The Echo of the Whip Page 5

  Once seated on the court, though, those numbers became meaningless.

  The chief was the chief. He was considered the senior justice, regardless of length of service on the court. He chaired the conferences in which cases before the court were discussed and voted on. He spoke first in those meetings, setting the tone and direction. Likewise, he set the agenda at the weekly meetings where the justices decided whether to accept or reject petitions for the court to hear a case. Again, in these meetings, he spoke first.

  When voting with the majority, the chief justice also had the power to assign the justice who would write the Opinion of the Court, including the option of doing so himself. This perquisite gave the chief the opportunity to influence the historical record, pinning a decision to language that would clearly define a decision and make it more daunting for a future court to nitpick or overturn.

  Last but far from least, the chief presided over the impeachment trial of a president.

  Regarding the matter of partisanship, Associate Justice Crockett told the chief, “Maybe just a small moment. I think Ms. Morrissey, as the sitting vice president, will certainly be the favorite for her party’s nomination.”

  “You think there’s someone on your side of the aisle who can beat her? Or do you dislike her chances because you think the American people won’t elect a second consecutive woman?”

  “There is a bit of a gender issue, but heaven help any fool on my side, as you call it, who would bring that up. The backlash would be immediate and immense. Independent and moderate women would flock to defend their gender.”

  “So, what are you thinking, Daniel?”

  “Well, there are two things. If the Senate actually were to convict Patricia Grant, that would make Jean Morrissey the president, and it would also enrage the partisans on your side of the debate. Ms. Morrissey would be much harder to beat as a sitting president, and God help us all with the divided government we’d have then. But the one thing I think could stop Ms. Morrissey is her own … forceful personality, shall we say. I think she could come on too strong. Put off a lot of those same women in the middle.”

  “What you’re suggesting is a double standard, Daniel. A man has to be seen as strong to become president, but a woman advancing the same positions in the same words and tone might be seen as overly strong, according to your judgment.”

  “Just my humble opinion, Chief. It’s been wide of the mark before.”

  MacLaren laughed. “But not too often.”

  “Kind of you to say.”

  The question Crockett hadn’t answered was who he thought might defeat Jean Morrissey. There were two possibilities he could think of, one of whom was him. The problem with that, though, was his time on the court had made the idea of getting back into the melee of electoral politics less than enticing. Today, anyway.

  As that line of thought rambled through Crockett’s mind, he and the chief were interrupted by what the associate justice thought was a rudely loud knock at the door to the room.

  “Allow me, Chief,” Crockett said, rising.

  Before he could reach the door, though, the chief’s houseman, Denton, opened it.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but they insisted.”

  They were the Supreme Court Police in the persons of head of protective services, the aptly named, John Law, and his first assistant, Emily Ringwald.

  “Very sorry to intrude, Mr. Chief Justice,” Law said, “but a threat against your life, believed to be highly credible, has been relayed to us by the FBI. We can’t afford to take any chances.”

  MacLaren and Crockett looked at each other.

  “Just me or the court as a whole?” the chief asked.

  Law said, “You specifically, Mr. Chief Justice. As pertains to your role in the trial of President Grant. To be careful, we’re extending extra protection to the associate justices also. You’ll all have to follow a new security protocol, sir.”

  That might well be, but there was another Sunday morning news show both justices wanted to see. MacLaren asked if they might linger for thirty minutes.

  His appeal was denied.

  Law said he’d have a recording made. As things stood, he couldn’t let either of them sit in a room with a window looking out on the street. They had to relocate.

  Now.

  U.S. Capitol — Washington, DC

  The television program the two justices of the Supreme Court wanted to see was on MSNBC. Ellie Booker, having learned of Didi DiMarco’s interview of Vice President Morrissey, had decided to strike back against Hugh Collier, and fast. She was doing a stand-up interview on the West Front of the Capitol with former Senator Roger Michaelson.

  The guy James J. McGill had pounded to a pulp in a one-on-one basketball game.

  That was where Ellie started.

  “Senator, your confrontation on a local basketball court with the president’s husband has become something of a Washington legend. Can you tell me now how much of the story is real and how much is exaggeration, taking a simple story and embroidering it into something bigger and more dramatic?”

  Michaelson offered a thin smile. “I’ll put it simply: Mr. McGill beat the crap out of me.”

  “If that was the case, why didn’t you file a criminal complaint against him?”

  “Because I was doing my best to beat the crap out of him.” Michaelson’s smile broadened and warmed. “I was happy to learn not too long ago that I managed to inflict a good deal of pain on Mr. McGill. That made me feel much better, still does.”

  “Are you saying that you and Mr. McGill still harbor ill feelings?”

  “I don’t. I can’t speak for him.”

  “What was it that caused the confrontation in the first place?”

  “Patti Grant, President Grant, was my political nemesis from the first time we ran against each other for a House seat in Illinois. She won, beating me out of a seat I thought would be mine. Once she reached the White House and I’d won a seat in the Senate, I decided to make her political destruction my life’s goal. Mr. McGill, not unreasonably, took offense.”

  “So he set you up for a confrontation in the guise of a basketball game?”

  Michaelson laughed. “Yeah, he did, the SOB. I’m just glad dueling had been outlawed. I probably wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  Ellie said, “Despite all that, when you needed the services of a private investigator, you turned to Mr. McGill’s firm.”

  “I did. Whatever the differences between us, I was in a bad spot, having been accused of playing a role in an assassination plot against the president. With my background, I made a pretty good patsy. I needed someone to help clear me. I turned to Jim McGill because he has a history of getting results. I did so despite any differences I had with him.”

  “But Mr. McGill turned you down,” Ellie said.

  “He did, but his partner, Margaret Sweeney, didn’t — after she got the go-ahead from the president. That Patricia Grant could decide to provide me with help after the way I’d behaved toward her all those years … it was enough to make me a changed man.”

  “Do you believe, Senator, that the president sent Joan Renshaw into Erna Godfrey’s prison cell with the idea that Ms. Renshaw would cause Mrs. Godfrey harm?”

  Michaelson shook his head. “No. That would be completely inconsistent with the generosity she showed me. I never wanted to cause Patricia Grant any personal harm, but I did want to destroy her politically. The idea that she could forgive me but scheme to cause harm to Erna Godfrey is absurd.”

  Ellie gave Michaelson a look of assessment. She’d known many blue ribbon BS-artists in Washington, and prided herself at being able to see through their lies. But she didn’t see any deception in Michaelson’s eyes.

  It was almost enough to nick her armor of cynicism.

  “So where do you go from here, Senator?”

  “I’m going to be spending a lot of time right here at the Capitol. As a former senator, I still have access to the Senate floor. I’ll be speaking
to many of my colleagues.”

  “On the president’s behalf?” Ellie asked. “Even in the face of her coming trial?”

  Michaelson gave the question a firm nod. “Especially because of that. I’m a prime example that Patricia Grant is far more inclined to mercy than vengeance.”

  “Have the president’s lawyers decided to call you to testify for her?”

  “Not yet, but if they do, my answer will be yes.”

  38,000 Feet Above West Virginia — Westbound

  McGill closed his laptop. Sitting in the chartered Gulfstream G450, he and John Tall Wolf had just finished watching Ellie Booker interview Roger Michaelson, and Didi DiMarco’s talk with Jean Morrissey before that. Nobody had intruded on them with a demand they be moved to a more secure setting.

  Tall Wolf was armed, as were Deke Ky and Leo Levy, the latter two sitting in the rear of the cabin. For all McGill knew, the pilot, co-pilot and two cabin attendants were also packing heat. He was probably the only one who’d left his sidearm at home.

  He didn’t have a permit for concealed carry in California.

  The federal officers aboard didn’t need one.

  That wasn’t the reason McGill was frowning, though.

  “What’s the matter,” John asked, “you thought Senator Michaelson was putting on an act?”

  McGill deflected the question back to him, “Do you think he was being honest?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” John offered a small grin. “If the man can lie that well, he’d probably still be in office.”

  That brought a smile to McGill’s face. Made him think that working with the BIA man was going to work out.

  “Yeah, he probably would. It’s just hard for me to wrap my head around it, the way things can change. Erna Godfrey and Roger Michaelson were people I counted on to be lifelong enemies, and now … I have to reevaluate, to say the least.”

  Tall Wolf said, “The Great Spirit moves in mysterious ways.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?”

  “Something else is bothering you, isn’t it?”

  McGill nodded. “It occurred to me that it wouldn’t look good if something bad were to happen to Roger Michaelson. What with Erna Godfrey dying as the result of a well-intended effort, losing Michaelson, too, would be really bad optics, as they like to say in Washington.”

  Tall Wolf looked closely at McGill.

  “You think that’s a real possibility?”

  “If Michaelson works the Senate floor on Patti’s behalf and shifts the vote in the president’s favor, that will change the arc of history. Be pretty damn ironic, too. I have no doubt any number of people would hate to see a not guilty verdict.”

  “So, if you and I weren’t flying off to California, you’d —”

  “No, not me,” McGill said. “But I know someone I can ask to make sure Michaelson keeps on breathing for the foreseeable future. Allow you and me to focus on our jobs.”

  McGill took out his phone and called Celsus Crogher.

  Amsterdam, Netherlands

  FBI Special Agent Abra Benjamin sat on a park bench in the Bijlmer area of Amsterdam. The temperature was in the low 40s, but a steady wind from the north made it feel a good ten degrees colder. Benjamin had the collar of her trench coat up and her hands in its pockets. She did her best to relax, not shiver, but the cold was sinking into her bones and the man she was supposed to meet was already fifteen minutes late.

  A woman out on her own in Bijlmer, one without Benjamin’s law enforcement training, might have been trembling for other reasons. The place’s reputation wasn’t the best, at least the section where she sat. Described in some tourist literature as “vibrantly multicultural,” Bijlmer could also be thought of as sketchy.

  In fact, the more forthcoming visitor’s guides warned that the area was not infrequently the scene of violence and drug dealing. Home to illegal immigrants who lived off the books. A place best avoided unless accompanied by “a trusted local.”

  On top of all that, a light rain began to fall from a slate gray sky.

  Never known as someone with a passive demeanor or boundless patience, Benjamin was about to get up and leave. Return to the U.S. embassy and send a message to Washington that the Dutch were jerking her around. She had suggested a Monday morning meeting with a cop from the intelligence division of the KLPD, the national constabulary. No, no, she’d been told. Let’s do it Sunday afternoon.

  The joker she was supposed to meet, one Bram Dekens, was probably sitting down to Sunday dinner, maybe having a second helping, not worried about the American woman sitting out in the cold and wet. Yeah, well, screw him, too. After she checked in at the embassy, she’d be going to her hotel for her own dinner and a hot bath.

  Tomorrow, she’d tear Dekens a new one.

  Before that could happen, though, some jerk with a Middle Eastern mug decided he had to get in on the act. He walked right up to the bench where she sat and stopped directly in front of her. He was about her height, five-eight. He had a stocky build and appeared not to shave or bathe more than once a week. He gave her the stink-eye. As if that was supposed to terrify her.

  Benjamin smiled at him.

  That threw him off balance. “You are a whore?”

  Benjamin shook her head but kept smiling.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Taking in the scenery.”

  Despite the newly greening grass and a few spindly trees, the park was never going to be featured on a post card for beautiful Amsterdam. The guy was just smart enough to know he was being mocked. He didn’t like it, especially coming from her.

  “You are a whore. Worse, you are American.”

  “Jewish, too,” Benjamin added. “Don’t overlook that.”

  Benjamin took her hands out of her pockets and crossed her arms.

  The guy paid no attention to that. He was staring at her face with all the contempt he could muster. To his credit, the amount was plentiful.

  He never had a moment’s thought that she might be any threat to him.

  “You will leave this place now or I will beat you.”

  Benjamin let her smile vanish and replied, “Fuck off.”

  The guy drew back an open right hand to smack Benjamin senseless. Knock her off the bench and onto the wet pavement. After that, who knew, he might even have some stomping in mind. Only Benjamin was already in motion by the time he cocked his arm.

  Her own right hand was in striking position, and in it was the metal baton she’d withdrawn from her pocket. It sprang into its extended position. Moving quickly to her right, Benjamin whipped a back-handed blow to the thug’s left knee cap. She felt as well as heard the bone shatter.

  The man howled in agony. Not one to leave a job half-done, Benjamin brought the baton streaking back in a forehand strike. She caught the guy’s left wrist squarely. More bones fragmented. The man collapsed in agony, shrieking louder than ever.

  A blare of police sirens added to the cacophony. The cops, three carloads of them, had arrived. Far too quickly not to have been lurking nearby all along. A tall guy in civilian clothing with a bit of a gut, blue eyes and a walrus mustache led the charge.

  He came to a halt within spitting distance of the asshole writhing on the pavement.

  He told the uniformed cops, “Take Mr. Kasim away, gentlemen.”

  Once that had been done, he turned to Benjamin and said, “Special Agent Benjamin? I am Inspector Bram Dekens of the National Police. So sorry to be late for our appointment.”

  Benjamin sneered. “Yeah, bullshit. You set me up.”

  Pacific Palisades — Los Angeles

  Jim McGill, John Tall Wolf and Deke Ky met two LAPD detectives from the Commercial Crimes Division in the parking lot of the fertility clinic that had been robbed. The facility was closed on that Sunday afternoon. The detectives’ names were Eloy Zapata and Wallace MacDuff. With them were the clinic’s owner, Dr. Danika Hansen, and its security guard — now on medical leave — Mindy Crozier.

&
nbsp; McGill introduced himself and his companions. With a nod to the car in which they arrived, he added, “My driver is Leo Levy. He’s federally licensed to carry a firearm.”

  The cops nodded and shook hands with simple professional courtesy.

  Young Ms. Crozier looked slightly starstruck.

  Dr. Hansen also seemed pleased to meet McGill and Tall Wolf.

  McGill focused on the detectives. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with Co-director Tall Wolf and me, gentlemen. We’ll do our best to be good guests in Los Angeles and cooperate with your investigation in every way we can.”

  The L.A. cops were both twenty-year veterans.

  They knew a charm offensive when they saw one.

  “Not just cooperate in every way period?” Zapata asked.

  McGill said, “There may be aspects of client confidentiality I have to observe.”

  Dr. Hansen nodded and said, “I’d also like this matter to be handled discreetly. The less said publicly the better.”

  MacDuff took no notice of her concern. He said to McGill, “I get it that a man in your position needs a Secret Service guy. I’m surprised you have only one, in fact. But a bigwig from the Bureau of Indian Affairs? Wasn’t expecting that.”

  McGill turned to Tall Wolf. “John?”

  He asked the detectives, “You’ve spoken with Ron Ketchum and Keely Powell?”

  “Yeah, we have,” Zapata replied. “Don’t know them personally, but we’ve heard of them. Good people, both. Makes us feel a little better about the two of you being here.”

  MacDuff picked up the thread. “What we’d like is for you gentlemen to remember who has primary responsibility for solving this crime and making the arrest.”

  McGill nodded. “Of course. What I hope Co-director Tall Wolf and I can accomplish is the successful retrieval of Ms. Kersten’s embryos while they’re still viable.”

  “As do I,” Dr. Hansen said.