Supreme Justice (13 page)

“May I ask, first, if you’ve made any progress in your investigation?”

“We have a dead suspect and two arrested ones. But promising as that sounds, we don’t feel we are anywhere close to assembling the real picture from the puzzle pieces available. That’s why we’re here.”

“Feel free to ask any questions you like.”

She smiled, nodded. “Let’s start with the obvious. Do you have any notion of any individual who might wish
Justices Venter and Gutierrez any harm?”

His grin managed to make his face both rumpled and more handsome. “Special Agent Rogers, at one time or another, pretty much everyone in the country wants to see one or all of us dead.”

She sat forward. “So, for example . . . there hasn’t been a particular case, one ruling, that you think might have incited someone to this level of violence to those two justices?”

“Certainly.”

“Good. Which case do you have in mind, sir?”

“I have a hundred cases in mind, Agent Rogers, a hundred rulings. Take Roe v. Wade. Before it was overturned, nearly a dozen murders were tied to that decision, as well as two dozen–some attempted murders and hundreds of death threats. The thing is, not one of these very real attacks was perpetrated against any of the justices voting in favor of what was once called a pro-choice stance.”

“In fact,” Reeder put in, “no Supreme Court justice had ever been assassinated before this week.”

“Quite true,” Jackson said.

Rogers said, “One theory our task force is exploring, Chief Justice . . . and please do not be alarmed . . . is that some group may be declaring war on the entire Supreme Court.”

But rather than alarm, amusement colored the Justice’s expression. “Oh, I hardly think that’s the case, Agent Rogers.”

“Oh?”

“Henry Venter and Rodolfo Gutierrez were both conservatives . . . as am I—and I’m the third justice touched by this, by way of the attempted break-in at my home.”

“Hell,” Reeder said.

She and the Chief Justice both swung their eyes to her partner. “What?”

“Something, Peep?” the Justice asked.

“
Maybe
something.” He was frowning in thought. “Would you consider joining us in a little . . . brainstorming about the case, Your Honor?”

“Glad to. My background is criminal law, after all.”

Jackson had been a very successful prosecutor in his day.

Reeder said, “Justice Venter’s murder was stage-managed to make his assassination look like the byproduct of an armed robbery got out of hand.”

Jackson nodded.

So did Rogers.

“Next,” Reeder went on, “Justice Gutierrez was killed by an automated device, and we realized the circumstances of the first assassination were contrived to mislead us just long enough for the second one to be successful. Now bear with me—I’m going to speculate.”

Rogers shifted in her chair. “I’m not sure you should . . .”

He grinned at her. “Okay, then—
you’re
going to speculate. Agent Rogers, what would have happened if we’d arrived at Chief Justice Jackson’s house shortly
after
Thomas Marvin broke into the house?”

The Chief Justice, a little lost now, interrupted the exchange, asking, “What would have been different? I still wouldn’t have been home yet.”

But Rogers knew just what Reeder meant. “We’d have found the suspect inside the Justice’s house.”

“Right,” Reeder said. “Where we would have assumed he was an assassin.”

She frowned. “And if he’d made any wrong move—”

“You would have shot him, Patti. Just like Sloan shot Butch Brooks. And we’d have two out of three dead suspects.”

“Maybe.”

“
Maybe
is enough.
Maybe
is a good bet. If I’m right, somebody would have just as soon seen Marvin dead, too. Hell, Justice Gutierrez had been killed by a booby trap in the morning, right? We’d just dealt with Granger and Brooks . . . Last night, we were on edge.”

She was nodding. “Okay. Yes. Tensions were running high. Tom Marvin could very easily have wound up shot to death.”

Reeder glanced at the Chief Justice, who was listening raptly, and said, “Your Honor, I ran a theory past our SAIC. I’d like to run it by you.”

“Certainly.”

“Do you mind if I use the Socratic method?”

“Please do.”

“What happens if, at this point, the killings end?”

“Well, I can’t answer as to your investigation . . .”

Rogers asked, “May I take that question, Your Honor? In that case, we would think that our three suspects, Granger, Brooks, and Marvin, were the assassins, and that we’d stopped them.”

Now the Chief Justice did seem a little alarmed. “Would you cease investigating?”

“Once it became clear,” she said, nodding, “that the assassinations had run their course . . . probably, yes. There would be those, like Mr. Reeder, who would posit conspiracy, who would suggest that a mastermind or a group of powerful players might have put these . . . these
pawns
into motion. But such thinking rarely gets traction in our circles. And the practical reality is . . . it would soon be ‘case closed.’ ”

Reeder said, “I am convinced our three suspects are patsies in the grand Lee Harvey Oswald tradition. Even if one or more of this trio really committed the crimes, they sure as hell did
not
come up with the plan—someone else did.”

“Your mastermind,” Chief Justice Jackson said.

“Two Supreme Court justices murdered,” Rogers said, feeling sick to her
stomach, “and those really responsible getting away with it.”

“Not just
any
two justices,” Reeder said. “Two
conservative
justices.”

“Who,” Jackson said, “will be replaced by a liberal president. Giving us two liberal justices . . . with lifetime appointments.”

Rogers was aware of Reeder’s theory, but hearing it in this office, and taken seriously by the Chief Justice himself, shook her.

Reeder said, “Right now, the balance is six to three, conservatives. Take two off the majority, add them to the minority—”

“And,” Rogers said, “you’ve changed the entire balance of the Supreme Court, possibly for decades.”

“
Likely
for decades,” Chief Justice Jackson said with a terrible solemnity.

Reeder leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers. “Three presidents—Andrew Jackson, Abraham Lincoln, and Franklin Roosevelt—appointed justices whose cumulative time served spanned over a century. If that happens here, we’re talking about substantially changing one of the three pillars of the republic for over one hundred years . . . with just two murders.”

Rogers, rather numbly, said, “Two murders that will impact everybody in the United States for the rest of their lives.”

“And if I’m right,” Reeder said, “those truly responsible may well walk away from this untouched.”

His face drained of blood, Jackson said, “It would be an unprecedented coup of the judiciary. And only your mastermind and his cronies would know . . .”

Reeder’s cell vibrated and the conversation paused while he read a text.

Rogers asked, “What is it?”

But Reeder directed his response to the Chief Justice. “I’m sorry, Your Honor, we’re going to have to cut this short. There’s been a development, and my partner and I are wanted at the White House.”

The White House!
she thought.

But she said, “What development?”

Reeder said, “Security sweeps of the other justices’ properties turned up two more devices.”

“Damn,” she said.

Jackson said, “May I ask where?”

Reeder said, “Justices Van Steenhuyse and Sorenson.”

“My lord, man . . .”

“But they’re both safe, Your Honor.”

The Chief Justice’s eyes tightened. “Peep, Van Steenhuyse and Sorenson are
also
conservatives.”

Rogers swallowed. “Maybe . . . maybe it
is
a war.”

“Well,” Reeder said, rising, “at least we know for sure who’s under attack.”

“I’ll be damned if I am not getting tired of this. It seems to be the profession of a president simply to hear other people talk.”

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.

THIRTEEN

At the White House, Reeder and Rogers joined Sloan outside the West Wing entrance, where a pair of armed Marines standing guard were ignoring him. The SAIC had a sleep-deprived look, his posture suggesting he was about to attend his own beheading.

Reeder asked, “Why are we here? We should be with the crime scene units at the Steenhuyse and Sorenson homes.”

Sloan’s smile was ghastly. “Here I thought you’d be pleased to be back on your old turf, Peep. I have to tell
you
? When the President wants an update, the President
gets
an update.”

“Isn’t that Assistant Director Fisk’s job?”

“Sure it is. Which is why
we’re
here, shit rolling downhill as it does. Shall we answer the clarion call?”

Sloan led them through the maze of offices, bullpens, and bustling staff members. Reeder had practically lived here, and Sloan was an old veteran of West Wing briefings; but Rogers couldn’t quite hide that she was as impressed as a high school history buff taking a White House tour.

Before long, the task force trio were at the Oval Office’s reception area, where head secretary Ms. Curtis served as gatekeeper at the most important door in America. She rose behind a desk rivaling Chief Justice Jackson’s, a slender woman of medium height, sixtyish, her gray suit a shade darker than her short-cut hair, her demeanor as dignified as the Lincoln Monument.

Sloan was in the lead, and she acknowledged him with “Special Agent Sloan,” bestowing a smile and nod before leading the SAIC and his little party to the threshold, adding, “If you’ll just wait inside. The President will be joining you in a moment.”

Sloan’s thanks seemed a shade obsequious as Ms. Curtis held the door open.

To Reeder, the last of the party, she whispered, “Nice having you back in the building, Mr. Reeder.”

He smiled over his shoulder at her. “Let you know a little later if it’s nice to
be
back, Emily.”

She followed them in, indicated two facing sofas and a few chairs at the center of the room, letting them sit where they wanted among those options.

Then she positioned herself at the door. Protocol did not allow anyone but key staff (and cleaning crew) to remain in the Oval Office without the President present.

These famous surroundings were essentially the same as when Reeder worked presidential protection, with a few minor differences—plusher, less formal sofas, their upholstery patterns less busy than the previous First Lady’s choices; and a different selection of historic paintings, heavy on the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, no doubt picks of the President.

Sloan and Rogers shared opposite ends of a sofa while Reeder took one of several hardwood but well-padded chairs. Quietly, Reeder said to Sloan, “You look like you could use a weekend at your cabin.”

“You look like you could use a getaway, too,” Sloan said. “Maybe when this is over, we can go up there, a few days. No TV. No cell service. Heaven.”

“A little hunting, little fishing,” Reeder said wistfully. “Knock back a few beers . . .”

With her mouth in a wry twist, Rogers said, “Alcohol and ammo. You boys
do
know how to party.”

The door nearest the desk swung open, and Ms. Curtis slipped out as President Devlin Harrison entered at a brisk walk.

They all rose.

The tall, slender African American President, second in US history, did not look happy. Normally cool and affable, Harrison—his brown suit perfect yet not ostentatious—presented an unblinking, slightly hooded gaze and a down-turned line of a mouth on which it was hard even to picture that famous smile.

Entering a beat after Harrison was his chief of staff, Timothy Vinson, a stocky, balding, mustached man in his fifties, impeccably dressed in charcoal pinstripe. The much-feared Vinson had waged many a political war from the safety of a general’s vantage point. He, too, seemed less than pleased about the meeting they were about to have.

The President strode directly to Reeder, acknowledging him by name and saying, “I’m glad to finally meet you—your reputation precedes you.”

Of course, Harrison looked anything but “glad,” and this presidential greeting was decidedly ambiguous.

The Commander-in-Chief offered Reeder a hand to shake and he took it and shook it, saying, “An honor, Mr. President. I only wish it could have been under better circumstances.”

“That’s one of the realities of the job, Mr. Reeder. Meeting people you admire in less than ideal ways.”

That was ambiguous, too, wasn’t it?

The President turned toward Rogers, and—Sloan seemingly struck mute—Reeder said, “This is Special Agent Patti Rogers, Mr. President. She and I are partnered on Agent Sloan’s task force.”

“Agent Rogers,” the President said with a curt nod, and gestured for everyone to sit.

They did.

The President sat back on the sofa across from Sloan and Rogers with his arms folded, legs, too.

How fucking guarded could one man be?
Reeder wondered.

The chief of staff, who had not been a part of the introductions and had spoken to none of them, sat on the same sofa as the President but gave him plenty of room. His expression was openly sullen.

Harrison’s expression, on the other hand, was as unreadable as his body posture was telling. “Agent Sloan . . . Gabe . . . suppose we begin with you telling me just what the hell is going on.”

Sloan swallowed and said, “Mr. President, our investigation is ongoing.”

Everyone in the room, including the man who had spoken them, paused to consider the lameness of those words.

The President, his eyebrows flicking up and then down, said, “Well, that’s a relief to hear, since we have two murdered Supreme Court justices, not to mention another whose home was about to be invaded, until Mr. Reeder here stopped it.”

“We have two suspects in custody,” Sloan said, scrambling, “and another deceased, and all three are subjects of intense scrutiny. Our task force is looking into every conceivable group that might—”

Vinson almost snarled as he said, “Skip the soft soap, Gabe. Is our national security at stake? Do we need to be breaking out the drones for al-Qaeda, or are we looking at a specific foreign government? Why don’t we have CIA representation on this task force?”

That list of questions might have gone on, but the President raised a hand like a slightly bored traffic cop, and Vinson resumed his glower.

Sloan said to Harrison, “Sir, we’re confident this is strictly a domestic situation.”

The President’s frown said he wasn’t convinced.

The chief of staff sat forward in an accusatory manner. “Agent Sloan, have you taken out any time to look at the media? To them, this is very much a matter of national security. There are calls for a national state of emergency, for sequestering the rest of the justices in a bunker until the assassins are captured, with the
New York Times
suggesting we shut down the Stock Exchange for a post-9/11-style cool-down period.”

Vinson sat back.

Good cop, bad cop,
Reeder thought. He’d seen several presidents use their chiefs of staff similarly. And plenty of ranking detectives used their partners the same way.

No one responded directly to Vinson, but Sloan turned his earnest gaze on the President.

“Sir, such wild speculation and irresponsible media behavior has been with us as long as the twenty-four-hour news cycle. The public still thinks Justice Venter died a hero. The FBI and the other agencies involved have pointedly
not
confirmed that the two murders are tied together.”

While his chief of staff rolled his eyes, Harrison merely shook his head gently. “Agent Sloan . . . really. Now that there’s been some kind of attempt on the Chief Justice, the linkage will be obvious, no matter what statements we might issue.”

Reeder sat forward. “I agree, sir. But Agent Sloan is right—evidence strongly indicates that not only are the perpetrators domestic, they have a high level of knowledge of both our tactics and techniques—a knowledge base bigger than outsiders might reasonably possess.”

Harrison frowned. “Mr. Reeder, are you suggesting this scenario emanates from inside the federal government?”

“Not necessarily, Mr. President. But we are dealing with a conspiracy whose leader or leaders display a comprehensive understanding of interagency procedures uncommon among the general citizenry.”

The President actually smiled a little. “Mr. Reeder, just because you’re seated in the Oval Office doesn’t mean you have to sound like a politician.”

Reeder flashed a grin. “Sorry. But we live in a one-industry town, Mr. President, and that industry is the government. Not just federal, but local and the surrounding states, and how many DC-area citizens are
former
government employees?”

Sloan said, “I’ve explained to Mr. Reeder that he has not exactly thinned our suspect pool.”

Reeder said, “And Agent Sloan is right again, Mr. President. But at the same time, the indications are strong that while this is a domestic threat, it is not likely a KKK or Posse Comitatus–type group.”

Vinson, frowning, said, “You keep saying
group
and
conspiracy
. . .”

“Mr. Vinson, Mr. President . . . I’m not much for conspiracy theories, although we can discuss Lee Harvey Oswald and Jack Ruby at your leisure, assuming either of you have any. I’m available for golf dates.”

Sloan winced, but the President was smiling again.

Reeder went on: “Our three suspects, one deceased, are small-time criminals who are hardly capable of the kind of plotting and logistics displayed here. Nor do any of them appear to have any hate group or other ideological leanings.”

“
Somebody
,
” the President said, “has set them in motion.”

“Yes. Three bad guys who
somebody
sent to do their bidding.” He looked pointedly at Vinson. “And, yes, it’s a conspiracy. A group.”

The President exchanged somber glances with his chief of staff, then said to Reeder, “All right. Go on.”

“I believe this is a small, sophisticated cabal that has an ideological purpose. Some in the media are already speculating that it’s no coincidence that the justices targeted are all conservatives.”

The President said nothing, his brow furrowed, his eyes moving. “You are actually suggesting, Mr. Reeder, that a domestic left-wing terrorist group is trying to reconfigure the Supreme Court by removing its most conservative members.”

Reeder said, “They aren’t trying to reconfigure it, sir. They expect
you
to. Surely that’s obvious.”

Sloan sat forward. “Mr. President, this is only one possible theory we’re pursuing. But there’s no denying that these tragedies will wind up changing the balance of the Court.”

The President’s smile had a sneer in it now. “Wonderful. By lunch the conservative talkers will be saying I’ve launched a death squad to tip the Court my way.”

Reeder said, “Not all of them will say that, sir.”

Harrison’s eyebrows rose.

“Some,” Reeder went on, “will say you plan to kill all
six
conservatives.”

Sloan winced at that and began, “Mr. President—”

But the President cut him off, saying, “When Henry Venter seemed to have died a hero’s death, the public felt good about its government for once. But Justice Gutierrez’s killing caused a . . . correction in the stock market. And when the public finds out an intruder was caught outside Chief Justice Jackson’s home, who can say what will follow? And God forbid
another
justice should die . . .”

Everyone in the Oval Office was old enough to remember 9/11 and its immediate aftermath—the stock market shutting down; no planes flying; a country sitting vigil before their televisions, waiting for any new information, watching the same images of death and destruction again and again. Then the Patriot Act, opening so many dangerous, terrible doors . . .

“As it is,” the President said, “I have to appoint two justices. And when I appoint two liberals, I’ll be understandably accused of taking advantage of tragedy. People on the right and independents will be outraged, and even my own party will have a sour taste.”

Sloan said, “Every president for as long as anyone can remember has done what you’re about to do, Mr. President.”

Tentatively, Reeder said, “It’s not really my business, but . . .”

Harrison nodded for him to go on.

“. . . there
is
another precedent.”

All eyes were on Reeder.

“What Agent Sloan said is not exactly true—not for those who recall John F. Kennedy.”

Reeder was well aware that JFK was a hero of Harrison’s.

He continued: “Kennedy was the last liberal president not to nominate a clearly liberal justice. Byron White, admittedly a longtime Kennedy supporter, was not strictly speaking a liberal. For most on the left, White was much too conservative. Of course, the conservatives thought him too liberal, which, to my mind, made him—”

“The ideal choice,” Harrison said very softly.

Reeder shrugged. “Some might say so, Mr. President.” The President’s expression, for the first time on this visit, took on a calm, even relieved aspect.
Did he already have someone in mind?

Elsewhere on the President’s sofa, however, party loyalist Vinson was staring daggers.
Too bad, Vinnie,
Reeder thought.
I might be
ex–
Secret Service, but I still serve the President, not his goddamn chief of staff.

Then Harrison’s face clouded again. “Gabe, Mr. Reeder, Agent Rogers . . . I am depending on you not only to catch those responsible, but to ensure the safety of our surviving justices . . . How chilling to hear those words:
surviving justices.
”

No one said anything.

The President rose and so did they all.

“If you need anything,” he said, “anything at all, contact Tim here.”

Grudgingly, the chief of staff said, “Feel free.”