The Last Justice (8 page)

Upon learning of their son's murder, Parker Sinclair's parents had cut their Bermuda vacation short and rushed to New York. Milstein, sensing that they were surely overwhelmed after having just identified the body of their only child, had offered to go to their hotel rather than force them to find their way to the precinct.

"I told them we'd be coming, and I'm not calling it off just because the feds think they can push into our case."

"I know, Em," Assad said, treading lightly. "We'll go, but then we need to get hold of our contact from the Supreme Court Commission."

Milstein turned and stormed out of the room.

Woodley Park Metro Station, Washington,

cKenna walked to the subway station-the "metro," as D.C. locals call it-from Kate's condo. A cold front was rolling in, and the sky was filling with dark clouds. Griffin Nash's office at Nevel Industries was near the corner of Thirteenth and F streets downtown, and at rush hour the metro was the fastest route. McKenna stepped down the steep and chronically out-of-service escalator into the mouth of the subway.

As he waited under the concrete arch for the red line train, his thoughts turned to Nash. They had met when McKenna was then-Governor Winter's counsel and key adviser. He had felt an immediate dislike for the brash, cocky CEO the moment they met, but the man was a big donor and a college friend of Winter's, so McKenna had always kept it cordial. During the campaign for the presidency, McKenna soon found himself on the outside, while Nash and those allegiant to Nash had Winter's ear. So he had been surprised when Nash called him after the election and asked him to lunch to discuss whether McKenna would be interested in a seat on an Ohio federal court. McKenna sat at Lindey's restaurant in Columbus' German Village neighborhood, expecting to be grilled on his judicial philosophy and qualifications. Instead, Nash arrived late, ordered a salad and sparkling water, and asked him only one question.

"What would you say if the Judiciary Committee asked you about rumors that President Winter had illicit affairs while he was governor? Bear in mind that, unlike your statements to the press during the campaign, testimony to the committee would be under oath."

Without a moment's pause, McKenna had replied, "As I said during the campaign, I'd say I think those allegations are baseless."

And later,when asked that very question by one of the Democrats on the Senate Judiciary Committee, he was true to his word. And so he became the Honorable Judge Jefferson McKenna. It was one of the reasons, he now believed, that God was punishing him.

The train pushed into the station. Stepping aboard, he straightened his striped tie and starched white collar in the train window reflection. To get to Nash, he needed to look the part. He got off at the Metro Center station, which was crowded with commuters escaping downtown after a long day's work. Fifteen minutes later, he was walking through the dazzling glass and steel atrium of the Nevel building.

Noticing a large lawyerly looking group headed for the elevator banks, McKenna crowded near them and easily tagged along, getting out with them on the eleventh floor. No one was saying much, and following the group down a hallway, he ducked into a conference room and looked for an office directory. Finding one, he looked up Griffin Nash: right here on the eleventh floor.

Following the office numbers, McKenna strode confidently down the hall, which ran a full city block, looking for Nash's office. The secretaries and support personnel whose workstations lined his path paid no heed to the well-dressed man as he passed. He found the office. Now he faced a choice: burst in dramatically or lie in wait. Choosing the latter, he sat down at a visitor workstation near Nash's office. He was perspiring heavily and dabbed his brow with a handkerchief as he waited. Then he heard it, the unmistakable voice from his past.

Griffin Nash, a strapping former Marine who still kept his hair cropped "high and tight,"walked out of his office. Next to him was a distinguished-looking black man in a fine suit complemented with a perfect pocket square.

"We've got to issue a press release soon about this, Griffin," the man was saying. "The reporters smell blood. We need to get ahead of this thing and deny the allegations."

"I understand, Carl," Nash said. "Tell everyone I'll be right there. I need to use the restroom."

The other man walked off, shaking his head. McKenna got up casually and ambled after Nash to the restroom, going straight into a stall as Nash stood in front of a urinal.

Watching through the crack in the door, McKenna waited as Nash walked to the sink and proceeded to wash his hands. He scrubbed his hands for a long moment, and appeared to be lost in thought.

"Spots won't come off, Griffin?" McKenna said, coming out of the stall.

Nash looked at McKenna in the mirror, and his face drained of color.

"It's been a long time," McKenna said. "We need to talk."

"Not here," Nash said, turning around quickly, his eyes darting below the row of stall doors. He started drying his hands roughly with a paper towel.

"Griffin, we need-"

"Not here, Jeff," he repeated. "Give me five minutes and I'll meet you at the Starbucks on Eleventh Street."

McKenna was about to protest, but a man came into the restroom, and Nash seized the opportunity and made for the door.

"I'll see you at the Starbucks on Eleventh," he said in a tone of strained friendliness. "Looking forward to catching up."

Feeling that it was time to retreat, McKenna left the building. But rather than go to the coffee shop, he waited on the sidewalk outside the entrance to the Nevel Industries building, trying not to stand out among the street vendors and vagrants loitering at the nearby metro entrance. Picking a newspaper from atop a full trash can, he pretended to read. Nash had ten minutes; after that, he was going back inside, this time not so civilly.

But here came Nash, punctual to the minute, walking resolutely out of the building. It had started to rain, so McKenna put the newspaper over his head and walked fast to catch up.

A man with a pockmarked face wearing a camouflage hunting jacket stepped onto the sidewalk behind them.

Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, Manhattan

half hour after leaving the W Hotel, Milstein and Assad arrived at the Waldorf. Admiring the Art Deco grill at the Park Avenue entrance, Assad said, "I stay at a motel on my one vacation a year ... We're in the wrong business."

John Sinclair opened his hotel room door and invited them in. He was a tight-jawed, manicured lawyer in his late fifties. He called for his wife, who came out of the bedroom. Mrs. Sinclair was slightly overweight and had friendly eyes that were swollen and red. "We're very sorry for your loss," Assad said.

"Do you have any leads on who did this?" Mr. Sinclair asked, all business.

"We're working on it," Milstein replied. "We need to ask you some questions about your son."

For the first few minutes, Parker Sinclair's parents, in their distinct Connecticut accents, told them what they already knew: Parker's life was his work; he had no enemies; though he occasionally grumbled about the work habits of the other law clerks, he had no serious quarrels. Mrs. Sinclair looked coldly on as her husband proudly explained their son's hard work ethic-apparently, she had endured the life of a workaholic's wife.

"Have you spoken with Parker's fiancee?" Mrs. Sinclair asked. "She must be devastated."

"Fiancee?" Assad said.

"Why, yes. Dakota Cameron. She works with him."

Milstein and Assad exchanged a glance. "We spoke to Dakota," Milstein said. "She said Parker was not acting like himself the last few days."

"I didn't notice anything unusual the last time we spoke," Mrs. Sinclair replied.

"How often did you speak with Parker?" Milstein asked.

"We don't go a week without some type of contact, mostly by e-mail-he loved that Blueberry."

"BlackBerry," her husband sniffed. "It's called a BlackBerry."

Mrs. Sinclair shot her husband a look. "We had a call right before we left on the trip, a week and a half ago. He seemed fine."

Milstein paused, then said, "Mrs. Sinclair, Dakota also said that she and Parker had broken up some time ago. He didn't mention that to you?"

"Broken up? I had no idea. He never..." Her voice trailed off.

They questioned the Sinclairs for ten more minutes, and on their way out, Milstein handed Mrs. Sinclair her card.

"Don't hesitate to call me if you think of anything," she said, touching Mrs. Sinclair lightly on the arm. "My cell number is on the card."

When the hotel room door closed, Milstein turned to Assad and gave him a sardonic smile.

"Your girlfriend Dakota Cameron has some explaining to do."

Downtown Washington,

hen Griffin Nash stopped at the crosswalk at the corner of F and Eleventh streets, McKenna made his way through the small cluster of umbrellas.