Murder in the Supreme Court (Capital Crimes Series Book 3) (13 page)

She yawned. “I guess I’d better call it a night—”

He slid close to her, took her in his arms and kissed her, gently at first, then more urgently. She fell back into soft corduroy cushions, her arms around his neck, their bodies pressed tight together…

Afterward he said, “If I wanted to be flip, I’d say something brilliant like, ‘Thanks I needed that.’ What I’d like
to say, if you can stand it, counselor, is ‘Thanks, and you’re quite a woman.’”

She smiled. “And thank you, Teller. And, not being flip, I’ll say I really did need that… and enjoyed it…”

As he was leaving her apartment at two in the morning he said, “Something bothers me about this info on Poulson being a patient of Dr. Sutherland.”

“What?” She was now wearing a purple velour robe and slippers.

“How your interns came up with it by reading old newspaper clippings. It’s not the sort of thing that makes the papers.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Elementary, my dear Teller. One of the interns has a father who owns a pharmacy frequented by the high and the mighty, including Chief Justice Poulson. He’s had prescriptions filled there that were prescribed by Sutherland. And I’ll let you in on another shocking revelation.”

“Yeah?”

“Somebody in the Chief Justice’s family has hemorrhoids.”

“I see. Good night, Susanna.”

“Good night, Teller. Sleep tight.”

Morgan Childs received clearance to land at New York’s Kennedy Airport. He banked his Piper Colt into a tight left turn, slipped into the prescribed landing pattern and set down smoothly on Runway 21 Right. He braked the small aircraft to a quick stop, turned off the runway and taxied to a designated small-plane area.

After arranging for tie-down facilities he asked a dispatcher to call him a cab. “I’m catching American’s nine o’clock flight to San Francisco,” he told him.

“Are you Judge Childs?” the dispatcher asked.

“Yes.”

“Happy to drive you over myself, sir.”

The dispatcher, a gregarious fellow, did not stop talking all the way to the American Airlines terminal. Childs half
listened; his thoughts were on recent events in the Court and on the purpose of his weekend trip to California. He was scheduled that night to address a western regional meeting of Sigma Delta Chi, the journalism fraternity, on the subject of freedom of the press. He’d originally turned down the invitation, but called the program chairman a week before the meeting. The chairman was delighted. “It’ll be quite an honor, Mr. Justice, and a pleasant surprise for our members,” he’d said.

Childs boarded a 747 through Gate Three and glanced inside the flight deck as he passed it on the way to his seat in First Class. The three-man crew was busy preparing for departure, and Childs wished he could be up there with them rather than strapped in as a passenger. Nothing relaxed him more than being at the controls of an airplane in the vast ocean of air above the earth, the problems of everyday life far below and losing importance with every foot of altitude. He could have made a connection later in the day to San Francisco from Washington, but opted for the New York flight because it gave him a little solo time aloft.

“Good morning, Justice Childs,” a flight attendant said. “We’ve been expecting you aboard.”

“Good morning. Nice day for flying.”

“Yes, beautiful. Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

He settled back in his seat, opened a briefcase and took out a handwritten draft of the speech he would give. The doors to the aircraft were closed and, engines whining, the huge aircraft rolled away from the gate. Fifteen minutes later it lifted off the ground and began its long, carefully prescribed journey west.

Childs had a Bloody Mary before breakfast and worked on the speech, deleting paragraphs, inserting new ones. Satisfied that the notes did not contain inappropriate references to pending cases, he returned them to his briefcase.
He peered out the window at the panorama thirty thousand feet below, then looked across the aisle where another passenger was reading a paperback book. A copy of that morning’s
New York Times
was next to him. He noticed Childs and said, “Help yourself.”

Childs took up the paper and scanned the front page. He’d left his house that morning before his
Washington Post
had been delivered, and had deliberately avoided turning on his car radio on the way to the airport. With so little time for silence and reflection, he husbanded every moment he could find.

He started to turn the page when an item at the bottom from United Press International caught his eye. The headline read: SUTHERLAND MURDER WEAPON FOUND.

He read the lead:

The story, which was continued inside the paper, went on to recount the details of Sutherland’s death. It ended:
Dorian Mars, chief of detectives for the MPD, refused to comment when reached at his home, but promised a statement later today.

The flight arrived in San Francisco at 12:15 California time. Childs went to a phone booth and placed a credit-card call to his home in Virginia. His wife answered.

“What have you heard about the weapon being found?” he asked.

“It was on the news this morning. Some reporters have called.”

“Why would they call me?”

“They’re trying to find out more about it, I suppose. Morg, I’m very concerned.”

His laugh was forced. “Why?”

“Why did you call about it?”

“Curious, that’s all. I read about it on the plane and thought you’d have picked up more than the initial dispatch I read.” There was silence on the other end. He asked, “Has there been any word on how the MPD got hold of the weapon, or who it belonged to?”

“Not that I know of. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I just arrived and am heading for the hotel. I’ll call you from there.”

“All right.”

“Peg.”

“What?”

“I wish you were with me.”

“I should have come.”

“Yes, you should have. If another reporter or someone from the police call, tell them nothing. Understand? Just say, ‘No comment.’”

“All right. Call me later.”

“I will.”

The SDX dinner committee had booked Childs into a suite on the fifteenth floor of the Mark Hopkins Hotel. A bouquet of flowers, a basket of cheese and two bottles of wine had been sent up by the hotel’s assistant manager, who had escorted Childs to the suite.

“Is there anything you need, Mr. Justice?” he asked before leaving.

“No, thank you, everything looks fine.”

“Have a pleasant stay with us. We’re honored to have you.”

Childs stepped onto a glassed-in terrace that overlooked the city. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows and created a small rainbow in one corner. It was silent in the suite, and very calm. Yet, in the midst of beauty and peace, he was apprehensive. It was a feeling he hated, one that said weakness, loss of control.

He did what he usually did when anxious. He exercised. He stripped off his clothes and in his boxer shorts went through a half-hour of knee-bends and push-ups, stretching and pulling. He observed himself in a full-length mirror. He was in excellent shape for his age, which made him feel better. He tended to be scornful of people who didn’t take care of themselves. He’d survived his Korean captivity because he’d been mentally and physically strong, and if the need ever arose again to survive, he intended to still be ready.

The banquet chairman called to inquire whether everything was satisfactory, and to go over the schedule for that night’s dinner, which would be held downstairs in the Peacock Court. He invited Childs to have drinks with the officers of the organization but Childs declined, claiming he had reading to do on matters before the Court.

He showered, napped for an hour, then called home. Sue, the youngest of his four children, answered. They chatted for a minute before Childs asked to speak with her mother.

“Mom’s not here, dad. She had a fashion show to go to, at Garfinckel’s, I think.”

“Yes, I forgot. By the way, honey, anything new about the report I heard that they found the gun that killed Clarence Sutherland?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Somebody from NBC called and asked to talk to you, but I told them you were gone until Sunday. I guess it was about the gun. Mom told me not to say anything to anybody.”

“That’s right, honey. Well, take care. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Okay, dad. Give a good speech.”

“I’ll try.”

He turned on television and searched for a newscast. It was too early in the day; he’d have to wait until that night to pick up new information about the gun.

He looked at the phone, then at the TV screen. A college football game was in progress. He turned down the sound, picked up the phone and dialed a number. A woman answered.

“Hello,” Childs said, “may I speak to Dan Brazier?”

“He’s not here. Who’s calling?”

“A friend. Who is this?”

“Sheryl. I expect Dan back in an hour or two. Give me your name and—”

He dropped the phone in its cradle, got up, dressed in tan corduroy slacks, a white shirt and a dark brown crewneck sweater and rode the elevator to the lobby. He entered a waiting cab and gave the driver an address in North Beach.

He walked along Broadway, stopping to peer in shop windows and to read large, garish signs extolling sexual favors available inside. His reaction to them was visceral. He hated pornography, and had voted in a number of cases to curtail its proliferation. The First Amendment, he felt, did not grant the right to create and prosper from materials that were blatantly offensive, that degraded women, victimized those who were exposed to it and generated revenue for mob-controlled interests to feed a mushrooming drug traffic. His eldest daughter had recently joined a women’s march against porn in New York’s Time Square, and he’d been very proud of her.

Still, he deeply believed in the First Amendment and, in most court cases, had focused on the distribution of pornography rather than the curtailing of its production. If there
were those in society who needed pornography to compensate for inadequate personal lives, all right, so be it, but no one should be exposed to it who did not want to be…

He glanced up at a number above a doorway, crossed the street and looked at it from that perspective. He tried to see through the windows of an apartment on the second floor but a reflection made it impossible.

He stayed for a half-hour, watching, checking his watch, leaning against a building. He might have stayed longer if a teenage girl dressed in a pea coat, jeans and wearing a purple feather in her hair had not approached him and asked, “Want to party?” Childs walked away from her, found a cab and returned to the hotel, where he read briefs until it was time to dress for dinner.

There were two hundred people gathered in the Peacock Court. Childs was warmly welcomed by the officers of the group, who led him to the dais, where he was seated in the center of a dozen people.

“I hope you don’t mind the publicity, Mr. Justice,” a woman to his immediate right said. “We were so excited when we heard you’d decided to accept the invitation that we crowed about it.”

“I haven’t seen any,” he said.

“It was in the papers today,” she said, “and on radio and television. We have working press here tonight to cover your speech.”

“Well, I hope I say something worth their trouble.”

She laughed and touched his forearm.

The banquet chairman asked whether he’d consider holding a brief press conference with reporters, informal, of course, and guaranteed not to take more than fifteen minutes. He agreed and followed the chairman to a tight knot of men and women at the end of the dais. One of the group, a bearded young man with an intense expression on his face, said, “Justice Childs, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Go ahead,” Childs said, “but first let me ask you one.” They laughed. “What’s this rumor I’ve heard about the gun used to kill Clarence Sutherland being found?”

“We wanted to talk to you about that,” a young woman said. “I was told as I was leaving the office that the gun belongs to Justice Conover, and that his wife was the one who delivered it to the police.”

“I didn’t…” Childs held back words that would betray his shock at what she’d just said. He smiled. “I hadn’t heard that, and naturally would not want to comment on it until I had a chance to confirm the facts.”

“But what if it’s true, Justice Childs? You’ve sat on the bench with Justice Conover for quite a long time now. Do you think he’s the sort of man who would be capable of—?”

“I think that’s an inappropriate question, young man. I don’t want to discuss the Sutherland matter any further. If you have questions about my appearance here tonight, please ask them.”

“Do you have an advance copy of your talk?” another journalist asked.

“No. I work from notes.”

“Please, Mr. Justice, just one more question about the gun that was found. Were you aware that Justice Conover kept a weapon in his chambers, and if so, do you—?”

“I’d better get back to my seat,” Childs said. “Thank you for coming.”

He returned to the center of the dais. His speech went well. He was confident he’d struck the right note, combining a stated reverence for the First Amendment with a call for responsibility among the media.

Afterward he took advantage of the first lull to excuse himself, said good-night to his hosts and made his way toward the door. Eventually, after being stopped numerous times enroute, he reached the lobby. Piano music drifted
from the lower bar, and Childs recognized the familiar strains of “Tomorrow.” He paused in the center of the lobby, unsure whether to return to his suite or to go outside for a walk. He decided to go upstairs and call Peg. As he walked toward a bank of manually operated elevators, an anachronistic nicety he always enjoyed about the Mark Hopkins, a voice from behind said, “Play ball.”