The Outsider

by Anthony Franze

  Gray picked himself up off the ground. He bent over, a hand on each thigh, catching his breath. When he looked up, Lauren was standing there.

  She arched a brow. “Got any more moves like that?”

  Later, as Gray drove to the Supreme Court building for the law clerk happy hour, he thought of all the cool things he wished he would’ve said to Lauren instead of just standing there with a dopey look on his face, happy to be alive.

  * * *

  At eight o’clock, Sam arrived at the Supreme Court building for the clerk happy hour. Like so many things at the court, they were a tradition; each justice’s clerks hosted one and invited clerks from across chambers. One of the few events where outsiders—spouses, significant others, and friends—were allowed to attend. Gray had invited Sam as an apology for bailing on her the night of the Anton Troy case.

  He gave Sam a tour of the building. The usual spots—the spiral staircase, the conference room, and, of course, the courtroom chamber. He even let her sit in the chief justice’s tall leather chair at the center of the raised bench.

  As Sam looked out across the gallery, Gray pointed up to a frieze that adorned the wall just below the ceiling. It depicted a mythological battle. “It’s supposed to represent good versus evil,” he said. He was disappointed when Sam didn’t seem all that impressed.

  “I heard a few years back, some clerks took pictures of themselves sitting naked on the bench,” Gray said. “It somehow made it on Facebook and they got in some serious shit.”

  Sam twirled around in the chief’s chair. Finally, she said, “What’s gotten into you?” She gave him a hard glare. “You’re acting like a teenage girl at a boy-band concert.”

  He shook his head. Sam instinctively disliked anything too Washington. Why should he have expected this to be any different? He released a weary breath.

  “What?” she said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Say it.”

  “It’s just that I’m always open to your we’re artistes crowd who think they’re too cool for everything, I just thought you would—never mind, just forget it.”

  “Thought what? I’d be cool with your boss buying you clothes like you’re a fucking Barbie doll? With him letting you stay in his apartment? The car?”

  “I’m just there until the end of the term. And what was I supposed to do? Turn down a free place in Georgetown? A free sports car?”

  “What do you think your father would—”

  They were mercifully interrupted by one of the clerks who popped his head in and asked if they were coming to the happy hour.

  In the courtyard, a crowd soon gathered around them. Gray because he was still a curiosity around the building. Sam, well, she got attention because she was Sam. It was only in these moments, when he saw her through other people’s eyes, that he got what all the fuss was about.

  “That’s your best friend?” Mike said.

  As the night went on, the clerks for each justice circled with their own. Gray glanced across the courtyard and saw Sam surrounded by a group of male clerks who were obviously showing off. They didn’t realize that name-dropping and mentioning their Rhodes Scholarships was like spraying Sam-repellant all over themselves.

  “To the best zip-liner in the history of the high court,” Mike said, raising a plastic cup of beer. Lauren, Praveen, and even Keir raised their cups. “There are few things the chief likes more than beating Justice Wall, so here’s to a job well done, man.”

  Gray took a gulp of beer. “I was surprised about how competitive they are,” he said.

  “Boyhood rivalry, I guess,” Lauren said.

  Mike said, “Yeah, they should just get a ruler and measure their dicks and get it over with.”

  The others ignored the comment, like they expected as much from Mike.

  “The chief’s had a good week all around,” Keir said. “Not only beating Wall, but the chief talked Justice Cutler into coming over to our side in the Filstein case. It’s gonna be five-four, and I’m gonna write the majority opinion for the biggest case of the term.”

  “Good for you, jackass,” Mike responded. “No more shop talk. And Praveen, go work your magic on that hot blonde over there.”

  Praveen rolled his eyes in distaste. He took the last sip of what looked like Pepsi in his cup. “I’ve actually got to head out.”

  “Ah, come on, Pravie,” Mike said. “I was just kidding. Hang out, it’ll be fun.”

  “Grayson, well done today,” Praveen said. “Tell Samantha it was nice meeting her.”

  “Thank you, Praveen.”

  “Killjoy!” Mike shouted as Praveen threaded his way through the crowd. Mike and Keir then wandered off.

  “Is Mike always like this?” Gray asked Lauren.

  “You mean the misogyny and vulgarity? Let’s put it this way, do not ask him about his vacation in Thailand.”

  Gray laughed. He looked over at Sam across the courtyard again.

  Lauren followed his glance. “Your girlfriend doesn’t look like she’s having a good time.”

  Gray could swear he heard a hint of jealousy. He considered playing coy, letting Lauren think that beautiful Sam was one of his many playthings, but quickly decided against it. “She’s not my girlfriend. We grew up together. She’s one of my oldest friends.”

  Lauren pondered this. “I don’t know too many guys who would just want to be friends with her.”

  Gray emitted a dry laugh. “We kissed once in sixth grade, you know, to see what it was like. I swear it nearly turned us both off of kissing forever.”

  “I’ll have to remedy that.” Lauren’s lips curled to a mischievous smile.

  Gray was trying to think of something clever to say in response, when he felt a tap on the shoulder.

  “Hey, I think I’m gonna take off,” Sam said.

  “Already?”

  Sam looked about, made a face.

  “Come on, Sam. Give it a chance,” Gray said.

  Sam didn’t respond.

  “Did you tell anyone about your show?” Gray asked. “I think you’ve got some potential customers here.”

  Sam sniffed. “I want people to buy my work because they like my art, not because they’re trying to hit on me.”

  “I think you need to lighten up.”

  “I want to go.”

  “Really?” Gray said, thick with exasperation.

  “I can find my own way out.”

  He was a jerk to stay. But he was fitting in—really fitting in. So he closed down his first clerk happy hour. After nearly everyone had cleared out, Gray saw Mike sitting on the ledge of the courtyard fountain looking a little sloppy. “I should probably help him home,” Gray said to Lauren. “I shouldn’t drive, though. Want to share an Uber?”

  The three soon piled into the car. Lauren’s place was on the way, so they dropped her first.

  “You want me to walk you up?” Gray said. She wasn’t the kind of girl who needed an escort. “I thought you might want to see the rest of my moves.” He smiled, referencing her remark at the zip-line course.

  Lauren stared deep into his eyes again. Her gaze then moved to Mike, who was slouched in the backseat, head back, eyes closed. “Rain check,” she said. She turned, walked up her front steps, and disappeared inside.

  Ten minutes later, Gray helped Mike to the front door of his brownstone. After fumbling with the keys, Mike staggered to his couch, mumbling something. Gray took it as a thank you. The place had hardwood floors, expensive-looking furniture. Probably cost a fortune in Dupont Circle. Mike had stacks of briefs on the coffee table.

  The Uber driver honked, letting Gray know he was tiring of waiting.

  “You gonna be all right?” Gray asked.

  “I’m good, man,” Mike slurred.

  On his way out, something caught Gray’s eye. On the table, next to the briefs.

  A feather quill pen.

  CHAPTER 20

  On Monday morning, Gray trudged up the escalator at Union Station. It
was 5:00 a.m., and only a few weary commuters milled about. He bought a Starbucks, left the station, then walked under the purple sky down First Street. About halfway to the court building was a guard shack stationed next to barricades jutting from the street, hinged contraptions that came down like drawbridges, allowing only authorized vehicles to park near the Senate office buildings. The sidewalks were empty, and he made his way through the plaza and to the side entrance of the Supreme Court. The officer stationed at the door waved him through.

  In his office, he found a new pile of briefs filling his in-box. A foot-tall stack of the blue, red, gray, green, and white booklets. He loved the job, but he sometimes fantasized about the colorful bonfire the briefs would make. In addition to the pool and bench memos, he was onto the fourth task of a clerk: writing the first draft of a decision, the chief’s majority opinion in the Jando case. He’d started the draft over the weekend, and was struggling to write a persuasive opinion that was at odds with his personal views, a decision watering down search-and-seizure protections for defendants. He knew he couldn’t pull any punches. The chief wore the black robe, not him.

  The trill of his office phone broke the quiet. It couldn’t possibly be his sister calling this early, could it? Over the past two weeks, she’d left several messages. They always started with an exasperated, nasally “This is your sister,” and ended with some passive-aggressive reference to whatever family event he’d missed that day.

  “Gray Hernandez,” he said, trying to sound wide awake.

  “Good morning, Grayson,” the chief justice said. “I’m preparing for the Union Health argument and wanted to look at a couple cases cited in the blue brief.”

  Gray wrote down the citations and placed the phone in the cradle. He was pleased with himself. Who wouldn’t be if the boss called at five-thirty in the morning and you were at your desk? He pulled up the cases on Westlaw, printed them, then paced quickly to the justices’ private dining room where the chief was eating breakfast. His mind drifted to his time as a marshal’s aide, where he’d learned the shortest route to virtually every spot in the building. How things had changed. He was getting into the groove as a clerk. He understood the job, was speaking the court’s language, had friends.

  And then there was Lauren. She’d definitely been sending him signals on Saturday night. His good mood crashed to earth, however, when his thoughts jumped to Mike’s feather pen. The quill pen was now in the bottom drawer of Gray’s desk. Why had Gray taken it? And what should he do now? Call that agent? Tell the chief?

  He turned the corner quickly, bumping into someone. There was a gasp, and the woman tumbled to the floor.

  Holy shit.

  It was Justice Cutler. What was it with him bumping into Supreme Court justices? On their outing, the chief justice had intimated that Cutler was the worst justice in history.

  Gray began helping her to her feet but she swatted him away.

  “I’m so sorry, Justice Cutler,” Gray said.

  “What are you even doing here?” she spat. “This is the private dining area.”

  “The chief justice asked that I bring him some materials for the argument.”

  She glared at him, then shifted her gaze to the dining room door. “Wait here.”

  She stormed inside. All Gray could hear was “incompetent” and “charity project,” but he knew how it was going.

  Justice Cutler emerged from the dining room and gave him the eye. The chief, loud enough for Cutler to hear, called for Gray. The chief’s tone was stern, prompting a satisfied smirk from Cutler, who stomped off.

  Gray walked on the red Oriental rugs to the long table where the chief had his breakfast and briefs spread out in front of him. The chief took a sip from a teacup.

  “Making new friends, I see.”

  “Chief Justice Douglas, I’m so sorry, it was an accident. I was rushing to bring you the cases. I should’ve slowed down, I should have—”

  The chief held up a hand. “Let me give you some advice, Grayson.” He folded his napkin and placed it on the table neatly. “I don’t care how much you screw something up, in this town you never apologize. Never. The sharks smell weakness like blood in the water.”

  Gray’s thoughts flashed to Snuffy the Seal being devoured by the great white. He nodded. His Washington education continued: No apologies.

  “Do me a favor,” the chief said.

  A pause. “Anything. Of course.”

  “Call Aaron Dowell. See if he caught what happened on the security footage.”

  Gray got a hard lump in his throat. This was getting more serious than he expected. The chief wanted to involve the Supreme Court Police.

  The chief’s lips held the hint of a smile. “Seeing that woman fall on her ass sounds like the only entertaining thing on the docket this week.”

  Gray just stood there expressionless as the chief plucked the case law out of his hand. Before leaving the dining room, the chief handed Gray an interoffice envelope. It was marked CONFIDENTIAL and had a sticker over the little red string that tied it shut.

  “Deliver this to Justice Wall’s chambers, will you?”

  Gray handled the envelope as if it contained nitroglycerin. As silly as it sounded, “envelope duty” was a big deal. The envelope contained the private—paper copy only—communications between the chief and the other justices. It was as environmentally unfriendly as it was an antiquated method of communication. But the practice left no electronic footprint, allowing the chief to speak freely to the other justices without fear that sensitive notes or memos would ever wind up in his Library of Congress papers after he died. The other clerks bragged when the chief assigned them envelope duty. It wasn’t that they relished being a messenger, it was the unwritten expression of trust. Despite the importance, Gray’s co-clerks also had fun speculating about what was inside the business-sized envelope. Lauren thought it contained the final votes on all cases from the term. Mike thought it had nude shots of Justice Wall’s sexual conquests. Keir thought it had a football pool the justices were rumored to participate in. And Praveen said it was none of their business and they should all get back to work.

  Whatever was in the envelope, Gray was about to make the most important delivery of his many at the high court. Would he guard the envelope with is life? Right now, having received another small validation that he was a real clerk, not just some “charity project,” he just might.

  CHAPTER 21

  “You want the good news or bad first?” Agent Cartwright asked.

  Milstein was hunched over the investigative file spread across her desk. She took a bite of her breakfast, a bruised apple. “Bad,” she said, with a mouthful.

  Cartwright nodded, like he expected as much. He paced about her office, seeming to contemplate the bare walls and dust on her bookshelves. “Neal says Aaron Dowell is making a play for the Supreme Court’s squad to take over the investigation since it involves the safety of the justices.”

  “And?”

  “And Neal said Aaron’s going over his head. Said the Director of National Intelligence is using the dreaded T-word.”

  “Not a fucking task force.” Milstein had been through this before. She’d never been a believer in task forces. Too many bodies added more politics than breaks to an investigation.

  “Aaron refuses to give us access to the justices or their clerks until it all shakes out. And Neal said we need to stay away from SCOTUS for now.”

  Milstein shook her head. “The good news?”

  “Wait, I got more bad.”

  Milstein coughed out an exasperated laugh. She tossed the apple core across her office to the small trash bin, making the shot.

  “I asked my buddy over at Homeland if we could have access to their intel on the Franklin fire. He said Aaron is making a play for their case as well. Said he can’t share the file right now. I reminded him that we could connect a Franklin victim, the reporter, to both Dupont Underground and the convenience store—the reporter had spoken to bo
th victims. He said no file until the politics are resolved. He did tell me something off the record, though.” Cartwright’s glance turned serious. “The reporter’s home was broken into—his computer taken and possibly his work files.”

  “If someone went to the trouble to break in and steal his research and interview notes,” Milstein said, “the murders may be connected to a story he was working on.”

  “That’s what I said to him,” Cartwright said.

  Milstein pondered this for a while. “If you wanted to find out where someone lived to break into their place, how would you do it?”

  “If I was a civilian?” Cartwright said. “Easy: I’d Google their name.”

  “How many people do you think could’ve possibly Googled this reporter’s name in the last few months? I mean, if you date restrict it before the Franklin fire?”

  Cartwright shook his head. “I’ll get Simmons on it. She can reach out to our contacts at Google. Could be some red tape, though.”

  “So can you get to the good news now?”

  “Speaking of Simmons, she went banging on some doors near the convenience store again looking for any witnesses.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t get excited, she’d didn’t find any. But a guy who works at the liquor store down the street has some information. He didn’t feel comfortable talking to the feds at his store—thought it could be bad for business.”

  Milstein cocked her head to the side: And …

  “I called the guy, asked him to come to the office.” Cartwright looked at his watch. “He’s supposed to be here in ten minutes.”

  It was another twenty minutes before Bob Jankowski ambled into the field office. He was a large man, Milstein guessed about three hundred pounds, and had thin hair pulled into a greasy ponytail.

  “Thanks for coming in, Bob,” Cartwright said.

  “Call me Blaze, man, everybody does.” He had a smooth voice, the cadence of a California surfer. Based on the faint waft of marijuana from his jacket, Milstein understood why people called him “Blaze.”

  Cartwright gave a faint smile, amused.

  Blaze looked about the conference room. “The fricking FBI, this is a trip.”