the complete truth. It would serve no purpose to tell Amos Deering that he was in trouble with the firm, that he had lost important litigation, and that if things turned out badly at the FTC he could be ushered out politely. Deering would only use the information against him. Candor could be misinterpreted and, therefore, had no place in the game.

“I handle a lot of the governmental regulatory work for the firm. We both know why. As an administration official, I'm supposed to have clout. I've been away from government a long time and I'm not so sure that's true anymore, but that remains my assignment. Believe me, it's more than full time, Amos.”

Deering nodded, and extracted a thin cigar from inside his coat. “We can't afford to pay your regular fees, Jerry.” He kept his eyes on Green as he lit the cigar. “I understand you're one of those five-hundred-dollar-an-hour guys now, right?”

Green shrugged.

Deering blew a ball of smoke toward the ceiling. “But we aren't coming empty-handed either.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Deering twirled the cigar slowly in his fingers. “You'll be appointed as Special Counsel to the President for those two weeks, Jerry. Actually, we'd like it to be for a couple of months, in name if not in fact, it looks better that way.”

“Two weeks, two months, so what. As I told you, Amos, I'm busy.”

The bearded man didn't smile. His eyes no longer twinkled with good humor. “We're both professionals, Jerry, so I won't beat around the bush. You said your firm thought you had clout. Maybe you do, and maybe you don't. But as a former special counsel to the incumbent president, no one in this town could possibly deny your political muscle. If you see what I mean?”

“Amos, I'm surprised at you. You always played things straight before. Surely you aren't saying that I can expect special preference?”

“You know this town as well as I do. Hell, we don't have to do a thing for you. The title will take care of that, Jerry. Everyone will just assume that you have a passkey to the White House. You won't, but you'll never get anybody to believe that.”

Green nodded. It was true enough, and perhaps it was just the thing to restore his flagging reputation within the firm. “And if I took your bait, what do I have to do?”