While Justice Sleeps

by Stacey Abrams

  Wynn continued to watch her, with what Avery perceived as an ounce of amusement on his face. “A nation of favor and folly, one might say. Where justice is known but rarely seen. Which begs why you would also be enamored of studying the French. Not many tales of derring-do outside a Dumas novel.”

  “French literature seemed romantic, if not terribly practical. That’s why I dropped it later.”

  “I am a student of the French writers myself. They possess a singular ability to make the barbaric elegant. Who did you prefer during your brief acquaintance?”

  “I was partial to Corneille and Voltaire.”

  “Voltaire’s tendency to jump from subject to subject would appeal to you, I suppose.”

  They’d covered this territory in her interviews, but she played along. “It did.”

  “And traipsing from school to school?”

  “Family circumstances.” Which he’d gotten a firsthand example of last night.

  “A paltry phrase,” scoffed Justice Wynn. “Did ‘family circumstances’ impact your education?”

  “No. At all three schools, I maintained a 4.0 GPA.”

  “Your eidetic memory is responsible for most of your success in that, I’d wager.”

  Avery avoided the instinct to wince. “My memory, sir?”

  “Think I didn’t notice, young lady? No one naturally retains cases as you do. Then there is your tendency to gaze up when recalling details. You’re reading the pages in the air, aren’t you?”

  Caught, Avery nodded again, tightly. “My memory is an asset, Your Honor. Not a crutch. I know what I’m doing, and I know what I know.”

  “Got your dander up now, I see. No questioning your family or your ability to cheat on learning by using a parlor trick.”

  Avery wanted to react, but she held her tongue. He’d caught her off guard, and he wanted her to react. But she’d learned from the best to hold still. To wait for it.

  When she said nothing, Justice Wynn grinned, a twist of the mouth that held little humor. “Nicely done. You even know how to keep your eyes cool.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your eyes don’t give you away. When I served in district court, I could always tell. Lawyer or defendant, same reaction. Dilated pupils, gritted teeth. Do you play chess?”

  Bemused by the changing subjects, she nodded. “I’m okay at it.”

  “Liar.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re lying. Probably, you’re an excellent player who lies out of habit. Don’t want folks knowing how good you are.”

  Avery shrugged and conceded, “I can hold my own, sir.”

  “Hmm.” He studied her until she wanted to squirm. “Liars are all alike, aren’t they?”

  Holding her temper with effort, Avery reminded herself of the prestige of her current position and the penalty for being fired for insubordination. She’d worked too hard to get here. The wrong words, and she’d be out on her unemployable butt. He was looking for something, goading her. She wouldn’t fail whatever test he was giving. In a low, controlled voice, she queried, “If that’s all—”

  “I will dismiss you when I’m done, Ms. Keene. Not before.” He pinned her with a level look. “I asked you a question. Do you believe liars are all alike?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  With a shrug, she explained, “Some lie for gain, others for protection. The lie matters.”

  “You’re saying there are good lies?”

  “Lies and truth aren’t good or bad. A bad person can tell the truth, and an honest person can lie.”

  “That’s an evasion.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” He nodded once. “Do you still gamble?”

  “On what, sir?”

  The explosion of gruff laughter filled the room. “Excellent question. What would you gamble on? Theoretically.”

  Avery paused, considering her answer carefully. This was the longest personal conversation she’d ever shared with him, other than her interviews. That one had been equally difficult, but he hadn’t been as intrusive. He wanted to know something; she just didn’t know what. Or why.

  She replied, “Games of chance are entertaining, but ultimately, they’re only worth it if you know when to cut your losses. A good gambler knows how to balance risk and reward. For example, telling your boss that you made the rent during college by fleecing other students reveals a penchant for nonlegal behavior but also shows ingenuity and a flair for the unconventional.”

  “Indeed. And a flouting of the law, if the South is as I remember it.”

  “Not much has changed.”

  “What’s your game?”

  “Poker. Blackjack at casinos if the pit boss isn’t watching too closely. Chess in the park if I’m in the right town.”

  “How often do you gamble now?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “My salary meets my current needs. I never wagered for extravagance, sir. Only for necessity.”

  “How do you gauge the difference?”

  Avery’s mouth curved. “I’ve got a lot of experience with need, sir. It’s not hard to tell them apart.”

  He bent forward, lifting a Montblanc LeGrand that could feed a small family for a week. Balancing the pen on his palm, he pressed: “Others would disagree. Need and want look identical to most. What makes you better at seeing the difference? The nobility of poverty?”

  “I’m not noble, Your Honor. Just practical.”

  “Practical?”

  “Yes, sir. Gambling for want is a risk. I don’t believe in jeopardizing what I’ve got for a negligible chance at something better, not unless I can’t make what I’ve got work somehow.”

  “Poker is a risky game for most. I prefer chess. A noble game. Not one that should be denigrated by speed matches in a park.”

  She winced. “It can be fun. Racing against the clock and your opponent.”

  “I do not believe that the maharajahs of ancient India would agree. When first invented, the game was known as chaturaṅga. The Moors brought it to Europe, and it became the game we call chess. That’s when the queen became the most powerful piece, but still in service to a king. What do you think of that?”

  “Of what, sir?”

  “Of the queen being responsible for saving the king, but that only his life is sacred. Should offend your feminist sensibilities, no?”

  Avery grinned. “My feminist sensibilities are not offended. In a game of strategy, the king is a figurehead, unable to save his own life without the aid of others. The queen is powerful and dynamic. She will protect the king, but not because of weakness. It’s because that’s what she’s supposed to do.” She added, “It was in the tenth century that the queen replaced the vizier on the chessboard. Vizier meant leader, and in the next five hundred years, she became the most powerful piece on the board. A nice evolution.”

  “Because I find most people too pedestrian to engage in person, I play online. A hardy game without the chatter.”

  “I’m surprised.” She’d never taken the justice for a gamer.

  He tapped his computer screen. “Chessdynamo.com.”

  “Oh.” Unsure of what to say, she looked at the screen. “I’ll check it out.”

  “You should.” A finger tapped his chin thoughtfully. “And what of loyalty?”

  Confused by the shifting conversation, Avery tightened her fingers on the folder in her hands. “What do you mean?”

  “Loyalty, Ms. Keene. How does that factor into your decision-making?”

  “I keep my promises and repay my debts. Is that what you’re asking?”

  “In part.” He reclined and steepled his fingers in contemplation. “Do you stand by those you promise loyalty to, even when what they ask seems absu
rd or even perilous?”

  Avery met his eyes with a level gaze. “I choose my friends carefully, Your Honor. Friendship carries obligations; and, as I said, I keep my promises and repay my debts.”

  Justice Wynn continued to watch her, his expression inscrutable. She refused to fidget. Instead, she stood there, her arms hanging loosely at her sides. A few moments later, he asked, “What about me, Ms. Keene? Where do I fall in this hierarchy of loyalty?”

  “Your Honor?”

  “A simple question. Are you loyal to me?”

  “I’m loyal to this Court,” she began cautiously. “I swore to uphold the law and support the Constitution. As your clerk, it is my obligation to do everything in my power to achieve that and to assist you in doing so.”

  A bushy white eyebrow rose. “Ah, then it is the job that holds your respect. Not me.”

  “I didn’t say that, sir. You asked about my loyalty. I work for you, so I will do my best to support you and the decisions you make, as long as they are constitutional and legal.”

  “And if what I assert as legal is not squarely within the four walls of the Constitution? What then?”

  “Then we look for a way to make it fit, if we can,” she replied. “If not, though, I won’t break the law for you or anyone, Justice Wynn. I respect and admire you, but the law comes first. Always.”

  “Carry knives, notwithstanding.” Justice Wynn grunted and lifted the folder again. He replaced it and picked up a blue folder with a yellow tab and uncapped the pen. “You do not, however, pay careful attention to all your paperwork. Personnel sent up a form that requires your signature.”

  Chagrined, Avery approached the desk and accepted the proffered pen. She opened the folder and saw the signature block. She reached for the next page, asking, “What did I forget to sign?”

  “I’m not your administrative assistant, Ms. Keene. Sign the papers, and please return to the tasks for which I am certain you are overcompensated.”

  The curmudgeon’s back, she thought, as she ignored the other pages. She scrawled her name across the dark line and added the date in a hurried rush. Share time and Justice Wynn’s version of the Inquisition obviously ended, she returned the pen and quickly left the office.

  * * *

  —

  As she stared down at the papers now, a chill shivered through her. The guardianship papers were signed by Justice Wynn the following Monday and witnessed by a Noah Fox. None of them had her signature. Had she really signed personnel papers that day? Avery lifted the phone and dialed the person who might know.

  “Clerk’s Office, Lisa Borders speaking.”

  “Hi, this is Avery Keene.”

  The voice softened. “Yes, Ms. Keene. How can I help you?”

  Avery heard the unasked query about Justice Wynn but ignored the request. Lisa would get her information like everyone else—from the news. “In January, Justice Wynn had me sign some personnel papers. I was wondering if I could get a copy from you.”

  “Personnel documents? Hold on a second for me.” The line went silent, and Avery scanned her emails. A couple of minutes elapsed before Lisa returned to the phone. “I’m sorry, Ms. Keene, but you haven’t signed any new documents since you were hired, except for your updated W-4. Did you need to see that?”

  Surprise clashed with foreboding, but Avery managed to respond, “No, thank you. I must have been mistaken.”

  “Well, let me know if you need anything else.”

  The line disconnected, and Avery returned the phone to its cradle. If she hadn’t signed a personnel document, what had she signed?

  EIGHT

  “How the hell did we miss this?!” The smash of the ceramic cup against a priceless urn from a now-deposed head of state punctuated the question. As the pieces scattered on the plush carpet, the Oval Office returned to silence. “You were supposed to be watching the Court, Will! Homeland Security, my ass. Why give you a cushy job over there with military-grade clearance if you’re going to disappoint me?”

  President Brandon Stokes glared across the room, fuming. The daily sweeps and high-tech antisurveillance technology provided by his liaison from the Science and Technology Directorate guaranteed he wouldn’t be overheard. Post-Watergate and the LBJ tapes, no president ran the risk of eavesdropping. The Oval Office was one of the most secure rooms on the planet.

  Will Vance watched his old friend in silence, knowing the hot temper would soon cool. A crystal ashtray was swept off the desk and a volley of pens sailed through the air, and then the president dropped into his chair and folded his hands beneath his chin. “Pick those up for me, will you? We have a photo op in here in an hour. Brownies or Webelos or street urchins. Who the hell remembers?”

  The urn had broken in clean pieces, which Vance dutifully recovered. As he dropped them into the wastebasket, he explained, “The chief justice kept the letter to herself. Swears she didn’t know what was inside. I find it hard to believe that he gave her no hint of what the contents were.”

  “Justice Wynn is a crafty bastard,” President Stokes acknowledged. “That performance at the graduation was a warning. But if he’d known exactly what happened, that son of a bitch would have shouted it from the steps of the Court. No, this anointing of the girl is all about self-preservation. Mortality is a strong motivator, and there’s nothing like a young woman to keep the depression at bay.”

  “I don’t believe this was an office romance. He had something worth sending coded messages for.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Surveillance picked up a call from Wynn’s house. The message said, ‘Look to the East and to the river’ for starters.”

  The president’s eyes narrowed. “He couldn’t know.”

  “We cannot dismiss the possibility. A vague clue about a river in the Middle East isn’t much to go on.” Vance scooped up the scattered pens and dropped them into the holder on the desk. “As for how we missed this, our surveillance was only a few weeks old. My team tracked his inquiry to the High Court judge in India, but we couldn’t find any other communications. Just the reference to the Tigris Project, which even the Indians believe is just urban legend.” Laying the ashtray on the corner of the wide mahogany surface, he asked, “Do you know anyone named Lask Bauer?”

  The president’s head jerked up. “Who?”

  “Lask Bauer. Maybe one name or two surnames. That was also in the message we picked up. I haven’t had a chance to run the IDs through NCTC yet.”

  “Are you certain that’s what he said?”

  “Yes.”

  President Stokes leaned forward, slowly shaking his head. Then he gave a brief laugh. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Do you know them? Lask or Bauer?”

  “I never had the pleasure,” President Stokes said. “Justice Wynn didn’t either. He’s referring to a chess strategy known as the Lasker-Bauer sacrifice. In 1889, Emanuel Lasker defeated Johann Bauer at a tournament in Amsterdam. Lasker used his bishops on the board to lure Bauer into taking them. But in the process, Bauer left his queen vulnerable, and Lasker used that failure to win the match. Damn, that crafty bastard is still playing a game, even in a coma.”

  “I am not a chess player, Mr. President.”

  “I keep forgetting. Seems right up your alley.” The president turned to stare at his own chessboard that sat atop a credenza. The pieces had been hand-carved by an artisan in Nepal. “The bishops are interesting pieces. They stand next to the king and queen—the third most important pieces on the board. One might call them the guardians.”

  “So Avery Keene is one of the bishops.” Vance folded his hands behind himself.

  The president nodded. “Wynn is using her as bait to force us to make a careless move.

  “If he’s being literal, we need to identify the second bishop in play.” He lifted the two pieces and set them sid
e by side. “Whoever it is led Wynn to India. The project was so secure, not even their government knew about it until we had to shut it down.”

  “Tigris was buried until Srinivasan tried to take GenWorks. It might be her,” Vance said.

  President Stokes shook his head. “Nigel Cooper is more likely. He’s already convinced Wall Street that I’m the second coming of Herbert Hoover. I let this merger happen, and Cooper becomes a billionaire, while I get marched off to prison.” The president recognized the greedy reach that propelled the man, an avarice that should have been useful to him. But the ultraliberal entrepreneur despised him, and he hated Cooper right back. “We find out who tipped off Wynn, we find the second bishop.”

  “I’ve pored over the intel. Justice Wynn served on an international commission on the rule of law with Arun Mohan, the High Court chief justice for Karnataka. Mohan’s wife sits on an NGO board tasked with securing foreign aid for medical research. Apparently, at a dinner party, Mrs. Mohan chattered to her husband and his American colleague about a biogenetics company called Hygeia that has collapsed. Banal dinner conversation, except that Justice Wynn had already begun his research into possible cures for Boursin’s.”

  “When?”

  “The encounter was right before the start of term last October. By then, Advar had dismantled and absorbed Hygeia. The Tigris Project and the tech were buried, but Mohan gave Justice Wynn a place to start.”

  “And he thought he had sufficient reason to keep digging.” President Stokes pushed away from the desk and circled around to the shelves lined with tchotchkes collected over nearly two centuries by his predecessors. “A dinner conversation leads him to Tigris.”

  “A dinner conversation and the research capacity of the U.S. Supreme Court, sir,” Vance corrected. “Knowing about Hygeia did not lead him to Tigris. Someone else did. However, we’re tying off the ends, Mr. President, and this will be one of them.”

  “Faster, Will. I’m too close. Do you remember what happened in Darra Adam Khel?”