The Divine Appointment (13 page)

Stella didn’t like the thought of that at all.
Move the hearings up? Preposterous!
She couldn’t let that happen.

Stella paced for a few steps before pivoting to face Valerie. “Something’s up, Val. This isn’t coming from Proctor’s office. He’s carrying Wallace’s water on this one. And Wallace wants things sped up. There must be something we’re missing about Shelton, and we need more time.”

Stella paced further before she continued talking to Valerie. Senator Montgomery was the chair of the committee. She’d start there, she decided.

“Val, get me Senator Montgomery’s number and all the numbers for the other committee members. I can’t let the hearings be moved up. We’re still turning over stones and looking for skeletons.”

New York City

Stella Hanover ducked into McClanahan’s Bar & Grill on the corner of Forty-sixth Street and Madison Avenue just before midnight on Friday. It was only a few blocks from her Avenue of the Americas office and a short taxi ride to her apartment on the east side of Central Park. She had been working late—like every other night since Judge Shelton’s nomination—trying to find some way to derail the inevitable.

She had talked to all the committee members several times since yesterday, when she’d first heard that the president wanted to move more quickly on Judge Shelton’s nomination. She wasn’t confident she had convinced them to hold the hearings as scheduled. Senator Montgomery was on her side, as well as six others. At least eight wanted to move them up because Senator Proctor—
President Wallace
, she reminded herself—had asked them to. That left three fence riders, and she wasn’t certain on which side of the fence they would fall. Desperate times demanded desperate measures.

Stella hadn’t anticipated the rain. She’d left her umbrella at home that morning. So she located a copy of the
New York Times
in the lobby of her office. She used it to deflect the June drizzle while dashing from the front door of her office building to the taxi and from the taxi to the door of McClanahan’s. Two seats were empty at the end of the bar, and she sat in the next to last one.

“Glass of chardonnay,” she said as the bartender approached.

She laid the damp newspaper on the bar and draped the strap of her purse over the back of the bar stool. After drying her hands with a cloth napkin the bartender provided, she nibbled at some pretzels from the nearby bowl. Soon she was sipping thoughtfully on her glass of wine.

Stella stared at herself in the mirror behind the bar. She liked the image she saw in front of her even if no one else seemed to. Unmarried, she had dedicated her entire adult life to women’s issues and the last fifteen years to NFAR. She had been instrumental in defeating legislation in several states designed to limit the accessibility and availability of abortions. Even when a law passed that restricted abortion rights, her organization successfully challenged the law in the federal court system. She knew, however, that any tilt in the balance of the Supreme Court could deteriorate over thirty years of successes on that issue. That’s why defeating Judge Dunbar Shelton’s nomination was so vitally important to Stella.

Stella had been to McClanahan’s several times but didn’t consider herself a regular. She took another sip from her glass and glanced around the room. It was about half full, but no one was present that Stella recognized.

A middle-aged man of Italian descent—strange for a place called McClanahan’s—entered through the front door. Black hair. Leather jacket. Black denim jeans. He looked out of place, but he matched perfectly the description she had been given. He was without an umbrella and dry, so it must have stopped raining.

The man sat on the stool beside Stella at the end of the bar and ordered a drink. Stella finished the last of her wine, paid her tab, and stood to leave.

“Are you finished with your newspaper?” the Italian man asked. “I haven’t had a chance to read it today.”

Stella looked at the man and lifted the newspaper from the bar. “It’s a little wet, but you’re welcome to it.” She handed the newspaper to him, grabbed her purse, and departed.

After Stella exited, the man unfolded the newspaper, revealing a white oversize envelope inside. He lifted the flap of the envelope and smiled at its contents: $25,000. He would wait until later to count the money, but he knew it was correct. His clients knew better than to stiff him for even one penny. And there would be that much again when the job was finished.

He refolded the newspaper, laid a ten-dollar bill on the bar to cover his drink, and within five minutes after Stella’s departure, he, too, was on his way.

Washington DC

Holland Fletcher drove his ancient camel-colored Toyota Camry to the Supreme Court building and parked two blocks away on First Street NE. He hadn’t washed the car in years. The floorboard was gritty and the dashboard dusty. The car had two hundred thousand miles, dents in both fenders, and fading paint, but it still got him where he needed to go.

It was barely past 8:00 a.m. on Tuesday. He was up earlier than usual, and he didn’t like it. He reminded himself that this was why he wasn’t a morning person. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes.

He’d tried over the course of the last week to find something about the Caldwell murder that wasn’t right, but he had uncovered nothing. He read online the articles from the
Tennessean
that covered the preliminary hearing of Todd Allen Grissom, MD, and it certainly appeared that the authorities had the right man. Although he’d lost interest in the case, he decided he at least needed to go to the Supreme Court like
she
had suggested. He didn’t want her to think he hadn’t obeyed. He was scared of her…whoever she was.

He entered through the public entrance, walked through the metal detector, and was issued a visitor tag. The security officer told him to discard his cup of café mocha from Starbucks that was only half empty. That made him mad, but the officer had a gun and a badge, and Holland didn’t. So he complied. His first stop was the administrative office, where he demanded to see Jessica Caldwell’s personnel file.

“Those records are confidential, sir,” the lady behind the counter said. She was polite but firm. She was old enough to be his mother and addressed him as if she was.

He decided he’d demonstrate how smart he was. He was an
investigative
reporter, after all, and investigative reporters were smarter than everyone else in the world. He smiled and placed the palms of his hands on the counter.

“Haven’t you heard of the Freedom of Information Act?” he asked and spoke slowly when he said “Freedom of Information Act.”

He then stepped back and anticipated that she would dash off to get the file and whatever else he needed.
She might even ask if I want a cup of coffee
, he thought.

But several seconds elapsed, and she didn’t move. She simply glared at him with indignation.

So Holland raised his eyebrows in a way that meant
hurry up
.

Still nothing. Finally she waved him closer. He leaned over the top of the counter.

“Mr. Fletcher, personnel files are exempt from the Freedom of Information Act.”

“Exempt?”

“Exempt.”

“You mean that I can’t see her file?”

“That’s correct.”

He stood up tall and spoke in a very serious voice. “You know I’ll get the
Washington Post
to file a lawsuit and force you to give it to me.”

She snickered and covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh, but if that is what you want to do, then please do so. This is the Supreme Court, after all.”

She continued to smile. She’d had this conversation before, Holland realized. He wasn’t getting anywhere. He decided it was time to bring in the big guns.

“What if I said ‘please’?” Holland smiled.

Another giggle. “That won’t work either.”

Defeated, Holland turned to the door. “Thanks anyway.”

Maybe now the mystery caller would leave him alone.

When he spun around he bumped into a young lady he hadn’t seen earlier. She was in her late twenties, slender and attractive, with curly, sandy blond hair. She was dressed professionally in a beige business suit and white blouse and carried a stack of expandable folders. Holland almost knocked them from her arms.

“Excuse me,” he said and caught a couple of the folders before they fell to the floor.

After he made sure she was all right, he exited the administrative office and hurried down the hallway.

She followed him. “Were you asking about Jessica Caldwell?” she asked to his back.

Holland pivoted abruptly. “Yes, I was. Did you know her?”

“I knew her. We shared a town house.”

Finally this investigation was getting interesting. He had discovered a beautiful woman who knew Jessica Caldwell. Maybe there was a hope of a front-page story after all. Or at least a date.

“I’m Holland Fletcher.” He extended his hand.

She shifted all the folders she was carrying to under her left arm and shook his hand. “I’m Tiffany. Tiffany Ramsey.”

Holland reluctantly released her hand. “Nice to meet you, Tiffany. Did you say you roomed with Jessica Caldwell?”

“The last year she clerked for Justice Robinson was the first year I clerked for Justice Crawford. We shared a town house in Georgetown. Why were you asking about her?”

“I’m an investigative reporter with the
Washington Post
. It’s not often that a Supreme Court law clerk is murdered. I was thinking about doing a human-interest-type story about her.” Holland waited and pondered his next question. “Is there some place where we can get a cup of coffee?”

Tiffany nodded. “The Supreme Court cafeteria. Let me put these files away and we’ll go.”

After Tiffany took care of the files in a room that Holland was forbidden from entering, she emerged and the two headed toward the cafeteria. Once there, they walked between the metal railings that formed a short maze. As they waited in line, they chatted about things other than Jessica Caldwell before reaching the cashier. Holland ordered a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll. Tiffany ordered just coffee. Holland paid for both, and they sat at a table in a corner of the room.

“Several of the law clerks flew to Nashville for Jessica’s funeral. It was terrible…and so soon after Justice Robinson’s death.”

“I’m sure it was tough on all of you,” Holland said sympathetically. He blew on his coffee and took a sip. The coffee was mediocre at best. “What can you tell me about her?”

Tiffany sat back from the table slightly and crossed her legs to the side. It appeared to Holland that she didn’t plan on letting him get too close.

“I’m not sure I like talking to a reporter about my friend. All I can say is that she was a good roommate, a good friend, and a brilliant lawyer.”

Holland smiled. “That was a nice company line. Did the justices circulate a memo through the building that told everyone what to say about Jessica Caldwell?”

Tiffany looked at him over the top of her paper coffee cup. Her green eyes were intoxicating. “Of course not. It’s just that I’m uncomfortable talking about her. I don’t want what I say to end up in some newspaper article. That’s all.”

Holland finished the last of his roll and coffee. “Do you think the doctor got her pregnant?” He watched Tiffany’s face and body language closely. They told something different from what came out of her mouth.

“I don’t have any reason to think otherwise. Why?”

Tiffany knew something. Just what, he wasn’t certain, but she knew something. Otherwise, why would she stop him in the first place when she knew he was asking about Jessica? And why would she agree to come get a cup of coffee with him? He knew it would take more than a cup of coffee to get her to show him her cards.

“No reason. I’m just looking for a story.”

“That doesn’t seem like a human-interest story to me.” Her eyes narrowed.