Solomon and Lord Drop Anchor (solomon versus lord)

by Paul Levine

  He laughed and continued. “The people give the government its rules, but those rules arise from natural laws. Take the Decalogue of Exodus. Thou shall not kill. Thou shall not bear false witness…”

  Thou shall not commit adultery.

  Funny how that popped into her head as she watched the judge-her judge-stalk around the perimeter of his chambers, a smaller stage than in Cambridge. He had the enthusiasm of a young boy and the wisdom of philosopher. Not to mention the body of an athlete and the easy grin of a man who finds the world amusing.

  A damned intoxicating combination in the person of Samuel Adams Truitt. If only you weren’t married, if only this weren’t a job.

  Truitt carried on for a while, attacking Hobbes for his view that government could prescribe an official religion and ban all others, which she admitted was a mistake.

  “A mistake this Court unanimously followed in 1892,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “when it held that the government can prohibit the exercise of religions other than Christianity. Four years later, the Court upheld laws prohibiting blacks from riding in the same railroad cars with whites. The decisions were wrong because they violated the natural law, as codified in our Constitution. Under Calvin, citizens can resist immoral laws because the sovereign is beholden to the natural law.”

  “But who determines what the natural law encompasses?” she asked. “In the 1870s, the Supreme Court said it was the ‘law of the creator’ that women be barred from becoming lawyers. These days, a lunatic in Florida says God tells him to kill a doctor who performs abortions. Does he have the right to ignore the lesser law of the government?”

  “No, because the most basic natural law of all is not to kill.”

  And so it went, teacher and student, judge and clerk, man and woman, traveling through the centuries on the magic carpet of their mutual knowledge, Truitt noting that being “endowed with certain rights by their Creator” came from Calvin, Lisa responding that the “pursuit of happiness” came from Hobbes.

  She was focused now and ready to impress the justice with her erudition on a number of subjects, all of which interested him, she knew from her research.

  I’m rallying. I think he likes me.

  Truitt sat down again, and they spoke easily for another forty minutes, Lisa working into the conversation a cross section of popular culture. She mentioned novels that moved her, films that resonated, and rock music she loved, the songs invariably stemming from Truitt’s era. She moved the conversation toward the American musical theater and why didn’t they write shows like Guys and Dolls anymore? He agreed, telling her he had acted, though not very well, in a college production of the show about a thousand years ago.

  “You must have been a wonderful Sky Masterson,” she said.

  “Actually, I was Big Jule.”

  “No!” she said, feigning surprise. She’d already seen the yearbook photo of young Sam, brawny in a gangster’s pinstriped double-breasted suit with exaggerated lapels and enough shoulder padding for an offensive lineman. He was hoisting Sky Masterson up by his somewhat narrower lapels, holding him two feet off the stage floor with one hand. “I really would have thought you’d have the romantic lead.” She blushed, her face seeming as red as her hair. “Oh… I didn’t mean…” The more she stammered, the redder she became, a trick that required holding her breath, or at least not inhaling while she spoke. “I’m sorry, I mean… If I said anything inappropriate…”

  “No. That’s all right. I was just the biggest guy in the University Thespians. It was either play the heavy or haul the scenery around.”

  She quickly regained the composure she had really never lost. The blushing, stuttering episode had bee i rehearsed in front of a mirror just as Sam Truitt had rehearsed “Luck Be a Lady” so many years ago. It had seemed to her that being too polished, too poised, might come off as artificial and, well… rehearsed. So the momentary slip had the dual purpose of making her seem human and letting him know she found him attractive. I like her, Sam Truitt thought. She’s bright and beautiful, articulate and interesting, but beyond all that… I like her. Obviously, she can do the work. And she’d be fun to have around.

  If only she weren’t so damned sexy.

  “Is there anything you want to ask me?” Truitt said.

  “I was looking at the football you were holding. Did I read somewhere that you were captain of your college team?”

  “No, I wasn’t good enough for that. I was captain of the special teams.”

  “What made them so special?”

  He laughed. At least she wasn’t an expert on everything. “At Wake Forest, nothing, I assure you. I was the long snapper.”

  “Sounds like a fish,” she said with a feminine shrug.

  “I spent all my playing time looking between my legs, snapping the ball to the punter or field goal kicker. It’s a knack, seeing the world upside down and putting a tight spiral on the ball, getting it to the punter, nose up, in seven-tenths of a second, thigh high, so he can think just about the kick. A good snapper gets the ball to the punter faster than the quarterback can throw it the same distance.”

  “Really? I guess it’s much more complicated than most people realize,” she said, encouraging him.

  “It sure is. You fire the ball with the right hand, guide it with the left. Before the snap, if you squeeze the ball, or cock your wrist, the defensive linemen will time their rush and get a jump on your linemen. So no hitches, no nerves, and most important, you’ve got to have the perfect stance. You’ve got to keep your ass down.” He laughed and went on, “Which, come to think of it, was the president’s advice when he appointed me to this scorpions’ nest. ‘Keep your ass down until you get the lay of the land.’“

  “Sounds smart. You’re here for life. Why be impatient to make your mark?”

  “I’ve never been good at laying low,” he said, then walked to the credenza and picked up the partially inflated football. Although he didn’t ask her to, she rose from the chair and joined him there, putting her hands on the cracked leather. It was, in its way, an intimate gesture, each of them touching the other, through an intermediary, the old football. She ran her fingers across the chipped white paint that spelled out, WAKE FOREST 16 – FURMAN 10.

  She has beautiful hands. What’s happening? Jesus, Sam, act like a judge, not a schoolboy.

  “It was my last game, my only game ball. A reward for playing three years without a bad snap. That and some tackles on the kickoff team. Unfortunately we didn’t kick off much.”

  “I know enough about the game to understand that. You didn’t score often, right?”

  “Often? The Demon Deacons were scoreless in October.”

  ‘“Scoreless in October,’“ she repeated with a laugh that trilled like a pine warbler in the Carolina woods. “Sounds like a movie tide.”

  “Or a lonely fraternity boy’s lament,” he said, chuckling.

  “Or the number of opinions the junior justice writes his first month on the bench,” she said, keeping the ball in the air.

  “I’m afraid the C.J. would agree with that,” Truitt said. “It’s going to take me a while to get used to being the new kid on the block. I was playing basketball with Justice Braxton yesterday, and he started calling me ‘Junior’ just to mess up my jump shot. Did you know there’s a basketball court above the courtroom?”

  She nodded. “The highest court in the land.”

  “Right again. You seem to have a feel for this place.”

  And for me. What am I going to do? She’s almost too good to be true.

  ***

  Lisa watched him squeeze the old football, seemingly lost in a private thought. “You speak very fondly of your football team,” she said, “even though…”

  “We were really abysmal,” he said, finishing her sentence.

  “But winning wasn’t everything to you, was it?”

  “I haven’t thought about it much, but you’re right. We lost ten games in a row before beating Furman. I love
d the game and I loved my teammates, even though we were probably the worst team in the history of college football.”

  “No,” she said in mock disbelief.

  “You can look it up,” he said, but of course she already had.

  “In 1974, we were shut out five games in a row by a combined score of two hundred and ten to zero,” Truitt said. “North Carolina, Oklahoma, Penn State, Maryland, Virginia, and Clemson.”

  “Wow, is that some kind of record?”

  “Maybe. We even lost to William and Mary, and I suspect Mary could have done it all by herself.”

  She laughed, knowing he’d used the line many times before. She was turning the tables on him, becoming the interrogator. “What did you learn from all the losses? About life, I mean.”

  “No one’s ever asked me that,” he said, seeming to think it over.

  C’mon, Sam. Every man I’ve ever known loves to talk about himself.

  “The value of hard work, patience, and discipline,” he said after a moment. “That to win you have to sweat and sacrifice and put the team first and even if you do all of those things, you may still lose, but that it’s no disgrace to lose with honor. Most of all, I learned that you’ve got to play the game within the rules, and that surely goes for life, too.”

  The rules. Max Wanaker makes his up as he goes along. Sam Truitt follows the ones engraved in the marble.

  The phone buzzed just as Truitt was telling how he got the nickname “Scrap” and how the little-used kickoff team was called the “Scrap Pack.”

  “The chief says you’re to come to his chambers right away,” Eloise said over the speaker.

  “Tell the chief I don’t work for him,” Truitt replied.

  “No, sir!” Eloise screeched over the intercom. “We’re not going to start off seeing who’s got the biggest bulge in his briefs. I’ll tell him you’re in conference and will be there the instant you’re free.”

  The intercom went dead, and there was a moment of silence as interviewer and interviewee tried to remember exactly where their conversation had ended.

  “That’s probably the only time anyone will catch you quoting Justice McReynolds,” Lisa said.

  “You picked up on that?” Truitt asked, astonished. “That’s a really arcane bit of Court trivia.”

  He looked at her with something approaching awe, and Lisa smiled.

  “Back in the 1930s,” she said, “Chief Justice Hughes left a message with McReynolds’s secretary. ‘Tell the justice to come to my chambers at once, and wear his robes.’ McReynolds responded with… well, just what you said. ‘Tell the Chief I don’t work for him/”

  “McReynolds was a real misanthrope, a racist, and a bigot,” Truitt said. “But you probably know that, don’t you?”

  “I know he wouldn’t appear for the Court photo because he didn’t want to be in a picture with a Hebrew. That’s what he called Brandeis.”

  Showing off now. Put a lid on it, Lisa.

  “That was him. And you’re right. It’s the only time I’ll quote the bastard.” Truitt glanced at his watch. “Whoa. We’ve been at it for nearly two hours.”

  Sensing that was her cue, Lisa said, “I want to thank you so much for your time, Justice Truitt.”

  “I’ve enjoyed this. I really have,” Truitt said. He paused a moment, as if she shouldn’t leave just yet.

  Sam Truitt couldn’t pinpoint the moment he changed his mind about Lisa Fremont, couldn’t even say exactly why he had. She was smart and savvy, and they seemed to have great synergy, and he was tired of interviewing candidates. There was such a relaxed nature to their conversation, he felt as if he had known her forever. So without ever actually consciously deciding, Truitt reached the conclusion that she’d be perfect. He would hire her despite her great looks, though he didn’t think his wife would buy that for a second.

  What is he thinking? Lisa wondered. Am I overstaying my welcome? Should I curtsy and head for the door?

  “Once the session begins,” Truitt said, breaking the silence, “I’m afraid there won’t be time for what Elly would call ‘high-falutin’ gabfests.’”

  As if I already had the job.

  “And from now on,” he continued, “it’s just plain ‘Judge.’ That’s what Vic and Jerry call me. Ask Elly for the forms you’ll need to fill out, then get ready to roll up your sleeves.”

  Omigod! What did he say?

  “You mean I’m hired?”

  “Didn’t I say that? No, I guess I didn’t. I must have thought you could read my mind.”

  “That would be a pretty good attribute for a law clerk,” she said, beaming. “I’ll work on it.”

  “Along with about a thousand cert petitions.” He stood and extended a hand. “Welcome aboard.”

  For the second time that day, Lisa Fremont shook his hand, and their eyes locked. This time his expression seemed to come from a deeper place, and for a moment, she felt he was trying to look deep inside her. At the same time, he clasped both hands over hers. There was nothing inappropriate about it, nothing sexual, overt or otherwise. It seemed to be a gesture of comradeship, a recognition that they were about to spend the next year together embarked on a great adventure.

  Wow! I did it. I’m a clerk on the Supreme Court of the United States. Me! Lisa Anne Fremont from Bodega Bay. And Max didn’t do it for me.

  She allowed herself just a few seconds of elation. Then the realization set in. She wasn’t just Sam Truitt’s law clerk. She was also working for Max Wanaker and Atlantica Airlines, petitioner in one of the biggest cases of the new term. In legal jargon, she had a major conflict of interest. Her job was to subvert justice, not to achieve it. She tried not to think about the cruel paradox, which threatened to ruin the moment.

  She focused a businesslike smile on Sam Truitt. In the past two hours, she thought, they had learned all about each other. Or had they? She’d already known him. And he only thought he knew her. For a moment, looking into his blue-gray eyes, she thought there was a glimmer of recognition, that he saw through the gaps in her resume and in her life, that somehow he glimpsed the abyss that separated who she had been from who she had become. But if he had sensed anything wrong, why had he hired her?

  She broke eye contact, and he released her hands. “Thank you, Judge. I’ll try to live up to your expectations.”

  “You and me both,” he said, laughing, giving her a warm smile. Then his voice dropped nearly to a whisper and his brow furrowed. “Lisa, we have a chance to do wonderful work here. Not just to resolve individual disputes, but to set the tone for civilization, to draw boundaries for conduct, to define fundamental rights and responsibilities, and to right wrongs. We’re the conscience of society and the buffer between the government and the governed, striking the balance between the state and the individual. We protect against anarchy on the one hand and dictatorship on the other. Our job is to breathe life into that glorious two-hundred-year-old document they keep under glass a few blocks west of here. God help me, I hope we’re both up to the task.”

  Lisa stood in stunned silence. What could she say? Oh, I’m sure you’ll combine the wisdom of Solomon with the compassion of Gandhi and the strength of Zeus. And I’ll be right there beside you… corrupting the process, violating everything you believe in.

  She had never known anyone like Sam Truitt. He was truly afraid of falling short, of failing to live up to his own standards and those who came before him. Here was a Galahad whose greatest fear was that he could not attain the Holy Grail.

  She admired and respected this man who was honest and devoted to principles, not to the accumulation of power and personal wealth. He was everything Max Wanaker wasn’t. What a sad irony that she had to betray Sam Truitt’s trust and tarnish his beloved bronze statues. For a moment, she felt such shame that she could not look him in the eyes.

  He guided her toward the door, grabbing his coat for the walk down the corridor to the chief’s chambers. “Wait!” he said at the last moment, and she tensed.
<
br />   What is it? Has he seen through me? Maybe he’s the mind reader!

  “I’ve completely failed to ask what substantive areas of the law interest you,” he said.

  With the self-discipline and poise that had brought her so far, she chased away the guilt and the fear. “Aviation law has always fascinated me,” Lisa Fremont said.

  ***

  IN THE SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES GLORIA LAUBACH,

  individually and as representative of the

  Estate of Howard J. Laubach, deceased, et al.

  Petitioners, vs. ATLANTICA AIRLINES, INC.,

  Respondent.

  ON PETITION FOR A WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE ELEVENTH CIRCUIT PETITION FOR A WRIT OF CERTIORARI QUESTIONS PRESENTED

  Whether the 1978 Airline Deregulation Act bars Petitioner’s claims under the Florida Wrongful Death Act for the death of her husband in the crash of a commercial aircraft, and if there is no such federal remedy, leaves Petitioner without the right to sue for money damages?

  Whether Petitioner presented sufficient evidence as to Respondent’s negligence so as to preclude the entry of summary judgment and to permit jury consideration of that issue?

  ***

  REASON FOR GRANTING THE WRIT

  The decision below (a) radically departs from established case law; (b) subverts the intention of Congress; and (c) immunizes the tortfeasor from liability, thus permitting a wrong without a remedy, an abhorrent result in a case involving the deaths of nearly three hundred persons.

  Respectfully submitted,

  Albert M. Goldman, Esq.

  CHAPTER 5

  Reservoir Dog

  Lisa drove around for hours before heading back to the apartment. She passed the Washington Monument, the circle of American flags crackling in the autumn breeze. She drove by the elm trees and the Reflecting Pool, and just as the lights came on, she curled behind the Lincoln Memorial with its distinctive Doric columns resembling the Parthenon. She slowed the car and fought the urge to join the tourists and walk up to old Abe-now dramatically backlit-and soak up all that corn-pone Americana. Thinking about it, she felt like a character in a black-and-white movie, Ms. Fremont Goes to Washington.