Murder in the Supreme Court (Capital Crimes Series Book 3) (9 page)

Laurie’s face had seemed to sag, her buoyancy flatten out.

Their lunch was served. Susanna chatted about her job at the Justice Department, about her background and the events that led her to Washington and to her present position. Finally, almost abruptly, she decided it was time… “Laurie, were you in love with Clarence Sutherland?”

It was as though she had kicked her. Laurie’s face turned to stone, she looked abstractedly around the crowded restaurant.

“Shouldn’t I have asked?”

“You can
ask
anything you wish. You’re investigating a murder and I understand I’m a suspect. I also know you know I haven’t an alibi. I was caught in the traffic at what I’m told was the approximate time of the murder. I was by myself.”

“Yes, I do know that, and it’s true you,
along with many others
, are a suspect. But I also want you to know that I’m not interested in hurting people in the process of helping to solve this thing—”

“I’m sure… All right, you’ve asked a question… as one lawyer to another, I’ll tell you our relationship was more than professional.”

“As one woman to another,” Susanna said, “was he in love with you?”

She grimaced. “Clarence was immune from such weakness, vulnerability…”

“I’m told Clarence was a womanizer.”

“How quaint, old-fashioned…”

“Choose your own poison.”

“Immature might be closer.”

Susanna smiled. “Yes… well, he was young—”

“He’s a dead young man now.” Laurie’s voice was cold, her face ice. “If it’s all right with you, I think I’ve had enough discussion about Clarence Sutherland.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve pried too much into your personal relationship.”

“I realize full well your job, but…” Laurie stared at the tabletop, then looked up, a smile applied like makeup now on her face. “Look, Miss Pinscher, I’m sorry… I’m a grown lady… I’ve got degrees that say so, and I am a clerk of a Supreme Court judge. Fire away, ask anything you want. I’ll try to be as truthful as I know how.”

Susanna took the check from the waiter. “All right, Laurie. Did you kill Clarence?”

She started to answer, lost the words, then said with a short laugh, “Of course not.”

“Good. Any notion who did?”

“None.”

“Possibilities? I mean at least in theory?”

“Do we have time?”

“He was that disliked—?”

“Hated, I’m afraid, would be more accurate.”

“But not by you.”

“They say the two emotions are close—sometimes indistinguishable.”

“Laurie, do you think a woman killed him, a woman who’d been hurt by him as you obviously have been?”

“I don’t know. There were so damn many. But there were plenty of men who hated Clarence’s guts too.”

“Husbands?”

“I guess, but I wasn’t thinking about them especially…
Frankly—” her tone became more confident, and confidential—“It was a mystery that Clarence was even able to stay on as chief clerk.”

“Oh? My understanding was that, whatever else, he was brilliant, competent and knowledgeable.”

“He was all those, one of the brightest people I’d ever met. He had a sadistic side that set others against him. The things… he could be cruel for no reason… even toward his superiors… The other clerks constantly expected Chief Justice Poulson to fire him, but of course it never happened—”

“Why not?”

She hesitated. “Justice Poulson is a gentleman, a decent human being. But, in confidence, he’s also weak. Some said that Clarence played on his weaknesses to keep his job.”

“What weaknesses?”

Laurie shrugged. “Clarence knew things about Justice Poulson that evidently could have proved embarrassing to him. What they were I don’t know.” She was not being entirely truthful with Susanna. Her thoughts went back to the night in the Court when she and Clarence were together in her office. She’d just finished reading an analysis of a case he’d written…

“I envy you,” she’d said.

“Why?”

“Your ability to take something as complex as this case, dissect it so quickly and put it all on paper in such a cogent, literate way.”

He laughed. “Just a combination of genes, superior intellect, sensitivity, native talent and inherent survival instincts.”

“Justice Conover feels differently about you,” Laurie said, rolling her chair closer to him so that she could see
what he was reading. It was one of many briefs filed in the
Nidel
v.
Illinois
abortion case.

“What else is new?” he asked, not looking up.

“He said you were ruthless and unprincipled.”

Clarence looked at her and smiled. “What do you care what that senile old creep says?”

He leaned back in his chair and slowly shook his head. “These justices… They get their butts plopped down in a lifetime job because they spent their careers attending the right political functions, meeting the right people and saying the right things. Then they put on their black robes and make laws, at least when they’re not fighting with their wives or playing footsie with some senator or seeing their shrink.”

“Like your father—”

“Yes, like dear old dad, analyst to stars, confidant of the powerful, stroking their egos to make them feel worthy of their exalted positions… Do you know what, Laurie? These same people can be made to squirm when you push the right buttons.” He turned to her and cupped her chin in his hand. “Give us a kiss.”

“Not here.”

“Nobody’s around. Come on.”

He tried to fondle her. She pushed him off. “Clarence, take it easy… later…”

“Why, because we’re in these hallowed halls? Listen, Laurie, let me tell you a secret. Poulson’s got a closetful of skeletons. I know which closet they’re in and what they look like. He came down hard on me this afternoon and I reminded him, nicely of course, about one of them. He backed down. Oh, he kept his dignity. After all, Chief Justice Jonathan Poulson is, if nothing else, dignified. I loved it. And you can tell that old fool you work for that if he says anything else about me I’ll broadcast his wife’s top-secret erogenous zones.”

Laurie stood, smoothed her dress and said she had to leave.

Clarence looked at his watch. “I have an hour.” He stood and put his arms around her. “Plenty of time for us to—”

She slipped away from him, even though she was tempted in spite of herself, opened the door and went out, trying to shut out the sound of his laughter that trailed her down the corridor….

Susanna put cash on the check, picked up her handbag from the floor. “What about the other justices, the other clerks? Did any of them feel strongly enough about Clarence to…”

It seems inconceivable… Clarence was provocative, difficult, but that a justice would… she shook her head.

They parted on the sidewalk and promised to keep in touch.

Susanna returned to her office, where she made notes of what had been said during lunch.

Further down Constitution Avenue Laurie Rawls closed the door behind her in Chief Justice Jonathan Poulson’s chambers and sat herself in a chair. Poulson was behind his desk. He smiled warmly. “Well, how did it go at lunch?”

“Fine, sir. She’s very nice, very bright, and doing her job.”

“Yes, well, I hope you don’t mind my encouraging you to accept the luncheon date with Miss Pinscher. When you mentioned it to me, my initial reaction was to counsel against it. After all, there’s a limit to what people should be put through, murder or no murder. But it seemed a good chance to find out just what progress Justice and the MPD were making. I want this matter cleared up as soon as possible so that the Court can get back to normal. What did she have to say about the investigation?”

“Not too much, really, but it was evident to me, Justice
Poulson, that little progress has been made. Apparently the suspect list is as wide open as it was the first day.”

“I see… well, sorry to hear that.”

“Would you mind if I left early, sir? I’m not feeling so well.”

“Of course.”

She gathered her things from her office and walked down the back stairs to the Great Hall, impressive in its marble splendor. A frieze decorated with medallion profiles of lawgivers and heraldic devices looked down on her as she approached the courtroom. Two members of the Court’s special security force stood at the doorway. “Hello, Miss Rawls,” one of them said.

“Hello,” she answered vaguely as she stood a few feet away and peered into the vast, empty arena where so many of a nation’s great legal battles had been fought. She wanted to leave, but her feet felt as though they were set in the marble floor. She started to tremble, or feel as though she were, and her eyes filled with tears in spite of all her resolutions
not
to let that happen.

An abrupt sound rang out behind her.

“Sorry,” one of the security men said as he bent over to pick up a clipboard he’d dropped. “You really jumped. Miss Rawls.”

“Yes, I’m on edge these days. I suppose we all are.”

He heard her footsteps on the stairs, the fumbling in her purse, a key being inserted into the lock. The door swung open and she stepped into the small, cluttered apartment.

“Where have you been?” Dan Brazier asked. He was in his wheelchair near a window. Outside, on Broadway, in San Francisco’s North Beach district, the transition from day to night was in progress and day’s final warm glow bathed everything in yellow. It was the time of day when the dirt on the windows was most evident, years of accumulation on the outside, a murky brown film of tar and nicotine on the inside.

Sheryl Figgs, who lived with Brazier, placed a bag of
groceries on a butcher block table in the middle of the living room and handed him the mail.

“Where have you been?” Brazier repeated as he flipped through the envelopes.

“I bought food on the way home from work. How are you feeling?” She noticed that a bottle of gin she’d bought yesterday was almost empty.

Brazier ripped open an envelope and looked at a check from Supreme Court Justice Morgan Childs. As usual, it had been drawn on his personal account in Maryland, and the envelope contained only a box number as a return address.

“You got your disability check,” Sheryl said.

Brazier opened that envelope, too, then dropped both checks to a threadbare, imitation Oriental rug.

“I asked you how you were feeling,” she said, kicking off her shoes and pulling a purple sweater over her head. She was not an unattractive woman, although an almost perpetual downturn to her mouth created a sad moue. Her hair was blond and seemingly unkempt; no matter how often she washed it, it appeared to be dullish. Her face was thin, pinched, and very pale. Remnants of teenage acne had left a tiny cluster of scars on both cheeks, which she covered with makeup. She was tall and slender. White skin on her arms, legs and belly was soft and loose, like that of an older person. “Damn stretch marks,” she often said when they were in bed. “That’s what having four kids will do to you.”

Once when she’d said it, Brazier had reacted angrily. “You’re complaining about marks on your belly. I don’t have any legs.” He seldom mentioned his disability, and she felt guilty for days about provoking him to bring it up.

She fetched him more ice and he poured the remains of the gin into his glass. She made herself a bourbon and water and sat at the table. “I brought the newspaper,” she said.

“You read it.” He continued to stare out the window, the gin and ice cubes shimmering in light from outside.

She unfolded the paper on the table and started to read. “Hey,” she said, “there’s a whole story here about your buddy Childs.”

Brazier turned, grimaced. “What’s it say?”

She read in silence for a few moments. “Well, it’s not really about him. It’s about that Sutherland murder case. Listen to this. The woman who’s investigating the murder for the Justice Department—her name is Pinscher, Susanna Pinscher—interviewed him up in his airplane.”

Brazier grunted.

“Nobody’ll make any public comments, it says here, but the reporter claims to have an inside source. He says the investigation is narrowing down to the women in Sutherland’s life… he was a real swinger.”

“What else does it say about Childs?”

“Nothing. Oh, it does say that all the justices are trying to keep a lid on the investigation inside the Court.” She lowered the paper and looked at Brazier. “I don’t blame them. Who wants people snooping around the Supreme Court—?”

“Let me see it,” Brazier said. She gave him the paper and he read the article, then dropped the paper on top of the checks and wheeled himself to the table. “What’s for dinner?”

“I thought I’d make a meat loaf. Do you want a salad?”

“No. I’m going out for a little while. How long does a meat loaf take?”

“I don’t know. I’ll look it up in the cookbook. About an hour, I guess. Where are you going?”

“Around the corner for a drink. I’ll be back. Help me downstairs.”

She knew it was useless to argue. She would have liked him to stay while she prepared dinner. Sometimes, when
he hadn’t had too much to drink, they’d be together in the tiny kitchen and talk. She loved talking to Don Brazier when he was sober. He was the smartest man she’d ever met, and even though she knew he didn’t mean it, he often made her feel like an intellectual equal, someone he respected and listened to. When he was sober.

She took a red-and-black flannel jacket from a closet and helped him on with it, then wheeled him through the door to the top of a short, straight and narrow set of steps leading one flight down to the street. She watched as he pulled himself out of the chair and, using banisters on either side, literally walked down them with his hands. She followed with the chair, avoiding the scene with her eyes and keeping up a conversation to make his difficult journey go faster. “Mr. Valente talked to me today,” she said. “He told me that they’re going to rewrite all the software manuals and that he’d be interested in talking to you about doing some of the work. He remembers the things you wrote in magazines and says he’d like to meet you. I told him I’d see about having you come by someday for lunch and—”

He reached the bottom and she hurriedly slipped the chair beneath him. “If I wanted to write again I’d get a damn agent, Sheryl. I don’t need you hustling for me, and you can tell your friend Valente to mind his own business. What are you doing, coming on with him?”