Floyd Grant departed. The pungent aroma of his pipe smoke lingered.
Ben Alexander wondered how anyone could know, with any sort of certainty, exactly what was going to happen to Justice Howell; unless they planned to kill him. He laughed at the thought and resolved to stop reading so many political thrillers.
* * *
As he walked back to his motel Jerry Green formulated the basic plan and the tactics he would use to pry behind Dean Pentecost’s public mask and obtain a glimpse of the real man. The faculty would be ripe ground. Universities were always hotbeds of gossip and politics. He knew from experience that some would back the Dean, while others would have their long knives out, glistening and sharpened. He could almost predict what they would say. What he wanted most would be observations and opinions from those members of the faculty who were impartial. He would have to do some careful probing to find them; they wouldn’t be wearing signs. And he would have to keep a low profile at the same time. There was no need letting the dean know, at this point, that a man from the White House was poking about.
Students’ views would also be important, although they would only know the dean from afar. Still, sometimes a student’s fresh perception could be the most valid of all. The eyes of youth often had a much clearer view of things.
Green planned to talk to the dean’s neighbors, perhaps even store clerks who served the dean on a regular basis. His barber might be an excellent source, they usually were. And if the dean belonged to any clubs, views expressed by the members might be useful. But it would take a very discerning eye to decide what was gossip and what was fact. But he felt he had such an eye.
The long walk in the brisk autumn air had made him pleasantly tired. He seldom walked anymore. He always planned to use his club for exercise, but his good intentions were usually cancelled by pressures of the law practice. So he was never able to follow any regular routine, but he did manage an occasional swim and a rare session on the treadmill.
His legs felt slightly stiff as he entered his room. He hung up his overcoat and suitcoat. The red message light at the side of his telephone was lit. He loosened his tie and collar, dialed 0 and lay back on the bed.
“Yes,” an impersonal female voice inquired.
“This is Mr. Green in 117, do you have a message for me?”
“Just a minute.”
He was put on hold and listened to recorded dance music.
The music clicked off. “Yes, Mr. Green. You were called by a Mr. Amos Deering. He asked that you return his call after seven this evening at this number. Do you have a pen?”
Green sat up reluctantly and found a scrap of paper. “Go ahead.”
“It’s a Maryland number,” she said, giving the area code and the telephone numerals. “He said after seven,” she reminded him.
“Thank you.”
He hung up and glanced at his watch. It was just a few minutes after six. He could take a short nap or get some dinner. The walking had made him sleepy but it had also awakened his appetite. He balanced his need to eat against the need for rest. He yawned and lay back.
He was awakened by the insistent ringing of the telephone. The room was dark. He was momentarily disoriented. He snapped on the nightstand light and picked up the telephone.
“Hey, where have you been? I’ve been sitting here since seven o’clock.” Green recognized Amos Deering’s voice. He checked his watch through sleep-blurred eyes. It was after nine o’clock.
“I’m sorry, Amos. I got your message, but I fell asleep. What’s up?”
“Sleep? Jesus, you’re working for the government now. Have you forgotten? We never sleep. You know, just like the Mounties or who the fuck ever invented that bullshit.” His words were slightly slurred. He sounded as if he had been drinking. “Com’on, Jerry, give me what you got so far, baby. Things are heating up.”
Green forced himself to come fully awake. “Amos, I haven’t even been here one full day. About the only thing I’ve done is look over the law school. It’s in the kind of building in which they used to bury kings. I really haven’t had much of a chance to do anything else, Amos. If you wanted a miracle, you should have let me know sooner.”
He could hear the ice cubes clink at the other end of the line. “Hey, don’t think you’re the only one with problems. Shit, they made me shave off my beard. Think about that for a minute. What kind of a bootlicker would let himself be pushed around that way?”
“A rotten, ambitious man with absolutely no scruples or principles.”
Deering’s chuckle echoed over the phone. “Say, you really do know me, don’t you. But that’s your game, isn’t it? That’s what the President of these United States says himself: Jerry Green can smell them out. He said that himself. But then what does he know?”
“What’s going on, Amos?”
“Remember the old days—before our time—the old White House days?”
Jerry Green again lay back on the bed, but he was no longer sleepy. “What do you mean?”
“When everything was tapped? They probably couldn’t take a pee without the sparkling sound being recorded on somebody’s little tape machine.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
There was a pause. “Listen, Jerry, for both our sakes, use discretion from now on, okay? I’m not sure that those days have returned, but I now talk like I’m on candid camera, get me? Even when I make love to the old lady, I’m damned careful of what I say. No more words, just grunts.”
Green sat up. “You think your phone is tapped?”
“Jerry, I don’t know what the hell to think. But discretion is the better part of valor. It pays to be careful, okay?”
Green wondered if it was just the liquor talking. But perhaps it wasn’t. “Okay, I understand.”
“Good. You can read between the lines, okay? That matter you’ve been sent down there on is heating up. The vacancy is expected momentarily. The man is anxious for your report. A lot hangs on this, Jerry. I hate to put you on the spot, but things are moving fast. You talked about a miracle, maybe now is the time to pull one off.”
“I can hurry things, but it’ll end up half-assed. Does the man want that?”
“Half-assed is better than nothing. The pressure is building, and I mean it is about to explode. When it blows the man will have to ramrod someone through in a hurry. He’s counting on you, Jerry.”
Green slowly shook his head. “Even a half-assed job will take time, Amos. You can pass the word back that I’ll bust my balls, but I’ll still need some time.”
There was a pause. “Time is what it’s all about. Look, sport, I don’t want to say anything more over the phone. All I can tell you is that what looked like weeks has now come down to days.”
“How can anybody know that?”
“I can’t talk about it. If you can just get something, anything, it will have to do.”
“I took this assignment to do a job, Amos. And I’ll do it. I’ll put the rush on it, but it will be done properly.”
He could hear ice cubes clink again.
“Okay, sport. I’ve passed the message. What you do is your business. Good luck.”
Green thought for a moment. He would have to change his entire plan of action.
“Amos, if your people want this done fast, I won’t be able to pussyfoot around. I’ll have to talk to some people head-on. Do you understand?”
There was another pause. “Frankly, no.”
“I’ll have to approach some people directly. I’ll have to tell them who I am and what I’m doing.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
Green fumbled around for a cigarette. “No, I don’t think it’s wise, but if this has to be done fast, and if it truly is a matter of days, then it has to be done out in the open. At least, with some people.”
“So what’s your problem?”
“They will want identification and confirmation.”
The ice cubes clinked again at the other end. “Shit.�
��
“Look, I’ll do everything I can to keep this quiet, but if they want confirmation I’ll have to have them call you at the White House.”
“Whoa, Jerry, I can’t do that. You know how these things can leak. You talk to somebody, then he talks to some newspaper pal of his. As the Press Secretary I have to keep out of these things. How the hell can I deny something if I’m the contact man?”
Green lit the cigarette. The smoke tasted terrible in his dry mouth.
“Pick someone else, one of the other White House lawyers, but someone who is in residence there with the man.” Green expelled the smoke from his nostrils. “But pick someone with brains. All he has to do is confirm that I’m a special counsel to the President and that I’m out here doing what I’m doing. If any problems come up, he can contact me.”
There was no immediate reply. Deering was thinking it over. “Maybe Chris Clovis would be good: young guy, smart. He knows all about this anyway. Would he be okay with you?”
Green tried to recall if he had met anyone named Clovis. He had been introduced to a number of White House people when he was sworn in. But those names and faces were blurred in his memory. “If he’s all right with you, then we’ll go with him. Fill him in, okay?”
“Jerry, isn’t there any other way you could go about this? I mean, if it gets out that the White House is in town asking about the dean they’ll know we expect … well … a vacancy. It wouldn’t look good.”
“If you want fast action, Amos, that’s just a risk you’ll have to take.”
“Well you may be right. But be careful as hell, eh? This whole thing could blow up on us.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“And don’t waste time screwing any old childhood sweethearts, eh? You can do that when the job is all done. Remember what Edmund Burke said about government men and situations like this.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know. You’re the smart lawyer, I thought you’d know. Anyway, it was something like ‘get your ass in gear.’”
“I’ll get busy, Amos. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not. It’s just that some of the jerks I work for are having anxiety attacks. Oh yeah, and remember what I said, you know, about being cautious.”
“I understand, and I’ll be careful.”
Green hung up the telephone. He was now conscious of hunger. And although he didn’t often use alcohol, suddenly he felt the need for a good stiff drink.
* * *
It wasn’t the usual stark, ill-equipped six-bed infirmary ward found in other institutions. The order was a nursing order. They were trained professionals and their medical facility reflected that fact. Their infirmary resembled a mini-edition of the most advanced hospital, complete with a two-bed critical care unit. Armed with the best and most modern medical machines, they were ready for everything except actual surgical operations. When one of the sisters needed surgery, she was transported to a city hospital. However, within hours of the operation, if feasible, she was returned to the mother house where gentle and expert care awaited, administered with the finest tools offered by medical science.
Mother General had issued orders that Sister Agatha Murphy was not to be allowed in, or even near, the infirmary. Considering her past history, it could be the occasion of temptation for her, and far worse for the patients. It was the mother house, the place where elderly nuns retired. Most of the population consisted of older or infirm sisters who no longer had the stamina to perform the order’s work among the sick. So like the legend of the African elephants, this was their burial ground, and they returned to the mother house to die.
God treated nuns with the same equal hand applied to the rest of the world’s population. They expired of heart disease, stroke, and cancer in the same ratio as American women of their age anywhere.
The infirmary beds, because of the nature of the mother house and its retirement feature, almost always held a few nuns who were terminally ill. For the sisters the infirmary had become something like a way station to the afterlife; sort of a spiritual bus stop where a heavenly van would waft the soul away, to a blessed and earned reward, they hoped.
But despite their religious belief and their own skill as nurses, none of the sisters was really fond of the infirmary. They visited their friends there, but they recognized that it was here where they themselves would most likely die. It was accepted, but not relished.
Sister Agatha Murphy had contracted an upper respiratory infection. Her lungs were congested and she was running a fever. Only a healthy Agatha Murphy was barred from the infirmary. Illness was another matter. Therefore, she was admitted, X-rayed, and examined by the order’s doctor.
Not quite pneumonia, but getting there, according to the doctor. Sister Agatha Murphy was made comfortable in the isolation room. She would be kept there until her coughing stopped and it was judged that she was no longer contagious. Then a decision would be made as to whether it would be safe to house her with the other nuns in the regular ward.
Mother General, the head of the order and the head of the mother house, was kept informed of Sister Agatha Murphy’s condition. The Mother General, kindly by nature, never wished ill toward anyone. However, as an administrator, she couldn’t keep the thought from her mind that if Sister Agatha Murphy passed on it would save the order from a continuing embarrassment. And it would certainly save the Church from having to decide what to do with Sister in case the Supreme Court reversed her conviction. Sister Death, as the press called her, was unrepentent. And she had been judged sane, despite what the order, and the Pope himself, considered mad behavior, at least for a Catholic nun. If she were discharged from the criminal charges against her then it would be up to the Church to take appropriate action. They could punish her, or she could leave. No matter what the outcome it would be damaging to Holy Mother the Church. Mother General dismissed from her mind the thought of how very convenient Agatha Murphy’s death would be, at least she honestly tried not to think about it.
Within three days of her confinement in the infirmary the antibiotics did their work and Sister Agatha Murphy was much more comfortable, although she still had a hacking cough. So she stayed in isolation.
Sister Barbara Filmore ran the infirmary. Like Sister Agatha, Sister Barbara had several degrees in nursing science and had served both in hovels and giant hospitals during her many years of service. She walked with a pronounced limp, a souvenir of being beaten and shot in Central America. The military death squad had stormed her hospital, shooting doctors and nurses. She had been hurt and left for dead but had survived. She was a practical woman who had seen much of life. She visited Sister Agatha daily. She constituted the one and only social caller for Sister Death.
“Feeling better, according to your chart,” Sister Barbara said as she limped into the isolation room. She pulled up the single hard-backed chair and sat down. “Still coughing?”
Agatha Murphy looked at the other woman. They were about the same age and had been novices together. “Yes, there’s still a cough, but not as much as before. I should be as good as new in a few days.”
“We’ll see. These things can be tricky for people our age, as you well know.”
Sister Agatha seldom smiled, but now just the hint of that expression played on her thin lips. She studied the other nun through her thick glasses. “You’re right, lung problems can be tricky. And it would certainly take a lot of heat off the order if I were called to my heavenly reward. I think that may have been on a few minds ever since I was admitted here.”
Sister Barbara grinned. “More than likely. By the way, Agatha, are you so sure that the reward will be so heavenly? Why don’t you confess to the chaplain? That way you can at least receive the Sacrament.”
“So you’d like to see me gain heaven on a technicality?”
The other nun shifted uncomfortably in the chair, her hip always caused her pain on sitting. “I’m not here to lecture you, as you well know.”
Sister Ag
atha sighed. “And I appreciate it. You’re one of the few around here who doesn’t give me little sermonettes.”
“Allow me to make a simple suggestion. If I were in your situation I would continue to take the position that what I did was not illegal, that I had committed no crime. However, I would go on to say that I recognized that the assistance of suicide is a sin in the eyes of the Church. You know Father Benjamin, he would accept that as repentance. You’d be forgiven, get the Sacrament, and the Church could breathe a bit easier. Perhaps even yourself, eh?”
“But it isn’t a sin,” Sister Agatha replied. Her voice suddenly became stern and her tone that of a person who expected no disagreement.
Sister Barbara frowned. “I’m not going to debate whether what you did was wrong in the sight of God. That’s between God and yourself. But the Church condemns the practice, and that makes it a sin as far as the Church is concerned. Why not admit that much publically? What can it harm?”
“Equivocation! You sound like a Jesuit priest.”
Sister Barbara laughed. “I’m not advising you to lie. You would be stating an absolute truth; that what you did what a sin in the eyes of the Church, nothing more.”
“Is Sister Marilyn still alive?” The question was asked quickly, Sister Agatha’s blue eyes suddenly intense.
“Yes. But she is dying hard.”
Sister Agatha nodded. “If it weren’t against the law, and it weren’t a sin in the eyes of the Church, or your own, honestly, Barbara, just between the two of us, wouldn’t you go down to the critical care unit and put an end to that poor woman’s suffering?”
Sister Barbara thought for a moment, pursing her lips as she weighed her answer. “If the conditions you proposed were true, I would step down there this minute and give her a shot that would end it.”
“Then there is no difference between us.”
“But the conditions you set up aren’t true, and that’s the point. I’m not going to talk about God’s will, we’ve both seen too much suffering in this world to try to try to lay it to some simplistic spiritual reason. But life is sacred, Agatha. We’ve both been trained to fight to preserve it. Of course I would welcome Sister Marilyn’s death. I know the pain, but the time she dies isn’t my decision. It isn’t hers either. That belongs solely to God.”
The Court Page 12
