The Outsider

by Anthony Franze

  “It’s your lucky day,” she said, dropping it on his desktop. “Office rotations. I drew the short straw and got the closet. You’re now with Praveen. Mike’s with Keir.”

  The day was starting off well. “So I can move? Right now?”

  “Yeah, unless you want to stay, then I’d be happy to—”

  “No, I’ll go,” Gray said, jumping to his feet. Finally, he’d be in close proximity to the chief. And he’d have some company, though Praveen wasn’t much of a talker.

  Gray picked up a stack of his work papers. “You mind if I come back for the rest later? I can grab the mail cart and get it all in one trip.”

  “No problem,” Lauren said. “I have a question, though, about this office.”

  “Sure. Is it the smell? You get used to it.”

  “No, but thanks, now I’m fixated on it.” Lauren wrinkled her nose. “My question is whether it’s always so empty on this hall? I mean, does anyone ever come up here?”

  “Not really. The chief came by once, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone on the hall after-hours.”

  “Well, maybe that’s when you should come by to get your things.” She held his glance for a long moment.

  “Maybe I will,” he said. “If you play your cards right.”

  As he walked to his new office, his cell phone rang. The caller ID showed no name, but he recognized the number from last night.

  “Hello,” Gray whispered as he stepped down the stairs to the main floor of the court.

  “It’s Agent Milstein.”

  “Look, I’m sorry Arturo took off. He wasn’t running from you. It was—”

  “We can talk about that later. For now, I wondered if you could do me a favor?”

  Gray stopped in the Great Hall next to a bust of Chief Justice Rehnquist. “What do you need?” Some tourists were at the roped-off entrance to the courtroom chamber, more annoying selfies.

  “I need you to find a computer for me.”

  “What do you mean? Find what computer?”

  “A computer in the court. I have a terminal number, OFS087, and I need to know who it belongs to.”

  “How would I figure that out? I’m not a tech person. I don’t run the computer system.”

  “I thought the computers might have some identification port or stamps on them. It would help a lot if you could check.”

  “Why don’t you just ask the court’s police? They could get the tech people to give you this information in five minutes.” He was starting to think that Milstein wasn’t supposed to be talking to him. “There’s probably more than a thousand computers in the building. I don’t know how I’ll—”

  “I have to go now. Please, Grayson. The ID is OFS087.” She clicked off.

  CHAPTER 28

  Milstein and Cartwright walked the long hall of FBI headquarters. The famously ugly building had seen better days. It wasn’t as prestigious to work out of the field office over on Fourth Street, just five blocks away, but at least you didn’t have to worry about breathing in mold or the other toxins that floated in the air at HQ. The building was so bad that soon headquarters would be shuttered and thousands of FBI employees relocated to a new building in the suburbs. As usual, though, politics had the project delayed.

  They found the general counsel’s office and checked in for their appointment. As they sat in the plain reception area, Milstein filled in Cartwright on the information Agent Simmons had obtained from Google: someone had used a computer at the Supreme Court to search for Adam Nowak’s home address. Milstein didn’t mention that she’d asked the law clerk to hunt for the computer in the Supreme Court. They’d been ordered to steer clear of SCOTUS, so better that she left Cartwright out of it.

  Cartwright nodded with approval, then said, “You feeling okay? You look a little peaked.”

  Milstein presumed it was the bags under her eyes and the wrinkled clothes. The temp apartment, and this fucking case, were getting to her. And that was nothing compared to the interagency politics. A Homeland team was investigating the Franklin fire, the Supreme Court’s squad was handling the attack on the chief, and she had Dupont Underground and the convenience store. Each guarding its turf, as Aaron Dowell made a play for a task force that would take over everything.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Thanks for your concern.” There was more sarcasm in that than she’d intended.

  “Hey, I spoke with Peggy, and we wondered if you’d like to come to our place for Thanksgiving? The kids would love to see you. It’s just gonna be us and some of Peggy’s family and—”

  Milstein stood up quickly when the woman came into the reception area, mostly so she could end the discussion. She loved Scott’s family, but the sweet cliché of the Cartwrights wasn’t going to make her feel any better.

  “I’m Liz Evanson,” the young woman said, sticking out her hand. She had dull brown hair and serious eyes, a no-nonsense way about her. Milstein immediately liked her. Evanson escorted them to a conference room. Next to a long table sat a dozen bankers boxes.

  “This is what’s left of the file,” Evanson said, gesturing to the boxes. “The rest has been purged. You were lucky we had these since we keep hard copies for only about ten years, usually. No one uses paper files anymore.” The young woman smirked, the superiority of a millennial.

  “Are any of the lawyers who worked the case still here?” Cartwright asked.

  Evanson shook her head. Turnover at HQ tended to track the election cycle.

  “Can we get a copy of all this?”

  “I hate to say it, but our policy is that nothing leaves the building,” Evanson said. “You’re welcome to use the room as long as you’d like, though.”

  Cartwright exhaled loudly as he surveyed the boxes. “We’re not lawyers,” Cartwright said, “so I’m not sure where to even start.”

  “Are you permitted to disclose what you’re looking for?” The young lawyer had been around long enough to know that information often was need-to-know.

  Cartwright smiled. “If we knew what we were looking for, I’d tell you. Hey, you’re not related to Hank Evanson, are you?”

  The woman nodded. “He’s my uncle.”

  Cartwright clapped his hands together. “I could see it in the eyes. I saw him on TV a couple weeks ago protecting the pres.” Cartwright looked at Milstein. “He’s secret service.”

  Milstein nodded. “I kinda got that.”

  Cartwright said, “Tell him hello from me. It’s been too long.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Cartwright then cast his gaze over the bankers boxes again, shaking his head.

  Evanson pulled out the index that was on top of the first box. “If I was trying to get up to speed, I’d start with box number eight. It’s the settlement file. This case settled so if things haven’t changed too much since then, there should be a settlement memo. Main Justice handles the actual litigation in civil cases filed against the Bureau, but our office is copied on important filings, and included on key decisions, especially settlements. There should be a memo explaining why we should spend Uncle Sam’s money to settle the case.”

  Milstein lifted the box labeled “8” and set it on the table.

  Cartwright took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. He smiled at Evanson. “Looks like I need to cancel some plans.”

  Evanson hesitated, then said, “Tell you what. If you sign for them, and promise to keep them secure, I’ll have a copy of the file made and sent to the field office. I’ll try to get them to you next week before everyone takes off for Thanksgiving, but no promises.”

  Milstein gazed at Cartwright. He never disappointed.

  “You’d do that? I don’t want to get you in any trouble,” Cartwright said.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “That’s just great, Liz. Just like your uncle. You’re good people.”

  Evanson chuckled, as if she knew she’d been played. “I’m just down the hall if you need anything.”

>   Milstein rummaged through the box and soon found a memorandum with the subject line SETTLEMENT RECOMMENDATION—CONFIDENTIAL. She read the memo as Cartwright poked around in another box.

  “No way,” Milstein said.

  “What?” Cartwright said, excited. He scooched next to her at the conference room table, trying to read the memo over her shoulder.

  Milstein said, “This explains why Matsuka won’t talk to the Bureau. This guy wasn’t just beaten by the agent, he was nearly killed.”

  “Does it say why, what it was all about?” Cartwright asked.

  “Yeah, a kidnapping case in the nineties.” Milstein kept reading as she simultaneously paraphrased for Cartwright. “Two young girls, sisters, were abducted. Their teenage brother apparently tried to stop the perp and was knocked on the head, suffered a traumatic brain injury. The last place they were all seen was at Matsuka’s convenience store.”

  “Why’d Matsuka get the beatdown? He wasn’t the perp who took the kids, right?”

  “A witness reported seeing the kids talking to a worker at the store, Matsuka’s cousin, Ken Tanaka. Turned out that Tanaka had priors for molesting a kid. When they couldn’t find Tanaka, I guess the agent in charge thought Matsuka was holding out. The agent beat the guy until he gave up the cousin’s location. The memo says that the Bureau low-balled the settlement offer because the information the agent beat out of Matsuka helped find Ken Tanaka and they managed to save one of the girls. The other girl was dead by the time they got there.”

  “If I was on that jury,” Cartwright said, “I wouldn’t give Matsuka a penny. I don’t care if it was his cousin—protecting a child molester warrants a beating.”

  “Why didn’t it come up in our database searches?” Milstein asked.

  “I’m not sure, but maybe because the team wasn’t searching for anything on Tanaka, the child molester. Or because the files are so old and maybe not in electronic databases. And remember, the storekeeper changed his name—probably because of the shame about helping the perp hide—so computer searches for Matsuka wouldn’t get any hits.”

  “Get this,” Milstein said, still reading the memo. “The agent who beat Matsuka—his name is Kevin Dugan—put canned food in a bag and used it to club Matsuka. That’s exactly what happened to Matsuka’s daughter.”

  Excited, they spent the next few hours fishing through the boxes. Cartwright found a file that contained photocopies of newspaper stories about the case. “Here we go,” he said.

  “What?” Milstein said.

  Cartwright handed Milstein the photocopy.

  “Look who the judge was in the case against the child molester,” Cartwright said.

  Milstein felt goosebumps ripple up her arms. “I’ll do you better than that. Look who wrote the story, and the defense lawyer who represented piece of shit Tanaka.”

  SUSPECT IN WHITLOCK CASE FREED ON TECHNICALITY

  By Adam Nowak

  Washington Post Staff Writer

  Sunday, April 21, 1997

  WASHINGTON, D.C.—A federal district court judge today threw out key evidence against Ken Tanaka in the kidnapping and murder of Kimberley Whitlock and related kidnapping and other charges concerning Kimberley’s surviving siblings, John and Susan Whitlock. The children were abducted in the Hamilton Heights neighborhood on January 5 after witnesses saw them talking to Tanaka, who worked at his family’s convenience store. District Court Judge Edgar Douglas held that “the rule of law compels this difficult decision,” because the evidence that led to Tanaka’s arrest was obtained in violation of his constitutional rights. Tanaka’s public defender, Amanda Hill, could not be reached for comment.

  Cartwright smiled. “No, I can one-up that. Look at the date the kids were abducted.” He placed a finger on the newspaper story. “The fifth of the month.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “You ready to go?” the chief justice asked.

  Gray held the phone to his ear as he put on his suit jacket. “I am. Just printed the speech.”

  “Great, meet me at the car.”

  Georgetown University Law Center was only a short walk from the Supreme Court building, but the court’s police insisted on escorting the justices to all public events. With rush-hour traffic, it took the motorcade of black Cadillacs twenty minutes to go less than a mile. The chief read the speech on the drive over.

  “Well done, Grayson. Nice work,” the chief said, folding up the speech and tucking it in his suit pocket.

  The event turned out to be a bigger production than Gray had anticipated. The large auditorium was filled to capacity with students, academics, and a cast of VIPs. The chief and Gray were ushered around like temperamental rock stars, everyone anxious that they were properly accommodated. The chief was good-natured about it. He was gracious with his time and acquiesced to the repeated requests for photos.

  At six o’clock, the dean strutted onto the stage. Gray stood in the wings and stared out at the crowd, which cheered loudly. The dean gave what could only be described as an over-the-top love-fest of an introduction. Gray almost blushed for the guy. He supposed that in this economy—with law school applications plummeting and grads coming out of school $200,000 in debt with few job prospects—being a law school dean was probably a tough business. Reeling in a Supreme Court justice was a major coup. The chief waited next to Gray, no sign of nerves. Not a care in the world.

  The dean was starting to wrap it up. “Before we bring out the chief justice, we have a surprise for him tonight.” The dean gave a conspiratorial smile.

  The chief looked at Gray. His brow furrowed, as if Gray was in on it.

  “No idea,” Gray said.

  The dean continued. “It is a rare honor for us to have one sitting member of the Supreme Court come speak at the Law Center. But when word got out that the chief justice would be here—and he would be receiving a lifetime achievement award—we got a call from a very special guest who graciously offered to present him with tonight’s honor.”

  The room went quiet. Gray felt someone push by. Then he heard a familiar voice. “Step aside, Bones,” the man said as he walked confidently onto the stage.

  The dean continued, “Ladies and gentleman, with us to present the award is Justice Peter Wall.” The room erupted. Springsteen making a surprise guest appearance at a New Jersey night club.

  Wall turned and gave a smirk to the chief, who was smiling and shaking his head. Wall stood at the podium, playfully swatting down the applause. When the room settled, he began.

  “Lifetime achievement award.” Wall said it with a sigh. “When I heard that my oldest friend would be receiving this tonight, I have to admit, my first thought was, ‘Are we really that old?’” A titter from the audience. “But, if there’s anyone in this country who has achieved—and I mean that in the best sense of the word—it is Chief Justice Douglas.” More applause filled the hall.

  Wall paused a beat and looked out at the room with a contemplative stare. “I met Ed in high school and we became fast friends, and later roomed together in college. Those carefree days—the pleasures of dorm life of which I suspect a few of you know—were some of the best of my life.” He let the students snicker at the implications of that.

  “Back then, I never would have imagined that our paths would intersect so often in life. College, then law school—I couldn’t shake this skinny guy who was always beating me out in everything we did.” More laughter.

  “But after law school, we parted ways for a time. I worked as a federal prosecutor, and he went to a large law firm. I thought finally I’ll be able to get somewhere without being in this guy’s shadow.” Wall took a sip from a glass of water. “But then I got a call about an interview for my dream job: a position with the Office of the Solicitor General. Now, for those of you who aren’t familiar with OSG, back then—as it is today, I suppose—it was the most sought-after law job in the country. The principal task of the office is to represent the federal government before the Supreme Court. It was a small
office that rarely had openings. So I got to Washington in my new suit and fresh haircut and I was ushered up to the fifth floor of the Justice Department. I spent the morning meeting everyone and things, I thought, were going pretty well. They made a point of telling me that only one spot was available, but I tell you, I believed it was mine. So, then came lunchtime and two assistant SGs took me to out to an extravagant lunch: the cafeteria in the basement of Main Justice. And when I got down there I couldn’t believe what I saw.” He paused a moment. “It was Ed standing in line with his food tray with two of the other lawyers I’d met that morning: he was interviewing for the same job.” Another burst of laughter from the audience.

  “It got worse. In some kind of Machiavellian interview tactic, the lawyers from OSG didn’t dine with us. They pointed to a two-seater in the back and had me and Ed eat together. I’m not sure if it was because they knew that we were old friends or if it was some test. Maybe they just didn’t want to spend lunch with us. But there we were again.” He let a moment pass, allowing the audience to picture the scene. “Why do I bring all this up? Besides highlighting that we are indeed old, you would think that the ambitious young version of myself would take a disliking to the person who always seemed one step ahead, beating me out of everything. But that was never the case. Even back then, you couldn’t help but like and admire Ed. He was then, as he is today, a person of character, of charm, of wit. A person who made you a better person. And I feel as though I’m certainly a better person today because of him. So here we are, decades later, and it is my great honor to present this lifetime achievement award to my colleague, my brethren, my closest friend, the chief justice of the United States.”

  The crowd went nuts over Wall’s remarks. The chief patted Gray on the back and walked in that slow and steady stride of his to the podium where he and Wall locked hands and then pulled to an embrace. There was something storied about it all. These two brilliant men went from school boys to the highest court in the land and remained the closest of friends. Gray thought about his childhood friends, Sam and Arturo.