The Tenth Justice

WARNER BOOKS

An AOL Time Warner eBook

BEN ADDISON WAS SWEATING. LIKE A PIG.

And it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

In the past three hours, Ben had read the current issues of
The Washington Post, The New York Times, Law Week
, and
Legal Times
. Last night, before going to bed, he’d committed to memory every major Supreme Court case from the previous session. He’d also made a list of every Supreme Court opinion Justice Mason Hollis had ever written, and, to be safe, he’d reread Hollis’s biography. No matter what the subject, Ben was convinced he was prepared for any topic Justice Hollis might raise. In his briefcase, he had packed two legal pads, four pens, two pencils, a pocket legal dictionary, a pocket thesaurus, and—since he’d heard that Supreme Court clerks typically work straight through lunch—a turkey sandwich. Without question, Ben Addison was ready.

But he was still sweating. Like a pig.

As he stood outside the Supreme Court, a half hour early for his first day on the job, he was entranced by the gleaming white columns of the nation’s highest court. This is it, he thought, taking a deep breath. It’s finally here. Running his hand through his recently cut brown hair, Ben climbed the wide marble stairs. He counted each step, in case Justice Hollis was curious how many stairs there were. Forty-four, he told himself, filing the information on a mental index card.

Ben dragged open the heavy bronze doors and entered the building. A security guard who sat next to a metal detector said, “Can I help you?”

“I’m Ben Addison. I’m here to clerk.”

The guard found Ben’s name on his clipboard. “Orientation doesn’t start for another half hour.”

“I like to be early,” Ben said with a smile.

“Right.” The guard rolled his eyes. “Go straight down the hall and make your first left. It’s the first door on your right.”

Lined with marble busts of past chief justices, the stark white Great Hall was as impressive as Ben had remembered. A sly smile lifted his cheeks as he passed each sculpture. “Hello, Supreme Court,” he whispered to himself. “Hello, Ben,” he answered.

Ben pulled open the large wooden door, expecting to see an empty room. Instead, he saw eight other law clerks. “Brown-nosers,” he muttered to himself as he sat down in the only empty chair.

As inconspicuously as possible, Ben sized up his new colleagues. He recognized three of the eight clerks. On his far right was a well-dressed man with stylish, tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses who had been the articles editor of the
Stanford Law Review
. To his left was a tall black woman who was the former editor in chief of the
Harvard Law Review
. Ben had met both of them at a national Law Review conference at Yale. As Ben recalled, the Stanford man was a former reporter for the
Los Angeles Times
, while the Harvard woman used to be an Old Masters expert for Sotheby’s. Angela was her name. Angela P-something. Finally, seated next to Ben was Joel Westman, a fellow classmate from Yale Law. A political analyst, Joel had spent his pre–law school years as a White House speechwriter. Nice résumés, Ben thought. Struggling to appear casual, he smiled and gave friendly nods to all three clerks; they nodded back.

Ben nervously tapped his foot against the plush carpet. Don’t worry, he told himself. It’ll be fine. You’re as smart as anyone else. But as well-traveled? As well-heeled? That wasn’t the point. Remember your lucky underwear, he reminded himself. He had bought the now fraying pair of red boxer shorts when he was a freshman at Columbia. He had worn them on the first day of every class, to every midterm, and on every important date. During finals, if he had exams on three consecutive days, the boxers would stay on for all of them. He had worn them throughout his three years at Yale and to every clerkship interview. Today’s the day, he decided, that the lucky underwear comes through in the sacred halls of the Supreme Court.

A middle-aged man in a gray, pin-striped suit came in, carrying a stack of manila envelopes. He strode to the podium and counted heads. “I’m Reed Hughes,” he said, solidly grabbing the sides of the podium. “On behalf of the Clerk’s Office, I’d like to officially welcome you to the Supreme Court of the United States. At the risk of repeating information you’re already familiar with, I thought it would be appropriate to tell you a little bit about what your next year here at the Court is going to be like.”

Within seconds, four clerks pulled out pens and notebooks.

Pathetic, Ben thought, fighting the urge to take out his own notebook.

“As you know, each justice is permitted to hire two clerks to assist in the preparation of decisions,” Hughes explained. “The nine of you starting today will join your nine co-clerks who started one month ago on July first. I realize that all eighteen of you have worked extremely hard to get where you are today. For most of your lives, you’ve been running a never-ending race to succeed. Let me tell you something I hope you’ll take seriously. The race is over. You’ve won. You are law clerks of the Supreme Court of the United States.”

“Did you get that down?” Ben whispered to Joel. “We’re the clerks.”

Joel shot Ben a look. “No one likes a smart-ass, Addison.”

“The eighteen of you represent the best and the brightest of the legal community,” Hughes continued. “After screening thousands of applications from the country’s top law schools, the justices of this Court selected you. What does that mean? It means your lives are forever changed. Recruiters will offer you jobs, headhunters will take you out to expensive dinners, and potential employers will do everything in their power to hire you. You are members of the country’s most elite fraternity. The current secretary of state was a Supreme Court clerk. So was the secretary of defense. Three of our nine Supreme Court justices were former Supreme Court clerks, which means that someone in this room has a pretty good shot at becoming a Supreme Court justice. From this moment on, you are the hottest property on the board. You’re Boardwalk
and
Park Place. And that means you have power.”

Easing back in his seat, Ben Addison was no longer sweating.

Hughes scanned his captivated audience. “Why am I telling you this? It’s not so you can impress your friends. And it’s certainly not to boost your ego. After dealing with clerks year after year, I know none of you has an ego problem. My goal is to prepare you for the responsibility you’re about to encounter.

“This is an important job—probably more important than any job you’ll ever have. For over two hundred years, the Supreme Court has steered our country through its greatest controversies. Congress may pass the laws, and the president may sign the laws, but it’s the Supreme Court that decides the law. And starting today, that power is yours. Alongside the justices, you will draft decisions that change lives. Your input will constantly be sought, and your ideas will certainly be implemented. In many instances, the justices will rely entirely on your analysis. They’ll base their opinions on your research. That means you affect what they see and what they know. There are nine justices on this Court. But your influence, the power that you hold, makes you the tenth justice.”

Ben slowly nodded his head. He was mesmerized.

Hughes paused, carefully adjusting his glasses. “You are now charged with great responsibility. You must exercise it wisely. With that said, I know you’ll take this commitment extremely seriously. If you have the right attitude, our clerkship program can change your life. Now, are there any questions?”

Not a single hand went up.

“Fine,” Hughes said. “Then we can get you to your offices.” As he distributed the envelopes, he explained, “Take the one with your name on it and pass the rest on. The envelopes contain your security card and your Court password. The card will let you into any Court entrance, while the password will get you on to your computer. Your secretary will show you how to log on. Any questions?” Again, not a single hand. “Good,” Hughes said. “Then feel free to go to your office. The number is written on the front of the envelope.” As the room emptied, Hughes called out, “If you have any questions, feel free to call me.”

Ben headed for his office, the only one on the second floor. He had met Justice Hollis’s former clerks there during his interview last year. Weaving his way back through the Great Hall, he raced toward the elevator. The elevator operator was an elderly woman with dyed, jet-black hair. Wearing a Court uniform that was too tight for her large frame, she worked a jigsaw puzzle on a small table outside the elevator.

“Second floor, please,” Ben said. When the woman didn’t respond, he added, “Ma’am, I’m trying to get upstairs. Can you please help—”