by Allen Drury
Clement Wallenberg of Michigan was a different matter; the Chief sometimes wondered, with a puzzled shake of the head, whether it would ever be possible to blend Clem smoothly into anything. He rather doubted it, not because he and the others didn’t try, and not because Clem was really such an ogre, but just that he fancied himself to be so, and carefully cultivated the reputation whenever he could. He too was slight of build, though somewhat taller than The Elph; shrewd but casual of intellect; given to occasional free-swinging interpretations of the law but on the whole staying fairly consistently on the liberal side. He had a temper, as the Chief described it once with an upward-spiraling index finger, “that goes zoooom like that!” But underneath it, aside from Justice Ullstein and quite a long list of other things in the world that he professed to abominate, he was a generally amiable, if prickly, man.
Raymond Ullstein of New York had indeed been, as Justice Wallenberg often liked to point out, a corporation lawyer. But far from being “smart-assed,” as Clem also liked to put it, he was one of the mildest and most polite, and also one of the most respected and universally beloved—which was perhaps what galled Clem the most—of gentlemen. On the Court he was generally liberal but considered himself, perhaps in slightly greater degree than his associates, who also shared the feeling, “the guardian of the Constitution.” Clem Wallenberg fancied the title for himself and resented the media’s conferring it on Ray; which also accounted for a good deal of their sometimes rocky relationship.
The middle member of the Court, fifth in seniority, brought as always a gentle and kindly gleam to the Chief’s eye as he consumed his modest meal. With her short-cropped gray hair severely brushed back, her pince-nez gleaming and her dark eyes snapping angrily at some challenge to her strongly held ideas, Mary-Hannah McIntosh of California could look every inch the formidable dean of the Stanford Law School which she had been at the time of her appointment to the Court. But underneath, as she had once told the Chief with a laugh, “beats the heart of a softie.” “A very nice softie,” he had pleased her by saying, “and one we all love dearly.” A lifelong spinster, the law had been her favorite, and often only, companion; and never more demanding, she had found, than when she sat on the nation’s highest bench. Few, the Chief had once remarked to Wally Flyte, had ever brought to it a greater service and dedication.
And next came, The Elph thought with the amused smile with which they all thought of him, Number Six. “Old Rupe” they called him in Washington, and with a determined and not to be deflected air he went about living up to it—“Old Rupe-ing,” as Wally, his former Senate colleague, put it, “all over the place.” Yet under the carefully created image, Rupert Hemmelsford of Texas possessed a very sharp, very shrewd and very well-informed mind that could very quickly demolish anyone who didn’t realize it. He was quick to spot pretense in lawyers coming before the Bench and quick to puncture it; and, like Wally, often contributed leavening humor, usually stories that began, “You remind me of the feller who—” The eyes would peer sideways with their exaggerated, slightly lascivious glance, the slow-as-molasses drawl would ooze over the broadly grinning lips, and the poor fellow would become completely discombobulated and have to start all over again. Both his humor and intellect had been welcome additions to the Court.
Seventh in seniority—and for both him and Number Eight the Chief’s eyes held the same fond, indulgent expression that they did for Mary-Hannah McIntosh—was Hughie Dubose Demsted of the District of Columbia, a big and gentle man of forty-eight who still possessed a lingering youthful earnestness that endeared him to his colleagues and made him, next to Moss Pomeroy, probably the most publicly popular of all the Justices. He had loved the Court from the first day he came on it, and since then he had become one of the most reliable, most gentlemanly, most soft-spoken and most determined members of the “liberal bloc” of the Elphinstone Court.
He, Ray Ullstein, Clement Wallenberg and Mary-Hannah McIntosh almost consistently voted together. The Chief Justice, Rupert Hemmelsford and Moss Pomeroy generally stood together on the conservative side, with Wally Flyte occasionally on the liberal side, but, when he considered constitutional fundamentals too much threatened, moving back to the conservative. Presumably, given his past activities and general reputation, Taylor Barbour would join the liberals and be as firm in that cause as his longtime friend from South Carolina was in his.
If anybody could persuade Tay to become a conservative, the Chief reflected with a fond smile for his lively young colleague, it would be the one known up to now as “the baby of the Court,” a media cliché which Tay, though six months older, would no doubt inherit.
Stanley Mossiter Pomeroy had been on the Court three years and, as The Elph had once explained in informal remarks when they were giving a reception for the members of the D.C. bar,
“Does anybody think of the Supreme Court as waterskiing? It’s Moss. Do they have a mind’s-eye picture of us scuba diving in the Bahamas? It’s Moss again. Do they imagine us getting up every morning to jog, playing volleyball with the law clerks in the gym on the fourth floor, racing our sailboats on the Potomac? Well, it’s Moss. Do we all have wives who could model for Vogue? There’s Moss again. Thank goodness we have him around! Otherwise they’d think we’re a bunch of old fuddy-duddies instead of the dashing group we are!”
To which Moss could only grin and say rather defensively, “Well, it’s true. I’m sorry I like to do all those things, but it’s true.”
And so it was, and he supposed he did lend a note of rather surprising youth and agility to his associates, because every summer he did seem to pop up regularly in the magazines and newspapers doing something dashing. But damn it, he supposed he was dashing, though he did not try deliberately to create the image. He just liked to be active—always had—had always possessed the money to indulge it—and had also married Sue-Ann Lacey, which was a great extra in itself. He and Sue-Ann had been the darlings of Charleston in their early married years, and still were, as a matter of fact.
Since he combined all his many attractive attributes with a very astute mind and a great application to his chosen profession of the law, he had gone very far very fast, first following his father into the family law practice established by his grandfather Mossiter, then at thirty into the state attorney generalship now held (and disgraced, in Moss’ opinion) by Regard Stinnet, then into the lieutenant-governorship at thirty-four, the governorship at thirty-eight and then to the Supreme Court of the United States at forty-three.
It was a nomination that had astounded a lot of people, including himself, but aided by his youthful good looks, charming demeanor and undeniable grasp of the law, he had sailed triumphantly through the Senate on a vote of 89‒6.
It had meant relinquishing, at least for a time, presidential ambitions, which he and Sue-Ann did “nurse quietly in their bosoms with all the soft deception of the suckling dove,” as Justice Hemmelsford put it once to Justice Wallenberg when they were discussing their newest associate. But that could wait. Others before him had clambered off the Bench to indulge other ambitions, and there would be no reason why he should hesitate if the opportunity came.
Meanwhile he was a faithful and dedicated Justice, one, he told himself proudly and with some truth, of the best; and he felt that was a fair enough bargain. With Rupe and the Chief he formed an alliance that sometimes became the basis for some of the 5‒4 decisions that the Chief deplored yet to which he himself contributed. Quite often they had been able to swing Wally Flyte and Homer Dean their way. He was not so sure that they could swing Tay Barbour. Over almost a quarter century of friendship he had acquired many more diverse impressions of Tay than their associates had; and if there was one thing that sometimes stopped Moss, it was Tay’s adherence to his principles and convictions. He was not impervious to reasoned argument, nor was he by any means completely immovable, but as long ago as their first year in law school Moss could remember shouting in exasperation, “Sometimes I think it would take a dam
ned earthquake or some other catastrophe to get you to budge one little inch when you’ve got your mind made up about something!”
Tay had just smiled patiently, looked up from his books and replied in a mild voice, “We ride out earthquakes all the time, in California.” His mind, Moss knew, had long ago become set in the liberal pattern for which the President presumably had chosen him. He could be swayed, but short of “an earthquake or some other catastrophe,” he was going to be a pretty predictable vote when he took his place on the highest Bench.
This, too, was the Chief’s impression as he finished his snack, cleaned off his desk, rinsed his dishes and left them in the sink for his messenger to wash in the morning. He closed the door of his little kitchen and returned to his massive desk to resume his study of Steiner v. Oregon. It involved public utilities, which the Chief generally found a bore, but their rate-setting practices were more important than ever these days to an economy lurching from one crisis to another. He told himself with a sigh that he must get to it.
He could not help, however, letting his mind wander off before he did so to the new member who would soon join them. There was one area in which he knew they were in alliance already, and that was the area of rapidly growing crime and violence of all kinds.
Inevitably, demagogues were rising to profit from this. Attorney General Regard (Reegard, as Moss had translated it into Carolinian for them) Stinnet of South Carolina and Attorney General Ted Phillips of California were the most active so far, but they would be hearing from many more soon. It needed only some frightfulness in one state or the other, and one demagogue or the other, both or all, would be leading the pack full-cry. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. At the rate things were going, He would have a great many volunteer helpers, very soon.
And then would come the testing of the Court that they all anticipated with such apprehension. The Executive Branch would try to stand against the surge, but its leader was political too, and another term was coming up. He would not go over to the vendors of vengeance, but he would bend and he would waver; he would cry out against, but he would subtly and equivocally incline for. And the Congress? It, too, might not break, but it, too, would bend and it would answer. Election day—always another election day—was coming; and the pressures would be enormous, and almost impossible for any but the strongest to resist.
And so there would be left, as so often before in American history there had been left—the Court.
With a sudden start the Chief Justice drew himself up to his full seated dignity, spread his hands before him on the desk and stared straight ahead. He looked for a moment like the avenging angel himself—the avenging angel of the law.
“No!” he said sharply aloud to the empty office, “No!” to John Marshall who looked down with a quietly challenging, show-me air. “They will not do that! They will not override the law!”
He and his “little brood,” human like all the rest—troubled and imperfect like all the rest—having but few glimpses of certainty with which to navigate the storm—given the benefit of a little more knowledge of the law, but no more certainty of right than all the rest—would not permit it.
“The Court will stand firm!” he said, still aloud. “The Court will stand firm!”
His voice, deep and somber for so small a man, heavy, emphatic, implacable in righteousness, rang out in the silence. The big office echoed with it for a second, shocking him: he had not even realized he had spoken aloud. Embarrassment vanished as quickly as it came. No one had heard him in this late hour in the near-deserted building. And even if anyone had, what of it? He meant it—he meant it. And he, no less, he knew, than his associates, was afraid…
He thought, with a heavy sigh as he looked down at his veined and knobby hands—so small to share so tenuous yet so great a power as the Court possessed—that nothing that might happen in these next few weeks and months bearing upon the issue of crime and violence would be easy. The country was moving toward some explosive lancing of the boil, some disaster that would symbolize it, epitomize it and bring it to a head. Would that the people had one neck, Nero had said, that I might cut it off. Would that crime had one neck, the Chief thought, that the Court might cut it off. He was not normally a superstitious man or one given to much foreboding about the future, but he just had a feeling—he had a feeling. Something would bring it about. Something would do it.
On a sudden impulse, he reached for his private telephone and dialed the unlisted number his secretary had secured for him earlier in the afternoon. He felt a sudden need to discuss something happy with somebody.
“Good evening, Justice,” he said when the level, steady voice came over. “This is Duncan Elphinstone. It is my great pleasure to congratulate you and welcome you to the Court. We couldn’t be happier to have you aboard.”
***
Chapter 5
Now what are you writing?” Janet demanded, although she told herself she really didn’t want to know. He was always so damned busy about something, she just liked to needle him now and then to see how close she could come to making him really mad. It was a little game she liked to play, never realizing, not being really a very bright girl, how far from a game it was for him; which was her mistake.
“None of your damned business,” he replied promptly, glowering up from the flimsy old portable typewriter and the scattered papers that covered his old wooden desk. “No!” he said sharply, covering them with his hands as she started to come toward him, dangling John Lennon Peacechild precariously from one hip. “They aren’t for you! Stay away!”
“Well, all right,” she said, suddenly sullen, sitting down on their one rickety old sofa, hauling the baby into her lap and staring at him resentfully. “I was just asking. And don’t tell me,” she added with a spiteful vigor before he could reply, “that people who ask questions get hurt. I know that’s your line and I don’t give a damn, do you hear me? I don’t give a damn.”
“You’d better give a damn,” he said tersely, abruptly taking up a sheet of paper and holding it close to the lamp. “How does this sound?”
And with great solemnity he read:
“Whereas we live in a corrupt capitalist society bereft of hope—”
“What’s ‘bereft’ mean?”
“Christ!” he said. “It means there isn’t any. There isn’t any hope, stupid, get it? No hope!”
“There isn’t when you’re around,” she muttered. “That’s for sure.”
“What’s that?” he cried, half-rising as if to start toward her. “What’s that?”
“You heard me, I expect,” she said, not flinching. “What other fancy words have you got? Is that all of it?”
“No, it isn’t all of it,” he said with heavy mimicry. “It goes on into a lot of stuff you wouldn’t understand, stupid.”
“And stop calling me stupid!” she cried with a sudden harshness. “Just because you went to college somewhere, I guess—”
“That’s right,” he said smugly. “I certainly did.” He scowled. “Damned worthless rich man’s playpen. Playpen for rich men’s kids! Worthless! Nothing!”
“You aren’t making much sense,” she observed coolly. “If you didn’t like it, why did you go there? Where was it, anyway?”
“You wouldn’t know,” he said. “I went there because my damned father went there and my grandfather before that and I was expected to. Expected to! I didn’t go there because I wanted to. I was expected to!”
“I’ll bet they’re real proud of you now,” she remarked. “Real proud.”
“They hate my guts,” he said complacently. “And I hate theirs. So we’re even. Or at least”—he scowled—“maybe we are or maybe we aren’t. Maybe we will be someday.”
“You’re crazy,” she said. “You don’t make sense.”
“Oh, I make sense,” he said, a curious half-crooning note in his voice. “Oh, yes, I make sense, all right. I make sense. You’ll see. Everybody will see.”
“With that?” she
asked scornfully, pointing to the paper he still held in his hand, not even knowing it was there.
“It’s my Manifesto,” he said proudly, laying it carefully back on the desk. “They’ll hear about it when—” He stopped abruptly and gave her a piercing glance.
“When what? You’re nuts.”
“Oh, no. Oh, no!”
“You sound like it to me,” she said, shifting John Lennon Peacechild about to a more comfortable position. “You sound as though you’re about to fly right out that window, sometimes… You mean,” she went on idly, “that that little piece of paper is going to mean something to somebody? Is that all you mean?”
“I mean it will when I—” he blazed up. And stopped.
“Well, what?” she taunted. “What are you going to do?”
His eyes narrowed. A cautious curtain dropped.
“That’s all right, what I’m going to do. You just don’t worry about what I’m going to do. I didn’t say I was going to do anything.”
“You’re certainly doing a lot of talking and posing and carrying-on lately for nothing, then,” she observed. “You’re as nervous as a damned cat. Way you’re acting, somebody’d think you were going to blow up the—the Statue of Liberty or something.”
“Who said I’m going to blow up anything?” he demanded, jumping up and advancing upon her so fiercely that this time she instinctively shielded John Lennon Peacechild with her shawl. “Who said that? Who said it?”
“Nobody said it!” she shouted. The baby began to cry. “I said it! So what?”
“Listen,” he said, seizing the shawl with an iron grip so that it almost choked her. “Don’t you ever say that to anybody else, you hear?” He shook the shawl savagely so that her head rocked back and forth. “You hear? Don’t you ever say that to anybody again! It isn’t true! It isn’t true! So knock it off! Don’t even think it! Don’t even think it!”
“Take your hands off me!” she screamed, yanking the shawl away from her throat. “Take your hands off me, you crazy! Don’t you touch me like that again, ever, you hear! Ever, ever, ever! I don’t give a damn what you blow up! I don’t give a damn what you do! I don’t give a damn about anything! Just leave me and John Lennon Peacechild alone!” She sank back, huddled over the baby, and began to cry. “Just go back and write on your damned paper, if you want to! I don’t care!”
