While Justice Sleeps

by Stacey Abrams

  “Not gonna tell.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not going to another goddamned rehab. All I need is a hundred. That’s it. Maybe if you took the stick out your ass, you would help your mother out. Just this once.” In the background, a man asked if the daughter was pretty. “Not ugly,” came Rita’s stage-whisper reply. “But you want the original, honey, not a secondhand copy. Especially when I can trade you—” The rest ended on a high, desperate laugh.

  Heat snapped through Avery’s veins, seared her cheeks. She wanted to disconnect the call, but the shaky laughter signaled that her mother was nearing a crash and worse. Years of training had her tamping down the riot of emotion she swore each time would not return. For an instant, she wondered how different life would be if her father were alive. With his deep brown eyes that crinkled at the corners and his hickory skin stretched tight over a square jawline. His ready patience and easy smile—she’d inherited neither of those traits. Who would Rita have been if he’d survived?

  Cutting off the useless musing, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Dad was dead. Rita was high. And she lived stubbornly in reality. In the dark, she felt around for her tennis shoes and a baseball cap. Luckily, she’d chosen to sleep in running shorts and a tank, a vain attempt to stave off the coming DC summer heat. “Rita—Momma, tell me where you are.”

  “No. Stuck-up little bitch…” Just as quickly as the venom poured, sugar followed. “Baby, I didn’t mean that. I love you. My one and only…I’m so proud of you. My brilliant lawyer baby. She works at the Supreme Court,” she told the dealer.

  “Momma.” Avery bit off the word, her eyes desert dry. She’d grown accustomed to the balancing act, keeping her mother’s demons partitioned away from the world she lived in by day. Bail and rehab versus drafting memos and hunting for precedents. Fighting for patience, she swigged from a bottle of water that sat on her nightstand. The taste of sleep swished for seconds, then disappeared.

  “Momma, you there?”

  “Where else can I go?” A tiny sob hitched on the line. “Don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “You can go back to the rehab, Momma. I’ll ask them to let you come back.” Again. She’d spent her last chunk of savings on the in-patient facility in February. Rita had lasted twelve weeks, a personal best. But the fee had cleaned out her accounts and maxed out her cards. She’d gotten the meager balances down, as was her habit, but until she hit pay dirt with a job at a fancy law firm, she’d be living very frugally—especially if Rita wanted to return to rehab. And Avery’s boss forbade interviews until the close of the session, so she had only the illusion of employment to tide her over. “Do you want to try again?”

  “At that shithole? No way in hell.” More brittle laughter. “I don’t need to get clean, and I don’t want your fucking charity.”

  Which defied the call for money, but Avery knew better than to attempt reason. At this stage, placating worked best. Slipping her feet into the shoes she carried, she squatted to tie the laces tight. No telling if tonight’s excursion would include a flight from danger. Always best to be prepared. “Tell me where you are, Momma.”

  “So you can come and preach to me? No way.”

  “You have to.” Rising, Avery’s hand slipped into the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out a small knife. It was illegal to carry a switchblade in DC, but old habits had died hard. She didn’t like guns, but she couldn’t afford to go to her mom’s preferred haunts without it. One of the few precious inheritances from her dad that her mom hadn’t pawned along the way. Mother-of-pearl handle and their initials engraved on the hilt. Her father’s cosmic joke—Avery Olivia and Arthur Oliver—AOK.

  The palm-sized knife wouldn’t stop a drug fiend, but it might slow one down if she ever had to use it. The weapon went into the pocket of her shorts. “If you don’t tell me where you are, I can’t bring you any money.”

  “Really?” Hungry to believe, Rita hissed into the phone, “Gotta come soon, though. Real soon.”

  Avery headed for the living room, grabbed her keys, and yanked open the front door. Keys. Cell phone. Wallet! She’d forgotten it. Twisting, she kicked at the closing door and rushed back inside. She juggled the cell, hoping Rita wouldn’t hang up before she could get better directions. The signal would die as soon as she entered the stairwell. “I need an address, Rita. Now.”

  “You’ll really come?” The wheedling tone begged for a lie. A promise. “You’ll come for real? Bring me some cash?”

  Avery stared at the threadbare wallet on the table and contemplated bringing her last fifty to the addict who’d grudgingly given birth to her twenty-six years ago. Screw that. She slipped a ten into her pocket and tossed the wallet onto the table. “Sure, Momma. Just tell me where I’m going.”

  TWO

  The hollow sound of the ebony cane striking ceramic tiles echoed along the deserted hallway. Dr. Indira Srinivasan enjoyed the eerie thuds, the reverberations signaling her presence in this isolated wing of Advar Biogenetics, Ltd. This was her dominion. Midday here in Bangalore, a city teeming with high-tech industry, her technicians, analysts, and staff filled the building, but no other soul would be in these corridors, save the security guards whose gratitude for their positions was owed to her. The tortuous path to her offices intentionally discouraged all visitors except the most urgent.

  She limped along the wide, vacant length of the hallway, heading for her ground-floor suite. Western tradition dictated a corner office in the penthouse of a towering modern facility in one of the city’s ubiquitous biotech parks. It galled that with her advanced rheumatoid arthritis, she could not risk such a journey should the sleek elevators fail. In concession, she inhabited a spacious, sun-drenched suite walled off from the metropolis of Bangalore by thick layers of tempered glass and steel. She could see out, but no prying eyes peered inside.

  Indira stumbled and grabbed at the nearest wall to steady herself. She waited for the tremble of palsy that shook her limb to cease. More and more, the arthritis competed with nerve damage to topple the body she religiously disciplined into fighting form. Ropes of muscle snaked along arms that today wore sapphire silk crepe.

  Her weight never fluctuated, never crept above or below the physician-recommended standard. The thirty-eight-year-old face and soul of genetic engineering—the engine of India’s emergence into the next wave of technological advancement—could not risk distractions. No silly gossip about bulimia or a fascination with samosas when the Wall Street Journal featured her penned likeness above the fold as the next Bill Gates.

  The intricate knot she had twisted into her hair that morning bobbed cunningly as she neared her office. She calculated the opening share price Advar would need to reach on the stock exchange to soothe the shareholder anxiety that peppered her emails. A grimace twisted the long, dark mouth as the office door swung on mute hinges. As she passed through, the door shut behind her, locking out every thought but the one that had occupied her for too long.

  The U.S. Supreme Court continued to fritter away time as her destiny hung in the balance. Her company’s acquisition of GenWorks, a closely held biotech company in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, now relied entirely on the whims of nine men and women who knew little of genomics, epistasis, or bioinformatics. While she awaited their decision, her stock price continued to drift toward junk status. If the Advar share price fell too low, the collection of chauvinists and harbingers who populated the board of directors would also be plotting her demise.

  The merger of a century and a cunning masterstroke of economic and biogenetic genius—felled by a vindictive American president facing a tough reelection. He’d called the denial of their merger an act of national security, but she knew his actions for what they were. Revenge and self-preservation.

  Fear.

  The same fear gripped her. She’d taken another risk before this, a favor to another president at
Chairman Krishnakamur’s urging. Take over a rival and absorb its secrets, and she’d reclaim her full life. She’d own the world and all of its sins.

  Now Advar stood at risk, and she had no way to redeem herself without telling the truth. A truth as damning as the lies she told now.

  Moving to the slab of desk that consumed the center of the office, she lowered her trembling body gently down to sit. Spasms jerked muscle into tight knots. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Too much to accomplish. Too much in motion to cavil with a broken body. She had mere days until triumph or defeat. Her body would damned well hold until then.

  As the microprocessors whirred through their exercises, booting up her computer, her private line jangled imperiously. She yanked it to her ear, impatient with the interruption.

  “Srinivasan.”

  “Good morning, sunshine.”

  Indira relaxed her scowl into a mild frown. “Nigel, it is the afternoon here, as you well know. However, it is barely dawn there. What do you want?”

  On the other end of the line, Nigel Cooper, founder and president of GenWorks Labs, jogged lightly on a treadmill, his breathing even and steady. He was in his last year before forty pushed him into a new demographic, but he refused to age like the pale wunderkinds he’d studied with in grad school. The early-morning runs kept his body toned and fit, perfect for candid shots of him frolicking on beaches or entering movie premieres with his latest starlet. A thick shock of dark blond hair draped charmingly over his forehead, and he pushed it away.

  Nigel was renowned as much for his financial expertise as for his model-perfect looks—which made him equally popular with CNBC and E! But this morning’s call had more to do with what would be broadcast on PoliticsNOW. “Thanks for the warm greeting. I can’t imagine why we stopped seeing one another.”

  “You proved to have a singular inability to grasp the concept of fidelity,” she reminded him blandly. She slid a stack of contracts across the desk. “But a rehash of our wasted youth is not the point. Why are you calling me? We’re scheduled for a conference call in a few hours.”

  “Because I have news now.” News that would soon whisper along the tangled channels of medicine, money, and power, made juicier because of how hard someone had tried to bury the story. There were armed guards at a private room at the Bethesda Naval Hospital, and a patient brought in by military chopper. The arrival of a premier neurologist and a medical team that could revive Lazarus had only ginned up the rumor mill.

  “The story will break across the international wires as soon as one network gets confirmation, but I’ve got my intel on good authority.” He paused dramatically. “Supreme Court justice Howard Wynn has been hospitalized.”

  Indira hissed out a breath, her stomach clutching. “I saw headlines about a rant at a university commencement, but I did not hear details. When did this happen? What is wrong with him?”

  “There was an incident last night. The word is that he’s fallen into a coma. Conveniently, right after he accused President Stokes of being in league with the Devil and of trying to kill everyone. Sound familiar?”

  “Tigris.” The revelation ricocheted through her, sent curses flying through her mind. Though she didn’t believe in any of the Hindu gods, she felt certain several conspired against her. “Are you sure?”

  “He didn’t say the words, but I’m willing to bet that he knows more than we realized.” Nigel’s soft southern drawl did little to soften the blow. “The swing vote on the Supreme Court went batshit crazy and then fell into a coma. Assuming he was our ace in the hole, we are now potentially fucked.”

  Indira forced her mind to play through the odds. “Was it a stroke? An aneurysm?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “We need to know if he’ll wake up and how soon.”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “Good. My board is becoming restless.”

  Nigel cautioned, “Tell them to hold still. The end of the term is in a few days, but he could be in the hospital for months. The Court doesn’t have to rule this term. If they wait until the fall, we buy ourselves more time to ratchet up the pressure on President Stokes. Every month there’s a poor jobs report, I put out some statement about the number of jobs that could have been created with our merger. November is a long time to survive Chinese water torture.”

  “My board has no faith in your judicial system at this point,” Indira retorted bitterly. “Tigris is not going away, Nigel. The board wants their money out of this fiasco as quickly as possible. Besides, your bankers are getting worried, too.”

  “Yes, but I’ve kept them calm. We would make a mountain of billionaires with this deal. Do whatever you have to, but we can’t fold yet.”

  “My board reads Bloomberg News too. Only you and I continue to believe this merger will happen.”

  “Money men always think the sky is falling.”

  “Perhaps this time, they’re not wrong.” She shut her eyes, her head leaning against leather. “They’ve told me to break the agreement if we do not have an answer when the Court adjourns.”

  “You pull out, and we won’t get another shot! GenWorks is ruined if I don’t get access to your tech, Indira. Not to mention what it could mean for you personally.”

  “GenWorks has nothing that will help my medical condition.”

  “Not yet, but in time.” Nigel punched the emergency stop button on the treadmill. “We can’t give in now. Maybe we go to President Stokes. Threaten to expose him if he doesn’t change his mind.”

  “Are you mad? We will do no such thing!”

  “Think about it. He’s got to be as worried as we are. His four votes are no more certain than ours. Justice Wynn living or dying is no guarantee. Either way, President Stokes could still lose and cost himself the election.” Leaning heavily against the rails, he reasoned, “If Americans learned the truth about this, they’d crucify him.”

  “And us along with him.” She rubbed at a knot of tension forming at her nape. “It is too great a risk, Nigel. They would say I am as culpable.”

  “Not by a long shot. No actual harm done.”

  Her hesitation was brief, imperceptible. Personal. “We’ve had this discussion before. If we admit we know the truth, the president will destroy us. Right now, he can only suspect what we know, and we have no proof.”

  “We know it’s out there. We simply have to find it.”

  “We’ve tried,” she reminded him, frustration growing in her voice. “The records show what was invested, not the source. And the officials who know the truth will never admit it.”

  “Then we force his hand.”

  “Or let the case play out. It would help if you didn’t insist on antagonizing him at every opportunity.” Despite years in American schools, she still barely understood the deep divisions between the Left and the Right in a country with so little to argue over. “This merger should not have required an international incident.”

  “Money and power make people irrational. You know that better than most.”

  She stared out the window, wondering if Tigris would ever stop punishing her. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing for now.”

  “What are you planning?” A woman didn’t sleep with a man for as long as she had without learning the nuance to his voice. Cunning, shot through with guile. “No secrets.”

  “I’ll keep my ears and my options open. There’s always an angle, Indira. You keep your board in line. Fortunes and principalities are at stake, my dear.”

  “I am well aware of the consequences.” Indira’s hand trembled, reminding her of why she’d allowed Tigris to live and die. “Keep me informed.”

  Nigel Cooper disconnected and pulled up the next number. When the call connected, he said, “Sorry to wake you, Mr. Leader, but we’ve got a situation. I’ll be in DC in five hours. Have the Spe
aker join you and meet me at the St. Regis. Be discreet.”

  THREE

  Monday, June 19

  In an apartment tucked into Tacoma Park, Maryland, early-morning sunlight filtered through blinds she’d drawn weeks ago. Jamie Lewis was curled on the sofa watching an old black-and-white movie, hoping it would lull her to sleep. A cup of chamomile tea cooled on the coffee table in front of the couch, beside the boarding pass for her flight to New Mexico. In eight hours, she’d be on her way, leaving behind Justice Wynn and the last few months.

  Exhaustion dragged at her, but sleep remained elusive. Soon, she’d see her husband and tell him of their plans. He could stop hiding at his cousin’s place and meet her at the airport.

  If she left today, perhaps her secret employers would forgive her. Perhaps Justice Wynn would as well.

  The knock on the door startled her, and she belted her robe tight. The clock told her it was nearly six in the morning.

  Jamie hurried to the door, quickly smoothing her faded brown hair into a semblance of order. She peered out the keyhole and frowned at the man standing outside. Her voice croaked out, “Can I help you?”

  A badge flashed in the keyhole. “Mrs. Lewis? It’s about your husband. May I come in?”

  Distressed, resigned, she fumbled with the locks and chain. “What’s happened this time?” she asked wearily as she shifted to admit him. “What has he done?”

  “Thomas is in trouble.” He tucked his badge away, then gestured toward the room.

  Jamie obediently moved into the living room, leaving the officer to shut the door. “Is he under arrest?”