Al-Tounsi

by Anton Piatigorsky

  “I’m sorry, Justice Sykes, I don’t think Stone’s going to make it.”

  Rodney paused, unsure of how to respond. “Please, you may call me Rodney.”

  “He’s got a very advanced and untreatable cancer. We can wait it out a few days and he’ll die on his own, or we can have him put down.”

  It seemed the veterinarian was awaiting his instructions.

  “I would like to see him once more. To say a proper goodbye.” Justice Sykes listened to himself in astonishment. A proper goodbye? He had never cared much for that cat.

  They made plans to meet in an hour, and Rodney hung up the phone. His hands trembled in his lap; his face felt hot. Perhaps Stone’s illness was, somehow, inexplicably, caused by his own neglect. Would the vet accuse him of mistreatment when he arrived?

  Preposterous. Yet he had also wondered that morning, idling on the Connecticut Avenue sidewalk, after dropping off his gravely ill cat, if the receptionist in Animal Care had judged him for the poor state of Stone’s health. “I simply don’t know what happened to him,” he told the receptionist, as if he were trying to convince her of his innocence, with his hand stuck into Stone’s plastic carrier, his palm resting on his cat’s heaving belly. “He was perfectly well last night.” She offered him an opaque smile. Surely there was no way she could have arrived at a verdict against him from the information he had provided. Moreover, why should he care if the receptionist or Dr. Vry judged him? He was not a thinned-skinned creature.

  Still his blood rushed inside him.

  Rodney had never been an affectionate owner. Any overt, loving attention had seemed unnecessary for an independent cat. Some might say, then, that Rodney was distant, cold. Of course, he had not engaged in any actual criminal neglect or mistreatment.

  He held his breath, slowed his heart purposefully. He needed to be more reasonable, more rational about this. First things first. His daughter, Cassandra, out in San Francisco, would want to know about Stone’s sudden illness, as she had had such passion for animals in her childhood: bake sales and door-to-door fundraising for the World Wildlife Federation; dressing up Pumpkin, their semi-compliant terrier, in T-shirts, cloaks and bonnets; submitting her plush raccoons and koalas to elaborate veterinary games. Cassandra used to trundle through their old house in the Oakland hills with her stuffed menagerie piled into that miniature stroller, along with her favorite Black Astronaut Barbie.

  Rodney removed his glasses and laid them on his big mahogany desk, the same desk once used by Chief Justice Charles Evans Hughes. He could just pick up the phone and call her, even though this was not his usual time: first Sunday of the month, right after dinner. He could call Cassandra, couldn’t he?

  The colonial mantle clock scolded him with its uniform tk tk tk.

  He dialed Samuel instead. As the phone rang, Rodney felt his muscles, old and withered, hanging from his bones, as if chunks of flesh might fall from his limbs, as if his skin could peel off in flakes like brown leaves blowing off an ancient tree. He was in the autumn of his life, quickly approaching winter. Rodney’s son answered.

  “Are you in the building this afternoon, Samuel? Down in the press room?”

  “No, I’m in D.C. Superior all week, covering this crazy school takeover referendum business. Why, is there news? Did you guys do the Al-Tounsi cert this afternoon?”

  “You know I can’t talk about that.”

  “Just whether you voted or not. I don’t need the details or verdict. The paper’s pushing for anything on Subic Bay, anything at all.”

  “Samuel, no.” Rodney cleared his throat.

  “You okay, Dad?”

  “Everything is fine. I have a cold. Listen, I need to visit the vet’s office this afternoon. Your mother’s cat, Stone, has to be put to sleep. I thought you might accompany me, and then we could have dinner at my place following.”

  “God, Dad. Sorry to hear it.”

  “We could share a Greek salad and chicken Parmesan from Giordino’s. And I have a rather dazzling bottle of Macchiole Messorio to accompany, if we have time to decant it properly.”

  “Stone’s the gray one, right? Hey, what ever happened to the other one, Felix?”

  “He died before your mother.” Rodney shuffled the papers his secretaries had put on his desk when he was in conference. “It must have been over two years ago.”

  Rebecca, the Justice’s late wife, smiled at Rodney from the photograph on his desk, her bountiful warmth a provocation, a sharp irritant. Cassandra had come to resemble her mother more and more, although she was more aloof as an adult than Rebecca had been. She had a harder expression, tighter lips. Cassandra’s curly hair could be gelled and worn shoulder length, thanks to her mother’s Ashkenazi genes. Cassandra’s brow was often furrowed and her protruding chin raised, as if to repel intrusive questioning. It was disconcerting to Rodney how Cassandra liked to wear those sheer scarfs tied so snugly around her neck—so that she looked somehow both austere and sexual.

  “I can’t do dinner,” said Samuel. “I’ve got a deadline on this story and there’s no way in hell I’m making it as it is. How about our usual Sunday? When is that, next week? Giordino’s, of course.”

  “Not a problem. But perhaps you can do me a favor. Will you call Cassandra and tell her?”

  Samuel hesitated. “Honestly, Dad, I’m not going to speak to her for a while. We’re on different schedules. Why don’t you leave her a message?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’m really sorry about the cat.”

  The silence in Rodney’s chambers deepened as he got off the phone. Why had it seemed so imperative to those around him—his secretaries, clerks, colleagues—that he publicly express his grief over Rebecca’s death that previous September? Rodney did not want to disappoint them, so he had placed this photograph on his desk, but in truth he had never taken any comfort from Rebecca’s image.

  He stood and paced behind his desk. Nine days until his next dinner at Giordino’s with Samuel—third Sunday of each month. Usually the span of time between their meetings was perfect, but today those remaining nine days felt like an epoch. There must be some way to encourage his son into dinner tonight. In Samuel’s reporting for The Washington Post, more and more he was covering the thorny legal issues around the Subic Bay prisoners, and he was eager for news on the Al-Tounsi petition. Why not offer him a few choice details from the justices’ private conference—or no, merely suggest that those details might be forthcoming were Samuel to eat dinner with his father? Samuel could use that secret information to write a short article for the Post’s Sunday edition, a good four days before the justices’ cert decision would be released to the public.

  Rodney collapsed in his chair, pulled himself to his desk, and centered his jittery palms on his blotter to steady them. That thought was well beneath him. Unethical in the extreme. Such behavior would be worthy of impeachment. Did he want to be the first justice to suffer that fate since Samuel Chase in 1805?

  There was a knock on his door. Rodney stiffened his back, told his guest to please come in.

  Cindy Chin, one of four clerks he had for the term, holding a draft memo out before her as if it were a shield, entered Rodney’s office and meekly asked if the Justice wouldn’t mind clarifying an incongruity she had discovered between two historical opinions, one of which she was relying on as a precedent for Bakerson. “I’ve, uh, asked Gautam and Alex about it.” She tucked a lock of straight hair behind her ear and approached the Justice’s desk. “They both agree that the ’97 ruling, which was your opinion, is in conflict with the, uh, one from ’53. But in the later one there’s no explicit mention of overruling Frankfurter. I was just, well … I don’t know why that would be.”

  This clerk was a familiar specimen. She reminded Rodney of himself in his mid-20s: studious, disciplined and rigorous, but perhaps not as imaginative as her peers, Gautam, Alex and Leanne. Most justices on the Court did not like hiring clerks like Cindy Chin, preferring the brilliant and ro
gue Harvard thinkers who chatted freely about their opinions, who longed to blaze new legal ground—no matter how unsubstantiated—and who boldly stated their intentions to follow their bosses onto the federal bench. But why would Rodney want a clerk who pushed the boundaries of the law without fully understanding it first? The biases of his colleagues had made him long all the more for the Cindy Chins of this world, these intellectually modest clerks who memorized rather than innovated, who deftly handled the assignments that teachers and judges had given them, and who reached the top of their elite law schools through pure, grinding effort rather than through the miracle of brilliance. Good daughters and good sons. These young people who badly wanted to excel in the eyes of their seniors. Cindy Chin must have loved the law for the same reason Rodney did: because it was an inherently good and just system, providing the necessary borders and limitations on human behavior, the scaffolding for a sturdy society. And because it created and respected responsible citizens.

  Rodney watched her stammer and blush. He had never been able to put his clerks at ease, not once in his 16 terms on the Court. It was the fault of his antiquated manner, his perfect grammar, his demand that everyone—outside a few select friends, colleagues, and family members—call him Justice Sykes. His insistence on addressing these young adults in their late twenties as “Ms. Chin” or “Mr. Tyler” had established relationships governed by behavioral codes that this generation had outgrown. Regular meetings with formal procedures. Traditional dress, speech, action, neither subverted nor lightened. Of course that made them tense. None of these clerks—especially this present batch, born circa 1980—could have possibly recalled social codes and mores that were already passé when Rodney was their age. Cindy Chin was very pretty with her long face and bright green glasses. Her youth declared itself in every feature: the thickness of her dark hair, the smoothness of the skin around her eyes. He was incapable of putting this girl at ease. He had never befriended any clerk, past or present.

  Cindy stood before her boss’s desk with her high forehead and dark eyes, waiting for his answer. Rodney’s chin quivered, his muscles tightened and he started to tremble. He pinched the bridge of his broad nose and stared up into the light and, unable to stanch the rising tears, broke into snuffling sobs. His whole body shook.

  “Oh my God.” Cindy dropped her memo on his desk. “Justice Sykes?”

  Rodney closed his eyes and held up his palm. Hot streams flowed down his cheeks.

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No, please.” Rodney inhaled, calmed his sobs, and steadied his voice. “Forgive me, Ms. Chin.” He wiped away his tears. “My veterinarian has just informed me that my cat needs to be put down this afternoon.”

  “Oh no!” Cindy’s nostrils flared, her eyes and mouth expanding in shock, real shock.

  “I am sincerely sorry to subject you to this silliness. That’s a fine question you’ve asked, and if you leave me with a copy of your memo I’ll address it thoroughly over the weekend.”

  Cindy ignored the memo and any quandary it might have posed, and instead pressed Rodney for more information: How long had his cat been sick? What were the symptoms? Had Rodney been expecting this?

  “You don’t need to waste your time with my pet. It’s not a priority.”

  “I would just freak out entirely.” Cindy had abandoned any attempt to sound professional. “I have two cats and I can’t even imagine.”

  She pulled an armchair in front of his desk, seemingly unembarrassed by her concern for his pet or by the breakdown of formality. Although the Justice wanted to stop her inquiry on the spot, to tell her it was ridiculous, that there was a great deal of work to be completed, and that, contrary to his reaction, he had never before cared about his cat, he found himself giving Cindy a full description of Stone’s condition and the events of that morning. He was surprised by his own loquaciousness, and by his desire to sit with her at all. He was soothed and relieved by Cindy’s exuberant attention and high emotion. He enjoyed discussing the details of Stone’s symptoms with this intelligent young woman.

  When Rodney told her of his intention to visit the vet’s office to watch Stone die, Cindy looked horrified. “You can’t go alone. And then just drive home? That’s too awful. Let me come with you.”

  Rodney smiled at her, but shook his head. “Absolutely not necessary, Ms. Chin. I will be fine, I promise you.”

  “I’d feel better, Justice Sykes, if you didn’t go alone.”

  He bit his lip. Didn’t Hugo Black play tennis with his clerks? Didn’t Taft invite the young men of his employ over for Thanksgiving turkey? And doesn’t Elyse Van Cleve carve pumpkins with hers on Halloween? And Killian Quinn, by God—he probably wrestles his clerks to the ground on their first day in chambers. Clerks who received personal treatment were quick to protect their bosses: they brought them groceries when they were old; they spoke of their justices as profound mentors, and respected them as paragons of righteousness. This young woman said she was available, she seemed to really care, and sincerely wanted to accompany him to the vet.

  “Are you absolutely certain you don’t have other commitments?”

  Cindy assured him that she was free. She would be thrilled to go with him. Before Rodney could reason himself out of it, he had packed his briefcase and donned his overcoat, waited as Cindy gathered her things, and found himself walking down the hallway toward the elevator, intending to leave in this young woman’s car—a first in his 16 years on the Supreme Court.

  Rodney slipped into the passenger seat of Cindy’s aging Hyundai, pushing aside the plastic wrappings of nori snacks and Lara bars, noticing two cigarette butts in the ashtray—certainly this young woman’s sole vice—and feeling like a fool. Cindy apologized for the mess. She sheepishly closed the ashtray and drove up 2nd Avenue toward Massachusetts. The passenger seat was pushed too far forward, so the dashboard pressed against his knees, a strange sensation, as Rodney stood only five and a half feet, and never felt cramped in cars. He struggled to find the right lever to push the seat back. He was sweating profusely. Rodney cleared his throat, smiling at the windshield, saying nothing. Cindy reached for the radio dial, but stopped before turning it on. She returned her hand to the wheel.

  The embassies along Massachusetts Avenue blurred together; Rodney couldn’t distinguish Togo’s flag from Ukraine’s. While rounding onto Connecticut, Cindy broke the excruciating silence to discuss the charms of Dupont Circle, the quality of the neighborhood’s local bookshop, the proliferation of its coffee houses, the exorbitance of its rent. Rodney agreed with her observations.

  She found a parking space on Connecticut Avenue near the city’s border with Chevy Chase, a half-block from the vet’s office. Rodney was relieved to climb out of the passenger seat and stand on the sidewalk as Cindy locked the car. He held the door to the vet’s office and bowed his head as she passed through. The chime from the alarm system gave him pause in the threshold. He had come here to witness his cat’s death. The cat that had caused him to cry, inexplicably, embarrassingly. Surely he would not do that again.

  The receptionist ushered Rodney and Cindy into the clinical room, where Dr. Vry stood in pale yellow scrubs beside her assistant, who was finishing up a procedure on a lethargic black lab. As Dr. Vry approached to shake Rodney’s hand, Justice Sykes suddenly remembered that he had asked this veterinarian to call him Rodney. Could he take back that request?

  “Hello, Justice Sykes.”

  Rodney sighed in relief as the vet glanced curiously at Cindy. “I’d like to introduce Ms. Chin, my clerk. She has been kind enough to accompany me to your office today.”

  “Cindy.” The two women exchanged handshakes.

  The vet’s assistant carried Stone, who more resembled a ragged stole than a living creature, and laid him on the cool stainless steel table, where he sprawled and panted, unable to lift his head. Dr. Vry rubbed the cat’s back.

  “He’s in bad shape, as you see. He’s having difficulty breathing.”
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  The veterinarian looked to Rodney, an invitation to say the final goodbye he had requested. Cindy and Dr. Vry parted to give him space at the table. He would have to perform the gesture for them, but without making too much of it. He stroked Stone’s soft fur, watching the animal’s gut rise and fall with each labored breath.

  “He’s a good cat, and I shall miss him.”

  Rodney turned to Dr. Vry and nodded his approval for the lethal injection. The veterinarian found a good point of injection near Stone’s neck and deftly stuck the needle into him. The cat didn’t flinch or make a sound.

  Rodney’s hand rested on Stone’s increasingly quiet body, right beside Dr. Vry’s. Cindy Chin cried without restraint, whispering poor, poor thing. A minor clutch of sadness tightened Rodney’s chest, but it wasn’t genuine. It was nothing, really, but the appropriation of excess grief emanating from Cindy.

  He cupped his hands before him and lowered his head. He had stood like this at Rebecca’s funeral ten months earlier in Memorial Park, graveside, amidst the roses and azaleas in the heat of late May. There, too, he had been surrounded by sobbing loved ones who carried him along in their collective grief. Rebecca, dear Rebecca. Her death still seemed abstract, incomprehensible—the young and independent woman he had met and courted at Stanford Law all those years ago, whom he had married in her parents’ well-groomed backyard in Brentwood, with whom he had raised two intelligent and confident children, and who had shown such strength and self-sufficiency even during their hardest years. Had she really disappeared from this world, gone for all time, because of nothing more than a slick spring rain, a swerving Honda, and the panicked driver of an 18-wheeler? Even when shoveling dirt into her grave, as dictated by her family’s Jewish tradition, he did not break down.

  The remoteness of his grief that day was, in a sense, the perfect crystallization of his problem, as Rebecca had liked to call it. “Goddamn it, Rodney, I might as well talk to Stone.” She had scolded him like that only weeks before her death. He hadn’t responded adequately to some worry she had expressed. The sting of that. What was she so upset about? Some fight with her sister or a friend? He had mumbled mmm to her cruel comment and retreated into his tiny office, closing the door behind him.