Murder in the Supreme Court (Capital Crimes Series Book 3) (15 page)

“You didn’t
have
to get into Korea with him, did you? There was no need to talk about it—”

“Come on, Morg, free association is the ticket in therapy. You sit there and everything is so calm and relaxed, so nonjudgmental. It’s pretty easy. I knew the minute I started talking about us and Korea that I was getting into deep water, but what the hell, he’s a doctor and I’m a patient. It’s all confidential, unless… unless your shrink happens to have a son who manages to snoop through his father’s records.”

“He knew a good deal about a good many, it seems.”

“I know. You walk around with that kind of information and somebody’s liable to take a shot at you.”

“I didn’t.”

“Duly noted, your honor… Anyway, somebody did. Who else did his father treat and keep records on?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Good stuff. Even though I don’t write anymore, the old instincts keep coming through. It’s a hell of a story, a Supreme Court clerk whose father is a psychiatrist treating big shots reads his father’s files and holds trump cards over the big shots. That’s power, Morgan, like J. Edgar Hoover had.”

“Not worth murder.”

“Depends. Have you ever told Peg about Korea?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does.”

“Not to you.”

“I’m your closest friend, Mr. Justice, except for your wife, but that’s a different friendship—”

“Very different.”

“All I’m saying is that we’re in this together. No matter what you had to do to handle the Sutherland thing, I want you to know that you can trust me to the grave.”

“I never doubted that, Dan. If I did—”

“That’s what I like to hear, still the hard-nosed survivor to the core.”

Childs poured himself another drink. He was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. His thoughts at that moment were ambivalent—he wanted Brazier to leave, yet was enjoying a certain pleasure at having him there. Acute, painful images of Korea flashed through his mind… the rotting flesh of prison camp, the sounds of North Korean guards laughing as they beat a prisoner…

“You’re an important man, Morgan,” Brazier said. “Think about it. There’s only nine of you in the world.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“But what is true importance, Morgan? I mean, take away the black robes and you’re like everybody else, getting old, losing touch, dying.”

“I don’t see it exactly that way.”

“Nobody likes to, but it’s reality. Remember how we used to talk about staying ready every minute until the break came? You were obsessed with that, which is probably what saved us. You’d hop off that straw cot every morning, yell for us to wake up and start your damn calisthenics, and I’d curse at you through every push-up and every step of running in place. But you were right, Morgan, you got us up and kept us ready. And here we are. Well, more or less. Are you still ready?”

Childs smiled at the challenge. “As ready as ever, Dan. Remember, I’m a survivor.”

Brazier slipped out of his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt,
yanked off his tie and tossed them to the floor. His naked torso was thick and heavily muscled.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready, Morgan. Come on.” He slid from the chair and assumed a position on the carpet from which to do push-ups. “Thirty minutes worth, Morgan. We’ll count. The winner gets… well, how about a hundred?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Lost it, Morgan? Sorry to hear that. I read once that some guy did almost two thousand push-ups in a half hour, world record. Count ’em off for me.”

Brazier began, massive arms lifting his body easily from the carpet and lowering it again, up and down, the tempo increasing. At first Childs didn’t count, and Brazier picked it up at ten. When he got to fifty Childs took over.

“Check your watch,” Brazier said.

“A hundred and twenty. Don’t worry, I’ll keep time.” He refilled his glass and continued to count as Brazier raised and lowered himself in a steady cadence. A half hour later he’d done nine hundred push-ups. His body glistened with sweat, and strands of black hair hung down over his face. He lay on his back, arms spread to the sides, and started to laugh. After a while, there was no way for Childs not to join him.

“What’d I do, nine hundred?” Brazier asked. “Want to take a shot at breaking the Dan Brazier middle-aged, legless record?”

“No, I think it’s time we called it a night.”

“I guess you’re right.” Childs held the wheelchair as Brazier lifted himself into it. “You know, Morgan, this has been a sort of historic night. Here I am, former newspaperman and starmaker doing push-ups in a fancy suite while a Supreme Court justice counts ’em off. Who’d believe it?”

“It was good to see you again, Dan. I’d just as soon keep this evening between us.”

“Hey, you know me, Mr. Closed Mouth. I’ve been proving that for years, right, ever since Korea.”

“What happened wasn’t so terrible—”

“Of course not. They used us both for a so-called greater good, the war effort, patriotism, victory over the gooks. You came out of it a hero, Morg, and I’m proud as hell to have helped create you.” He put on his clothes. “I’m also glad Sutherland got it,” he said when he was dressed.

“Are you?”

“Yup. It brings it back to the way it always was, just you and me against the world.”

Childs started to say something, held the words that had formed on his lips and said only, “You know, Dan, that if you ever need anything you just have to give a yell.”

“Oh, yeah, Morgan, I’ve always known that. Don’t worry, you’ll hear me all the way across the country.” He wheeled himself to the door, opened it, looked back and said, “It was good seeing you again, Mr. Justice. Best to the wife and kids.”

Two press conferences were held on Monday.

In the morning Senior Supreme Court Justice Temple Conover, his wife at his side, sat before a bank of microphones and television cameras in a room in the Department of Justice. He wore a dark gray vested suit, white shirt and muted green tie. He’d removed his topcoat but kept his red wool scarf around his neck throughout the session.

He began by reading a short statement he’d written that morning:

One of fifty reporters in the room outshouted the others and asked, “Is it true that your wife, Mr. Justice, was the one who gave the gun to the MPD?”

“I have no comment other than the one I have given you.”

Another reporter called out to Cecily Conover, “Did you bring the gun to the MPD, Mrs. Conover?”

Cecily, who wore a tight straw-toned cashmere-and-silk dress, responded, “The circumstances under which my husband’s pistol was uncovered are not a matter of public record. It was a pistol he’s owned for some time and—”

Conover glared at her, then said to the questioners, “You were told that I would not answer questions, that my appearance here this morning was solely for the purpose of making the statement I have just read. Thank you for coming. Good day.” He stood, turned so that an aide could help him on with his coat and limped toward the door, his right arm securely in his crutch, his face tight and pained.

Cecily smiled at reporters who pressed close and fired questions at her. She held up her hand and said, “Not now, please, not now.” She joined her husband at the door, took his arm and they disappeared into the hallway.

Susanna Pinscher had been standing at the rear of the room. She felt a kind of sadness about what she’d witnessed. There sat an old, brilliant and distinguished jurist dishonored by his young and beautiful wife. Bringing his pistol to the MPD had been, to put it mildly, an unfaithful act, more than her rumored infidelities. Susanna found herself actively disliking Cecily Conover. A real little bitch…

An old friend from CBS-TV spotted her and asked if she
knew whether Cecily Conover had turned in the gun. “I can’t get a confirmation from MPD,” he said.

“I have no idea,” Susanna said, wondering who at MPD had leaked the story. It couldn’t be Teller…

The second press conference took place at three in the afternoon. It was held in the White House. President Jorgens announced he had named a well-known Texas trial attorney, Donald Wishengrad, as special prosecutor in the Sutherland case.

Jorgens delivered a long statement, ending with, “
…this unfortunate murder and resulting developments have threatened to shake public faith in our highest institutions and officials. By naming a special prosecutor, I hope to bring this matter to a swift and just conclusion and to restore that shaken faith.
”

He took a limited number of questions, one of which was whether he was referring to justice Conover when he spoke of shaken public faith in high officials. He quickly replied, “I referred to
no
specific individual. The Supreme Court is our highest tribunal, and anything, or anyone, who puts a cloud over it does a profound disservice to the nation.”

After Jorgens left the room reporters buzzed about whether Temple Conover was, in fact, being singled out. Jorgens’s feelings about the senior justice were a matter of public record. He’d attacked Conover’s liberal stance on many occasions, and once had commented during a televised fireside chat, “Some of our more dedicated liberal thinkers, such as the distinguished Justice Conover, see nothing wrong about turning the country over to pornographers, dope addicts and criminals in the name of freedom. I don’t call that freedom for anyone, except for a small, zealous number of social misfits. Indeed, I call that license.” He’d then added, “I forget the sage who said it, but I think he was onto something when he said, ‘there’s nothing older than an old Liberal.’”

Conover had sent Jorgens a letter following the telecast, chiding him for his lack of good taste. He did not receive a reply.

“The real question,” said one of the reporters to her colleagues, “is whether Conover might have killed Sutherland.”

“It depends on whether his wife is the piece of business they say she is, and whether she and Sutherland ever got it on together,” said another.

“And,” put in a third, “whether the old man had the goods on them and cared enough to do something drastic.”

***

At six o’clock that evening Susanna Pinscher circled a block in Washington’s northwest district. A car vacated a parking spot and she quickly took it. She looked around to get her bearings, then walked in the direction of an address written on a small slip of paper, stopped in front of an older building that had recently been converted into apartments, confirmed the number over the door and stepped inside a small lobby. Mailboxes and buzzers were to the left. She leaned close to them and squinted in the dim light. L. RAWLS—2C. She pressed the buzzer. The answering signal tripped a lock on the lobby door.

“Hi,” Laurie Rawls said when she answered Susanna’s knock.

“Hi. Sorry I’m late, but I had trouble parking.”

“Everybody does. Come in.”

The apartment was small but airy. She’d entered directly into the living room. A kitchen was immediately to the right and there was a pass-through to the living room. A dozen hanging plants covered a picture window. The room was painted a pale yellow and trimmed with white. The furniture was green, which, with the plants, gave the space a pleasant outdoorsy feeling.

“Sit down,” Laurie said. “I don’t have much in the way
of booze but I do have wine. I think there’s some Scotch, too, maybe a little vodka.”

“Wine would be fine, Laurie, red or white.”

Susanna sat on the couch. A glass-topped coffee table was piled high with books, including
The Brethren
, a former best-seller that provided unflattering insight into the Supreme Court.

“Must have been required reading,” Susanna said of the book when Laurie returned with the wine.

“I guess so. Bacon and eggs all right for dinner?”

“Sounds fine.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to better days.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“I love your plants. Your thumb is decidedly green.”

“They grow in spite of me.” She sipped her wine. “I appreciate your coming here, Susanna.”

“When you called this afternoon I was a little confused, not about the call but about how you sounded, and that you wanted to avoid public places. Why do you feel that’s necessary?”

Laurie shrugged. “Maybe I’m getting paranoid. They say that if you hang around Washington enough you get that way.”

“Especially when you’re involved in a murder investigation.”

“Yes, that helps. Did you see the press conference today?”

“I was at Justice Conover’s. I heard about the President’s.”

“I saw them on the early news. I’m back clerking for Justice Conover.”

“Really? How did that happen?”

“He complained about the Chief taking me away from him, and I guess he won.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“Ambivalent, especially now that the gun has been found.”

It was obvious that Laurie wanted to talk about the gun but had some reservations. Susanna decided not to push, and switched to chitchat about the Washington Redskins.

“I don’t follow football,” Laurie said, “although it’s hard not to in this town. Everything is so hard in
this town
. Excuse me.” She went to the bathroom, returning with a smile on her face, her voice reflecting a new, although determined, lightness. “I think I’ll get dinner going.”

“Can I help?”

How about doing the eggs? I usually manage to mix in the shells. I hope you’re better at it.”

They went into a small white kitchen where Laurie handed Susanna an apron. “One of these days I’m going to get my kitchen act down and become Earth Mother. I always wanted to be a good cook but was told it was old-fashioned and that the way to a man’s heart these days definitely isn’t through his stomach.” She said it with a lilt, but there was a touch of bitterness mixed in.