Authors: Max Allan Collins
Supreme Justice
Other Books by Max Allan Collins
available from Thomas & Mercer
Thrillers:
What Doesn’t Kill Her
Midnight Haul
Regeneration
(with Barbara Collins as “Barbara Allan”)
Bombshell
(with Barbara Collins as “Barbara Allan”)
The “Disaster” series:
The Titanic Murders
The Hindenburg Murders
The Pearl Harbor Murders
The Lusitania Murders
The London Blitz Murders
The War of the Worlds Murder
Nathan Heller novels:
Chicago Confidential
Angel in Black
Majic Man
Flying Blind
Damned in Paradise
Blood and Thunder
Carnal Hours
Stolen Away
Neon Mirage
The Million-Dollar Wound
True Crime
True Detective
Triple Play
(novellas)
Chicago Lightning
(short stories)
Mallory novels:
No Cure for Death
The Baby Blue Rip-Off
Kill Your Darlings
A Shroud for Aquarius
Nice Weekend for a Murder
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2014 Max Allan Collins
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
ISBN-13: 9781612185309
ISBN-10: 1612185304
Cover design by Jason Gurley
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013920856
I wish to acknowledge my frequent collaborator,
Matthew V. Clemens,
for coplotting, forensics (and other) research, and the preparation of a story treatment from which I could develop this novel.
—M. A. C.
For Jacque—always on the author’s team
CONTENTS
“Presidents come and go, but the Supreme Court goes on forever.”
William Howard Taft, Twenty-Seventh President of the United States of America, Tenth Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.
Section 30, Grave S-14, Grid Y/Z-39/40, Arlington National Cemetery.
ONE
In less than an hour, Nicholas Blount would be staring into the infinite blackness of a Glock barrel.
But right now, at the end of another typically long and tedious day as a Supreme Court law clerk, Nicky seemed almost to bounce across the well-appointed outer office of Associate Justice Henry Venter.
If you didn’t have endless energy, best not to clerk at the top court in the country—especially if you were working for this notoriously conservative, famously hardworking African American justice.
Six foot two, with a bland blond handsomeness counteracted by piercing hazel eyes, the youngest son of Senator Wilson Blount of Tennessee was well aware he’d not risen to this elevated position due to personal achievement, though on paper he was as qualified as anyone here. Nonetheless, his posting was strictly a matter of privilege, nothing more, nothing less—the Blounts had been wealthy, and politically connected, since before the Civil War.
Then why, to the rednecks back home, did the Blount men maintain their good-ol’-boy standing? Simple—the Senator talked only about guns, God, and America. Like the two Blount senators before him.
Granted, the Democrats had won the last presidential election, but after twelve years of having things their own way, the Republicans knew a pendulum swing would come, and now that it had, the idea was to swing that sucker back as soon as possible. Thanks to two-term neocon President Gregory Watson Bennett, the GOP still controlled the Supreme Court. But then the sure-thing next prez—Vice President Michael Hasten—had been upset by the African American Democrat Devlin Harrison, and all bets were off.
Harrison had been a hell of a campaigner—with a name that close to
devil
, he’d had to be. On the other hand, a guy with the middle name
Hussein
had managed it, not that long ago . . .
Another black man in the White House was not enough to take the grin off Nicky Blount’s well-tanned face. The conservative Supreme Court had already made numerous inroads, not the least of which was finally overturning that disastrous Roe v. Wade decision. The next election would surely see the Grand Old Party taking back political control of the other two branches of government.
Nicky’s older brother, Governor Nathaniel Blount of Mississippi, was odds-on favorite for top of the ticket next time. They would wangle a moderate, Gilson of Indiana or maybe Kelly from Pennsylvania, to appeal to northerners. Then, once Nathaniel was elected, Nicky would move in next to him, as attorney general.
What the hell—it had worked for those damn Kennedys.
Some in the GOP thought the Blount boys too inexperienced for high national office, but Nathaniel was only the fourth Republican governor in Mississippi since 1876, a feat not easily shrugged off by the old guard of the party. Nathaniel would be forty-three, the same age as JFK, when he got elected two years from now. Nicky would be thirty-six (about the same age as Bobby K. had been), and as for experience—wasn’t he clerking for Associate Justice Venter?
Nicky glanced into the AJ’s office. There sat the man himself, leaned over in his tufted-back chair, tiny reading glasses perched on his nose, a green-shaded banker’s lamp on the corner of the massive mahogany desk providing just enough light to view the brief before him. Bull-necked with graying hair, Venter had played football at the University of Missouri, though keeping in shape had never been a priority. Still, soft around the middle though he might be, Venter was fairly fit for seventy.
“Mr. Blount,” came the resonant rumble from within the office, “you’re hovering again.” The man hadn’t as much as glanced up.
How did he do that?
Nicky froze.
And the deep voice continued: “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Blount?”
“Uh, no, sir,” Nicky said, flushing. Why did he always feel that Venter considered him an idiot? “It was just the opposite.”
Now Venter looked up, a crease between his brows. “Oh?”
“I mean, I was just wondering if
you
needed anything.”
Venter took off his glasses and rotated his neck. “I’m fine,” the Justice said. “I think it’s about time we called it a day.”
About time is right,
Nicky thought.
The AJ might have been past the average man’s retirement age, but his work ethic showed no sign of flagging. The judge was still the first one in and, generally, the last one out. At just after seven, stopping now would make a twelve-hour day, but Nicky knew all too well that Venter routinely worked an hour or two—or more—beyond that.
“Should I call Hudson?” Nicky asked, referring to the Justice’s driver, a retired bailiff.
Venter rested his glasses on the desk, then wiped two meaty paws over his face before answering. The man sighed. Actually sighed. “Do you have time for a drink, Mr. Blount?”
Was that a trick question?
The AJ had never shared a coffee with Nicky much less a meal during the six months that Nicky had been here—six months during which Nicky had never felt more than a glorified gopher.
“Of course, sir,” Nicky managed.
“Call Hudson. Tell him we’ll be down in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Within half an hour, Nicky was sitting across from Venter at a table in the bar of the Verdict Chophouse, a restaurant frequented by the judiciary and its top staffers. Nicky was used to being in the same room with the most powerful men in the country—after all, his father was a senator and his brother a governor—but the patrons of this restaurant were enough to give a cable news anchor whiplash. One former Cabinet member, a former Supreme Court Justice, the current Director of the CIA, and two CEOs of major financial institutions . . . and that was just one table.
The bar was all dark wood and linen tablecloths (meals could be ordered here), with a formal service staff as alert as first responders. Tradition oozed from the walls of the Verdict, which had served its first customer during the administration of Teddy Roosevelt and had been a DC staple ever since. Oil paintings of past justices were spotted around with tiny gold identifying plaques. Venter and his aide were seated at a table for four off to the side, near a fire exit.
Justice Venter had ordered a Scotch on the rocks, and Nicky was allowing himself a martini, but only one.
“You have been chafing, Mr. Blount,” his boss said, the man’s voice hushed, his tone friendly, but resonant enough that Nicky did not feel relaxed—all the martinis in DC couldn’t have done that.
“I’m not sure I follow, sir.”
“You feel underutilized in your position.”
It was not a question, yet Nicky wondered if he should answer as if it were. The statement rang true, of course. Of the four clerks working for Justice Venter, Nicky came from the most politically powerful family, had the best scholastic record, and had outshone the others at every opportunity. Yet Venter had always seemed to favor them over him.
Against his better judgment, Nicky said, “I guess I do, sir. Feel underutilized.”
“I don’t think there’s any guesswork involved.” Venter gave him a rare hint of a smile. “You’re under the misapprehension that I dislike you.”
Emboldened by this honest exchange, Nicky said, “That’s a little strong, sir. I would say . . . I suspect you don’t particularly care for me.”
“I’m sure that’s an accurate assessment of your own feelings, Mr. Blount.” He shrugged the big shoulders. “But I assure you it’s a misrepresentation of
mine
.”
“How so, sir?”
The hint of a smile blossomed into a grin—a goddamned grin. But was it friendly? Or sinister?
The Justice said, “Clerks at the Court come and go, Mr. Blount. Some will go on to great things—most will not.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You, Mr. Blount—you, I believe, can do great things.”
Nicky frowned, not sure he’d heard right. The AJ might have slapped him. “Thank you, sir . . . ?”
A cough of a laugh seemed prompted by the unsureness of Nicky’s response.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Blount. Perhaps now you’ll understand why I’ve assigned my other clerks to write up the summaries of the certiorari petitions thus far.”
But Nicky didn’t understand. If he was the best of the clerks, why were the others getting the summaries?
The certiorari petitions were the documents filed to request that the Court review a case. A well-written summary of the cert was often the first step in getting the case before the Court. Likewise, a poorly written one, even on what could be a major issue, could mean certain death for said petition.
Reading Nicky’s confusion, Venter smiled again, and this time there was no way to read it as anything but sincere. “I’ve been saving you, Mr. Blount. To use a sports analogy . . . you are going to be my cleanup hitter.”
“Sir, I . . .”
“Just listen. There is a certiorari petition coming in on a case I want to make sure the Court hears. Your summary, Mr. Blount, will be the first volley. Now do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” Nicky said. He sat forward. “If I might ask, what is the case?”
“Illinois v. Meachem—you know it?”
Nodding, Nicky said, “Yes, sir.”
“Do you mind
demonstrating
that you know it?”
“Yes. That is, no. The State of Illinois arrested Laverne Meachem under the state’s eavesdropping statute because he used a cell phone to take footage of three officers who were beating up his brother.”
“Yes,” Venter said. “Thoughts?”
Two ski-masked men in black burst past the maître d’ and into the bar. The smaller of the two brandished a 9-millimeter pistol while the bigger one clutched an AK-47.
Both Nicky’s and Venter’s mouths hung open in interrupted conversation turned to shock.
The larger of the intruders shouted,
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery! Hands where we can see them! Get frisky and die—understood?
”
No one answered, but most hands went up or at least rested on tables as the 9-millimeter-wielding, smaller figure moved deeper into the room, withdrawing with his free hand a plastic garbage bag from somewhere and shaking it open.
In a harsh, high voice, he yelled, “
Wallets, jewelry, and cell phones
!
” He began at the bar, with the patron nearest him.
Fear spread through Nicky’s body like sudden flu, and just as abruptly his bladder seemed at bursting. Until those men exploded into the bar, he hadn’t even known he had to go. Now the discomfort was unimaginable.
The man with the pistol moved around the horseshoe-shaped counter collecting wallets and other valuables from customers. His partner’s eyes roamed the room, searching for any hero who might try to break up the robbery or call 911 before a cell had been confiscated.
Nicky’s own cell felt like a brick clipped on his belt. He would not be the hero. He would not die in some stupid damn bar robbery and never be attorney general, never follow his brother into even higher office. He resolved right then, for the good of the nation, he would not do anything stupid.
Under his breath, Venter said, “Now is not the time to do anything rash, Mr. Blount.”
No shit
,
he thought, but did not share this response with this Associate Justice of the Supreme Court. He merely nodded, which was all he could manage, busy as he was doing battle with his bladder.
The holdup man with the garbage bag and the big pistol now moved closer to Nicky and Justice Venter, collecting more items as he hopped from table to table.
Nicky risked a look at the bigger man, whose eyes slow-scanned the room like a prison tower guard, ready to use the AK-47 he held at port arms.
When Nicky turned back, the shorter one stood before him, as if he’d materialized, and Nicky found himself staring down the barrel of the Glock into that endless black hole. Again, his bladder screamed.
“Stop stalling, haircut,” the holdup man said, the barrel of the Glock inching toward Nicky’s face.
“I . . . I . . .” was all Nicky got out.
“
Do it
!
”
Nicky reached slowly to his belt to remove his cell phone, fumbling a little. From the corner of an eye, he saw Venter start to rise.
What was Venter doing? Trying to stop this?
Nicky wanted to shout “No!” but the word caught in his throat. The Glock swung away from Nicky’s face, toward Venter, who was on his feet now. The gun barrel belched flame, and its explosion brought Nicky momentary deafness followed by intense ringing.
A pink mist lingered between him and the falling Associate Justice, and blood and brain matter splattered the nearby fire exit. Several patrons were screaming, a woman and a man or two, in terrible nonharmony that got cut off by an automatic burst from the AK—into the ceiling, not the patrons.
The weapon’s owner yelled to his partner, “
Let’s book
!
”
The shorter holdup man glared at Nicky, who knew, if he survived this, he would never forget the ice-blue eyes behind the ski mask. Then the barrel of the Glock filled his field of vision again.
The young man with the assured political future prepared himself to die, saying a silent prayer, but the shot didn’t come.
The holdup man said, “The nigger didn’t have to die. You
hesitated
, asshole. It’s on
you
!
”
Then the holdup man hit Nicky across the face with the pistol, the gunsight tearing his cheek, his bladder releasing, even as his vision was filled with a mini Fourth of July sky works accompanied by shooting pain that seemed to engage every nerve ending in his body.
Chairs tipped over and patrons yelped as the thieves ran like hell out the front.
Nicky lay there, breathing hard, the warmth where he’d pissed himself strangely comforting. But he had to turn away from the vacant-eyed stare of Associate Justice Henry Venter, who had, before getting shot in the forehead, finally acknowledged his aide’s potential.