“You don’t need to ask me about Pakistan.”
Vance’s reaction was almost undetectable, but Stokes had known him too long not to see. Vance revealed too little to allow any expression to go unnoticed. Satisfied, the president said, “I have not gone a day without remembering. Not in more than a decade. We’ve masterminded a solution for the greatest threat facing America in the twenty-first century.”
He clenched a miniaturized ceremonial mace from the Philippines and turned to Vance. “Nigel Cooper and those West Coast snobs mock me for believing in God. For believing in freedom and patriotism. We will not be brought down by him or a comatose judicial tyrant.”
“No, sir,” Vance replied.
That night in Pakistan, though years past, had bonded Vance with the man who’d become president and given him his life’s mission. Tigris was more than a stealth military project. It was a revolution, one he’d help birth. “Our contact assures me that their end is taken care of, and you’ve stopped the merger between Advar and GenWorks. Justice Wynn is lying in a coma instead of leading the efforts on a faulty judicial opinion. All the intelligence we’ve gathered says the Court is otherwise split. Wynn is the swing vote, and for all practical purposes, he is dead to the world.”
Not placated, Stokes countered: “Bullshit. Being in a coma does not take him off the Court. And now some girl with a law degree is in charge.”
“Sir, we have no reason to believe the Court won’t deadlock with Justice Wynn incapacitated and near death. Justice Wynn can’t sign a majority opinion from a coma, nor can he empower his clerk to vote for him. I have already asked White House counsel to provide a detailed memo on the options. As you’ve rightly pointed out, he stays on the Court until he resigns or dies. A guardian may be able to proffer his resignation, but this situation is unprecedented, Mr. President.”
The president stopped beside a low blue brocade sofa with an end table. He opened a ceramic bowl, a gift from the Ghanaian prime minister, and popped a square of licorice into his mouth. The bitter tang matched his mood. He stopped in front of his old friend and consigliere. “Wynn put the law clerk in play as the first bishop. We need to figure out who the second bishop is. Wynn anticipated that we’d try to stop him, and he has set up a separate path to victory. They may not even know they both exist.”
“We’ll figure it out, sir.”
The president said nothing. He counted Vance as one of his few friends, a term he used very carefully these days. Stokes had been surrounded by fair-weather allies during his first year in office as President Warren Cadres’s young and vigorous vice president. They’d heralded Stokes as a military hero turned political rock star. A Purple Heart and Bronze Star had boosted his campaign for the U.S. Senate, which he’d launched after his last tour of duty. He raised record-breaking sums of money and trounced his opponents. Appointed to serve on the Armed Services Committee, he became the telegenic attack dog who destroyed a shaky Democratic president. They’d tapped him in committee hearings to disembowel the hapless Navy secretary whose wife had divested millions in stock in an insider trading scandal. Two years later, he got elected as President Cadres’s chief lieutenant at the age of forty-eight. In a landslide campaign, he’d been the toast of the Republican Party and the model for all politicians, of any political stripe, seemingly more popular than the president himself. Heir apparent to the throne.
And helpmate to a doddering old man too incompetent to be an effective president. As vice president, he had assumed the mantle of leadership, calling upon his years in military service to calm the nerves of a nation in the grips of buyer’s remorse. It had been he, not President Cadres, who had traveled to meet foreign dignitaries and address the United Nations. He was the one who had negotiated treaties and run the government. He who’d summoned his boot camp bunkmate Will Vance, who’d created a brilliant plan that would dwarf the Manhattan Project.
Two years into his term, President Cadres stumbled onto their work, a discovery solved by a precipitate heart attack that vaulted Vice President Brandon Stokes into the presidency; his reputation soared. He’d been expected to cruise to reelection, but that was before a plummeting stock market, an ill-fated rescue mission into Antananarivo, and a private conversation caught by a hot mike.
Worse, on the eve of his resurgence, the nation of India—his unwitting partner in their great act of patriotism—decided to grow a backbone and deny his signature trade deal. The timing couldn’t have been worse.
The very next week, he’d had to sign an order stopping a merger that would destroy him. The financials on GenWorks would show clandestine U.S. funding for a covert military project. American tolerance for such behavior had eroded during Vietnam and ended altogether after Iran-Contra.
And that was without knowing what the Tigris Project could do.
So he’d issued the order, let Nigel Cooper’s investors yell bloody murder, and watched, stunned, as Silicon Valley took out hate ads across the country.
His once-glowing poll numbers now lingered inches above electoral death. All because he and Vance had tried to protect the nation they revered. “I don’t have to remind you how critical this operation is. What we’ve done is something those lightweights in Congress will never understand.”
“Tigris was imperative, Mr. President. We had no choice.”
“How will you deal with the law clerk?”
“She seems as baffled as anyone about Justice Wynn’s intentions. I have her under surveillance, and I will know what she knows.”
“Why not bring her in for questioning?”
“The chief justice has warned me that we have no grounds.” Anticipating the protest, he held up a hand. “Yet.”
“Can we check Justice Wynn’s computer now that he’s down?”
“The Court is a fortress. The justices will not accept Secret Service security, and they run on a network that is impenetrable from the outside. I have not found a vulnerability we can effectively exploit. Until I know more about the clerk, we have to move cautiously.”
Lifting one of the ergonomic stress balls he kept on his desk, Stokes completed the thought: “Can’t we get a friendly judge to replace the clerk with Celeste Wynn? She’s still his wife.”
“Possibly. I’ve reviewed Keene’s NCTC file and am having one compiled on her mother and roommate. We’ll know why he chose her by this afternoon, and I’ll try to put this to rest.”
“See that you do.” Stokes motioned to Vance to join him at the French doors overlooking the lawn. “I appreciate your loyalty and your efficiency, Will.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“To maintain the peace, I cater to the Far Right and cavil to the farther Right and pretend to have patience with the weak-willed Left. I’ve denounced what I know to be true, all in the name of patriotism and bipartisanship.”
“You’ve made tough choices, sir.”
“I made the only choices I could, given the threats we face. Tigris could stop terrorism in its tracks.” He faced Vance. “We are patriots, Vance. Men committed to the common good. A common good that will have dire consequences if the Advar and GenWorks merger is allowed to proceed. The world won’t understand the knowledge we’ve gained. You know what’s been done—and what must be done.”
“I can handle Avery Keene. We’ll find a loophole.”
“I want a vacant seat by recess, Will.” The president looked through the glass again. “Did you know that Eisenhower put William Brennan on the Supreme Court through a recess appointment?”
Because they’d had this conversation a dozen times in the last three weeks, Vance did know, but he answered, “Sir?”
“Eisenhower waited until Congress scattered back to their homes and put Brennan right on the Court.” The president watched as armed men changed shifts beyond the Oval Office. They each had only one mission, one objective. Protect him, and by doing so, prot
ect the country. “With Justice Wynn off the bench, I can make history. History. And none of the damned Democrats on Capitol Hill will be able to stop me. Not with a split vote and an empty chair. Empty until I fill it. But the chair needs to be empty first. Make that happen, Will. Then this whole mess is behind us.”
“I understand, sir.”
NINE
What did Justice Wynn trick me into signing? Avery stared at the neat tower of files on her desk, contemplating the myriad possibilities. Realizing the answer was probably in his office, she quickly jumped up and peeked outside her door, but no one waited. Matt was likely in another justice’s chambers, trying to get hired on for next year. Justice Wynn’s overwrought secretaries had been sent home for the day, which left her free to look around.
Quietly, she unlocked Justice Wynn’s office, pushed the heavy door shut behind her, and turned the latch. Papers stood in careful stacks, and legal tomes lined the walls and tables. Although Justice Wynn was computer literate, he preferred the touch and utility of bound volumes to the efficient speed of Westlaw or Lexis. Avery methodically checked each of the files, hunting for one that she might have signed. Most of the documents were categorized by topic, including requests for certiorari, opinions to be read, and items that had caught his eye. None included a form with her handwriting.
Frustrated, Avery crossed to his desk and sat gingerly in the leather swivel chair, which had taken the shape of its owner. Unlike the tables, the desktop was clear except for a jar of pens, a stack of legal pads, and his computer. With one hand, she jabbed the power button on the computer. While it booted up, she reached for the closest pull. The drawer didn’t move.
“Come on,” she muttered as she yanked again, harder, to no avail.
“Of course he locked it.” Thinking of her own government desk, Avery reached into the center console where Post-it notes and other office debris collected. Beneath a slab of pink messages, she found a letter opener. Lifting the slim silver piece, she ran her thumb over the surface and pushed back to study the lock. Basic bolt style, she realized, as she inserted the tip and maneuvered the letter opener. The metal rod slid, and she yanked on the drawer, which opened beneath her tug.
Files lined in dark green folders had been tabbed by content. Most tabs corresponded to an appeal the Court had agreed to hear that term. In her first year as Justice Wynn’s clerk, it had been her responsibility to organize the files, from request for certiorari to amicus briefs and attendant research. Brewer had done the honors this year. When Matt had complained, Justice Wynn had dismissed the work as beneath the dignity of his secretaries.
Smiling slightly, Avery riffled through and read the names in a whisper: “Arnoste. Cavanaugh. DeLeCroix. Evans Wholesale. Frontage Street Development.” The files continued to the drawer below. She closed the top drawer and opened the bottom. “Fulton, et al. GenWorks.”
Her hand froze. The GenWorks folder, which should have held volumes, sat empty. Nothing inside except the tab that indicated its former contents. Eleven files with GenWorks on the hanging tab, all empty. She’d been assigned to GenWorks, an assignment she’d regretted when Justice Wynn had gone beyond his usual meticulous detail into obsessive data gathering. She had been required to write several memos analyzing case law and chasing down information about executive privilege and presidential overreach.
Hundreds of pages of work product, and none of it was in the desk. After the empty GenWorks folder, the next tab read Human Resources. Pulling the file out, she found two slim folders, one with Brewer, Matthew in neat type, the second with Keene, Avery. She glanced up at the door, then opened her file first. Inside, she found her application for the clerkship, law school transcripts, letters of recommendation, and a note scrawled on top in Justice Wynn’s handwriting. Adequate. She shuffled the pages again in search of the document she’d signed, to no avail. Whatever she’d agreed to, it wasn’t in his office.
Avery started to close the file, then decided to peek inside Matt’s compendium. She snorted when she saw that the note attached to his application read Bearable.
Stymied, Avery shoved the drawer closed and jerked open the third compartment, which sat on her right. International Coastal Alliance, a water wars case, began the files. A quick review showed the rest of the folders filled to capacity. All except the empty GenWorks drawer.
“Where’s all our research, Justice Wynn?” She began to search the office, methodically quartering the room, knowing it was futile. Unlike some lawyers, Justice Wynn despised clutter. No leftover documents or unread journal articles rested on tables beyond the unfiled information on active cases. As she thumbed through, she couldn’t find any of her work or Matt’s on the case. The office was nearly as empty as it had been when he’d inherited the space decades ago. Wherever the GenWorks file had gone, the answer was not there.
Her eyes returned to the computer, and Avery sat down again. The screen requested a password from her, the icon blinking helpfully. She typed the first name that came to mind: C-E-L-E-S-T-E. The response was invalid password. A second attempt used his title. J-U-S-T-I-C-E. Again, the computer rejected the command.
Slouching against the chair, she chewed on her bottom lip. Justice Wynn didn’t have a pet or hobby or anything she could think of. The most personal information she knew about him was his favorite sandwich, pastrami on rye with mustard, and his estrangement from his family. Indeed, the single personal item in the office was a framed photo of him and a young boy with a fishing rod, who she assumed to be his son.
Giving a wild guess, she leaned forward again and typed in J-A-R-E-D. When the computer warned that another try would result in a lockout, Avery froze. She stared at the photo again, recalling the article she’d once read about him. He was only a few years older than her. Avery typed his name once more and added his birth year.
The computer whirred to life. Elated, she waited for the system to load. As soon as it did, she made her way to his computer directory. “Where would you hide whatever you’re hiding, sir?”
Her search revealed nothing more than notes on all the Court’s current cases and opinions he’d agreed to write. As with the desk files, the folder that should have contained GenWorks information was empty. “You don’t want anyone to know what you think,” she whispered into the room. “So you clear out the files and erase them from your hard drive.”
Avery considered the implications. Justice Wynn was notoriously obstinate and rarely shared his thoughts with his colleagues outside conference, when a stated opinion was eventually mandatory. “Given the rumors, I’m the only other person who knows what you were thinking.” She gave a rueful laugh. “And I don’t know what you were thinking.”
The research in her office had focused exclusively on executive privilege and the legislative intent of the Exon-Florio Amendment. No mysterious assignments.
But, she thought suddenly, what about emails? She opened his Outlook and began to skim through the folders. He organized his messages by sender and subject. A folder marked Chief sat at the top of the food chain, followed by each of his fellow justices and then a folder labeled Clerks.
She clicked on the plus sign and found three folders. The first bore her name, the second Matt’s. But the third folder bore another name she recognized. Chessdynamo.
Avery clicked on the folder. The first message in the box was from Justice Wynn to himself. It was the subject line that caught her attention. Ani Is in the River.
Perplexed because Ani was neither a case name nor an employee, she opened the message, only to confront more confusion. Dumas Find Ani. WHTW5730.
Dumas. Wynn had told her that he was the only French writer with any sense of adventure. Like breaking into your boss’s office and into his computer files. Yet, except for a strange message and the code of numbers and letters, the email was empty. No direction or clear indication that this wasn’t a moment of confusion for an increasing
ly ill man.
She closed the email and scanned the contents of the folder. Several messages had been sent to different phone numbers, each ending with @comcel.co.in. These were SMS texts transmitted via email to India. Nearly twenty in all. Each message was short and on different days and times that spanned nearly a year. The message for each was the same: In the square.
Interspersed, Avery found additional items that were equally opaque, including a link to a YouTube video. She clicked on the link. The notoriously slow connection spun its warning circle as the browser searched for the video. Eventually, the site announced that the video was no longer available. Frowning, she printed the page and quickly scrolled through the remaining messages. More broken links and terse messages filled the folder. Realizing she might not be allowed to log on to his computer again, she scanned the messages once more, committing the contents to memory.
Frustrated, Avery shoved away from the desk and spun the chair toward the windows. Who was Ani and what did Dumas mean? Who or what was in the square? Avery reached for the drawer handle, wondering if perhaps she’d overlooked something, but her phone’s vibration caught her attention.
While she answered, she decided to print the folder contents, just in case. Her memory was excellent, but not infallible. “This is Avery Keene.”
“Ms. Keene, this is Dr. Michael Toca, Justice Wynn’s neurologist. I understand you are the woman in charge right now.”
Warily, she replied, “How can I help you?”
“I’ve got a bit of a situation on my hands, Ms. Keene. I need you to come to Bethesda Naval Hospital immediately.”
Avery asked quietly, “Has Justice Wynn’s condition changed?”
“No, Ms. Keene, but his condition isn’t the issue.” With a sigh, Dr. Toca explained, “His wife and son are. Please get down here as soon as possible before I have a new patient.”
“I’m in DC, but I’ll be there as quickly as possible.”
While Justice Sleeps Page 8
