The Advocate's Daughter (3 page)

“You obviously haven't seen
my
pay stub,” Tweed replied.

Sean grinned and then eyed the bandage that ran from Tweed's left temple to the middle of his cheek. “I hope the other guy looks worse.”

“If only my life was so exciting,” Tweed said. “Biking accident—hit some gravel in Rock Creek Park. I was on a date, so it was a little embarrassing.”

“Hard to keep up with the nineteen-year-olds, I guess,” Sean said.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Tweed said, scanning for who was in earshot. “She was twenty.”

Sean emitted a small, dry laugh.

Tweed said, “I'll come by and chat in a bit. And, hey, you're in private practice now, so you need to actually say hello to people and be friendly.”

“Is Abby here?” Sean asked.

“I haven't seen her. But you don't think she'd miss out on being the envy of her classmates, do you?” Tweed pointed up. Windows lined the second-floor atrium overlooking the reception area. Law students were pressed against the glass gawking at the assemblage of legal elite.

Sean smiled. “I suppose she wouldn't. If you see her before I do, please send her my way.”

Tweed nodded, already shaking hands with the next person in line.

“Get you a drink?” Cecilia asked. She plucked a cracker with olive tapenade from a silver tray offered by a server. Sean looked about the room. All clans accounted for. The former solicitor generals, the legal giants who got the best Supreme Court cases in private practice, mingled near the bar. At the boundaries, huddled in groups of three or four, the current staff of OSG. They talked in whispers and studiously displayed their non-alcoholic drinks. And at the center of the room, the VIPs: the dean, Supreme Court justices, members of Congress. Circling them were the nakedly ambitious. Sean saw Senator James chatting with Justice Scheuerman. The senator let out a big laugh at whatever the justice had said. Sean was sure it wasn't
that
funny.

Cecilia clutched Sean's arm. “There's Justice Carr, let's say hello.”

“I'd really rather just wait for the program to start.” Carr was the newest member of the high court, confirmed just a few months ago. He was the only member of The Nine whom Sean had never met. From what he knew, though, Thaddeus Dupont Carr—“T.D.” or “Touch Down” to friends—was one of those guys you loved to hate. College football star (thus the nickname), editor of the
Stanford Law Review,
and the youngest judge appointed to the Ninth Circuit until he breezed through the Supreme Court confirmation process.

“Come on, you'll like him. He's got a dry sense of humor, like you,” Cecilia said. “You're coming.”

Cecilia soon had Justice Carr laughing. She was famously profane and didn't censor herself for anyone, Supreme Court justices included. Carr finally turned to Sean and said, “I don't envy you.”

Sean gave an apologetic smile and said, “Oh, Cecilia's harmless, you just have to get used to her lack of a filter.” He'd spent a career apologizing for Cecilia.

The justice chortled. “No, I meant this morning's story in the
Post.
I remember when the press was speculating about my nomination. Reporters actually dug through the trash cans at my house.”

Sean furrowed his brow. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” Justice Carr said. “Be careful.”

Sean nodded, not sure how to respond. After a few seconds, he opted for changing the subject. “My daughter met you recently.”

“Oh yeah?”

“She's a law student here. Jon Tweed brought a group of his students to the court in January. Abby said your talk was ‘inspirational.' Her word.”

The justice laughed. “Oh, to be young and so easily fooled.”

Senator James brushed by. Justice Carr's eyes traced James's path.

“Want some free advice?” Carr asked.

“From you?” Sean said. “Of course.”

“When I was being considered for the nomination, someone wisely told me to always keep an eye on the competition.”

Sean nodded.

“But in your case,” Carr tilted his head toward Senator James, “you might want to get a food taster.”

Cecilia was right. Sean was starting to like Justice Carr.

 

CHAPTER 4

There was a tap of a microphone and the rumble in the room dissipated. The dean stood on a platform in the reception area of Hotung. He was a bald, thin man in his fifties and behind him sat eighty-year-old Chief Justice Malburg. She was in a large wing chair that seemed to swallow her up. After some opening remarks, the dean turned the microphone over to Jonathan Tweed, the school's Supreme Court scholar-in-residence.

Tweed's eyes swept over the crowd. “We are here today,” he said after a long moment, “to honor Chief Justice Malburg for her tremendous contributions to the court and to our law.” Applause filled the hall. Tweed turned to Malburg, his hands clapping, encouraging the extended show of appreciation for the popular justice.

“But before we begin,” Tweed said after another long pause, “the dean has given me the honor of announcing the creation of a new award—the Malburg Advocacy Award—that the Law Center will present each year to the lawyer who best exemplifies the gold standard in advocacy and professionalism we have long admired in the chief.” Tweed's glance cut through the crowd, landing on Sean. “This year, it is my great pleasure to present the first Malburg Award to an old and dear friend of mine.”

Oh no.

Tweed smirked.

Don't fucking do it, Jon.

“It is my honor,” Tweed said, stretching out the words and still smirking, “to present the first annual Malburg Award to Sean Serrat.”

At this, the room grew loud. Sean felt his face flush and he gave a modest shake of the head.

Tweed continued, “Few lawyers ever have the chance to argue even one case before the Supreme Court. Sean's argued a remarkable
fifty-two
cases, each time representing our government with humility and dignity. Now, everyone knows that the Office of the Solicitor General lost a great advocate when Sean left to join the private sector, but I say the office also lost something else: a little piece of its heart.” Tweed sipped from a glass of water and gave the crowd a contemplative look. “Before I became a law professor, I spent a decade at OSG and I'll never forget my first day on the job there. I was welcomed by this deputy SG who, frankly, scared the hell out of me.” Tweed grinned and the crowd tittered.

“He was tall and intimidating and had this piercing gaze. He corrected me twice for mispronouncing his name. ‘It's sur-rot, not sur-
rat,
I'm not a rodent,' he said.” More laughter. “He
was
kind enough, however, to warn me that I might want to stay late that night since tradition was for the president to call and welcome all new members of the office.” Tweed paused again. “How nice of him, I thought. And sure enough, at seven-thirty I got a call: ‘Would I hold for the president? Well, of course, yes.' I did what I think most people do when they get a call from the president of the United States and I stood up. Ten minutes passed and I said, ‘Okay, that's understandable, the president is probably finishing up negotiations with China or something.' Another ten minutes. ‘Okay, I'll wait.' Then another ten. That's when I heard something outside my office door. Muffled laughter. I set down the phone and opened the door. And there was Sean Serrat and five of my new colleagues. They'd made the prank call and had a betting pool on how long I would stay on hold. Sean won.”

The room boomed with laughter. Sean accepted the award without remarks, just a mock bow.

As the rumble of applause faded, Tweed stared out at the audience. He dropped the grin and his expression turned serious. “Of course, the most important reason we are here today is to honor Chief Justice Malburg. I'm sometimes asked about my most memorable argument at the court. Inevitably I think of the chief. I like to say that I made three oral arguments for every case: the one I planned to make, the one I made, and the one on the car ride home I
wished
I'd made. Those rides home usually left me thinking of all the great responses I
should
have given to Chief Justice Malburg. She usually left me feeling even more battered than I look today.” Tweed gestured to his bandage and the audience laughed again.

Tweed introduced Stanton Jones, a veteran Supreme Court advocate and president of the Washington National Opera. Jones presented Chief Justice Malburg, an avid opera fan, with a signed poster from the Richard Strauss opera
Ariadne auf Naxos.
And then two women from the National Opera performed for the elderly justice.

During the beautiful serenade, Sean's eyes searched the room for his daughter. No Abby.

 

CHAPTER 5

Sean slipped into the backseat of the cab and gave the driver the address for his new office. The sedan smelled of whatever the cabbie had for lunch. Something with onions. Sean took out his phone and called Emily.

“Hey there,” he said when she answered. “Did you track down Abby? She wasn't at the reception.”

“She wasn't there? She's not responding to my texts. I'm getting worried.”

“I'm sure she just got caught up with school. Finals are coming up. You know how she—”

“Hold on,” Emily cut in, “I'm getting another call—it might be her.”

Traffic was heavy, and the cab was at a standstill. Phone pressed to his ear, Sean rolled down the window for some air. He loosened his tie and gazed absently out onto the street. It was then that he had the feeling that he was being watched. Eyes on him. The cabdriver wasn't looking at him in the rearview, so he glanced out the window again. He saw a man standing on the corner near the security gate at the front of Georgetown's campus. The man stood facing Sean, arms crossed. He wore sunglasses, so Sean couldn't see his eyes. But he seemed to be staring defiantly into the cab. He had stringy hair that touched his shoulders and he wore a flannel shirt. What's with all the flannel in the spring? Sean thought about the guy from the train that morning who—

“Sean, it was Ryan's school.” Emily's voice jarred his attention away from the man. “I need to go pick him up. He's in trouble again.”

Sean diverted the cab to take him home. By the time he'd arrived, Emily had already retrieved Ryan from the middle school. She met Sean at the front door of their colonial.

Sean blew out a loud sigh. “Where is he?”

Emily pointed a finger upstairs. Sean could hear the distortion and moody baritone of Alice in Chains drifting from Ryan's room.

“I thought we were past all this,” Sean said.

“Me too.” Emily handed Sean a sheet of paper. “The principal said a girl's mother came in. She'd found these Facebook messages Ryan sent to her daughter.”

Sean glanced at the paper:

SirRyan 8:53pm

Sup

Allison Moss 8:53pm

Gtg in a minute. Mom calling 4 me

SirRyan 8:54pm

kk. you still want the weed?

Allison Moss 8:54pm

you got some???

SirRyan 8:54pm

Ya. you still want it?

Allison Moss 8:54pm

U sure u got it? Or is this like last time

SirRyan 8:54pm

Got from Chipotle guy, man in red

Allison Moss 8:54pm

Huh?

SirRyan 8:54pm

Guy at Chipotle who sells; wears red clothes and red hat.

Allison Moss 8:54pm

You 4 real?

SirRyan 8:55pm

You want it or not. 20 bks

Allison Moss 8:55pm

Will see if I can get the $. gtg

SirRyan 8:55pm

kk. bring to my locker after gym

“Idiot,” Sean said. After all their talks—the lectures about how things on the Internet stay forever, about drugs, the therapy sessions—here they were again.
You still want the weed?

“What does he say about all this?” Sean asked.

“Deny, deny, deny,” Emily said. “I actually didn't want to get into it until he had a chance to calm down.”

“We need to search his room and go through his phone and Facebook,” Sean said. His instincts, born of his own years as a teenager, were that Ryan was guilty until proven innocent. He may defend the Constitution at work, but that didn't mean it applied at home.

“No,” Emily said, “we need to
talk
with him.”

Ryan had no better defense lawyer than his mother. Other than Sean's workaholic tendencies, the only point of contention in their marriage was Ryan. And the two issues were interrelated. Emily never said so directly, but she blamed Sean for Ryan's acting out. If he'd just been home more. She also thought that Sean was too hard on their son. Maybe he was.

Sean decided to turn down the temperature a notch. “
Talk
to him? I haven't read a lot of parenting books, but I'm pretty sure I was taught to cram it all down inside and then wash away the festering resentment with cheap booze.”

Emily's eyes turned to slits, but she couldn't conceal the slightest tight-lipped smile. “Remember,” she said before they opened Ryan's door, “he's only fourteen and one mistake isn't going to ruin his life.”

“It only takes one mistake…” Sean's voice trailed off. He knew too well how one mistake could change everything. But he also knew it wasn't worth pursuing the line of argument further.

Emily tapped on Ryan's door, and they went inside.

Their son's domain had remnants of Little Boy Ryan—
Diary of a Wimpy Kid
books, a Pikachu stuffed animal, soccer trophies covered in dust. Those relics gave way to the world of Teenage Ryan: electric guitar, dumbbells, scattered clothes. Axl Rose grimaced at Sean from a vintage Guns N' Roses poster over the bed. Sean often joked that, when it came to music, his son was born a few decades too late. Ryan was stretched out on the bed, face buried in a pillow. Sean pressed a button on the iPod docking station, and the music went quiet.