The Court (29 page)

The snow was beginning to fall again as he began the drive back to the motel.

CHAPTER NINE

As Jerry Green had previously observed, the law school, at a distance, resembled the prow of a giant ship, rising and pointing toward the sky. Closer, the effect of the building was more like that of a cathedral, it seemed to reach beyond the sky, out toward Heaven itself. Green reflected it was an inspired blend of modern simplicity and the majesty of ancient European architectural concepts.

He entered with a group of students. They carried large bags of books, looking more like peddlers than scholars. A small female law student trudged ahead of him, her boots kicking off snow as she bore her burden with the determination of a Russian peasant woman.

Green stamped the snow from his feet and looked around. The vaulted interior was just as impressive as the exterior. The large atrium, or lobby, was a pleasant, no-nonsense place, with strategic bulletin boards placed at convenient spots. On one side of the building's prow a multistoried law library was visible through glass panels. A visitor could look down into the basement level and see comfortable study cubicles surrounded by neat rows of book stacks. Each of the floors was visible. It seemed like a montage of books, stacks, and students. A work of art. Green was impressed.

He turned to his right toward the other side of the “prow.” He faced a series of doors, each bearing dignified metal signs. He chose the one marked Administration and walked through. He found himself in a reception area, small but comfortably furnished. It reminded him of a doctor's waiting room. A pleasant-looking young blonde woman sat behind a counter. She was typing. Beyond her other clerks were busy at their keyboards. The far wall was filled with pastel file cabinets.

The blonde looked up. “Yes sir, may I help you?”

Green walked over to the counter and smiled down at her. “My name is Green, Jerome Green. I'm an attorney. I'd like to see Dean Pentecost, if possible.”

She frowned as if she had somehow committed an error. “Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Green. The dean hasn't come in. Do you have an appointment? I didn't see your name on the appointment list this morning.”

“I'm afraid I didn't have time to make an appointment. I'm from Washington.”

“Could you tell me what this is about? Perhaps we can fit you in.” She was up now, smiling across the counter as if he were the most important man in the world. She was well trained. She would tactfully weed out the unwanted. She knew her job. The dean would see only the wheat, she would get rid of the chaff. “Of course, his schedule is pretty tight,” she added sweetly.

“If I told you I was selling life insurance, do you think that would help hurry up the appointment?”

She coolly appraised him, as if seeing him for the first time. Then her plastic smile was replaced by a real one. “Not for this year, probably not for the next decade.”

“Then life insurance is out.”

“Unless he found out he had a fatal disease, then I'm sure he would call you.”

Green laughed. “The matter involves public business. I'm with the government. Please have the dean contact Mr. Whittle in the Administration Building. He knows the situation. I'll leave a number where I can be reached.” Green pulled out a Harley Dingell business card and scrawled the motel number on the back. He handed it to the girl.

She studied the card, then looked up at him. “You did say the government?”

“That's my old employer. I haven't had time to have new cards printed.”

She nodded slowly. Her quick intelligence was obvious as she weighed the possibility that a meeting with this stranger from Washington might be important to the dean against the possibility of it being a mere nuisance.

“He has a full schedule for the next few days,” she said brightly, “but perhaps we can work you in.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

She grinned. “And you're sure this isn't really about insurance?”

“Damn it, found out every time.”

She laughed, her eyes still appraising. “We'll get back to you.” She looked at the card. “Mr. Green.”

“Thank you.”

He left the reception room and returned to the high-vaulted atrium. He took a minute to inspect it. A tasteful blend of brick and tile, the construction looked haphazard, but Green knew, even with his little knowledge of such things, that it cost a fortune. The university had spared the dean nothing.

A tall young man lounged against a wall as he read a law book. His bag of books lay at his feet, his Goretex parka draped over the bag. The young man was attempting a beard but the resultant tufting made him look unwashed.

“Are you a student here?” Green asked as he walked over.

The young man looked up. He nodded. “Yes.” His manner was defensive.

“I'll tell you what my problem is,” Green said quietly, almost conspiratorially. “My son is thinking about entering law school. He's been accepted by several places. I'm a businessman, not a lawyer, but I thought I'd look over the schools first. I want him to attend only the very best.”

The student became even more wary. “This is a good school,” he said as if he hoped that would end the discussion.

“Well, that's understood, isn't it? I mean, everyone recommends this place. But I've bought many recommended products that haven't been worth a damn. It's always been my practice to inspect the merchandise first.”

Green looked around. “Frankly, I'm not impressed. Oh, this is a great place for show, a nice building and all that, but after all it is just a modern school set down in the middle of a damn cow college, if you see what I mean?”

Suddenly the defensive look was replaced by irritation. “Hey, you're dead wrong about that, mister. This has the best legal faculty in the country. It's a national school, the students come here from all over. There's no part-time students here. The work is too demanding. The dean doesn't allow outside employment.”

“That doesn't sound American to me. Working your way through is a tradition.”

“Yeah, maybe it is, but you can't do it here. The courses are just too damn hard, and they throw so much law at you that you haven't time for anything but study.”

Green smirked. “And you like that?”

“Hey, I don't like it, but because of it I know I'll be one hell of a better lawyer when I get out of here. We all will.”

Green shrugged. “It's still a cow college.”

The young man's eyes narrowed with hostility. “Look, I was accepted at Harvard and Yale. I'm an honors graduate from the University of Chicago, an engineer. That's a tough degree to get, in case you don't know it. Hell, I had no trouble with Harvard or Yale, but I really had to work to get in here.”

“You'd have been better off at Harvard.”

“Like hell! They have the very best professors here, many of them came from Harvard. The whole purpose of this school is to turn out the absolutely best lawyer produced in America, and it works.” His eyes narrowed even more, as if coming in for the kill. “Do you know how many of our graduates passed the bar last time?”

“No.”

“Well, the University of Michigan never scores better than an 80 to 90 percent pass ratio. The University of Detroit, a tough Jesuit outfit, gets only 70 percent of its people by, sometimes less.”

“So?”

“So this. Our school, the Michigan State School of Law, passed 100 percent! Everybody who took it made it. First damn time in the history of the state bar exam that's ever happened. What do you think about that?”

“It probably means that this school targets everything toward just the bar. I want someplace for my son that provides a complete legal education. Besides, I understand the dean here is something of a screwball.”

The young man's face was stiff with suppressed rage. “Dean Pentecost may show no mercy, but, by God, he's fair. And he's not a faculty stooge, he'll listen to the students, and they know it. He may rule this place with an iron hand, but the results are worth it.”

“Did you ever talk to him?” Green asked quickly.

The young man seemed flustered by the question. “I've attended many of his talks and lectures.”

“But have you ever talked to him, man to man?”

The youth stopped, surprised for a moment. “Well, come to think of it, no. But that's not important. If I wanted to, I could walk right in there,” he pointed to the administration office, “and talk to him. He has an open door policy.”

“But you haven't ever used it.”

“That doesn't mean it's not there.”

Green nodded, as if agreeing. “I take it then that you'd recommend that my son pick this school, say in preference to the University of Michigan?”

The student snorted. “Damn right.”

Green shook his hand. “You've been a big help.”

The young man, still wary, quickly gathered up his books and jacket, then hurried away.

Green took a moment to survey the place once more. It was truly awesome. Did it reflect the dean? The student firmly believed that the dean was a great man, even if he never actually talked to him. Green presumed the young man was typical. Dean Pentecost had constructed an image for himself; the supreme father figure, the firm but fair god, dwelling just beyond those administration doors—a god seen only at a distance.

Green walked outside and buttoned up his coat against the chill. Well, Green reflected as he trudged through the snow, if you were going to be a deity, that was the only way to do it: keep a good distance, create a little fear.

Distance and awe were the keys to success. Gods cannot afford to be human, Green thought ruefully, because someone was always waiting with a cross and nails.

*   *   *

Ben Alexander wanted to get away from the Supreme Court Building for at least a few minutes, so he took a short walk. It had been hectic. He was in charge of packing up all the papers of his late boss. He had to be careful, he discarded only the obviously unimportant things. He knew the family was discussing giving the justice's papers to one of several colleges that had expressed interest. Besides the work, there was the anxiety. He had come to feel like a target himself.

He no longer enjoyed the mantle of protection afforded by a sick but living boss. Now, with the shortage of manpower at the Court, he knew he was being watched by some of the justices with greedy eyes. The damn female justice had even come in to see him, to discuss the differences he would find in her style of approaching a case compared to that of his late boss. The news of Howell's death was only minutes old when she had presented herself. She obviously wasn't a lady of great sentiment. He had felt like really telling her off, to vent some of the genuine sorrow he felt for Howell, but he restrained himself. Voluntarily leaving the Court, as opposed to being fired from it were two decidedly different things. Besides, he had been assured by Floyd Grant, the head clerk for the Chief Justice, that he would not go to the woman. He was given no other assurance, but that was enough.

As he returned to the Court building he saw the people. The line extended halfway down the steps. They seemed to be moving along briskly. He guessed they were more curious than honestly mourning. Howell had become well known during his short tenure, but not beloved. Alexander surmised that most of the people in line were Capitol Hill workers finding an excuse to get out of their offices for an hour, together with the usual tourists.

He started to move toward the other entrance when he saw Floyd Grant signaling to him from the top of the stairs near the line of people. Alexander trotted up the stairs and joined him.

“How would you like to see something, something you can tell your grandchildren about?” Grant was grinning.

“Sure.”

“Come on.” The senior clerk lead Alexander past the guards. As members of the Court staff, Grant and Alexander were known and did not have to obey the signs or follow the roped-off pathway leading into the Court and toward the bier.

The closed casket was almost engulfed in huge banks of flowers, decorations sent by unions, businesses, and others who figured it was just good business to let the living justices know how much they thought of everybody down at the Court. A silver-framed colored photograph of Justice Howell, in his black robe, was propped up on top of the bronze casket. Lights had been arranged to spotlight the picture and the American flag nearby.

“Take a look at that,” Grant whispered.

A stout, florid-faced man stood at the foot of the casket, greeting the mourners as they approached. He had stark white hair and an imposing manner. The mourners mumbled to him as he looked properly solemn and managed just the hint of a sad smile as they passed by.

“Family?” Alexander thought he knew most of the Howell family and this man was a stranger.

“No. Guess again.”

“The funeral director?”

Grant shook his head. “Heavens, no. He has too much class to be doing that.”

“Then who is it?”

Grant studied the big man shaking hands with the passing line. “That's what you can tell your grandchildren about. There is one of the finest specimens of
Politicus americanus
you'll ever see.”

“A politician?”

Grant nodded. “And not just any politician. That is the Honorable Joseph Michael O'Malley, distinguished judge of the United States Second Circuit Court of Appeals.”

“You have to be kidding me.”

Grant snorted. “Can you imagine that? He showed up about a half hour ago, went through the building glad-handing everybody from Chief Justice to janitor, and then parked himself right there by the coffin like he was the sole surviving heir of the deceased.”

“Why doesn't someone ask him to leave?”

“Very practical reason. He's just liable to be picked by the President to fill your late employer's shoes. In other words, that ward-heeling, glad-handing boob may be the next associate justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.”