While Justice Sleeps

by Stacey Abrams

  * * *

  —

  After Avery left the office with a curt nod, the Chief returned to her desk, forcing Major Vance to come around to the opposite side. Vance’s phone buzzed, demanding his attention. As the Chief watched, he lifted the phone to his ear, the volume too low for intrusion. The stolid face held its marble flatness, the jaw too rigid by nature to offer clues. Instead, the Chief listened to a one-sided conversation peppered with three quiet “yes, sir” responses to unheard questions. After ninety seconds, Vance disconnected the phone call.

  Anticipating her question, he said without preamble, “This is not news one delivers over the phone, ma’am.”

  “True,” the Chief allowed. “What exactly do you intend to tell him?”

  “The truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “Howard Wynn delivered a sealed document to your office for safekeeping. In my presence, upon learning of his incapacity, you opened said envelope and learned of his intent to appoint his law clerk Avery Keene to serve as his guardian. I raised questions as to her appropriateness, which you and Ms. Keene have dismissed.”

  The Chief suspected his actual report would contain a more colorful description of their encounter. “Do you intend to investigate Ms. Keene?”

  “I had my team pull her NCTC file while we awaited her arrival. When I have additional information, I will review it as well. This is a matter of national security, and I intend to do my job.”

  “Come now, Major Vance.” The Chief relaxed against the padded leather chair and lifted her lukewarm tea. “In my two decades on the bench, I am not aware of anyone serving in quite the same role that you currently occupy. Even with the creation of Homeland Security, I find it interesting that you retain military title and weaponry, as well as occupying a civilian office. What exactly does a liaison from the”—she lifted his card from the desk—“Science and Technology Directorate do, and why would you be assigned to the Supreme Court?”

  “My duties are fluid, Chief Roseborough.”

  “And vague. So what do you want, Major Vance?”

  “For now, your silence. The president believes Justice Wynn’s condition to be a matter of grave importance. Until otherwise determined, information about him and his choice of a guardian is considered highly classified.”

  “Is this about a specific case?”

  “The president is concerned about the operations of the Court,” he responded. “Unless you believe a specific case should be of concern?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  Vance leaned forward. “You should reconsider that posture.”

  The Chief stood. “I will pretend you didn’t ask me to do something unethical, Major.”

  “This is simply a request from a grateful president,” he temporized. “The Court has important decisions to make in the next ten days, and neither of us wants the validity of your work compromised, Chief.”

  “It won’t be.”

  “Both the president and I would consider it a personal favor if you would limit discussion of the power of attorney to necessary personnel until we have had time to vet Ms. Keene.”

  “You won’t find anything.”

  The absurdity of the statement startled him, until he realized the Chief was serious. “Everyone has secrets. Avery Keene’s might provide an ulterior motive for securing guardianship.”

  From behind her desk, Chief Roseborough scoffed. “An ulterior motive? My God, the child barely has a direct one. I will not have you destroying her reputation over an old man’s decision.”

  Vance stood then too, his hands coming together behind his back. The military pose was lost on neither of them. “Justice Wynn’s life is a matter of great importance to many people, Chief Roseborough. There are those who will see his illness as an opportunity to strike at America, to aim for her heart—the rule of law. Surely you understand why we must be vigilant?”

  “As long as vigilance doesn’t stray too far afield,” the Chief retorted.

  “Good day, Chief Roseborough.” Vance turned and strode across the room to the door.

  Once her office cleared, she summoned Mary. “Are the justices assembled?”

  “As you requested, Chief. They’re waiting for you.”

  “Notify the clerks that I’ll meet with them at nine. I need to see Gary Stewart briefly now.” The press hits would come fast, and no one was better equipped to parry them than the Court’s press secretary.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “For the next hour, tell the switchboard to route all calls coming into the building to either you or him. No one else is to answer a phone or dial out. Understood?”

  Mary knew better than to ask why. “Yes, ma’am.”

  SIX

  A hemisphere away from DC, Indira sat at the oblong table with its teak surface, chopped from an ancient forest that had long disappeared beneath the advance of civilization. Around the gleaming length, eight men and one other woman waited for the hastily called meeting to come to order. A wide television screen hung suspended at the foot of the table, where a distinguished gentleman with burnished copper skin and alabaster hair watched from a compound in Davos.

  “Lady and gentlemen, I thank you all for agreeing to this emergency caucus,” she began, her voice clear and steady. “As we are all now aware, there have been some major developments in America that will impact our upcoming merger with GenWorks. Justice Wynn, who represents a key vote on the U.S. Supreme Court, is in a coma.”

  “Do we have an update on his condition?” inquired the woman, a budding mogul who operated one of the nation’s most profitable call centers. She’d devised a system that kept young Indians glued to telephones for twenty-four hours a day, all of whom spoke pitch-perfect flat Midwestern American English. Rumors claimed that her company would add Microsoft and Verizon to its clientele in less than a month, increasing her wealth exponentially.

  Indira responded cautiously. “My intelligence reports that Justice Wynn’s condition is unchanged. The cause and likely length of his coma are unknown. That information is highly guarded, but I should know more by tomorrow.”

  A wiry, middle-aged financier with a receding hairline and a skier’s tan pressed: “Explain what this will mean for the lawsuit. I understood from our last briefing that we were hopeful Justice Wynn would lean in our favor.”

  “We were. We are,” she corrected smoothly. “His incapacity may have no bearing on the outcome.”

  A man who had begun his rise to wealth by running rickshaws through the streets of Mumbai grumbled, “Or it may spell the end of this foolhardy endeavor. I objected to the acquisition of that accursed company and to our participation in this imprudent venture.”

  “I heard no such objections to the rapid rise in our share price, Vinod.” The murmurs around the table whispered over Indira, who fixed her eyes on the man in Switzerland. “Indeed, the lovely yacht you purchased when the news of our ‘endeavor’ spiked the market is set to sail in a few weeks, no?”

  Vinod huffed out a breath. “No one denies the economic benefits of the merger. Yet rather than the simple matter it was held out to be—”

  “It has become more complicated,” Indira finished. A flicker passed between her and the man on-screen, and she continued: “Chairman Krishnakamur, we appreciate you joining us.”

  The man nodded. “The news from Washington is quite disturbing. I too remain concerned about the wisdom of our merger with GenWorks. Our government’s refusal of his trade agreement did not sit well with President Stokes, and now we mock him by joining with a rival. He may prove volatile.”

  “GenWorks is the only partner that has the patents and technology able to effectively market what we have developed in-house or acquired from Tigris. Moreover, it is precisely Nigel Cooper’s relationship with President Stokes that allows us leverage.” Indira in
clined her head in acknowledgment of the assembled group. “We are not politicians. We are visionaries. I firmly believe that by combining our technological superiority with GenWorks’ pharmaceutical expertise, Advar will emerge as the most significant and substantial biotechnical corporation in the world. In economic terms, this could yield trillions when fully activated. While I share your caution, Chairman, I am loath to forfeit our position due to a shrill xenophobe of a president who is losing his own political support daily.”

  “A xenophobe, perhaps, but still the most powerful politician on the earth,” he cautioned. “I would not underestimate President Stokes or his willingness to halt this merger. If this fails, his cronies will steal GenWorks, and we become a forgotten enterprise. Do not overestimate your brilliant maneuvers.”

  She allowed herself a small wrinkle of annoyance, a visible but controlled reaction to admonishment. “I understand the stakes, Mr. Chairman.”

  The man on-screen bent forward until his face filled the monitor, filled the room. “We do not have time for contemplative action. If Advar loses this fight, we lose our edge in the marketplace, and the consequences to our share price will be catastrophic. I expect you to take every necessary precaution against such a loss. Including resolving the unfinished business of Tigris.”

  Quiet choruses of agreement surrounded Indira, who merely nodded once. Krishnakamur had performed as expected. As directed. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Chairman, board members. As the founder of Advar, I have a vested interest in not only its current success but its future prosperity. Thus, I have convened you to ask for your permission to take the following actions.” She met the somber eyes that surrounded her at the table. “There will be no recording of these minutes.”

  SEVEN

  Avery sat in her office, the door shut tight, the lights off. Her phone blinked with urgent messages, but she ignored the summons. Instead, she read again the bombshell spread across the surface of her desk. Justice Wynn’s notarized signature stared up from a declarations page. The final page in a terse document that conferred upon the bearer the ability to make all legal, financial, and health decisions for Howard Wynn.

  The signature was authentic. She recognized the barely legible scrawl with its cramped H and miserly W. The letters in between jumbled together in a morass that left the actual words to the reader’s imagination.

  January 28. The date he’d sat before a witness and signed over control to a woman he barely knew. Nearly five months ago. Avery clicked open her computer calendar for that day, but she knew what she’d find. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  However, the Monday before it was a different matter. As had been that Sunday. The other time she’d been alone with Justice Wynn outside the office. Or nearly so, despite what she’d told Major Vance.

  “Come on, Rita,” Avery had pleaded as she half carried, half dragged her drunken mother along the Metro platform.

  “Just one more dance,” giggled Rita, her head lolling on shoulders covered by a ratty fake fur. “The man just wanted one more dance. A last dance.” She lifted her chin and began singing, “Last dance. Last chance, for Rita. Yes, it’s my last chance, for romance, tonight!” The butchered Donna Summer number caught the attention of others disembarking the train. Realizing she had an audience, she shoved away from Avery and gave a quick shimmy. “ ’Cause when I’m bad, I’m so, so bad. So let’s dance!”

  “Rita!” Avery reached for her mother, only to have her spin around and bump into a man who clutched at her mother’s satin-covered hip.

  “If the lady wants to dance,” he said as he swung her around. Rita giggled again and tossed thin, track-marked arms around his shoulders, as the oversized sleeves bunched around her elbows. Her dance partner wore the uniform of the downtrodden: unwashed jeans, a stained overcoat likely donated to a Salvation Army years after it had gone out of style. A baseball cap shadowed his forehead, but dull brown hair curled against his neck.

  Avery hurried toward them. The scent of marijuana was pungent on the man’s tattered clothes, and she clutched at Rita’s brittle shoulder. “Let her go, please.”

  He jerked Rita closer, grinding against her. “She said she wants to dance.”

  “She’s high. She wants whatever she can dig out of your pocket,” Avery corrected. Rita’s hands had inched toward his pockets, and her eyes glazed, signaling her impending crash from whatever she’d ingested. If her mother passed out before they got aboveground, she’d be screwed. Even a 120-pound woman was hard to carry as deadweight. “Fun’s over. Let my mother go.”

  The stoner wrapped his arm more tightly around Rita’s waist, pulled her against him; in response, she tucked her head against his shoulder. “See, she likes me.”

  Avery yanked at Rita, and the man used his free hand to shove her away hard. “You can back off, bitch.” Riders sidled away from them along the platform, ignoring the exchange. Even early in the evening, most decided to mind their own business or hope someone else would intervene.

  Not wanting a fight or an audience, Avery pleaded quietly, “Rita, come on. We have to go.” She advanced again, her fingers closing around the small knife she carried in her pocket for Rita-rescue duty.

  Rita slumped half-conscious against the man, who rudely palmed and squeezed her breast as he leered at Avery and glanced down the platform. “Me and Rita here are going to the corner for some fun. Stay right where you are, and I’ll have her back to you in a few minutes. Come at me again, and I’ll drop you.”

  The threat of rape failed to penetrate Rita’s haze, but it clarified Avery’s choices. Behind her back, the blade popped from its sheath. Hopefully, the Metro cameras would capture her attempts at negotiation as well as the assault to come. “Let her go—now. Last chance.”

  “Kiss my ass, bitch.”

  Avery took a step forward, the knife at the ready behind her back.

  “The young lady asked you to unhand her mother, sir. I would advise you to do so.”

  The voice behind Avery made her spine stiffen. Unwilling to believe it, she took another step toward her mom. “Give her to me.”

  “Don’t make me call the authorities or force the young woman to demonstrate if she can use the unlawful knife in her hand,” Justice Wynn chided gently. “I might even be compelled to assist her.”

  The stoner stared over Avery’s shoulder, then roughly shoved Rita away. “She smells like piss. Take her.”

  Avery awkwardly caught her mother as he ran down the platform. With a practiced move, she closed the knife with one hand, holding Rita with the other. She then turned reluctantly toward her rescuer. As she’d guessed, Justice Wynn stood behind her. Brandishing a thick ebony cane that would have caused serious damage to a human body. “Sir.”

  He lowered the cane and leaned on it lightly. “Ms. Keene.”

  “Thank you.” Wrapping her arm around Rita’s waist, as she still hummed brokenly, Avery said, “I can explain.”

  “I don’t recall asking. Good evening.” With that, he turned away and headed up the escalator.

  A mortified Avery bundled Rita onto the next train and dropped her off at her latest flop. When summoned to Justice Wynn’s office the next morning, she knocked on the door, prepared to be fired.

  “What?”

  From the half-open door, she answered, “It’s Avery, sir. You asked to see me.”

  “Then don’t hover in the corridor.” He waved her inside with an imperious flick of the wrist. “Do you have the Holley opinion?”

  “Yes, sir. I took the approach you used in Morton.” She entered the room quickly. “Mr. Brewer has the lead on the Hugley Inc. decision. We should have a draft in the morning.” Setting the tabbed stack of notes and rulings on the leather blotter, Avery added, “I’ve also emailed a copy to your account.”

  “Fine, fine.” Justice Wynn lifted the folder and thumbed the pages, watching A
very beneath hooded lids. “Ms. Keene, you have worked for me for nearly two years now.”

  Recalling their evening encounter, Avery nodded warily. “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t exhibit the typical signs of incompetence that I’m used to seeing.”

  Allowing herself a small smile, flashing a single dimple, she responded dryly, “Thank you, sir. I try to keep my incompetence to a minimum.”

  “Though not your sarcasm.” Before she could stammer an apology, he continued: “Did you enjoy your time at Yale?”

  “ ‘Enjoy’ is a strong word, sir. I appreciated the opportunity for a stellar education.”

  “And before that, you were a student at Spelman College. And at Oberlin. And Centre College. Where you had several different majors. Chemistry, French literature, history, and political science.”

  “I have a variety of interests.”

  “Including history.”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “History. An overly broad endeavor unless you intend to learn the entire biography of man.”

  Avery said, “I only studied history for a few semesters.”

  “A biochemical lack of focus? Did you require special aids for your erratic attention span?”

  Avery barely avoided gritting her teeth and said, “I preferred American history, but as a freshman or sophomore, it is difficult to specialize.”

  “Why American history? Other nations have achieved greatness with less hubris and narcissism.”

  “Agreed. But America is a contradictory and precocious country, sir. We have, in a very short period of time, managed to commit venal sins against our own people and offer the world repeat examples of exceptionalism. Americans are greedy, brilliant, ambitious, and compassionate. We like to remind everyone about our genius, and yet our leaders make fun of smart people. In less than two centuries, we took over more than half a continent, placed a man on the moon, and invented the Clapper. I enjoyed the contrasts.”