The Court (26 page)

“What's that?”

He laughed. “I sure'n'hell would hate to work for that guy if that's the way he usually treats his teachers. But he's good to his barber, and, as far as I'm concerned, that's what's really important in life, right?” The barber grinned, exposing tobacco-stained teeth.

“Makes sense to me,” Green agreed.

“You want me to put on some spray?”

“No thanks.”

“Hey, I'm sorry I wasn't more help.” He grinned again. “I suppose from your point of view it would have been better if I could of told you about his secret love life, or something like that?”

“Win some. Lose some.” Green laughed as he climbed out of the chair. He remembered the hint about the tip and was generous. It was well worth the money to see another part of the puzzle.

*   *   *

Whittle had set up interviews with two of the younger members of the law school faculty. As Green expected, both painted the dean as possessing the hypnotic powers of Rasputin, the mad monk, combined with the utter ruthlessness of the early czars. But despite this, both admitted to a grudging admiration for Pentecost's organizational ability. Although they said that Pentecost rode roughshod over the younger faculty, everything else within the law school ticked along like a well-oiled clock. Green had interviewed them separately. They had nothing to lose by being candid. The man, a Yale graduate with a background as an appellate court clerk, was on his way to a large New York law firm after the school year ended. The woman, who was completely devoid of humor but who possessed a sharp intelligence, had accepted a position with another law school, a promotion in position as well as money.

Green learned that the younger faculty viewed their tours as a “finishing school,” a sort of academic boot camp where they endured a rigorous schedule and harsh discipline in order to acquire experience and to hone their skills and enhance their reputations. Therefore, there was never a shortage of teaching applicants, despite the fearsome reputation of the dean.

After the interviews Green returned to his motel. His brother had offered to put him up, but the gesture was merely for the sake of politeness. Adele was chilly. The shadow of their previous problem still hung over all of them. But even without the burden of their strained relationship Green would have preferred the motel and the freedom of movement it allowed. He didn't have to accommodate himself to someone else's schedule, nor did he have to worry about bruised feelings or other possible repercussions.

Jerry Green felt satisfaction, he had accomplished a great deal. He was finally putting together a picture of Dean Pentecost, the real man, not the facade. Soon, he would begin to target the important aspects of the man's character, and it was there that the true answer lay. It was very much like a labyrinth, this search for a man's integrity—each path veered in another direction, each avenue pointed somewhere else. And he seemed to be discovering some things about himself. He found the search strangely compelling.

But he put aside his thoughts about the search. He would have to get ready in order to take Regina to dinner. He hurried into the lobby of the motel. If he had taken a moment to glance at the headlines on the newspapers for sale there he would have been put on notice. But he was in a hurry. He gathered the messages left for him at the desk and retreated to the sanctuary of his room.

His mind was on Regina. He snapped on the television just to have the company of the sound as he looked through the messages. Chris Clovis, the White House counsel, had called twice. All the other messages were from Amos Deering. They began at one o'clock and had been repeated every half hour exactly. The last two messages had the word “urgent” scrawled across them. Green noted the time of the last phone call and glanced at his watch. If the motel clerk's notation was correct, twenty-eight minutes had passed. Green decided to wait and see if Amos would stick to his schedule.

He lay back and looked at the television screen. He recognized an old rerun of an unfunny family sit-com. He thought about flipping to CNN, but decieded against it. He looked away from the screen and stared out the window. It was almost dark. Dark clouds tumbled past the outstretched grasp of skeleton-like tree limbs.

The telephone rang almost on the predicted minute. He reached across the bed and lifted the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Jerome Green, please,” an impersonal female voice asked.

“This is Mr. Green.”

“Just a moment, please, for Mr. Deering.”

She put him on hold and the static of empty telephone noise whispered in his ear. He studied the clouds outside. They looked heavy, like snow clouds. Early snow meant an early winter in Michigan.

“Jerry?” Deering's voice was excited.

“Hello, Amos. I just got in. I saw your messages. Since you were calling every half hour I thought it would save time and trouble if I just waited for your next call. You're right on time. You know, you're wasting your talents in the White House. If you ran Amtrak, it wouldn't be in so much trouble. What's up?”

“Jesus! Don't you listen to the news?” Deering was clearly agitated.

“What's happened?”

“Everybody in the country knows except you. Howell's dead.” Deering paused. “Hey, are you at the motel in Lansing?”

“Of course. That's where you called me.”

“I didn't call you, the girl called you. I merely told her to find you. Give me your number.”

Green sat up and looked over at the telephone. He read off the area code and number.

“Just stay there, okay? I'll get back to you in a few minutes.”

“How few? I have some things to do.”

“This is important, Goddamn it. Give me twenty minutes, maybe thirty.”

“Amos, what the hell is going on? Can't you just tell me?”

“Thirty minutes, tops.” Deering hung up.

He had been warned to expect it. Yet Howell's death suddenly made everything he had been doing real, as if up until now it had only been some kind of game.

Green got up and closed the drapes. He stripped down and took a shower, leaving the bathroom door open so he could hear the telephone. It rang as he was finishing toweling himself. He padded naked to the bed and sat down. He picked up the phone.

“Jerry?”

The room was warm but he draped the damp towel across his shoulders. “Who did you think it would be, the maid?”

“Look, Jerry, this is serious business. I had to leave the White House and find a phone booth. I wanted a clean phone.”

“This may or may not be serious, but it is certainly becoming ridiculous. I suppose you want me to leave here and find a phone booth to call your phone booth?” Green could hear traffic noises at the other end of the line.

“Maybe I am getting silly in my old age, but you never know. Besides, I didn't want to run the risk of being overheard, tap or no tap.”

“Go on.”

“As I said, Howell's dead. They talked his old lady into pulling the plug and that was that. There's going to be a big funeral—he'll be laid out in the Court, public mourning, military funeral, the works. That was all part of the deal.”

“Deal?”

“His wife wouldn't pull the plug until she was assured that we would do right by the remains of dear old Brian. I think she must be the kind who loves a parade, you know?”

“Howell's dead and so now everything is speeded up, right? You didn't have to call, I could have figured that out for myself.”

There was more traffic noise and a honking of horns in the background. “I'm calling from one of these outside telephones, can you hear me okay?”

“Yes.”

“Here's the picture. Our people are feeding the media a list of names. It's not official, it's being leaked. But everybody understands that it's really an authorized leak. And they know it's really coming from the man. This is a complicated business, Jerry. The
Post
is carrying a speculation article tomorrow on who may fill Howell's shoes. They got most of the information from us. The man said to cooperate, so we did.”

“Go on.”

“We fed them six names, and one of them is Dean Pentecost. They'll be on him now, and that will complicate things for you.”

“You can say that again.”

“The man plans to make the decision as quickly as possible. He won't name anyone until after the funeral, but he really wants to move on this.” Deering's voice sounded close to panic. “He isn't very impressed with the other candidates, he wants to name your man.”

“He's the President, why doesn't he just go ahead and do it?”

“For the same reason that you're down there. He wants to be sure. Look, we have to be sure that whoever gets the nod will vote right on the Electoral College issue. You were sent down to see if the dean was clean, right?”

Green nodded, feeling slightly chilled now. “That's right.”

“Well, there's a new twist. The man says the whole thing is up to you. But he wants more than an appraisal. First, he wants a definite commitment from the dean on that specific issue, and then he wants your assessment as to whether the dean has the integrity to carry out the commitment.”

Green shook his head. “If he has any integrity at all, he won't take a position on a case before ruling on it.”

“Hey, it's me you're talking to. I didn't say anything about integrity in general. The guy could be a shit for all I care. What we want is a simple commitment on that one case, and your assurance that it will be honored.”

“You want it in writing?”

“Jerry, this may be amusing to you, but I'm the guy with his ass in the fire. You've been in politics as long as I have. Don't give me any crap. The man knows, and so should you, that we need that vote on that case. That's the price tag for the job. The only thing we need is your assessment that the dean will honor the deal. Hell, the guy could agree without ever intending to do it. It's up to you to figure that out. You know people. The man says you do, and so do I. Get the commitment, then give us your assessment. If you give him the green light, he's got it.”

The air in the room seemed to have turned cool, but Green knew it was just the effect of evaporation. It was really warm enough, but his drying skin felt chilled. “I'll see him tomorrow. I want to talk to a few others, too. I'll try to get back with you tomorrow, maybe the day after.”

“Check in tomorrow, no matter what happens. This is important to the man and he wants to know what's happening. We'll use the same telephone arrangements.” There was a pause. “Say, Jerry, when you see Pentecost, try to keep it private. Christ, if the
Post
or the
Times
get wind that you're down there, they'll figure we've made our pick and blow it out of all proportion. Then if we don't name the guy it will look like we don't know what we're doing.”

“I'll take care.”

“You couldn't, say, see him tonight, could you?”

Jerry Green resented the request. A man's integrity, even provisional integrity, couldn't be checked like body temperature. It was something that just could not be produced on demand. “No. I'd lose the advantage if it looks hurried. That way he would sense that he probably had it in the bag. And if he gets excited about it he's liable to leak it himself if he really thinks the job is his. I'll see him tomorrow. I'll let him dangle a bit. It's better that way.” Green wondered if he wasn't just making excuses so that nothing would interfere with his evening with Regina. But excuse or not, it was logical.

“Whatever you think is best,” Deering said. Again there was a blaring of car horns in the background. “Look, I'm sorry to put the pressure on you, Jerry, but the stakes are very high in this thing, you know?”

“I know.”

“And you'll call me tomorrow?”

“Yes. I have a few calls from Chris Clovis. Is it about the same thing, or should I call him back?”

“It's the same thing.” There was another pause again filled with traffic noise. “Hey, you get your ass cracking, old buddy, right?”

“Right.”

Green hung up. He turned on CNN and dressed quickly. The anchor was discussing Howell's death. Nothing was said about plugs being pulled, nor was there anything about deals for funerals. After giving the highlights of Brian Howell's career, the story went on to say that the body of the late justice would lay in state at the Court building, with burial at Arlington Cemetery. Several important cases coming before the Court were mentioned, including the Electoral College issue. The story speculated that the Court would take no action until a successor for Howell had been named, cleared by the Senate, and sworn in.

He flipped to another news channel. Howell's death was the lead story. They showed a film clip of Howell being sworn in. The network's legal expert spoke over the film footage. As usual, the story ended with the commentator standing in front of the Supreme Court Building, halfway up the steps, microphone in hand. He profoundly voiced lofty sentiments about duty, independence, and the law. It got very little air time, just a few seconds in all, and then there was a move to the next news item.

Green turned off the set.

Green wished he had never accepted the project in the first place. He resented being made a go-between, the bearer of a questionable offer. The implication of the demands made upon him, not only by his own law firm, but now also by the White House, made him feel ashamed that they thought him without honor. He had looked forward to a carefree, happy evening, and he had been excited. Now he felt depressed. He was under pressure to produce, and it was real.

He wondered if, with Regina's help, he could keep it out of his mind during the evening.

He doubted that he could.

*   *   *

They sized him up quickly. Youth seemed blessed with an unerring ability to do that. Later a myriad of experiences and perceptions would cloud the ability to make clear, quick judgments, but until then, the eye of youth made fast, frank, and usually very accurate appraisals.