Allegiance (18 page)

I shake my head. No one even knows how Gene died. Frankfurter is a Supreme Court Justice, and before that a Harvard professor. It's absurd to suppose that he could be involved in a crime. A murder.

You must be willing to do it, Cash.
Suddenly I am hearing his voice again, foreign-inflected, pitched high with passion.
That is what it means to be a judge. You cannot write the opinion unless you would pull the trigger yourself.
I close my eyes, frowning.
What can we do for the Jews of Europe but win the war as quickly as possible, united behind the President?
What would he sacrifice for that goal? A clerk who stood in the way, who threatened his vision?
No one is innocent.

I shake my head, pushing the thoughts away. I'm upset; I'm not thinking clearly. Of course there is some other explanation. I do my cert work in Black's chambers, eat lunch by myself, and go home without talking to the other clerks. Information comes in drips over the next few days. The medical examiners report that Gene suffered a heart attack. Natural causes, they say: stress, overwork, fatigue. The caffeine didn't help, nor the alcoholic binge that night.

It makes sense, I suppose. But I am finding it hard to shake my doubts. Not Frankfurter, perhaps. But Gene was doing other things, too. He was helping me; he was trying to find out who was manipulating the Court's decisions. Perhaps he was getting too close to an answer there.

Hoover seems to share my suspicions, for FBI men still come to the Court demanding access. But the marshals turn them away, first at Frankfurter's direction and now at Stone's. Murphy does not want them in his chambers; the Court will handle its own affairs. I go through the days in a haze of confusion. So many things point to Frankfurter. But he is a Supreme Court Justice. Maybe the examiners are right; maybe it wasn't murder at all. Or maybe it was someone else entirely. There is no one I can talk to, no one I can trust.

It is almost a relief, then, when I see Phil Haynes in the wide marble corridor and realize how pure and uncomplicated my feelings for him are. Here is a man I hate. He is talking to two other clerks, illustrating some tale with his hands and laughing. I move behind him, treading softly on the thick carpet, and bark his name.

He jumps at the sound. Alarm flashes across his face, followed by dull hostility. “What do you want?”

I think that Haynes must spend a lot of time outside. It is only June, but he is regaining the summertime tan he had when I first saw him. The even tone is marred by what's still a pretty good shiner. “I noticed that one of your eyes is not black,” I say. He looks at me, uncomprehending. “It's an oversight that can be corrected.”

The tough-guy response would be something about liking to see me try, but Haynes has lost some of his enthusiasm for playing tough guy with me. “How's your heart?” he asks.

For a moment I go light-headed with fury. The impulse to violence passes like an electric current up my spine. It prickles through the muscles of my back and shoulders. But just as quickly it leaves, and I feel only an unspeakable sorrow. “You'll answer for this one day,” I say. Suddenly I am fighting tears.

My expression emboldens Haynes. “I'm ready now,” he says.

I try to locate the reservoir of rage, but it is gone. I am deep underwater, where everything is dark and heavy, the emotion of the past days weighing me down like a blanket of lead.

“What's the matter?” Haynes says. He takes a step closer. “Having more funny thoughts?” There is an odd smile on his face. “Imagining things again?”

“What things?” I ask. I can barely get the words out.

Haynes puts his hands on my chest, pushing gently. “You know what's happening,” he says. I stumble back a step, fetching up against the wall. The other clerks look troubled but make no move to intervene. “Just not where you fit in.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You've forgotten who you are, Cash. Who your friends are.”

This is enough to rouse me, for a moment at least. “I know my friends. And my enemies.”

Haynes smiles. It is not odd now; it is the easy, confident smile I've seen so much this year. He could be standing with me on the squash court, waving cheerily from a Lightning sloop. “Don't be silly, pal. We're all on the same side here.”

I look into his eyes. Suppose Gene did die of natural causes. Getting punched in the face probably didn't help with that. Violence wells inside me again. It will not be boxing; I am going to throw myself on him and beat his skull on the ground till the light leaves his eyes. Then I hear approaching footsteps, an operatic whistle. It is Frankfurter.

Haynes and I separate. Frankfurter does not appear surprised to see us together, but he does not seem to grasp the situation, either. He gives us a friendly smile as he passes; he places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I've been looking for you, Justice,” Haynes says, making to follow him.

I reach out. I do not trust myself to touch Haynes, but I grab the sleeve of his jacket and hold him for a moment. “You'll answer for this,” I say again.

The other clerks stand silent and uncomfortable. Haynes offers me his smile. “You might consider an alienist.” He pulls his sleeve from my fingers and follows Frankfurter. The carpet sinks under their feet and springs back, filling their footprints like the sea.

• • • • 

It takes three days for the news to reach Haverford. Then Suzanne calls.

“What happened, Cash? I heard a clerk died. Someone called Gressman.”

“Gene Gressman,” I say.

“You must have known him.”

“He was a friend. Probably my closest friend here.”

“Gene Gressman,” she repeats. It is interesting to hear her voice say his name. It brings Philadelphia and the Court together in a way I have never been able to in my mind. And yet there is something about how she says it that I do not entirely like.

“And I think maybe he was murdered.”

Her voice goes half an octave higher. “What?”

“I'm not sure. But he was working on some things that I'm sure people didn't like. It just seems like too much of a coincidence.”

“Have you gone to the police?”

I have thought of it, but I see no point. “They wouldn't believe me. And I don't even know who it was. I could be wrong about the whole thing.”

“Then why are you still there?” she asks. “Why aren't you home now?”

“I don't know.” It is true. My friend is dead, perhaps murdered. But I cannot bring his killers to justice; I cannot even be sure they exist. That feeling of weakness, as much as anything else, has kept me in DC. Nothing I do can mend the broken world. “I still have work left for Black,” I say. “There's no reason not to finish out the term.”

“Are you crazy?” Suzanne asks. “What if he was murdered? You might get killed yourself. What makes you think you're not next on the list?”

“I don't think I'm worth killing. If I'm right about this, it was because he was going to stay longer. It was because he was influential. I'm not influential, and I'm here for another month at the most. I don't think anyone's going to be interested in me.”

But in that prediction, I am wrong.

I AM OUT
for lunch the next day when a hand seizes my arm. “Come with me please, Mr. Harrison.”

I turn. My first instinct is to ask who he thinks he is, but as I see his face I know. It is Clyde Tolson, the special assistant to J. Edgar Hoover. I remember him from the newspaper photos, entering the Court to watch the saboteurs' trial, always a step behind his boss. His grip is strong.

“Why? What did I do?”

“Nothing,” says Tolson. “Not yet. But there is something we would like you to do.”

“You could send a letter,” I say. Tolson does not laugh, and when I try to pull my arm away, he does not let go. Instead, a second suited figure separates itself from the crowd and moves into place behind me. I could take Tolson by himself, I think, but not two at once.

“Please do not make things difficult for yourself,” Tolson says.

“You mean difficult for you,” I say.

“For yourself,” he repeats.

I wave my free hand in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. What do you want?”

He maintains his grip just above my elbow. “As I said, I would like you to accompany me.” He takes a step, still holding my arm. I have little choice but to follow. The second agent comes to the other side, and I am walking Spanish down the street.

Tolson has the air of a teacher hustling a refractory student to the principal's office, and as we continue I surmise it is a more or less accurate reflection of his mind. As the blocks go by, I can guess our destination. We are headed to the Main Justice Building. We are going to see J. Edgar Hoover.

Main Justice stands on the corner of Ninth and Pennsylvania. Like most of the federal buildings, it is gray limestone, lacking the marble splendor of the Court. We walk through the iron gates, where reporters clustered during the saboteurs' trial. The Supreme Court has bronze doors and marble statues, but Main Justice's doors are aluminum, and its statues, too. They loom twelve feet tall in the foyer, the
Spirit of Justice
and the
Majesty of Law
. Justice is a woman standing with her arms up, as if an overzealous G-man has told her to reach for the sky. Perhaps because of the pose, her toga has slipped off one breast. I think it is not the best image for the Department, and I say so.

“What?” says Tolson. We stop in our progress across the foyer, but for another second the echoes of our heels continue on. “I don't even notice it anymore. And you, you've got other things to think about.”

I shrug as best I can with only one arm free. The shock of my apprehension has worn off. Somewhere in this building is Attorney General Biddle, and he is Hoover's superior. I imagine calling out his name—
Save me, Francis!
—but there is no need. I know I have nothing to fear from the government.

Hoover's office is on the second floor. We pass wall murals depicting men with raised hands. The presence of agents pointing guns marks them as evildoers surrendering. Like the Pharaohs of old, Hoover has his victories immortalized. And like them, he has guardians before the inner sanctum. In an antechamber we pass a pretty secretary and two lounging agents who straighten at our approach. As we reach the door, Tolson releases my arm and pats the wrinkles from my suit jacket. “Mr. Hoover is the man of the century,” he tells me.

The man of the century does not rise at my entrance, or even look up from his papers. He sits at a swivel chair behind a large desk. To his right the Stars and Stripes hangs limp on a gilded post; to his left is the blue flag of the Bureau with its golden seal. Tolson guides me to a low couch and directs me to take a seat. He remains standing, his back against the wall.

“Mr. Harrison,” says Hoover, still looking down. He reaches for a feather
duster and flicks at his shoes. Finally, he favors me with a glance. “Francis Biddle gave me your name.”

“That was kind of him,” I say. “Though I can't yet say I'm grateful.” Hoover has small ears, a flat nose, and bulging eyes. Reporters typically liken him to a bulldog, but he puts me more in mind of a toad. His blue tie matches the handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket.

“I asked him for a clerk who might be trustworthy.”

“Then I take it as a compliment.”

Hoover clears his throat. “You are aware, I'm sure, that my agents have had some difficulty obtaining access to the Court building.”

“Yes,” I say.

“It is Frankfurter's work. You know him?”

I nod. “I do.”

“So Biddle said. And what is your impression?”

I am becoming curious about where the conversation is heading. “I think he is quite . . . an active personality.”

Hoover leans forward, hands on his desk. “Listen to me carefully, Mr. Harrison. Felix Frankfurter is the most dangerous man in America. A Bolshevik propagandist. And now he is standing in the way of a federal investigation.”

Frankfurter is a Supreme Court Justice, I tell myself. There is no way he could be involved in a murder. But Hoover is the director of the FBI, and he seems to think otherwise. “Do you think he has something to hide?” I ask.

“I do not know. But I will tell you what I do know. I know that we are at war. I heard the bombs fall on Pearl Harbor. I heard them, Mr. Harrison. My agent in charge called from Honolulu and held the phone out the window. I know that the Court has heard, is hearing, important cases related to the war. And I know that a federal employee has died under suspicious circumstances. Eugene Gressman. He was one of us, Mr. Harrison, and we will find out what happened.”

I am silent a moment. The name has left me unbalanced, jerked my mind back to what I've been avoiding. It happens from time to time—there is a vague feeling that something isn't right, then I shift my attention and it looms huge and horrible in the center of my mind. My dreams are variations on this theme. A half-heard splash of waves on a prow in Northeast Harbor makes
me turn my head to see a vast, dark ship bearing down; a rumbling engine in DC turns out to be a speeding black van. I wake up just before the collision, with my heart racing and the feeling that the impact has jolted me from sleep. Gene Gressman is dead. There is the urgent sense that I must do something about it, coupled with the knowledge that I can do nothing at all.

But now perhaps I can.

“And you think I can help?”

“You have access to the Court. And to Frankfurter. Both are in short supply. You could be useful to us, if you are willing.”

“Oh, I'm willing,” I say. “Ready and able. But what exactly do you want me to do?”

“With Frankfurter, we would like you to talk. What you have been doing, nothing more. Any sort of information could be useful. You can report directly to Agent Tolson.”