At three o’clock, Lisa returned to the office. “We’re done,” she sang as she entered the room, throwing a manila file folder on her desk. “He loved it! Oshinsky is O’history!” Taking one look at Ben, she asked, “What?”
“I have a message to give you. Diana Martin of The Washington Post called. She wants you to call her.”
“Ben, I can expl-”
“Don’t bother,” he said, throwing Diana’s number on her desk. “I won’t believe it.”
“Ben, don’t be so damn stubborn.”
“Why not? All my other friends picked today to dick me over. Why can’t I be a little bit stubborn? In fact, I think I’m entitled to be a full-fledged jerk today.”
“Well, you’re doing a great job of that. And let me ask you a question: Why were you even answering my line?”
“Don’t even think of turning this one around,” he said, jumping from his seat. “Your phone rang; I picked it up. Period. What’s your excuse?”
Lisa looked at her feet. “I was worried that you would be crazy if I didn’t get a phone call from the Post, so I had a friend of mine make that first call to me and I pretended it was the reporter. I was trying to make you feel better.”
Ben fell silent. “You really did that for me?”
“I did it because I pity you,” she said with a smile.
“That’s not a bad excuse.”
“C’mon, you can’t be mad.”
“You’re lucky this time,” he said, pointing at Lisa. “Next time you try to be nice, I’m gonna really get pissed.”
At seven-thirty, Ben packed up his briefcase and left the office. Walking downstairs, he thought about his forthcoming confrontation with Eric. If he has no explanation, he’s dead, Ben thought as he swiped his card through the security door on the first floor. Even if he has an explanation, he’s dead. As he passed the marble statues in the Great Hall, Ben heard the security guard at the front entrance mumble something into his walkie-talkie. When the guard got out of his seat, Ben wondered what was wrong. Slowly, he approached the entrance. The guard looked at his clipboard. At the last second, Ben decided to turn around. Heading back the way he came, he swiped his card through the security door he had just left, reentering the north wing of the Court. He hurried toward the unmanned side door that exited to the north side of the building. As he approached the door, he heard the echo of footsteps behind him. Only the guilty run, he thought, remembering the advice from his criminal law professor. As he approached the exit, he once again prepared to swipe his I.D. card. Forcing it though the machine that would let him reach the exit, he was surprised when he didn’t hear the usual click of access. Again he tried the card. Nothing.
“Ben, can we speak with you for a moment?”
Ben jumped. Turning around, he saw a man in a gray wool suit coming toward him.
“Do you have a moment?” the man asked.
“Uh, is there a problem?” Ben stuttered.
“If you would just follow me.” Ben followed the man back to the front entrance. As they walked through the Great Hall, Ben loosened his tie. When they reached the front of the building, they took the elevator to the basement. Known to Court staff as Disneyland, the basement of the Supreme Court contained a snack bar, cafeteria, movie theater, gift shop, and exhibits on the history of the Court.
As Ben passed the giant statue of John Marshall, he tightened his jaw and tried his best to remain calm. On the west side of the building were the only basement offices: those of the marshals, who were in charge of all security for the Court. Entering through the main door, Ben walked through the maze of tiny cubicles and was escorted to the far left-hand corner of the room. Stopping in the doorway of a large office, Ben waited behind his guide. A heavy man in a blue pin-striped suit sat behind a faux antique desk.
“Come on in,” he said. His round face was highlighted by a fat, pockmarked nose and a beard peppered with gray. The smell of the office revealed his taste for cigars. Decorating the front of his desk was an extensive collection of batteries. “Do me a favor, close the door,” the man said, motioning to Ben’s escort. He tilted back in his leather chair as the door slammed shut. “So you’re Ben Addison,” he said. “Please. Sit.”
“Is there some sort of problem?” Ben asked nervously as he sat in one of the two seats in front of the desk. He kept his breathing slow and steady, trying to look unfazed.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” the man said as Ben’s escort sat in the other chair. “In case you don’t know me, I’m Carl Lungen, chief marshal here at the Court. I oversee all of our security here. This is Dennis Fisk, our deputy marshal,” Lungen said, indicating Ben’s gray-suited escort. “The reason we brought you here today is because we have some questions that we hope you can answer about a story that appeared in today’s Washington Herald. If you’re not aware of the story, let me say that it suggests the possibility that the recent CMI decision was leaked to Mr. Charles Maxwell. Are you with me so far?”
“I saw the story,” Ben said, annoyed by Lungen’s condescending tone.
“Good,” Lungen said, grabbing a 1980 Energizer. “You see, Ben, this story suggests that the security of this Court has been compromised. As you can imagine, this reflects poorly on our office. Luckily, we have a very close friend at the Herald, and after a phone call to this friend, I was informed that the author of the story was a new reporter to the paper. I was also informed that this reporter happens to live with one of our clerks. That clerk is you. So, you can imagine my desire to meet you face-to-face.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Ben said, “but I had nothing to do with the story.”
“So you’re telling me that you don’t know of anyone leaking information from this Court?”
“No one.”
“Then why did your friend write that story?”
“I don’t know. To be honest, that’s exactly where I was headed when you pulled me down here. The first I heard of the story was at seven o’clock this morning. When I went to confront my roommate about it, he was gone.”
“Ben, I’m going to ask you again. Do you know of anyone leaking information from this Court?”
“No, I don’t. I swear, I don’t know of anyone.”
Lungen placed the battery back in line with the others. He stared at Ben. After a pause, Ben said, “My only guess is that he was trying to make a good impression on his editors. I mean, he knows that we know the opinions in advance. From there he can write whatever he wants. You know the Herald, they print anything.” As his voice picked up strength, he continued, “And if Eric had a single shred of proof, do you really think they’d run it on page five? The story is complete conjecture. You read it; all it does is present the possibility of an inside source to explain Maxwell’s lucky guess. It could’ve appeared on the op-ed page.”
“Ben, do you know what would happen if we found out you were lying?” Lungen asked, placing his hands flat on his desk. “Naturally, you’d be removed from your position. If that happened, my guess is that the press would pick it up immediately. Whether you were responsible or not, I’d wager that you’d be implicated as the source that leaked to Maxwell. After that, I’d say your career would be over, and your only work would be as an adviser to the TV movie that tells the world your story.”
“Why don’t you just cooperate with us?” Fisk asked in a calm, soothing voice. Fisk was rugged-looking, with chiseled features offset by a bad complexion and a poorly fitted suit. Fisk’s strong Chicago accent flattened his A’s and rounded his O’s. “If you let us, you know we can help you with this.”
“Listen, I don’t need the good-cop-bad-cop routine,” Ben said, a rush of adrenaline keeping his voice from cracking. “If I leaked the story to Eric, I’d be a complete moron. I mean, no offense to you guys, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out Eric and I are roommates. Does it make any sense for me to ask my roommate to write a story that will not only jeopardize my career, but will also call attention to myself?” Letting the logic of the argument sink in, he added, “The story is bullshit. Eric probably wanted attention and-”