The Last Justice (19 page)

"The cameras in here didn't catch anything?" Milstein asked.

"Cameras in the courtroom are forbidden-always have been. The chief justice wouldn't even allow security cameras in the courtroom for fear that pictures or video would be leaked. 'here are audiotapes of the arguments, made for the National Archives, but that's it."

Milstein and Assad exchanged a surprised glance. Something just seemed wrong about every small-town bank in the country having better surveillance than one of the three branches of the federal government.

Seeming to read their thoughts, Peckham added, "You don't have to hide your shock. I'd been raising the issue since I was assigned to the court's force. The former police chief was more concerned about staying under budget than maintaining good security-had an invincibility complex."

Peckham stood and walked to the elevated bench. Knocking on the front paneling with his knuckles, he said, "We had to replace the whole bench. The inside of this one is lined with a wall of Kevlar. As for who could be in here alone, back then the clerks roamed freely, and they often brought in their friends. The justices also brought their friends in. Otherwise, any number of personnel could come in. Rest assured, it's different now."

Peckham returned to the assassin's seat. He stood quickly, holding out his finger and thumb like a gun. "He shot the justices closest to him first, hitting four to my left in rapid succession. As he went down the line, he somehow missed Chief Justice Kincaid, who sat at the center of the bench. The chief shoved Justice Carmichael to the floor, saving her, but the shooter got Justice Wade, in the next seat down the line."

Pacini interjected, "We've done a lot of speculating whether the chief justice was missed on purpose."

"The prevailing view," Peckham added, "is that the shooter missed him out of surprise when Kincaid started shooting back."

"Kincaid's actions also had the unintended consequence of getting himself killed," Pacini added. "It confused the officers guarding the courtroom. They initially thought Kincaid was the only shooter, so they took him out."

Peckham looked down, as if the reference to his department's mistake still stung. "We also lost an officer in the courtroom that day."

Peckham walked to the front of the bench and pointed up to its center. "Kincaid fell from the bench, which distracted the officers trying to secure him, giving the shooter the opportunity to escape. We believe he ran out pretending to be a scared visitor. Last visual of him was on the Maryland Avenue exit camera, when he killed a young officer who was executing our lockdown procedures. The blurry image of a white guy in a suit hardly narrowed the field. The video of the `C-B' mark on his neck was the only saving grace."

Peckham allowed Assad and Milstein to look around the courtroom while he and Pacini sat talking about the commission meeting they had both attended yesterday. When they were done, he escorted everyone out of the courtroom and down a nearby corridor to an extravagantly appointed conference room. It was time to meet the law clerks.

Watergate Hotel, Washington,

cKenna and Kate stood near a maid cart outside the hotel room of the man with the mustache they had followed last night. McKenna put his ear to the door.

"I don't hear anyone inside," he whispered.

A man came out of a room across the hall and, as he passed by, turned and looked, his glance lingered as if he were seeing an old friend whose name he couldn't remember.

A maid came out of a room, and Kate called her over. "Could I trouble you to please let us in our room? My silly husband forgot our key card." She smiled endearingly at McKenna.

The maid, a plump Hispanic woman in her late forties, gave a puzzled shake of the head.

senorita," Kate said. "Se nos perdio la tarjeta." The maid smiled and let them in.

They entered cautiously and, satisfied that no one was in the room, began a hurried search.

"Look for anything with a name on it," McKenna said. He started in the closet, where a garment bag hung from a hook on the door. He rifled it but found nothing. Noticing a small black duffel bag at the foot of the bed, he opened the top zipper-again, nothing. Kate, meanwhile, was rummaging through the drawers of an armoire, searching for the hotel bill or anything that might help identify the man.

"I'm not seeing anything," she whispered. "We could just ask the front desk."

McKenna continued searching the duffel, unzipping the front pocket where he found a manila envelope. Inside was a small flat sleeve for a computer CD. He pulled it out. "Got something," he said. In black marker on the CD's sleeve was written "CJK/JC."

They were startled by the sound of the door opening, and darted inside the nearest closet. McKenna grabbed the hanging garment bag, using it to pull the door closed. Squatting on their heels in the dark closet, they watched the shadows under the door as someone moved about the room.

The light under the closet door darkened-someone stood directly outside. McKenna and Kate held their breath, trying not to make a sound.

The closet door opened, and they heard an alarmed shriek. They both darted past the frightened maid and out of the room. Minutes later, they walked out of the hotel, toward where McKenna had parked the motorcycle near the Watergate visitors' lot. Sirens were headed toward them-nothing unusual in the District. But as the wails grew louder, they quickened their stride.

"You did turn the cell phone off, right?" Kate asked, worried that the signal had been tracked.

"Yeah, I made sure."

They rode out of the lot as a dark sedan with a glowing blue siren on its dash came to a quick stop at the hotel entrance. McKenna tried to look casual as he eased away from the curb and merged onto New Hampshire Avenue as several dark sedans passed by. One of the cars, however, broke away and swerved around after them.

McKenna shifted gears and gunned it as Kate tightened her hold around his waist, and they heard the honking and sirens recede behind them. More sirens, however, were coming from the east on I Street.

McKenna took a sharp right onto H Street, barely missing a woman who was crossing the street while gabbing into a cell phone. Directly ahead, two black sedans were blocking the intersection of the one-way street. McKenna slowed, skidded around, and pulled onto the sidewalk.

Pedestrians parted to make a path as McKenna raced to the Foggy Bottom metro entrance. He pulled the bike roughly into a spot near the curb, and they jumped off and hurried toward the escalator to the subway.

"Stop! Don't move!" a voice commanded.

But on they ran, down the escalator, where they were met at the bottom by twenty high school students, apparently on a trip to the capital and crowding around harried chaperones who were studying a map. A breeze pushing through the station meant that a train was approaching. Kate's hair danced in the burst of wind. They now had a choice: run for the platform and hope they could make the train before they were surrounded, or consider running into the tunnels.

McKenna started toward the fare gate until Kate grabbed his arm, pulling him back toward the ascending escalator. Shielded by teenagers who were standing all around them and watching wideeyed as the agents came rushing down the steps, they sat down on the escalator stairs. When they reached the top, they stayed in the crowd, turning their backs as agents continued running down into the metro. Darting into the lobby of the nearest office building, they walked to the rear exit, onto F Street-H and G streets had been cordoned off, but not the adjacent block.

Kate held out her arm confidently for a cab, and the two jumped in the back.

"Kensington, Maryland," she told the cabbie, catching her breath. "White Flint Mall."

It was a half hour away in traffic. McKenna didn't ask why. Apparently, she had something he didn't: a plan.

Noon Supreme Court, Washington, D.C.

acini, Milstein, and Assad had interviewed several law clerks in the splendor of the East Conference Room, with its quartersawn white oak paneling and crystal chandeliers hung from gilded ceilings. The room was an unusual choice, since it and the matching West Conference Room across the hall typically were reserved for social functions, meetings of the Judicial Conference of the United States, and the occasional press conference. But Justice Carmichael had made clear that Peckham should use the East and West rooms for the interviews. Carmichael did not want agents in chambers, so Peckham had the clerks come in pairs, with one waiting across the hall in the West Room while the other was interviewed in the East Room.

It had been quickly apparent that none of the clerks were fans of their former colleague Douglas Pratt. But so far, none had any new information implicating him in any wrongdoing.

Kendall Lubow, who had clerked for Chief Justice Kincaid, entered the room for her interview. Pacini began by cautioning her about the confidential nature of the meeting and then eased into questions about Pratt.

"We understand from some of your colleagues that you and Mr. Pratt had some run-ins?"

"I think that's a little strong, but there's no question: I didn't like him. Doug is not a bad um, ethically challenged. Not exactly a hard worker, either. He's the kind of guy who uses `summer' and `winter' as verbs and wasn't accustomed to our grinding schedule. He spent most of his time hiding out either in the library or what we call the real `Highest Court in the Land."'

"Where's that?" Pacini asked.

"The basketball court on the top floor of the building," Lubow said with an exasperated smile.

"Can I ask something?" Milstein said. "You all are the cream of the crop, right? The best of the best in law school. How does a guy like Pratt even get hired here?"

"You're not the first person to ask that question," Lubow said. "There were rumors that Pratt had gotten the job from family connections. I'm not sure I buy that, though, since the justices tended to avoid that type of thing."

"Are you familiar with the Hassan case?" Pacini asked.

"Oh, yeah, I'm familiar with it," Lubow said without hesitation.

Pacini and Peckham exchanged a glance. "Some reason it stands out in your mind?" Pacini continued. "I mean, if I understand the process, you get thousands of cases wanting the court's review. Why remember this one in particular?"