Allegiance (21 page)

“And that is what you do?”

“I speak to the Justices. I speak to clerks. I manage emotions. I call it personalia. It is a great talent I have.”

Frankfurter is not very good at gauging his effect on other people, I think. I am torn between thinking him innocent and somewhat deluded, or conniving beyond my power to discern.

Frankfurter appears to be awaiting affirmation, but after a moment the silence grows too long for him. “So,” he says. “You will be returning to Philadelphia soon.”

“Yes,” I answer. The clerks of my year are starting to leave. As he said that night in the courtyard, Vern Countryman will join the Army Air Force. He has told me to come by the Douglas chambers next week; he has a going-away present for me. I am not sure I will. I have skipped the farewells. There is no one I will miss. There is no one I am sure is not a murderer.

“It is a shame we did not have this talk sooner,” says Frankfurter. “Perhaps we shall hear from each other in the future.”

I find I am tired of the conversation. I can no longer summon the energy to try to steer it. “Perhaps.”

He smiles. “Oh, I think it quite likely. You have impressed me greatly already. I will keep my eye on you.”

There it is again. A veiled threat, or an awkward endearment? I cannot decide, but I hold his gaze firmly. “And I you, Justice.”

• • • • 

In July coffee comes off the rationing list. Like everything else, it makes me think of Gressman. Slowly, the other clerks are leaving. I work on my cert petitions and my backhand and try to talk the new arrivals into meeting the starlings. Midway through the week I remember Vern Countryman's talk of a present.

He isn't in the Douglas chambers, nor is the secretary I have grown used to seeing. There is only a dark-haired girl arranging papers on Vern's desk.

“Excuse me,” I say. “I'm looking for Vern Countryman.”

She glances up with a smile. “I'm afraid you've missed him.” Her eyes are dark, too, with long thick lashes; in a way she reminds me of the Spanish lady at Cissy's party.

“I'm Justice Black's outgoing clerk. Did he leave anything for me?”

“He didn't leave anything I know of. Except a pile of cert petitions.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I've got enough of those already. Well, is Wild Bill around?”

The girl inclines her head slightly. Sunlight pulls other colors from her eyes, green and gold. “What did you just say?”

“I'm sorry. I meant Justice Douglas.”

She chuckles. It is surprisingly low and somehow thrilling. “Don't worry. That's what the secretaries call him, too.”

“You do?”

“They do.”

I hesitate. “Who are you?”

“Clara. Clara Watson. The incoming Douglas clerk. And you are?”

“I'm embarrassed,” I say. “This is Vern's idea of a practical joke.”

“It's not a joke, Mr. Embarrassed.” Her tone is playful, but there is an edge to it.

“Harrison. Cash Harrison. No, I mean . . .”

“You mean he didn't mention the next clerk would be a woman, so you assumed I was a secretary.”

“He set me up,” I say. “He said there was a present.”

“Oh.” She sounds less playful. “And you made each other presents of secretaries.”

“No, of course not.” I don't see what I've done to deserve such a hard time. “It was a trick.”

“Or a test,” says Clara. “So, Cash. That's quite a name. I suppose your brother is Stock?”

“Preferred Stock,” I say, trying to get my bearings. “No, Cash is a nickname. And not the right one, actually. My parents named me Caswell, so I should be Cas or Cass. But my mother wrote ‘Cas H' on everything I owned, and people took it from that.”

Clara nods as though I have confirmed some suspicion. I try to change the subject.

“How are you getting on with Douglas? We were all a little afraid of him.”

She shrugs, indicating the unreality of my concern. “Oh, I don't have any trouble with Wild Bill. I'm from Washington, like him and Vern. Vern vouched for me, you know. He said I'd do as good a job as a man, except I might not have quite the same contact with clerks in other chambers.”

“That was generous of him.” Columbia has women, though not many. I have heard professors complain that we lose students to Harvard because we no longer appear serious.

Clara shrugs again. Now it is the generosity that is unreal, and something in her gesture marks this as the more common pattern. “I was number one in my class. Vern was behind a woman and a Japanese boy. But he had the right temperament for Douglas. You just have to understand him.”

“What do you understand?” Countryman never said much about Douglas, and I know him only as a tall presence in the halls, a dangling forelock, piercing blue eyes that thankfully seldom turn to clerks. But I have heard stories.

“He's a masterstroke on his way to cliché. He's a wolf. And before too long he'll be an old wolf, and what's more of a cliché than that? But clichés start as strokes of genius. Think of the worst one you can.”

“You take my breath away,” I say. Instantly I regret it. Why did that come to mind? Clara smiles as though I have pulled a frog from my pocket. I feel myself shrinking. Little boys and their treasures.

“Very good,” she says. “A truly dead phrase. You hear it without thinking. But it must have been quite striking the first time. Clenched by awe. Like diving into a cold lake.”

I think of the grip of the sea at Northeast Harbor, the icy realm of wonder. And Suzanne. Guilt flickers in my mind, swiftly erased by a tide of irritation. I am not doing anything wrong. It is hardly my fault that Countryman played a joke on me, that Clara misinterpreted my confusion, that one particular phrase came first to my lips.

“Now, of course, it means nothing,” Clara says. The lights in her eyes are brighter, and there is something savage about her smile. “It shows only a failure of imagination. A mind stuck in the ruts of convention.”

I look at her, incredulous. “You asked for a cliché.”

“So I did.” She nods. “Well, that's Bill Douglas. The young genius starting the downslope. Don't look so distressed. It happens to all of us. Even the golden boys, perfect and untamed. Even such as Mr. Caswell Harrison.”

I have no idea how the conversation has come to be about me, and it seems powerfully unfair. Worse, I can feel that I am blushing. “I should get back to my certs,” I say.

“Yes,” says Clara. “You should.” A silent moment passes between us, then she dismisses me. “Nice suit.”

• • • • 

But I do not go back to Black's chambers. I am faster at the certs now, and there are not many left, and suddenly I am filled with purpose. In some strange way, the conversation with Clara has firmed my resolve. I have had enough of feints and indirection. I want a confrontation, and I will bring it on.

I walk into Frankfurter's chambers. Haynes is not at his desk, and the secretary gets only as far as forming my name before I pass her. The door to Frankfurter's office is open and I step through it and stand before him where he sits at the desk.

“Cash,” he says. “It is a pleasant surprise.”

“I wanted to say something to you before I left, Justice.”

“Of course. I am glad to hear it.”

“I don't think Gene Gressman had a heart attack,” I say. “I think it was murder.”

Frankfurter's eyes shift over my shoulder. I turn, following his gaze, and for the first time I see Haynes sitting in a chair near the door. At Frankfurter's look he rises and shuts it. Frankfurter stands himself and steps out from behind the desk. The effect is as of a lizard emerging from a rock. There is a different expression on his face, and he blinks smooth, reptilian eyes. “Yes, Cash,” he says softly. “It was murder. I know that better than anyone.”

HAYNES IS BETWEEN
me and the door now, but I have no desire to flee. I feel no fear, only a rising excitement. The enemy has dropped his mask. I look from one to the other. Neither is a match for me on his own, but together they might prove troublesome, and one or both could be armed. The smart move is to put Haynes on the floor before they can coordinate. I take a step toward him, intending just that. He backs into a table, alarm and confusion on his face.

“Cash,” says Frankfurter. His voice is sharp enough to break through my concentration. I stop and look at him. He is frowning severely. “What are you doing?”

I have misread the scene. I drop my hands to my sides. “Nothing. What do you mean?”

“It appeared for a moment you might assault my clerk. Please do not damage Mr. Haynes. He is quite valuable.”

Haynes's face wavers between smirk and scowl. I do not know what is going on, but I hope my confusion comes across as innocence. “I would never do such a thing.”

“I have heard to the contrary,” says Frankfurter. I shake my head mildly. “I have had what we might call the ocular proof,” he continues. I steal a glance at Haynes. The mouse is gone; his face is again an even tan. I look back to Frankfurter, and without conscious intent, I part my lips slightly and widen my eyes. After a second I realize that this is Suzanne's look of astonished innocence. She has used it to good effect over the years, with me and the
Judge alike. But Frankfurter is less susceptible, at least when the expression is on my face. “Don't gape,” he says. “Such things occur. But I will thank you not to make a habit of it.”

It seems best to change the subject. “I don't understand, Justice. What do you mean, you know it was murder?”

He steps behind the desk and sits down again. “I am a member of this Court, but I am also an observer of it. I am an observer of many things. And I can tell when influence is being exerted. Particularly when it runs counter to my own. Someone has been meddling in our affairs.”

“And you think they killed him.”

“Mr. Gressman would have been a thorn in the side of anyone seeking to affect the Court. He had some influence of his own. More, perhaps, he cut off access to Murphy, who would otherwise be the easiest justice to sway.”

Frankfurter is surely speaking from experience. I am tempted to point this out, to give Gressman his due, but I let it pass. “Who do you think is behind it?”

“That is what I have been trying to figure out. If we may judge a thing by its effects, I would say they are conservatives.”

I am puzzled. “Justice, aren't you a conservative?”

Frankfurter looks annoyed. “I am a neutral judge who does not impose his values. There is a pro-business influence at work.”

It matches with some of what Gressman said, but I am not convinced. “But it was the Witness cases where he really made a difference.”

Frankfurter waves a dismissive hand. “The people who would interfere in the Court's work do not care about the rights of the Jehovah's Witnesses. It may have demonstrated his ability, but the result did not matter. No, the people I speak of are those who have not accepted the New Deal. They still fight on behalf of capital, against the creeping socialism of that man in the White House.”

“I don't know,” I say. “Just a couple of days before he was killed, Gene was yelling about the Japanese. Everyone heard him. You can ask Haynes.”

“I am aware of the incident, as I told you.” Frankfurter pauses for a moment. He lays his hands on the desk. “There may be a connection. I cannot rule it out. But that is what I seek to discover. Philip has been helping. And young men of my acquaintance, scattered through the government.”

“The Happy Hot Dogs,” I say.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What?” I start to widen my eyes and catch myself. “Nothing.”

“It's something they call us, Justice,” Haynes puts in.

“The Happy Hot Dogs?” Frankfurter repeats the phrase, incredulous. “Oh,” he says slowly. For the briefest instant I see the beginning of a smile, then he draws his lips together in a tight line of disapproval. “Ridiculous.”

I am eager to end the digression. “You say you are investigating?”

“Yes. And you could help.”

“How?”

“There are places you can go that I cannot. Nor most of my friends. Those parties you attend at Cissy Patterson's.”

I look at Haynes. “Didn't I see Phil at that party?” He shakes his head, sullen. “Then how do you know I was there?”

“It was reported to me.”

Dawn breaks in my mind. “You're the one who had me followed.”

“I had to,” says Frankfurter. “I believe some of the influence comes through clerks.”

“I do too,” I say. It is a great relief to be able to speak openly to someone who understands. All in an instant I have become quite fond of Frankfurter. I am on the verge of admitting that I have been spying on him in turn, for Hoover, who despises him . . . or perhaps I would do better to keep that to myself. “Your guys got pretty rough with me.”

Frankfurter shrugs. “I am told you swung first.”

“I might have pushed him. I don't remember.”

“It is no shame,” he says. “Violence may be necessary. That evening, we shall call it a miscommunication.” He steeples his fingers, an almost prayerful gesture. “You can understand why I was suspicious. When a Justice does his own hiring, I am not concerned. When he relies on recommendations from others, I fear the cat's paw may slip in. I had to be sure where your loyalties lay.”

“And are you?”

“Not from anything my men turned up. But I believe in your friendship with Mr. Gressman. Whoever killed him is your enemy.”

“And yours.”

“Yes,” says Frankfurter. He smiles. “I believe there is a principle of logic by which that makes us friends. If we were not already.”

I decide to make a relatively clean breast of things. “You know, Gene wasn't fond of you. He thought you were the one pulling strings.”