Chapter Seven

Dennis Masterson worked a kink out of his neck as he carried his coffee mug to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his spacious corner office. Masterson’s workplace was the largest of any partner at Rankin Lusk, which was fitting because he was the firm’s biggest rainmaker. The oak-paneled walls of his domain were a testament to his power. They were decorated with pictures of Masterson posed with every important person who had worked inside the Beltway for the past thirty years.

Most of the partners in the major D.C. law firms labored in obscurity, known only to the members of their country club and the legislators and political appointees they lobbied, but Masterson was familiar to any American who watched the evening news or political talk shows. A quarterback at Dartmouth and a law review editor at Yale, he had joined Rankin Lusk after two tours in Vietnam. Seven years ago, Masterson had taken a sabbatical to serve as the director of the CIA. Three years ago, there had been a very embarrassing incident in Afghanistan, and Masterson had rejoined Rankin Lusk when the president, in need of a scapegoat, had asked him to fall on his sword. Masterson had toyed with the idea of resisting the request, but there was a lot of money to be made in the private sector and it didn’t hurt his business prospects to be owed a favor by the leader of the free world.

Masterson was six four with the patrician features of a man born to wealth. With his snow white hair and steely blue eyes, he was the personification of wisdom and sincerity, and the perfect guest on any television talk show. During his CIA days, he had been the ideal person to bear witness before a congressional committee. Masterson’s connections with the defense and intelligence industries made him indispensable to his firm.

Masterson’s disposable and untraceable cell phone rang. Only one person had the number to this particular phone and that person only called with important news.

“The conference just ended,” the voice on the other end of the line said, “and there’s been a development. Justice Chalmers resigned. His wife has Alzheimer’s and-”

“I’ve known that for two hours,” Masterson interrupted. “What happened with the Woodruff petition?”

“It’s still alive.”

Masterson swore. “Millard couldn’t kill it?”

“He tried but Moss stepped in and convinced the other judges to defer a vote.”

“What’s the count?”

“Justices David and Martinez want cert granted. Moss won’t take a position, but Price thinks she’s leaning toward voting to grant.”

“Thank God for Chalmers’ wife. He would have been the fourth vote if Moss is in favor.”

Masterson went quiet. The caller waited.

“I want Moss’s chambers bugged,” Masterson said. “We have to know which way she’s leaning.”

“I’m on it.”

Masterson broke the connection and returned his attention to the world outside his office. In the streets below, people scurried back and forth with no idea of who was really running the world. From this height, they looked like ants, and Masterson viewed them with the same dispassion he viewed any other insect. Of the billions of people in the world, only a few counted, and he was one of them. But that could change if Sarah Woodruff’s case didn’t die in conference. As it stood now, Woodruff was just another criminal case from a Podunk state known for tree huggers, pretty mountains, and running shoes. Masterson could not risk the scrutiny it would receive if the Supreme Court took it up. Woodruff had to stay buried, and Dennis Masterson was willing to do anything to keep it six feet under.

Chapter Eight

The Supreme Court cafeteria is open to the public, but the clerks eat in a glassed-in section with a door that is always closed so they can discuss Court business freely without worrying about being overheard. Advance notice of, for instance, the way a business case is going to be decided can have all sorts of consequences, and the clerks were impressed from their first day with the need for secrecy. Brad never discussed his cases with anyone but his justice and his fellow clerks, and Ginny knew better than to ask about them.

Brad was grabbing an early lunch alone in the clerks’ area of the cafeteria when a tall, fit-looking man with a military haircut carried his tray to the seat across from him.

“Mind if I join you?”

“No, sit,” Brad answered. The man looked to be in his mid- to late thirties, which was old for a clerk, and Brad wondered if this was a visitor who had wandered into the clerks’ eating area by mistake.

“Are you Brad Miller?” the man said as he set down his tray. Brad braced himself for questions about the Farrington case. “Your fiancée is Ginny Striker, right?”

“Do you know Ginny?” Brad asked, relieved that he wasn’t going to have to fend off another nosy inquiry.

“I’m Kyle Peterson and I’m a senior associate at Rankin Lusk.”

Peterson saw the panicky expression on Brad’s face and laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m temporarily clerking for Justice Price until he hires someone to replace Frank Sheppard.”

Brad sobered immediately. “That was awful,” he said. Brad had met Frank his first week at the court. All of the clerks were shocked when he was badly injured in a hit-and-run accident.

“I never met him, but I heard he’s a very nice guy,” Peterson said.

“He is. So how did you get to take his place?”

“I worked with Justice Price when I started at Rankin Lusk, and we stayed in touch after he went on the Court. He’s comfortable with me, and he trusts my work. The firm thought it wouldn’t hurt for me to work up here, so…” Peterson shrugged.

“Do you work with Ginny?” Brad asked.

“We worked on a project together. When Justice Price asked me to fill in, I mentioned it to her and she told me you were clerking. I knew your name and what you look like from the papers and TV.”

“That is my curse.”

Peterson laughed. “So, how do you like clerking?”

“I really enjoy it. Justice Moss is great to work for, and the work is so interesting and important. The load is overwhelming at times, but I’m really glad I got the position.”

“It’s a great place to work, and you’ll be able to pick your job when you’re through. You might think about Rankin Lusk, though I don’t know what the firm policy is about hiring married couples.”

“I worked for a big firm in Oregon, and I’m not interested in doing that again. I’m thinking about the Justice Department or maybe something in the Senate or House.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. I bet Justice Moss has a ton of contacts. And speaking of your boss, do you have any idea what she did in conference that upset Millard?”

“No,” Brad answered cautiously.

“It had something to do with the Woodruff petition.”

“I didn’t work on that one, and the judge never discusses what goes on during the cert conferences.”

“Well, something set him off. He’s usually pretty mellow. You don’t happen to know how she’s planning to vote on the petition, do you? That might have something to do with it.”

“Like I said, it’s not a case I worked on, and the justice hasn’t said anything to me about it. I don’t even know what type of case it is.”

Peterson took a bite out of his sandwich and Brad did the same.

“So, you were working in Oregon,” Peterson said when he was through chewing. “I’ve never been out there, but I hear it’s nice.”

Everything about the library on the top floor of the Supreme Court was majestic, appointed with rich oak paneling, plush red carpets illuminated by grand chandeliers, and long tables of polished wood on which to write and research. It wasn’t unusual for Brad Miller to find his eyes drifting upward to the ornate ceiling or wandering to the figures representing law, science, and the arts that were carved on the seven huge arches on either side of the library.