McDonald lifted his gaze from the page and glanced out into the gallery. All eyes were focused directly on him. His mind flashed back to his first day in front of a classroom of students. He returned his attention to his legal pad. “You’re probably wondering what any of this has to do with why we’re all here today. Well, it has a lot to do with it. Frankly, it has everything to do with it. Although it’s impossible to interpret the general provisions of the Constitution—‘free speech,’ ‘due process,’ ‘equal protection,’ and the like—without recourse to moral and political values, I wasn’t comfortable with those values being those preferred by a particular Supreme Court justice simply because he or she was fortunate enough to serve on the Court. Consequently, I have tried to identify a set of moral and political principles that we have all agreed on. I—or more precisely, Douglas Scott in a fascinating book,
To Secure These Rights: The Declaration of Independence and Constitutional Interpretation
—have found the answer in the Declaration of Independence, the document that announces the
official
moral and political philosophy of the American regime.”
McDonald flipped to page 3 of his legal pad. “In Thomas Jefferson’s evocative words, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.’ When Mr. Jefferson penned those words during the summer of 1776, he was inspired by the prevailing individual rights political theory of the day … most notably, the political theory of seventeenth-century British theorist John Locke. When Abraham Lincoln condemned slavery in the 1850s and 1860s, he was doing so on individual rights grounds. Slaves were people, Lincoln insisted, who were entitled to enjoy the rights of individuals—especially the right to be free. And when the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his famous
I Have a Dream
speech in 1963, his ‘dream’ was that his children would one day live in a nation ‘where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.’”
McDonald paused and took a sip of water. “Most important of all for present purposes, the Constitution’s commitment to the individual rights principles of the nation’s founding document means that the affirmative action program at issue in this case, and similar plans in place at colleges and universities throughout the land, is unconstitutional. It—they—are inconsistent with the Declaration’s mandate that an individual be treated as an individual, not as a member of a racial group. It was inappropriate for the University of South Carolina to treat Alexander Tucker as a member of the white race rather than as a young man with unique strengths and virtues. This Court’s decision in
Grutter v. Bollinger
is overruled, the judgment of the U.S. District Court for the District of South Carolina is reversed, and the district court is hereby ordered to enter judgment for Patricia and Michael Tucker on behalf of their late son.”
The courtroom quickly dissolved into chaos. Reporters rushed toward the exit so they could be the first to break the story, members of the Supreme Court bar dissected on the spot the merits of Justice McDonald’s opinion, and tourists who managed to be in the right place at the right time mentioned to one another how they had just witnessed history.
Meanwhile, President Charles Jackson looked as if he had just seen a ghost, while Senator Alexandra Burton appeared like she had won the lottery.
Burton had won it. Thanks to Clay Smith, she had won.
CHAPTER 95
Kelsi Shelton stared into the horizon as Clay Smith drove away in a blue Toyota. She didn’t bother to memorize the license plate. Clay had stolen the car when they were returning from the George Washington National Forest, and she was certain he would abandon it and steal a different one the moment he disappeared from sight. Besides, she was too tired to remember her name. There was no way she would be able to process a series of numbers on a speeding vehicle.
Clay hadn’t said how Kelsi was supposed to get home from her present location: the parking lot of Crozet Pizza, about ten miles west of Charlottesville. She walked into the restaurant and asked if she could use the telephone. She dialed Sue Plant’s number. But before her best friend could answer, Kelsi heard from over her shoulder, “Hey, kiddo.” She turned to find Peter McDonald smiling and crying at the same time.
“Hey,” Kelsi said. She started crying too.
They hugged.
“Are you OK?” McDonald asked.
Kelsi answered, “I’m cold and hungry, and … and I miss Brian.” Her tears flowed like waterfalls.
“Here.” McDonald removed his jacket and draped it over Kelsi’s slender shoulders. He noticed the manager behind the counter. “Can we get a large pepperoni, please? We’ll be over there.” McDonald pointed to a table near the radiator. He could warm Kelsi and he could feed her, but there was nothing he could do to comfort her about Agent Neal.
The pizzeria’s manager was equally helpless. All he could say was, “It’s on the house.”
An old Bruce Hornsby song sounded in the background. Hornsby was a god in Virginia—a local boy made good. A Williamsburg native, he had recorded a series of hit albums in the late 1980s, he had won the Grammy for best new artist, and he had toured with the Grateful Dead after the Dead’s longtime keyboard player died of a heroin overdose. McDonald himself enjoyed a personal connection to the gifted singer-pianist. Hornsby’s brother John, who co-wrote a number of Hornsby’s most popular songs, had graduated from UVA law school in the 1990s and had been one of McDonald’s brightest students. More meaningful still, John had arranged for McDonald and Jenny to meet Hornsby backstage for soft drinks and snacks after one of Hornsby’s sold-out concerts at UVA’s basketball arena. Jenny was nuts for Hornsby’s music—songs of lost love set to virtuoso piano grooves—and she used to tell her husband that, next to the day Megan was born, meeting Bruce Hornsby had been the greatest day of their married life.
Jenny …
Megan …
“Are you OK?” Kelsi said. The tables had turned; now Kelsi needed to console McDonald.
McDonald didn’t respond.
“Peter?”
Finally, he said, “Sorry. I was thinking about Jenny and Megan. This was our favorite restaurant. Jenny loved the fresh ingredients they put on the pizza—everything but the olives are grown on site—and Megan liked to play with the toys they have for the kids.” McDonald pointed to a large toy box in the corner by the door. “I wonder if Clay Smith knew any of that.”
“I doubt it. How could he?”
“I don’t know how Clay could know about it. But how could he know … how could he
do
… any of the things he has been doing?”
Kelsi glanced out the window. Clouds painted pictures above the mountains. She said, “I’ve asked myself that question many times during the last several days.” She thought again about Brian Neal. She started to cry again. She whispered, “I guess it’s true what my grandmother used to say: It’s impossible to know what’s inside someone’s heart.”
EPILOGUE
The State of the Union
CHAPTER 96
Peter McDonald hurried down the corridor. His Cole Hahn loafers snapped against the marble floor like a dancer’s taps across the stage. McDonald was late for tea with Donald Lowry. Given what Justice Lowry had done for him, McDonald wanted to bring a gift, which explained his tardiness. He’d had a devil of a time locating the box that contained the author’s copies of his new book,
The Ivory Tower
. It was a legal thriller set at a fictionalized University of Virginia. Court watchers were surprised when McDonald’s publisher announced that the justice had penned a novel. Most observers had expected a treatise on constitutional interpretation from the former law professor. After all, several of McDonald’s colleagues on the nation’s highest court had published tomes about how they thought the Constitution should be read. McDonald knew about the justices’ books—he had studied and benefited from them—but he had stated in a press release that he had always enjoyed John Grisham’s novels and that he was eager to try writing one of his own. McDonald’s closest friends knew the back-story, though: the Court’s youngest jurist had written the book as escapist therapy … for himself.
One of Lowry’s law clerks welcomed McDonald to chambers: “Good morning, Mr. Justice. Justice Lowry is in his office. He’s expecting you.”
McDonald thanked the young man and knocked on Lowry’s open door. “Sorry I’m late, Donald.”
Lowry had his back to the door. He said, “Think nothing of it, Peter. Come on in and close the door. The tea is almost ready.”
McDonald complied. He sat on the couch across from the coffee table next to the fireplace—the same spot from which he had asked Lowry to switch his vote two years earlier.
Lowry inched his way around a Persian rug with two teacups filled to the brim. McDonald was prepared to leap to the elderly justice’s assistance at the first sign of unsteadiness. As before, there wasn’t one.
“Thank you,” McDonald said as he accepted the tea.
Lowry folded into the armchair closest to the fireplace. “You’re welcome. I thought we would try some scented black tea this morning. It’s a more aromatic version of Earl Grey’s traditional blend. It’s scented with even more bergamot than the original.”
McDonald took a sip. “It’s delicious. I have no idea what ‘bergamot’ is, but it smells good too.”
Lowry chuckled. “I know I’m a bit obsessive about my tea, but everyone needs a hobby.”
“Speaking of hobbies …” McDonald pulled a copy of his novel out from underneath his trench coat and presented it to the senior associate justice. “I thought you might enjoy this. It’s hot off the presses. I took the liberty of inscribing it for you.”
Lowry smiled. “Thank you, Peter. In case you missed it, there’s a glowing review in this morning’s
Washington Post
. You’re apparently the new Scott Turow— plenty of twists and turns but also plenty of insight about how the world really works.”
McDonald blushed. “I’ll have to read that review.” He took another sip of tea. “Read the inscription.”
Lowry willed his arthritic fingers to the title page. He read the inscription aloud: “To Donald Lowry, A hero to us all and a friend for life. Thank you for what you did for me.” Lowry closed the book and said, “You’re welcome.”
The law clerk who had greeted McDonald knocked on Lowry’s door and reminded the justice that he was scheduled to meet with a group of high school students in the cloakroom in five minutes.
Lowry’s dedication to mentoring young people was legendary in legal circles. He said, “I’ll be right there.”
The law clerk left the two justices to conclude their conversation.
McDonald said, “Thanks again for the tea.” He placed his teacup on the coffee table, shook Lowry’s hand, and turned for the door.
Lowry said, “May I ask you something before you go?”
“Of course.”
“Why did you need me to switch my vote? I know you needed my vote to get to five—the magical five—and I know what you said about not being comfortable with your original decision expanding our stare decisis jurisprudence. But four of our colleagues were comfortable with it, and scores of amici—including dozens of your former law professor colleagues—were comfortable with it. What was the real reason, Peter?”
McDonald glanced at the fire. Flames cast shadows across the room. “The ‘real’ reason?”
Lowry nodded. “Don’t worry. I promise I won’t tell.”
Rain began to sound against the window behind Lowry’s desk.
A tear came to McDonald’s eye. He finally said, voice cracking, “I did it for Megan.”
“Your little girl?”
“Y … yes.”
“What does your daughter—God rest her soul—have to do with the South Carolina case?”
Peter McDonald didn’t have the strength to say any more. He didn’t have the courage to describe how he had asked Donald Lowry to switch his vote to save Kelsi Shelton’s life and how he needed to save Kelsi’s life as a tribute to Megan.
Kelsi, McDonald always knew, was the kind of young woman that he hoped Megan would have grown up to be.
CHAPTER 97
Article II, section 3 of the U.S. Constitution specified that the president “shall from time to time give to Congress Information of the State of the Union.”
Alexandra Burton was preparing to deliver her first address.
Burton had used her unexpected victory in
Tucker v. University of South Carolina
, and the sympathy that surrounded her grandson’s death that led to the lawsuit in the first place, to catapult herself into the White House. The history books would record that the first woman president had defeated the first African American president by the paper-thin margin of three electoral votes. Those same history books would fail to note that President Burton was also the first member of the Ku Klux Klan to be elected to the most powerful office in the world. The oversight couldn’t be attributed to any bias on the part of historians. Rather, historians didn’t know about Burton’s secret identity. Only one person outside of the sacred order knew.
That person?
Supreme Court Justice Peter McDonald, who had used his considerable research skills to confirm the rumor that Kelsi Shelton had shared with him when they were first reunited after Kelsi’s kidnapping. Kelsi had told McDonald that Clay Smith was in the Klan and that Clay had let it slip during the unguarded moment when he was telling her about her father that Senator Burton—now
President
Burton—was also a member.
McDonald wasn’t able to confirm that this explosive rumor was true by reading the U.S. Reports or the U.S. Code … the answer wasn’t contained in a Supreme Court opinion or a federal statute. Instead, McDonald had discovered the truth in a sacred scroll housed in the Masonic Temple of Capitol Hill. The scroll listed every man—and now woman—who had ever served as the imperial wizard of the Invisible Empire. Nathan Bedford Forrest’s name was listed first. Alexandra Rutledge Burton was the most recent entry.