by Allan Topol
“Yes, I’ve argued before both of their courts. They each decided a case in my favor.”
“Okay, here’s the question. Arthur’s impressed with both of their legal abilities, as well as yours. And they’ve both had experience judging all kinds of cases. You haven’t been a judge. Should this experience, do you think, weigh in their favor?”
What a helluva tough question. Martin paused. How to frame his answer? “I don’t think so, sir. Judging involves evaluating legal issues and facts, then making a decision based on them. I and other lawyers, and I think Arthur will readily agree, make such decisions every day.”
“How about the fact that Butler as chief judge on a federal court of appeals has had experience administering a court system. Should that give him an edge?”
“Let me respond to your question this way, Mr. President. The chief justice has responsibilities within the court that include assignment of opinion writing as well as management of the docket. He’s also head of the federal judicial system with a budget in excess of five billion. And he has to set guidelines for all of that. For years, I too have been managing a large organization with several hundred lawyers, perhaps a thousand support people in six offices in four countries. And I’ve chaired a five-member management committee. Sometimes I love doing it. Sometimes it’s frustrating as all get-out. So I think my experience in administration and management far surpasses that of Judge Butler.”
Now Braddock nodded his head. Thank God, Martin thought.
“Let’s talk about Guantanamo,” the president said.
Martin felt a tremor in his gastric tract.
“When I read that story in the Times, I didn’t think it should be a problem. And I told Arthur that. After all, you’re a lawyer. Our system protects accused individuals caught up in that system, whether they’re from Iraq or Detroit, by entitling them to legal counsel. Then I received calls from a bunch of senators, including Kendall from Alabama, and some of my own supporters, urging me to take your name off the list. Personally, I’m not inclined to scratch you because of this. But I’m a realist. And I’m practical. I won’t nominate someone who can’t be confirmed.”
Martin’s heart was pounding.
“On the other hand, Arthur tells me that it’s Kendall who’s leading the charge for Butler and the campaign against you based on Guantanamo. Now I’ve only been in Washington three years, but politics here is not all that different from Albany. I figure Kendall may well be overstating the opposition. So I made some soundings of my own among key senators and members of the Judiciary Committee. I also consulted my party leadership. We had one-on-one frank discussions, away from that horse trading on the Hill.”
“And?” Martin couldn’t stop himself from asking.
“Well, the Times correction this morning did help, even if it was buried in a back page. But to get to the bottom line, I now believe Guantanamo won’t preclude you from getting confirmed. So I’m taking the issue off the table.”
Martin, who had been holding his breath, finally exhaled. “I’m very happy to hear that, Mr. President.”
“Now, let’s talk about something I do care about,” Braddock said, narrowing his eyes. “Personal character. Integrity. You, Corbett, and Butler all sailed through the FBI interviews, but I fear those aren’t worth much. All of you have the top ranking from the ABA review committee. No surprise there. And from what I’ve learned, the three of you have led unblemished personal lives.”
Braddock coughed, cleared his throat and continued. “I’ve been around enough to know that you, Judge Corbett, and Judge Butler, like everybody else, me included, have some things you’d like to keep hidden. But those are things I want to know about, have to know about, if I’m nominating you to be chief justice. And you’ve been around Washington a long time. A lot longer than I. Or Arthur, for that matter. You know how brutal the senate confirmation process can be. I don’t want …” Braddock was now carefully emphasizing each word. “I cannot let myself and my high office be embarrassed by my nominee during the confirmation process. I will not be placed in the position of admitting that I didn’t know about these matters and then have to decide whether to withdraw the nomination. Am I making myself wholly clear?”
Martin felt a pang about Anguilla. This was exactly the kind of thing Braddock was talking about. If this came out after his nomination, Braddock would be furious. But if he were to tell him now, he’d be finished.
He swallowed hard. “I have nothing like that.”
“I sure hope not. Arthur tells me you’re the most ethical lawyer he’s ever met.”
“A backhanded compliment if I ever heard one,” Martin smiled.
“He says you don’t even cheat on tennis line calls.” They all laughed. “According to Arthur, unlike a lot of top lawyers, you don’t play dirty, don’t get down in the mud and get away with what you can, attacking your opponents personally. I gather that you and Arthur were adversaries in a big case.”
“That’s right.”
“And he ended up feeling that way. I like that about an individual. We need more of it.”
Arthur interjected, “Let me tell you about the process at this point.”
Martin was listening intently.
“We’re planning an announcement one week from today. That could change depending on the president’s schedule. It’ll be accompanied by a ceremony at ten in the morning, here in the White House. I’ll let you know. Either way.”
Braddock added, “One of my aides told me they’re making book on this in Las Vegas.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me. They do on everything else. What are the odds right now?”
“I don’t know what they are in Vegas. Here in Washington, I’d say too close to call.”
Anguilla
Knocked out from the potent rum punch, Allison slept until almost ten in the morning. After taking a couple of Tylenols for her splitting headache followed by black coffee, a croissant, and some pineapple, she hardly felt ready to pick up her investigation, but she forced herself to go out.
Half an hour later, she was in a rented gray Ford Escort with a map of Anguilla. How would she find her way? The Hertz agent had said very few of the roads had marked names. Well never mind, first stop, police headquarters.
She found Police Commissioner Har Stevens waiting in his office. He was a tall, heavyset figure in his mid-fifties with light brown skin, a narrow mustache, and a meticulously clean and pressed blue uniform. He offered her coffee, which she accepted, while trying to keep her emotions under check. Can’t come on too strong, she told herself.
A window air conditioner was chugging furiously, making noise, and dripping water into a bucket. They must be operating on a tight budget, she thought. Paint was peeling and chipping on the walls. The only furniture was an ancient wooden desk and two straight-back chairs, some British cast-offs old enough to be called antiques. And the odor of cigarette smoke filled the room.
“I’m very sorry about your loss,” he said in a kindly voice.
“I still can’t believe my sister’s dead.”
“I gather you came because you suspect foul play.”
“I don’t know what to think, Mr. Stevens.”
He paused to light a cigarette, then leaned back. “You have to understand some things about our island. We have nine thousand people, but only sixty-five police officers. That’s because we have almost no crime. I’ll bet you can’t name another place with a smaller resident to police ratio. Here we all leave our houses unlocked. Still, disputes do arise. Some people drink too much and become violent. We have our share of traffic accidents. Our senior officers, myself included, have all been trained in England. So we consider ourselves professionals.”
“That sounds well and good, but tell me what happened with my sister.”
He took a puff, then put down the cigarette in an ash tray. Fingering his mustache, he opened a small folder and looked at what had to be a report. “Last Sunday evening when this occurred, I w
as off island in St. Barts. My deputy, Charles Prince, was on duty. I have his report right here. It says that Sunday evening at 11:46 he received a phone call at home from John Burt at the Corinthian. Burt told Prince that one of his guests had drowned. She was lying on the beach.”
“What did Prince do?”
“He dispatched two of our best officers in an ambulance to the Corinthian. They were told to investigate your sister’s room and the beach area and then bring her body back to the morgue.”
“What’d they find?”
“No indication of foul play. And nothing suspicious in the room.”
“Did a doctor examine her?”
“Yes, Brendon McGlothin, our unofficial medical examiner. He concurred that it was an accidental drowning.”
Allison pointed. “What’s in that folder?”
“Our report.” He pushed it over. “You’re welcome to examine it.”
Allison read through each of the three pages twice. Everything was consistent with what Burt and Stevens had told her. “Can I talk to your two men?”
“Of course. We’ve nothing to hide. Prince is outside of the office on assignment. If you want to talk to him he should be back in an hour.”
“No, I think the two on the scene should suffice.”
The two strapping cops introduced as Chester Wells and Malcolm Harper seemed to be around twenty-five and were wearing polished police blues. Harper looked composed and Wells uneasy. Allison would have liked to ask Stevens to leave, but she knew better.
Malcolm politely began, “If I may, when we got to the Corinthian, and we saw your sister on the beach …” He lowered his eyes, embarrassed. “We immediately covered her with a blanket.”
Allison liked him. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“We took her body to the morgue. Then Dr. McGlothin came.”
“What about her things in the room?”
“We later went back and collected them.”
“Did you see anything indicating that a man had been with her?”
Malcolm looked down, shuffling his feet. “No, nothing like that.”
“No man’s sandals or bathing suit?”
“No ma’am. Just her own stuff, really nice stuff.”
Chester Wells, she noted, was looking away, remaining silent. I’m not sure I believe what Malcolm’s telling me, she thought.
As soon as the two cops had gone, she told Stevens, “I would like to see Dr. McGlothin.”
“You have a car?”
She nodded.
“I’ll give you directions.”
“Will you please call first and check where he is?”
“I’ve already asked him to stay at home, unless he has an emergency.”
Getting to McGlothin’s was a twenty-minute straight shot. A handsome, gray haired, ruddy-faced Scot in his seventies, he was waiting for her at a sleek villa on a slight rise overlooking the most spectacular beach Allison had ever seen. It seemed to stretch on and on. It held soft white sand, shimmering blue-green water, and not more than a half dozen people in sight.
“Bren,” as he asked to be called, led her to a veranda with a view of the water. A table was set for two.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not in the least. Actually, I’d be grateful if you’d have lunch with me. I don’t get many visitors, particularly this time of year.”
“And Mrs. McGlothin?”
“She passed about ten years ago. Then I moved here for most of the year. I love this island. Greatest people in the world. They’ve been here for thousands of years. No one’s sure how they got here or from where. Happily, the Europeans didn’t put down sugar plantations. The soil’s not good enough. And there are no minerals to plunder. So Anguilla never got caught up in that awful slavery business. Its development’s been minimal. There are no casinos. You’re on one of the few island paradises in the world. But keep that to yourself, or we’ll soon be overrun by tourists.”
When lunch, a crayfish salad, was served, she asked him about his examination of her sister.
“She was stunning. One of God’s finest creations. Her drowning made me so sad.”
Allison felt a surge and wanted to cry, but she bit her lip hard and the feeling passed.
“I made only an external exam. There were no wounds or bruises—nothing like that. But I didn’t go inside her to check bodily fluids. There was no lab work. It wasn’t necessary.”
“And?”
“It was an accidental drowning.” He sighed. “I’ve seen enough such cases to recognize one. People don’t give the water the respect it deserves.” He put his fork down and pointed to the sea to make his point. “Unless there’s a storm, we don’t get huge surf. So it’s easy to delude yourself that it’s no more dangerous than a bathtub. Unfortunately, we get powerful riptides.”
“Was there a storm last Sunday night?”
“No. It was a fine starry night, but …” He hesitated.
“Tell me, please.”
“Well, your sister had been drinking and smoking marijuana as well. I could see it in her eyes. I didn’t need a blood test. Was she a starlet or a model?”
“She had been.”
“I thought so. What about you?”
Allison laughed. “She had all the looks in the family.”
“I would not say that.”
While he paused to eat, Allison thought about what he’d said. Surprisingly she was believing him. He had sounded sincere, and as he spoke, he was looking at her. Maybe she had been too hard on Stevens and those two young cops. Maybe she was one who was wrong.
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I teach archeology at Brown University in Providence.”
“What’s your area?”
“The Bible and uncovering facts related to its authenticity. I was in Israel on a dig when your police called me.”
“Interesting. Tell me about it, your dig in Israel.”
With nothing left to ask about Vanessa, Allison went through the motions while she finished her salad. But her heart wasn’t in it. She declined dessert and thanked the affable doctor for his time.
As she was rising to leave, he said, “I doubt there’s anything more here for you to learn. You have a wonderful life ahead of you. I hope you’ll soon go back and resume it.”
Driving to the Corinthian she stopped and pounded her fist on the steering wheel. She’d traveled more than a thousand miles for nothing.
A small boy, around six, darted into the road, chasing a ball. Allison slammed on the brakes. Behind her, a beige van from LIME, the local phone company, screeched to a halt to avoid rear-ending her. The ball had disappeared under her car. She got out to help the child retrieve it. “You a nice lady,” he called out.
Approaching the Corinthian, she asked herself whether she could have been wrong. It felt so damn peculiar, Vanessa coming alone. But then she thought about what Susan had said. Suppose Vanessa was planning to come with a man who she expected to marry, and at the last minute he cancelled. If she had the airline ticket, she might have gone alone to show him. And maybe she felt she had to get away.
Allison thought about the Chinese men who had been pursuing her and their desperate search for this mysterious CD. Perhaps Vanessa had been involved over her head in something serious with a Chinese group in Washington and that’s why she had come to Anguilla—to escape from them, at least for a few days to regroup.
Definitely a possibility. Made sense.
Slowly, she trudged up the stairs to her room. In the corridor a maid, wide in the hips dressed in a black uniform, was mopping the wooden floor and blocking Allison’s way. The disinfectant odor was strong.
Allison waited for the maid to tell her to pass.
“I aired out your room. It was musty.”
“I appreciate that, but I’m going home now.”
“I hope it wasn’t too bad last night.”
“No, not too bad.” Allison sighed and took out the key.
“Always like that, musty at the beginning of the season. You’re the first one since last June.”
Allison felt her key drop with a thud on the floor. “What’d you say?”
“You’re the first person in this room six since June.”
“How do you know that?”
“My sister Rose and I do all the cleaning in this hotel. We know which rooms are taken.”
“You’re sure?”
“About what?”
“That no one occupied this room last weekend.”
“What you mean? Of course, I’m sure.”
“Then which room did my sister have here last weekend?”
“Your sister?”
Allison took Vanessa’s passport from her purse and showed the picture to the maid, who shook her head from side to side.
“Last weekend there were no guests in the hotel. They were hoping for reservations; and Rose and I were planning to work. But no one booked. On Thursday, Mr. Burt called and told us not to come in. The hotel would be empty over the weekend.”
“You’re sure?”
The maid, apparently fed up, looked away and resumed her mopping.
Back in her room, Allison went out to the balcony. Staring at the beach and the sea beyond, she tried to sort out what she’d just heard. So then everyone she’d spoken to had been lying. All smoothly orchestrated, but one big lie.
She’d assumed that Vanessa had stayed here, but not alone. So even that was wrong. Then where did they stay?
Eager to confront John Burt, she pounded her fist into the palm of her hand and hurried toward the door. With her hand still on the knob, she caught herself. What could she hope to accomplish with Burt? He’d pressure the maid, who hadn’t been clued in, and she’d change her story. Besides, it would be better not to tell Burt. As long as they didn’t know that she knew, she could still move about freely and maybe track down the bastard. She’d have to make it look as if she’d accepted their story. Maybe she’d tell Burt she was staying on a few days to recover.
Then it hit her. Whenever she’d traveled with Vanessa, her sister always insisted on dining in the finest restaurants, a habit acquired in her modeling days.
