“I know O’Malley, but who the hell is Pentecost?”
“Dean of a law school.”
Baker tapped his lips with his forefinger as if he were trying to test his recollection. “Pentecost. Pentecost. Sure, I remember now. He’s the guy who built up that law school in the midwest, I’ve forgotten where.”
“Michigan State University School of Law.”
Baker started to smile. “Sure, I place him now. He’s the guy who robbed Harvard and Yale of their best teachers. Paid them a king’s ransom.”
“That’s him. Also, he set up entrance standards for law students that excluded everyone but a certified genius. The law school is regarded as better than Stanford, maybe even Harvard, and they’ve only been open a couple of years.”
“Waste of money. Both you and I have put some time in universities. Nobody cares about the quality, it’s the football team that counts. They should have taken the dough they sunk into the law school and bought a few fast backs and some muscle for the line. If you have a winning football team your school is great, and if you don’t, you never get noticed.”
“Don’t be bitter, Harold. This guy Pentecost might even have made a hell of a coach. He’s the kind that plays to win, I’m told. He knows how to run things.”
Baker reached into his desk and produced a long, thin cigar. His first of the day. “Being a good administrator doesn’t guarantee he’s a good lawyer.” He lit the cigar and savored its smoke.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Deering replied. “But outside of a few speeches and a law book or two he’s written, he has no public record for the committee to shoot at.”
“How about O’Malley? He’s pretty straight.”
“Sure, but you know how that works. The screwballs will come out in flocks to protest various decisions he’s written in the past. That’s how they nailed Judge Shiller. He wrote one anti-busing decision and by the time the chairman and the committee were through he looked like he had been the head of the Ku Klux Klan.”
“I remember.”
“Well, I’m directed to start looking into the possibility of both O’Malley and Pentecost. Whoever looks the least objectionable will get the nod to fill Howell’s vacancy, if there is one.”
Baker emitted a long stream of cigar smoke. His eyes followed the course of the smoke as it curled toward the ceiling. “You remember the old Irish saying, the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t know? I’d go with O’Malley, if I were you guys.”
“If Howell dies, we’ll have to have somebody all set. It might end up O’Malley. Whoever it is, we’ll have to be ready to ram through the nomination before that EC thing comes up.”
“And you think the Democrats aren’t aware of that?”
Deering grinned. “They’re too busy getting ready to kill each other in the primaries to unite on anything.”
“Don’t kid yourself. That selection will mean as much to them as it does the President. They know the score.”
Deering sighed. “Nothing is ever simple.”
Baker grinned. “You can say that again.”
CHAPTER TWO
The smoky bar was populated by bulky men in casual clothes. The customers were all off-duty police officers, most of them fresh from the afternoon shift at the Tenth Precinct as well as a few officers from the neighboring Eighth. The only woman in the place was the elderly barmaid.
A group of men was sitting at a large round table. Most of them were drinking beer. A younger officer came in and sat down at the table.
“Hey, Charlie, where you been?”
“Had to put in some overtime,” Garcia said, explaining his late arrival. “Have you guys ever seen that thing the fire department has, that big tool they use to pry metal open?”
One of the men at the table nodded. “Yeah. What do they call that thing? Jaws, or something like that.”
Garcia signaled to the barmaid. He ordered bourbon straight up.
“Was it a traffic accident?” the other officer went on. “I seen them use that gadget to rip a car in two. They were trying to get somebody out, they were dead when we got to them, but I was certainly impressed with that tool.”
Garcia nodded his agreement. “You know those sanitation trucks with the metal hydraulic scoop on the back that crushes the garbage into the truck?”
“Yeah, most of those independent salvage outfits use ’em.”
Garcia nodded. “Yeah. That’s why I was late. We had a run to an accident involving one of those trucks. The garbage truck was owned by a small company. It was so small that the owner’s son was driving the thing. He had an old black man along as a helper. Anyway, the hydraulic crusher got stuck. A piece of metal got jammed into the hinge that swings the thing. The old black guy climbs back there with a sledge hammer and starts whacking away. He did a good job. Of course, as soon as he knocked the wedge out, the damn thing started working again and it crushed him like a grape. Then the compactor stuck again, and when we got there we couldn’t get him out. The fire department came out and took that big scoop apart like butter.”
“Guy was killed, right?” one of the men asked.
Garcia grinned. “Only his upper half, just his head and chest. Everything else was just fine. He was one hell of a mess.”
“Hey, Shirley,” one of the men at the table called. “Officer Garcia here would like a glob of spaghetti, heavy on the tomato sauce.”
Everyone laughed.
“The young son-of-a-bitch driving the truck tried to deny that the old black guy worked for them,” Garcia said.
“Trying to wiggle out of paying workmen’s compensation benefits,” one of the men at the table said in disgust.
Garcia nodded. “Yeah. At first he tried to say he didn’t even know the guy. I think he was trying to make me think the old man climbed into the back of the truck and committed suicide. But finally he caved in and told the truth.”
The waitress brought his bourbon, and he quickly jolted it down. “Another, Shirley,” he said, putting a bill on the wooden table.
Garcia felt the liquor burn, but it was more consoling than painful. “Money! You know, that’s the only thing some people think about. It turned out the old man had been working for those people for over three years. But they always paid him in cash. That way they didn’t have to pay his Social Security or screw around with deducting taxes. He got no benefits, no nothing, just a couple of bucks an hour. I guess everybody is trying to screw somebody. At least it seems that way.”
The conversation fell off and for a few moments everyone at the table was silent.
“Heard they had a police shooting over at three,” one of the older men said. “The accident car came up on a holdup. One of the blue coats nailed the robber right in the head. One shot.”
“Black guy?”
“No, white luckily. Shit, if you run into black gangsters you’re smarter to just fire over their heads and hope they go away. Goddamn, if that punk had been black, the mayor would have sent down the chief and forty-seven commanders just to hang that white copper’s ass. I guess that’s what the department calls a ‘suspension.’”
Everyone laughed.
Again there was a lull in the conversation.
“Any word on the lawsuit?” Garcia asked as he sipped the second whiskey.
Clark, one of the older officers, shook his head. “If we only had a half-wit for association president we wouldn’t be in this fix. A half-wit would do a better job than that fool Mandrake.”
“But no word on the lawsuit,” Garcia persisted.
Clark shrugged. “Nope. It’s all up to the Supreme Court now. But at least we’ll be famous. They say this is the strongest reverse discrimination the Court has taken in years.”
“And if we lose?” Garcia asked, knowing the answer.
Clark’s expression became somber. “All white officers with under ten years senority will be let go. All the rookie blacks and women they hired and laid off in the last few years will be reinstated. And
diversity requirement will guide future hires.
“Jesus, that’s unfair,” Garcia said. The others nodded.
Clark shrugged again. “Hey, I got fifteen years in, so it don’t hit me. Anyway, it’s just the reverse of what it used to be. Hell, in the old days, if you were black you had to eat shit because the majority of the city’s population was white. Now that the blacks control the most votes in the city, it’s the whites who get it in the ass. That’s the American way, ain’t it?”
Garcia felt the whiskey bring a relaxing numbness, and some of the tension began to leave him. “It shouldn’t be that way,” he said. “It was wrong to crap on a black man when the whites ran the city. It’s equally wrong now that things are reversed.”
“If you’re looking for justice, Garcia, you’re in the wrong racket. You should know that by now.” Clark grinned. “We’re screwed, ye olde fix is in.”
“The Supreme Court isn’t fixed,” Garcia protested.
“Well, just consider the record so far,” Clark said. “The police association brings the lawsuit in federal court to stop the mayor from firing white officers, right?”
Garcia nodded.
“They got seventeen judges there, two of whom are black. Who gets the case? One of the blacks. Surprise! And lo and behold he finds against us and in favor of our black mayor. Another surprise!”
Clark sipped his beer, obviously warming to his subject. “And when we appeal that to the high-and-mighty United States Court of Appeals, who comes out as head of the three-judge panel assigned to the case? Nobody else than our old pal, Judge Robert George, the guy who has made an entire career out of being on the black side of things, right or wrong. And we lose, ain’t that another surprise!”
“We always lose in the Court of Appeals. They let Judge George have all the cases dealing with racial matters. Everybody knows that.”
Clark grinned. “That ain’t in their rule book, but you’re right, Garcia. Everybody does know it. And being a federal judge old George don’t run for office so there is no way he can be voted out, and that way he doesn’t give a shit about the people. That’s just one of the little thorns to be endured; the price of democracy, you might say.”
Garcia leaned back and lit a thin cigar. “I just asked about the case, Clark. I didn’t want a speech.”
The older officer laughed. “I don’t mind being associated with prostitutes, pimps, and muggers, but I’ll never sink so low as to be accused of being a politician. I make no speeches and I’m not a candidate.”
“You sound like a candidate for the nut farm,” one of the others grumbled.
Clark ignored him. “I’m just imparting street wisdom Garcia; the pure sweet logic of the people. I think the fuckin’ case is fixed. But to answer your question, the guys down at the association say the legal briefs should be in soon. Then they’ll argue the case. After that we’ll get the opinion, or opinions, as the case may be.” Clark again became serious. “They figure it will be another eight months or so before the Court speaks on the case. So you still got a job, Garcia, at least for that long.”
“That’s a great comfort.”
“Anyway,” Clark continued, “maybe you won’t get canned. Maybe the Supreme Court will insist they retain a quota of spicks. With a name like Garcia, you could get lucky.”
“My mother was Polish,” Garcia said, grinning. “So I’d probably be out of luck on that account.”
Clark chuckled. “Shit, maybe they’ll only fire your Polish half. You’ll only work half shifts, but that’s better than nothing.”
“Thanks for that wonderful ray of hope,” Garcia said as he stood up. He left a tip for the waitress. “I have to go. My old lady thinks I’m out humping the hookers so I have to go home and demonstrate my fidelity.”
“Garcia, don’t worry if she’s cutting you down,” Clark grinned. “Hell, I know some guys she’s cut out completely.”
It was an old joke, but they all laughed.
Patrolman Charles Garcia drove home carefully. He knew two whiskeys would not impair his ability to drive. Still, he was tired and it always paid to be cautious. The traffic was light but he took his time. He was in no hurry to get home. Lately his home had become a very tense place. He knew the insecurity of his job situation was the main reason for all the tension between himself and his wife. The fights had become more frequent and more heated.
He had nothing laid away. Something always came up to drain his savings. He had invested seven years in the police force, with most non-duty nights spent at the city college earning a degree in law enforcement. And now the whole thing was about to go down the sluice. He was a cop, he had no other marketable skills. All he possessed was a wife, two children, a mortgage, and a car loan.
He noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. He knew he had to control the fear or it would soon control him.
He felt he was no different from any of the other officers on the police force, white or black. None of them had had it easy, at least none that he knew. Now he stood in jeopardy—his future and the future of his family depending on what nine lawyers in Washington would do. There were no policemen on that court. From what he had read, few of the justices had had much of a struggle in life. The aristocratic yards of Yale and Harvard were hardly the proper places to gain a feel for the pressures an ordinary man endured.
As he pulled into his driveway he thought of the old black man who had been crushed in the machinery of the garbage truck. Maybe that was how it always worked out. You were fated to be crushed by unthinking, un-feeling machinery; reduced from the dignity of being a man to nothing more than castaway garbage.
He felt sick. Garcia decided it must have been the whiskey. He shouldn’t have taken it on an empty stomach.
* * *
It was a strange place for a meeting. He felt a bit conspicuous just standing in front of the Smithsonian Air and Space building. Everyone else was moving about; school classes on field trips, weary parents dragging protesting small children, and squadrons of tour groups. It was the most popular exhibit hall of all the Smithsonian buildings and always busy.
A group of well-dressed, athletic-looking tourists marched behind an authoritative blonde woman who carried aloft a small triangular flag tied to a long thin stick. The flag served as a visual guide for the group. No matter how chaotic the press of the crowd, her flag was always there to be seen. Decked out with the usual video cameras and equipment, the group moved at a determined pace. As they passed, he caught some snatches of spoken German. Mentally he conjured up a picture of steel helmets. These Teutonic tourists would look most formidable in battle dress.
Tour and charter buses were parked, one behind the other, for blocks. It was autumn and although the huge throngs of summer had dwindled, there was still no shortage of people. They were enjoying the gentle weather of late October. The trees of the Mall had decorated the ground with their splendid colored leaves, which swirled about in the soft breeze.
He glanced up at the Capitol. Like a white fortress it rose above the Mall’s trees. He remembered the view from there, looking down the long green Mall with the Washington Monument at the other end pointing into the sky like a giant’s finger.
They called the small rise of ground Capitol Hill. Although small, it was truly more powerful than a volcano. He sometimes missed being away from the power.
The fresh air was crisp and invigorating and he was genuinely glad to be away from the pressures of the law office. He knew he was mentally tired and stale after the long case before the Federal Trade Commission. What should have been easy had turned into a titanic struggle that lasted many weeks. It was over but the end seemed anticlimactic. It would be months before a decision was announced. But that decision would be crucial, not only to the client and the firm, but to himself. He had been taken into the firm for his political connections, no bones had been made about that. He was a full partner but there was a buy-out clause in the partnership agreement. It had seemed a great deal of m
oney at the time, but now it only amounted to a few month’s income. If the FTC case was lost, their largest client would be lost. And he had been on shaky ground with the other partners going in. There had been just too many loses lately and he knew they were looking for someone to punish. His connections weren’t quite as good as they used to be and he sensed a nonspecific coolness toward him.
He impatiently searched the Mall, looking for Amos Deering. He saw a constantly moving sea of faces, but none of them belonged to Deering. He wondered if he would even recognize Amos Deering after all these years.
He stepped back to escape becoming part of a chattering Japanese tourist group that had suddenly engulfed him. He found himself staring at his own reflection in a polished steel panel, part of a display being moved into the Space exhibit. The panel was set at a slight angle, making his reflection just a bit taller and thinner. He studied himself in the steel: Jerome Green, attorney-at-law, distinguished partner of the prestigious law firm of Harley, Dingell, Spear, and Frank, known to everyone as Harley Dingell.
The Jerome Green he saw in the steel was trim, although a hint of thickness was becoming evident. He at least looked fit although he was able to manage only sporadic episodes of tennis and exercise. His hair, full but gray, seemed suited to his full, mature face. Anyone knowing clothes would instantly recognize that he was expensively dressed. Dark suit, black shoes polished to a high gloss, and a quiet tie; it was almost a uniform. Very good clothing, but conservative and without flair; it was the firm’s unofficial dress code.
He glanced about. No one seemed to notice, so he once again looked at his reflection. He was Harley Dingell, no doubt about it. He at least fit in with the look of the firm, if not the people. He had no illusions about his situation. Most of the other partners had come from money, and most were WASPs with degrees from Yale. Harley Dingell was regarded as a “Yale” firm, although several of the partners had law degrees conferred by other Ivy League universities. He was the only one with a law degree from a midwestern school, the University of Michigan. He was also the only Jewish partner, although the firm did employ several young Jewish associates. He never thought of himself as Jewish, having long ago abandoned even lip service to the religion and customs, but he knew the others did.
The Court Page 4
