But he made it, for life. In his six years, he had pleased no one. Hurt deeply by his confirmation hearings, he vowed to find compassion and rule with it. This had angered Republicans. They felt betrayed, especially when he discovered a latent passion for the rights of criminals. With scarce ideological strain, he quickly left the right, moved to the center, then to the left. Then, with legal scholars scratching their little goatees, Jensen would bolt back to the right and join Justice Sloan in one of his obnoxious antiwomen dissents. Jensen was not fond of women. He was neutral on prayer, skeptical of free speech, sympathetic to tax protestors, indifferent to Indians, afraid of blacks, tough on pornographers, soft on criminals, and fairly consistent in his protection of the environment. And, to the further dismay of the Republicans who shed blood to get him confirmed, Jensen had shown a troubling sympathy for the rights of homosexuals.
   At his request, a nasty case called Dumond had been assigned to him. Ronald Dumond had lived with his male lover for eight years. They were a happy couple, totally devoted to each other, and quite content to share life’s experiences. They wanted to marry, but Ohio laws prohibited such a union. Then the lover caught AIDS, and died a horrible death. Ronald knew exactly how to bury him, but then the lover’s family intervened and excluded Ronald from the funeral and burial. Distraught, Ronald sued the family, claiming emotional and psychological damage. The case had bounced around the lower courts for six years, and now had suddenly found itself sitting on Jensen’s desk.
   At issue was the rights of spouses of gays. Dumond had become a battle cry for gay activists. The mere mention of Dumond had caused street fights.
   And Jensen had the case. The door to his smaller office was closed. Jensen and his three clerks sat around the conference table. They had spent two hours on Dumond, and gone nowhere. They were tired of arguing. One clerk, a liberal from Cornell, wanted a broad pronouncement granting sweeping rights to gay partners. Jensen wanted this too, but was not ready to admit it. The other two clerks were skeptical. They knew, as did Jensen, that a majority of five would be impossible.
   Talk turned to other matters.
   “The Chief’s ticked off at you, Glenn,” said the clerk from Duke. They called him by his first name in chambers. “Justice” was such an awkward title.
   Glenn rubbed his eyes. “What else is new?”
   “One of his clerks wanted me to know that the Chief and the FBI are worried about your safety. Says you’re not cooperating, and the Chief’s rather disturbed. He wanted me to pass it along.” Everything was passed along through the clerks’ network. Everything.
   “He’s supposed to be worried. That’s his job.”
   “He wants to assign two more Fibbies as bodyguards, and they want access to your apartment. And the FBI wants to drive you to and from work. And they want to restrict your travel.”
   “I’ve already heard this.”
   “Yeah, we know. But the Chief’s clerk said the Chief wants us to prevail upon you to cooperate with the FBI so that they can save your life.”
   “I see.”
   “And so we’re just prevailing upon you.”
   “Thanks. Go back to the network and tell the Chief’s clerk that you not only prevailed upon me but you raised all sorts of hell with me and that I appreciated all of your prevailing and hell-raising, but it went in one ear and out the other. Tell them Glenn considers himself a big boy.”
   “Sure, Glenn. You’re not afraid, are you?”
   “Not in the least.”


   Homas Callahan was one of Tulane’s more popular professors, primarily because he refused to schedule classes before 11 A.M. He drank a lot, as did most of his students, and for him the first few hours of each morning were needed for sleep, then resuscitation. Nine and ten o’clock classes were abominations. He was also popular because he was wearing coolfaded jeans, tweed jackets with well-worn elbow patches, no socks, no ties. The liberal-chic-academic look. He was forty-five, but with dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses he could pass for thirty-five, not that he gave a damn how old he looked. He shaved once a week, when it started itching; and when the weather was cool, which was seldom in New Orleans, he would grow a beard. He had a history of closeness with female students.
   He was also popular because he taught constitutional law, a most unpopular course but a required one. Due to his sheer brilliance and coolness he actually made con law interesting. No one else at Tulane could do this. No one wanted to, really, so the students fought to sit in con law under Callahan at eleven, three mornings a week.
   Eighty of them sat behind six elevated rows and whispered as Callahan stood in front of his desk and cleaned his glasses. It was exactly five after eleven, still too early, he thought.
   “Who understands Rosenberg’s dissent in Nash v. New Jersey?” All heads lowered and the room was silent. Must be a bad hangover. His eyes were red. When he started with Rosenberg it usually meant a rough lecture. No one volunteered. Nash? Callahan looked slowly, methodically around the room, and waited. Dead silence.
   The doorknob clicked loudly and broke the tension. The door opened quickly and an attractive young female in tight washed jeans and a cotton sweater slid elegantly through it and sort of glided along the wall to the third row, where she deftly maneuvered between the crowded seats until she came to hers and sat down. The guys on the fourth row watched in admiration. The guys on the fifth row strained for a peek. For two brutal years now, one of the few pleasures of law school had been to watch as she graced the halls and rooms with her long legs and baggy sweaters. There was a fabulous body in there somewhere, they could tell. But she was not one to flaunt it. She was just one of the gang, and adhered to the law school dress code of jeans and flannel shirts and old sweaters and oversized khakis. What they wouldn’t give for a black leather miniskirt.
   She flashed a quick smile at the guy seated next to her, and for a second Callahan and his Nash question were forgotten. Her dark red hair fell just to the shoulders. She was that perfect little cheerleader with the perfect teeth and perfect hair that every boy fell in love with at least twice in high school. And maybe at least once in law school.
   Callahan was ignoring this entry. Had she been a first-year student, and afraid of him, he might have ripped into her and screamed a few times. “You’re never late for court!” was the old standby law professors had beaten to death.
   But Callahan was not in a screaming mood, and Darby Shaw was not afraid of him, and for a split second he wondered if anyone knew he was sleeping with her. Probably not. She had insisted on absolute secrecy.
   “Has anyone read Rosenberg’s dissent in Nash v. New Jersey?” Suddenly, he had the spotlight again, and there was dead silence. A raised hand could mean constant grilling for the next thirty minutes. No volunteers. The smokers on the back row fired up their cigarettes. Most of the eighty scribbled aimlessly on legal pads. All heads were bowed. It would be too obvious and risky to flip through the casebook and find Nash—too late for that. Any movement might attract attention. Someone was about to be nailed.
   Nash was not in the casebook. It was one of a dozen minor cases Callahan had hurriedly mentioned a week ago, and now he was anxious to see if anyone had read it. He was famous for this. His final exam covered twelve hundred cases, a thousand of which were not in the casebook. The exam was a nightmare, but he was really a sweetheart, a soft grader, and it was a rare dumbass who flunked the course.
   He did not appear to be a sweetheart at this moment. He looked around the room. Time for a victim. “How about it, Mr. Sallinger? Can you explain Rosenberg’s dissent?”
   Instantly from the fourth row, Sallinger said: “No, sir.”
   “I see. Might that be because you haven’t read Rosenberg’s dissent?”
   “It might. Yes, sir.”
   Callahan glared at him. The red eyes made the arrogant scowl all the more menacing. Only Sallinger saw it though—since everyone else was glued to their legal pads. “And why not?”
   “Because I try not to read dissents. Especially Rosenberg’s.”
   Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Sallinger had opted to fight back, but he had no ammo.
   “Something against Rosenberg, Mr. Sallinger?”
   Callahan revered Rosenberg. Worshiped him. Read books about the man and his opinions. Studied him. Even dined with him once.
   Sallinger fidgeted nervously. “Oh no, sir. I just don’t like dissents.”
   There was a bit of humor in Sallinger’s responses, but not a smile was cracked. Later, over a beer, he and his buddies would roar with laughter when it was told and retold about Sallinger and his distaste for dissents, especially Rosenberg’s. But not now.
   “I see. Do you read majority opinions?”
   Hesitation. Sallinger’s feeble attempt at sparring was about to cause humiliation. “Yes, sir. Lots of them.”
   “Great. Explain, then, if you will, the majority opinion in Nash v. New Jersey.”
   Sallinger had never heard of Nash, but he would now remember it for the rest of his legal career. “I don’t think I’ve read that one.”
   “So you don’t read dissents, Mr. Sallinger, and now we learn that you also neglect majorities. What do you read, Mr. Sallinger, romance novels, tabloids?”
   There was some extremely light laughter from behind the fourth row, and it came from students who felt obligated to laugh but at the same time did not wish to call attention to themselves.
   Sallinger, red-faced, just stared at Callahan.
   “Why haven’t you read the case, Mr. Sallinger?” Callahan demanded.
   “I don’t know. I, uh, just missed it, I guess.”
   Callahan took it well. “I’m not surprised. I mentioned it last week. Last Wednesday, to be exact. It’ll be on the final exam. I don’t understand why you would ignore a case that you’ll see on the final.” Callahan was pacing now, slowly, in front of his desk, staring at the students. “Did anyone bother to read it?”
   Silence. Callahan stared at the floor, and allowed the silence to sink in. All eyes were down, all pens and pencils frozen. Smoke billowed from the back row.
   Finally, slowly, from the fourth seat on the third row, Darby Shaw lifted her hand slightly, and the class breathed a collective sigh of relief. She had saved them again. It was sort of expected of her. Number two in their class and within striking distance of number one, she could recite the facts and holdings and concurrences and dissents and majority opinions to virtually every case Callahan could spit at them. She missed nothing. The perfect little cheerleader had graduated magna cum laude with a degree in biology, and planned to graduate magna cum laude with a degree in law, and then make a nice living suing chemical companies for trashing the environment.
   Callahan stared at her in mock frustration. She had left his apartment three hours earlier after a long night of wine and love. But he had not mentioned Nash to her.
   “Well, well, Ms. Shaw. Why is Rosenberg upset?”
   “He thinks the New Jersey statute violates the Second Amendment.” She did not look at the professor.
   “That’s good. And for the benefit of the rest of the class, what does the statute do?”
   “Outlaws semiautomatic machine guns, among other things.”
   “Wonderful. And just for fun, what did Mr. Nash possess at the time of his arrest?”
   “An AK-47 assault rifle.”
   “And what happened to him?”
   “He was convicted, sentenced to three years, and appealed.” She knew the details.
   “What was Mr. Nash’s occupation?”
   “The opinion wasn’t specific, but there was mention of an additional charge of drug trafficking. He had no criminal record at the time of his arrest.”
   “So he was a dope pusher with an AK-47. But he has a friend in Rosenberg, doesn’t he?”
   “Of course.” She was watching him now. The tension had eased. Most eyes followed him as he paced slowly, looking around the room, selecting another victim. More often than not, Darby dominated these lectures, and Callahan wanted a broader participation.
   “Why do you suppose Rosenberg is sympathetic?” he asked the class.
   “He loves dope pushers.” It was Sallinger, wounded but trying to rally. Callahan placed a premium on class discussion. He smiled at his prey, as if to welcome him back to the bloodletting.
   “You think so, Mr. Sallinger?”
   “Sure. Dope pushers, child fondlers, gunrunners, terrorists. Rosenberg greatly admires these people. They are his weak and abused children, so he must protect them.” Sallinger was trying to appear righteously indignant.
   “And, in your learned opinion, Mr. Sallinger, what should be done with these people?”
   “Simple. They should have a fair trial with a good lawyer, then a fair, speedy appeal, then punished if they are guilty.”
   Sallinger was perilously close to sounding like a law-and-order right-winger, a cardinal sin among Tulane law students.
   Callahan folded his arms. “Please continue.”
   Sallinger smelled a trap, but plowed ahead. There was nothing to lose. “I mean, we’ve read case after case where Rosenberg has tried to rewrite the Constitution to create a new loophole to exclude evidence to allow an obviously guilty defendant to go free. It’s almost sickening. He thinks all prisons are cruel and unusual places, so therefore, under the Eighth Amendment, all prisoners should go free. Thankfully, he’s in the minority now, a shrinking minority.”
   “You like the direction of the Court, do you, Mr. Sallinger?” Callahan was at once smiling and frowning.
   “Damned right I do.”
   “Are you one of those normal, red-blooded, patriotic, middle-of-the-road Americans who wish the old bastard would die in his sleep?”
   There were a few chuckles around the room. It was safer to laugh now. Sallinger knew better than to answer truthfully. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” he said, almost embarrassed.
   Callahan was pacing again. “Well, thank you, Mr. Sallinger. I always enjoy your comments. You have, as usual, provided us with the layman’s view of the law.”
   The laughter was much louder. Sallinger’s cheeks flushed and he sank in his seat.
   Callahan did not smile. “I would like to raise the intellectual level of this discussion, okay? Now, Ms. Shaw, why is Rosenberg sympathetic to Nash?”
   “The Second Amendment grants the people the right to keep and bear arms. To Justice Rosenberg, it is literal and absolute. Nothing should be banned. If Nash wants to possess an AK-47, or a hand grenade, or a bazooka, the state of New Jersey cannot pass a law prohibiting it.”
   “Do you agree with him?”
   “No, and I’m not alone. It’s an eight-to-one decision. No one followed him.”
   “What’s the rationale of the other eight?”
   “It’s obvious, really. The states have compelling reasons to prohibit the sale and possession of certain types of arms. The interests of the state of New Jersey outweigh the Second Amendment rights of Mr. Nash. Society cannot allow individuals to own sophisticated weaponry.”
   Callahan watched her carefully. Attractive female law students were rare at Tulane, but when he found one he moved in quickly. Over the past eight years, he had been quite successful. Easy work, for the most part. The women arrived at law school liberated and loose. Darby had been different. He first spotted her in the library during the second semester of her first year, and it took a month to get her to dinner.

  “Who wrote the majority opinion?” he asked her.
   “Runyan.”
   “And you agree with him?”
   “Yes. It’s an easy case, really.”
   “Then what happened to Rosenberg?”
   “I think he hates the rest of the Court.”
   “So he dissents just for the hell of it.”
   “Often, yes. His opinions are becoming more indefensible. Take Nash. For a liberal like Rosenberg, the issue of gun control is easy. He should have written the majority opinion, and ten years ago he would have. In Fordice v. Oregon, a 1977 case, he took a much narrower interpretation of the Second Amendment. His inconsistencies are almost embarrassing.”
   Callahan had forgotten Fordice. “Are you suggesting Justice Rosenberg is senile?”
   Much like a punch-drunk fighter, Sallinger waded in for the final round. “He’s crazy as hell, and you know it. You can’t defend his opinions.”
   “Not always, Mr. Sallinger, but at least he’s still there.”
   “His body’s there, but he’s brain-dead.”
   “He’s breathing, Mr. Sallinger.”
   “Yeah, breathing with a machine. They have to pump oxygen up his nose.”
   “But it counts, Mr. Sallinger. He’s the last of the great judicial activists, and he’s still breathing.”
   “You’d better call and check,” Sallinger said as his words trailed off. He’d said enough. No, he’d said too much. He lowered his head as the professor glared at him. He hunkered down next to his notebook, and started wondering why he’d said all that.
   Callahan stared him down, then began pacing again. It was indeed a bad hangover.


   At least he looked like an old farmer, with straw hat, clean bib overalls, neatly pressed khaki workshirt, boots. He chewed tobacco and spat in the black water beneath the pier. He chewed like a farmer. His pickup, though of recent model, was sufficiently weathered and had a dusty-road look about it. North Carolina plates. It was a hundred yards away, parked in the sand at the other end of the pier.
   It was midnight Monday, the first Monday in October, and for the next thirty minutes he was to wait in the dark coolness of the deserted pier, chewing pensively, resting on the railing while staring intently at the sea. He was alone, as he knew he would be. It was planned that way. This pier at this hour was always deserted. The headlights of an occasional car flickered along the shoreline, but the headlights never stopped at this hour.
   He watched the red and blue channel lights far from shore. He checked his watch without moving his head. The clouds were low and thick, and it would be difficult to see it until it was almost to the pier. It was planned this way.
   The pickup was not from North Carolina, and neither was the farmer. The license plates had been stolen from a wrecked truck at a scrap yard near Durham. The pickup had been stolen in Baton Rouge. The farmer was not from anywhere, and performed none of the thievery. He was a pro, and so someone else did the dirty little deeds.
   Twenty minutes into the wait, a dark object floated in the direction of the pier. A quiet, muffled engine hummed and grew louder. The object became a small craft of some sort with a camouflaged silhouette crouching low and working the motor. The farmer moved not an inch in anticipation. The humming stopped and the black rubber raft stalled in the calm water thirty feet from the pier. There were no headlights coming or going along the shore.
   The farmer carefully placed a cigarette between his lips, lit it, puffed twice, then thumped it down, halfway to the raft.
   “What kind of cigarette?” the man on the water asked upward. He could see the outline of the farmer on the railing, but not the face.
   “Lucky Strike,” the farmer answered. These passwords made for such a silly game. How many other black rubber rafts could be expected to drift in from the Atlantic and pinpoint this ancient pier at this precise hour? Silly, but so important.
   “Luke?” came the voice from the boat.
   “Sam,” replied the farmer. The name was Khamel, not Sam, but Sam would do for the next five minutes until Khamel parked his raft.
   Khamel did not answer, was not required to, but quickly started the engine and guided the raft along the edge of the pier to the beach. Luke followed from above. They met at the pickup without a handshake. Khamel placed his black Adidas gym bag between them on the seat, and the truck started along the shoreline.
   Luke drove and Khamel smoked, and both did a perfect job of ignoring each other. Their eyes did not dare meet. With Khamel’s heavy beard, dark glasses, and black turtleneck, his face was ominous but impossible to identify. Luke did not want to see it. Part of his assignment, in addition to receiving this stranger from the sea, was to refrain from looking at him. It was easy, really. The face was wanted in nine countries.
   Across the bridge at Manteo, Luke lit another Lucky Strike and determined they had met before. It had been a brief but precisely timed meeting at the airport in Rome, five or six years earlier, as best he could remember. There had been no introductions. It took place in a restroom. Luke, then an impeccably tailored American executive, had placed an eelskin attache case next to the wall next to the washbasin where he slowly rinsed his hands, and suddenly it was gone. He caught a glimpse of the manthis Khamel, he was now certain in the mirror. Thirty minutes later, the attache case exploded between the legs of the British ambassador to Nigeria.
   In the guarded whispers of his invisible brotherhood, Luke had often heard of Khamel, a man of many names and faces and languages, an assassin who struck quickly and left no trail, a fastidious killer who roamed the world but could never be found. As they rode north in the darkness, Luke settled low in his seat, the brim of his hat almost on his nose, limp wrist across the wheel, trying to remember the stories he’d heard about his passenger. Amazing feats of terror. There was the British ambassador. The ambush of seventeen Israeli soldiers on the West Bank in 1990 had been credited to Khamel. He was the only suspect in the 1985 car-bomb murders of a wealthy German banker and his family. His fee for that one was rumored to have been three million, cash. Most intelligence experts believed he was the mastermind of the 1981 attempt to kill the Pope. But then, Khamel was blamed for almost every unsolved terrorist attack and assassination. He was easy to blame because no one was certain he existed.
   This excited Luke. Khamel was about to perform on American soil. The targets were unknown to Luke, but important blood was about to be shed.


   At dawn, the stolen farm truck stopped at the corner of Thirty-first and M streets in Georgetown. Khamel grabbed his gym bag, said nothing, and hit the sidewalk. He walked east a few blocks to the Four Seasons Hotel, bought a Post in the lobby, and casually rode the elevator to the seventh floor. At precisely seven-fifteen, he knocked on a door at the end of the hall. “Yes?” a nervous voice asked from inside.
   “Looking for Mr. Sneller,” Khamel said slowly in a perfect generic American tongue as he stuck his thumb over the peephole.
   “Mr. Sneller?”
   “Yes. Edwin F. Sneller.”
   The knob did not turn or click, and the door did not open. A few seconds passed, and a white envelope eased from under the door. Khamel picked it up. “Okay,” he said loud enough for Sneller or whoever he was to hear.
   “It’s next door,” Sneller said. “I’ll await your call.” He sounded like an American. Unlike Luke, he’d never seen Khamel, and had no desire to, really. Luke had seen him twice now, and was indeed lucky to be alive.
   Khamel’s room had two beds and a small table near the window. The shades were drawn tightly—no chance of sunlight. He placed his gym bag on one bed, next to two thick briefcases. He walked to the window and peeked out, then to the phone.
   “It’s me,” he said to Sneller. “Tell me about the car.”
   “It’s parked on the street. Plain white Ford with Connecticut plates. The keys are on the table.” Sneller spoke slowly.
   “Stolen?”
   “Of course, but sanitized. It’s clean.”
   “I’ll leave it at Dulles shortly after midnight. I want it destroyed, okay?” The English was perfect.
   “Those are my instructions. Yes.” Sneller was proper and efficient.
   “It’s very important, okay? I intend to leave the gun in the car. Guns leave bullets and people see cars, so it’s important to completely destroy the car and everything in it. Understand?”
   “Those are my instructions,” Sneller repeated. He did not appreciate this lecture. He was no novice at the killing game.
   Khamel sat on the edge of the bed. “The four million was received a week ago, a day late I should add. I’m now in D.C., so I want the next three.”
   “It will be wired before noon. That was the agreement.”
   “Yes, but I’m worried about the agreement. You were a day late, remember?”
   This irritated Sneller, and since the killer was in the next room and not about to come out, he could sound a bit irritated. “The bank’s fault, not ours.”
   This irritated Khamel. “Fine. I want you and your bank to wire the next three million to the account in Zurich as soon as New York opens. That will be about two hours from now. I’ll be checking.”
   “Okay.”
   “Okay, and I want no problem when the job is finished. I’ll be in Paris in twenty-four hours, and from there I’ll go straight to Zurich. I want all the money waiting for me when I arrive.”
   “It will be there, if the job is finished.”
   Khamel smiled to himself. “The job will be finished, Mr. Sneller, by midnight. That is, if your information is correct.”
   “As of now it is correct. And no changes are expected today. Our people are in the streets. Everything is in the two briefcases—maps, diagrams, schedules, the tools and articles you requested.”
   Khamel glanced at the briefcases behind him. He rubbed his eyes with his right hand. “I need a nap,” he mumbled into the phone. “I haven’t slept in twenty hours.”
   Sneller could think of no response. There was plenty of time, and if Khamel wanted a nap, then Khamel could have a nap. They were paying him ten million.
   “Would you like something to eat?” Sneller asked awkwardly.
   “No. Call me in three hours, at precisely ten-thirty.” He placed the receiver on the phone, and stretched across the bed.


   The streets were clear and quiet for day two of the fall term. The justices spent their day on the bench listening to lawyer after lawyer argue complex and quite dull cases. Rosenberg slept through most of it. He came to life briefly when the attorney general from Texas argued that a certain death row inmate should be given medication to make him lucid before being lethally injected. If he’s mentally ill, how can he be executed? Rosenberg asked incredulously. Easy, said the AG from Texas, his illness can be controlled with medication. So just give him a little shot to make him sane, then give him another shot to kill him. It could all be very nice and constitutional. Rosenberg harangued and bitched for a brief spell, then lost steam. His little wheelchair sat much lower than the massive leather thrones of his brethren. He looked rather pitiful. In years past he was a tiger, a ruthless intimidator who tied even the slickest lawyers in knots. But no more. He began to mumble, and then faded away. The AG sneered at him, and continued.
   During the last oral argument of the day, a lifeless desegregation case from Virginia, Rosenberg began snoring. Chief Runyan glared down the bench, and Jason Kline, Rosenberg’s senior clerk, took the hint. He slowly pulled the wheelchair backward, away from the bench, and out of the courtroom. He pushed it quickly through the back hallway.
   The Justice regained consciousness in his office, took his pills, and informed his clerks he wanted to go home. Kline notified the FBI, and moments later Rosenberg was wheeled into the rear of his van, parked in the basement. Two FBI agents watched. A male nurse, Frederic, strapped the wheelchair in place, and Sergeant Ferguson of the Supreme Court police slid behind the wheel of the van. The Justice allowed no FBI agents near him. They could follow in their car, and they could watch his townhouse from the street, and they were lucky to get that close. He didn’t trust cops, and he damned sure didn’t trust FBI agents. He didn’t need protection.
   On Volta Street in Georgetown, the van slowed and backed into a short driveway. Frederic the nurse and Ferguson the cop gently rolled him inside. The agents watched from the street in their black government-issue Dodge Aries. The lawn in front of the townhome was tiny and their car was a few feet from the front door. It was almost 4 P.M.
   After a few minutes, Ferguson made his mandatory exit and spoke to the agents. After much debate, Rosenberg had acquiesced a week earlier and allowed Ferguson to quietly inspect each room upstairs and down upon his arrival in the afternoons. Then Ferguson had to leave, but could return at exactly 10 P.M. and sit outside the rear door until exactly 6 A.M. No one but Ferguson could do it, and he was tired of the overtime.
   “Everything’s fine,” he said to the agents. “I guess I’ll be back at ten.”
   “Is he still alive?” one of the agents asked. Standard question.
   “Afraid so.” Ferguson looked tired as he walked to the van.
   Frederic was chubby and weak, but strength was not needed to handle his patient. After arranging the pillows just so, he lifted him from the wheelchair and placed him carefully on the sofa, where he would remain motionless for the next two hours while dozing and watching CNN. Frederic fixed himself a ham sandwich and a plate of cookies, and scanned a National Enquirer at the kitchen table. Rosenberg mumbled something loudly and changed channels with the remote control.
   At precisely seven, his dinner of chicken bouillon, boiled potatoes, and stewed onions stroke food was placed neatly on the table, and Frederic rolled him up to it. He insisted on feeding himself, and it was not pretty. Frederic watched television. He would clean up the mess later.
   By nine, he was bathed, dressed in a gown, and tucked tightly under the covers. The bed was a narrow, reclining, pale green army-hospital job with a hard mattress, push-button controls, and collapsible rails that Rosenberg insisted remain down. It was in a room behind the kitchen that he had used as a small study for thirty years, before the first stroke. The room was now clinical, and smelled of antiseptic and looming death. Next to his bed was a large table with a hospital lamp and at least twenty bottles of pills. Thick, heavy law books were stacked in neat piles around the room. Next to the table, the nurse sat close by in a worn recliner, and began reading from a brief. He would read until he heard snoring—the nightly ritual. He read slowly, yelling the words at Rosenberg, who was stiff, motionless, but listening. The brief was from a case in which he would write the majority opinion. He absorbed every word, for a while.
   After an hour of reading and yelling, Frederic was tired and the Justice was drifting away. He raised his hand slightly, then closed his eyes. With a button on the bed, he lowered the lights. The room was almost dark. Frederic jerked backward, and the recliner unfolded. He laid the brief on the floor, and closed his eyes. Rosenberg was snoring.
   He would not snore for long.

   Shortly after ten, with the house dark and quiet, the door to a bedroom closet upstairs opened slightly, and Khamel eased out. His wristbands, nylon cap, and running shorts were royal blue. His long-sleeved shirt, socks, and Reeboks were white with royal trim. Perfect color coordination. Khamel the jogger. He was clean shaven, and under the cap his very short hair was now blond, almost white.
   The bedroom was dark, as was the hall. The stairs creaked slightly under the Reeboks. He was five-ten, and weighed less than a hundred and fifty pounds, with no fat. He kept himself taut and light so the movements would be quick and soundless. The stairs landed in a foyer not far from the front door. He knew there were two agents in a car by the curb, probably not watching the house. He knew Ferguson had arrived seven minutes ago. He could hear the snoring from the back room. While waiting in the closet, he had thought of striking earlier, before Ferguson arrived so he wouldn’t have to kill him. The killing was no problem, but it created another body to worry about. But he guessed, wrongly, that Ferguson probably checked in with the male nurse when he came on duty. If so, then Ferguson would find the carnage and Khamel would lose a few hours. So he waited until now.
   He slid through the foyer without a sound. In the kitchen, a small light from the Ventahood illuminated the countertop and made things a bit more dangerous. Khamel cursed himself for not checking the bulb and unscrewing it. Those small mistakes were inexcusable. He dipped under a window looking into the backyard. He could not see Ferguson, although he knew he was seventy-four inches tall, sixty-one years old, had cataracts, and couldn’t hit a barn with his .357 magnum.
   Both of them were snoring. Khamel smiled to himself as he crouched in the doorway and quickly pulled the .22 automatic and silencer from the Ace bandage wrapped around his waist. He screwed the four-inch tube onto the barrel, and ducked into the room. The nurse was sprawled deep in the recliner, feet in the air, hands dangling, mouth open. Khamel placed the tip of the silencer an inch from his right temple and fired three times. The hands flinched and the feet jerked, but the eyes remained closed. Khamel quickly reached across to the wrinkled and pale head of Justice Abraham Rosenberg, and pumped three bullets into it.
   The room had no windows. He watched the bodies and listened for a full minute. The nurse’s heels twitched a few times, then stopped. The bodies were still.
   He wanted to kill Ferguson inside. It was eleven minutes after ten, a good time for a neighbor to be out with the dog for one last time before bed. He crept through the darkness to the rear door and spotted the cop strolling benignly along the wooden fence twenty feet away. Instinctively, Khamel opened the back door, turned on the patio light, and said “Ferguson” loudly.
   He left the door open and hid in a dark corner next to the refrigerator. Ferguson obediently lumbered across the small patio and into the kitchen. This was not unusual. Frederic often called him in after His Honor was asleep. They would drink instant coffee and play gin rummy.
   There was no coffee, and Frederic was not waiting. Khamel fired three bullets into the back of his head, and he fell loudly on the kitchen table.
   He turned out the patio light and unscrewed the silencer. He would not need it again. It and the pistol were stuffed into the Ace bandage. Khamel peeked out the front window. The dome light was on and the agents were reading. He stepped over Ferguson, locked the back door, and disappeared into the darkness of the small rear lawn. He jumped two fences without a sound, and found the street. He began trotting. Khamel the jogger.


   In the dark balcony of the Montrose Theatre, Glenn Jensen sat by himself and watched the naked and quite active men on the screen below. He ate popcorn from a large box and noticed nothing but the bodies. He was dressed conservatively enough—navy cardigan, chinos, loafers. And wide sunglasses to hide his eyes and a suede fedora to cover his head. He was blessed with a face that was easily forgotten, and once camouflaged it could never be recognized. Especially in a deserted balcony of a near-empty gay porno house at midnight. No ear-rings, bandannas, gold chains, jewelry, nothing to indicate he was in the market for a companion. He wanted to be ignored.
   It had become a challenge, really, this cat-and-mouse game with the FBI and the rest of the world. On this night, they had dutifully stationed themselves in the parking lot outside his building. Another pair parked by the exit near the veranda in the rear, and he allowed them all to sit for four and a half hours before he disguised himself and walked nonchalantly to the garage in the basement and drove away in a friend’s car. The building had too many points of egress for the poor Fibbies to monitor him. He was sympathetic to a point, but he had his life to live. If the Fibbies couldn’t find him, how could a killer?
   The balcony was divided into three small sections with six rows each. It was very dark, the only light being the heavy blue stream from the projector behind. Broken seats and folded tables were piled along the outside aisles. The velvet drapes along the walls were shredded and falling. It was a marvelous place to hide.
   He used to worry about getting caught. In the months after his confirmation, he was terrified. He couldn’t eat his popcorn, and damned sure couldn’t enjoy the movies. He told himself that if he was caught or recognized, or in some awful way exposed, he would simply claim he was doing research for an obscenity case pending. There was always one on the docket, and maybe somehow this might be believed. This excuse could work, he told himself repeatedly, and he grew bolder. But one night in 1990, a theater caught fire, and four people died. Their names were in the paper. Big story. Justice Glenn Jensen happened to be in the rest room when he heard the screams and smelled the smoke. He rushed into the street and disappeared. The dead were all found in the balcony. He knew one of them. He gave up movies for two months, but then started back. He needed more research, he told himself.
   And what if he got caught? The appointment was for life. The voters couldn’t call him home.
   He liked the Montrose because on Tuesdays the movies ran all night, but there was never a crowd. He liked the popcorn, and draft beer cost fifty cents.
   Two old men in the center section groped and fondled each other. Jensen glanced at them occasionally, but concentrated on the movie. Sad, he thought, to be seventy years old, staring at death and dodging AIDS, and banished to a dirty balcony to find happiness.
   A fourth person soon joined them on the balcony. He glanced at Jensen and the two men locked together, and he walked quietly with his draft beer and popcorn to the top row of the center section. The projector room was directly behind him. To his right and down three rows sat the Justice. In front of him, the gray and mature lovers kissed and whispered and giggled, oblivious to the world.
   He was dressed appropriately. Tight jeans, black silk shirt, earring, horn-rimmed shades, and the neatly trimmed hair and mustache of a regular gay. Khamel the homosexual.
   He waited a few minutes, then eased to his right and sat by the aisle. No one noticed. Who would care where he sat?
   At twelve-twenty, the old men lost steam. They stood, arm in arm, and tiptoed away, still whispering and snickering. Jensen did not look at them. He was engrossed in the movie, a massive orgy on a yacht in the middle of a hurricane. Khamel moved like a cat across the narrow aisle to a seat three rows behind the Justice. He sipped the beer. They were alone. He waited for one minute, and quickly moved down a row. Jensen was eight feet away.
   As the hurricane intensified, so did the orgy. The roar of the wind and the screams of the partyers deafened the small theater. Khamel set the beer and popcorn on the floor, and pulled a three-foot strand of yellow nylon ski rope from his waist. He quickly wrapped the ends around both hands, and stepped over the row of chairs in front of him. His prey was breathing heavy. The popcorn box was shaking.
   The attack was quick and brutal. Khamel looped the rope just under the larynx, and wrenched it violently. He yanked the rope downward, snapping the head over the back of the seat. The neck broke cleanly. He twisted the rope and tied it behind the neck. He slid a six-inch steel rod through a loop in the knot, and wound the tourniquet until the flesh tore and started to bleed. It was over in ten seconds.
   Suddenly the hurricane was over and another orgy began in celebration. Jensen slumped in his seat. His popcorn was scattered around his shoes. Khamel was not one to admire his handiwork. He left the balcony, walked casually through the racks of magazines and devices in the lobby, then disappeared onto the sidewalk.
   He drove the generic white Ford with Connecticut plates to Dulles, changed clothes in a rest room, and waited on his flight to Paris.


   The first lady was on the West Coast attending a series of five-thousand-dollars-a-plate breakfasts where the rich and pretentious gladly shucked out the money for cold eggs and cheap champagne, and the chance to be seen and maybe photographed with the Queen, as she was known. So the President was sleeping alone when the phone rang. In the great tradition of American Presidents, he had in years past thought of keeping a mistress. But now it seemed so non-Republican. Besides, he was old and tired. He often slept alone when the Queen was at the White House.
   He was a heavy sleeper. It rang twelve times before he heard it. He grabbed it and stared at the clock. Four-thirty A.M. He listened to the voice, jumped to his feet, and eight minutes later was in the Oval Office. No shower, no tie. He stared at Fletcher Coal, his chief of staff, and sat properly behind his desk.
   Coal was smiling. His perfect teeth and bald head were shining. Only thirty-seven, he was the boy wonder who four years earlier had rescued a failing campaign and placed his boss in the White House. He was a guileful manipulator and a nasty henchman who had cut and clawed his way through the inner circle until he was now second in command. Many viewed him as the real boss. The mere mention of his name terrified lowly staffers.
   “What happened?” the President asked slowly.
   Coal paced in front of the President’s desk. “Don’t know much. They’re both dead. Two FBI agents found Rosenberg around 1 A.M. Dead in bed. His nurse and a Supreme Court policeman were also murdered. All three shot in the head. A very clean job. While the FBI and D.C. police were investigating, they got a call that Jensen had been found dead in some queer club. They found him a couple of hours ago. Voyles called me at four, and I called you. He and Gminski should be here in a minute.”
   “Gminski?”
   “The CIA should be included, at least for now.”
   The President folded his hands behind his head and stretched. “Rosenberg is dead.”
   “Yes. Quite. I suggest you address the nation in a couple of hours. Mabry is working on a rough draft. I’ll finish it. Let’s wait until daylight, at least seven. If not, it’ll be too early and we’ll lose much of our audience.”
   “The press—”
   “Yes. It’s out. They filmed the ambulance crew rolling Jensen into the morgue.”
   “I didn’t know he was gay.”
   “Not much doubt about it now. This is the perfect crisis, Mr. President. Think of it. We didn’t create it. It’s not our fault. No one can blame us. And the nation will be shocked into some degree of solidarity. It’s rally around the leader time. It’s just great. No downside.”
   The President sipped a cup of coffee and stared at the papers on his desk. “And I’ll get to restructure the Court.”
   “That’s the best part. It’ll be your legacy. I’ve already called Duvall at Justice and instructed him to contact Horton and begin a preliminary list of nominees. Horton gave a speech in Omaha last night, but he’s flying in now. I suggest we meet with him later this morning.”
   The President nodded with his customary approval of Coal’s suggestions. He allowed Coal to sweat the details. He had never been a detail man himself. “Any suspects?”
   “Not yet. I don’t know, really. I told Voyles that you would expect a briefing when he arrived.”
   “I thought someone said the FBI was protecting the Supreme Court.”
   Coal smiled wider and chuckled. “Exactly. The egg is on Voyles’ face. It’s quite embarrassing, really.”
   “Great. I want Voyles to get his share of the blame. Take care of the press. I want him humiliated. Then maybe we can run his ass off.”
   Coal loved this thought. He stopped pacing and scribbled a note on his legal pad. A security guard knocked on the door, then opened it. Directors Voyles and Gminski entered together. The mood was suddenly somber as all four shook hands. The two sat before the President’s desk as Coal took his customary position standing near a window, to the side of the President. He hated Voyles and Gminski, and they hated him. Coal thrived on hatred. He had the President’s ear, and that was all that mattered. He would become quiet for a few minutes. It was important to allow the President to take charge when others were present.
   “I’m very sorry you’re here, but thanks for coming,” the President said. They nodded grimly and acknowledged this obvious lie. “What happened?”
   Voyles spoke quickly and to the point. He described the scene at Rosenberg’s home when the bodies were found. At 1 A.M. each night, Sergeant Ferguson routinely checked in with the agents sitting in the street. When he didn’t show, they investigated. The killings were very clean and professional. He described what he knew about Jensen. Broken neck. Strangulation. Found by another character in the balcony. No one saw anything, evidently. Voyles was not as gruff and blunt as usual. It was a dark day for the Bureau, and he could feel the heat coming. But he’d survived five Presidents, and he could certainly outmaneuver this idiot.
   “The two are obviously related,” the President said, staring at Voyles.
   “Maybe. Certainly looks that way, but—”
   “Come on, Director. In two hundred and twenty years, we’ve assassinated four Presidents, two or three candidates, a handful of civil rights leaders, couple of governors, but never a Supreme Court Justice. And now, in one night, within two hours, two are assassinated. And you’re not convinced they’re related?”
   “I didn’t say that. There must be a link somewhere. It’s just that the methods were so different. And so professional. You must remember, we’ve had thousands of threats against the Court.”
   “Fine. Then who are your suspects?”
   No one cross-examined F. Denton Voyles. He glared at the President. “It’s too early for suspects. We’re still gathering evidence.”
   “How’d the killer get into Rosenberg’s place?”
   “No one knows. We didn’t watch him go in, you understand? Evidently, he was there for some time, hiding in a closet or an attic, maybe. Again, we weren’t invited. Rosenberg refused to allow us into his home. Ferguson routinely inspected the place each afternoon when the Justice arrived from work. It’s still too early, but we’ve found no evidence of the murderer. None, except three bodies. We’ll have ballistics and autopsies by late this afternoon.”
   “I want to see them here as soon as you have them.”
   “Yes, Mr. President.”
   “I also want a short list of suspects by 5 P.M. today. Is that clear?”
   “Certainly, Mr. President.”
   “And I would like a report on your security and where it broke down.”
   “You’re assuming it broke down.”
   “We have two dead judges, both of whom were being protected by the FBI. I think the American people deserve to know what went wrong, Director. Yes, it broke down.”
   “Do I report to you, or the American people?”
   “You report to me.”
   “And then you call a press conference and report to the American people, right?”
   “Are you afraid of the scrutiny, Director?”
   “Not one bit. Rosenberg and Jensen are dead because they refused to cooperate with us. They were very much aware of the danger, yet they couldn’t be bothered. The other seven are cooperating, and they’re still alive.”
   “For the moment. We’d better check. They’re dropping like flies.” The President smiled at Coal, who snickered and almost sneered at Voyles. Coal decided it was time to speak. “Director, did you know Jensen was hanging around such places?”
   “He was a grown man with a lifetime appointment. If he chose to dance naked on tables we couldn’t stop him.”
   “Yes, sir,” Coal said politely. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
   Voyles breathed deeply and looked away. “Yes. We suspected he was a homosexual, and we knew he liked certain movie houses. We have neither the authority nor the desire, Mr. Coal, to divulge such information.”

  “I want those reports by this afternoon,” the President said. Voyles was watching a window, listening but not responding. The President looked at Robert Gminski, director of the CIA. “Bob, I want a straight answer.”
   Gminski tightened and frowned. “Yes, sir. What is it?”
   “I want to know if these killings are in any way linked to any agency, operation, group, whatever, of the United States Government.”
   “Come on! Are you serious, Mr. President? That’s absurd.” Gminski appeared to be shocked, but the President, Coal, even Voyles, knew anything was possible these days at the CIA.
   “Dead serious, Bob.”
   “I’m serious too. And I assure you we had nothing to do with it. I’m shocked you would even think it. Ridiculous!”
   “Check it out, Bob. I want to be damned certain. Rosenberg did not believe in national security. He made thousands of enemies in intelligence. Just check it out, okay?”
   “Okay, okay.”
   “And I want a report by five today.”
   “Sure. Okay. But it’s a waste of time.”
   Fletcher Coal moved to the desk next to the President. “I suggest we meet here at five this afternoon, gentlemen. Is that agreeable?”
   They both nodded and stood. Coal escorted them to the door without a word. He closed it.
   “You handled it real well,” he said to the President. “Voyles knows he’s vulnerable. I smell blood. We’ll go to work on him with the press.”
   “Rosenberg is dead,” the President repeated to himself. “I just can’t believe it.”
   “I’ve got an idea for television.” Coal was pacing again, very much in charge. “We need to cash in on the shock of it all. You need to appear tired, as if you were up all night handling the crisis. Right? The entire nation will be watching, waiting for you to give details and to reassure. I think you should wear something warm and comforting. A coat and tie at 7 A.M. may seem a bit rehearsed. Let’s relax a little.”
   The President was listening intently. “A bathrobe?”
   “Not quite. But how about a cardigan and slacks? No tie. White button-down. Sort of the grandfather image.”
   “You want me to address the nation in this hour of crisis in a sweater?”
   “Yes. I like it. A brown cardigan with a white shirt.”
   “I don’t know.”
   “The image is good. Look, Chief, the election is a year from next month. This is our first crisis in ninety days, and what a wonderful crisis it is. The people need to see you in something different, especially at seven in the morning. You need to look casual, down-home, but in control. It’ll be worth five, maybe ten points in the ratings. Trust me, Chief.”
   “I don’t like sweaters.”
   “Just trust me.”
   “I don’t know.”


   Darby Shaw awoke in the early darkness with a touch of a hangover. After fifteen months of law school, her mind refused to rest for more than six hours. She was often up before daybreak, and for this reason she did not sleep well with Callahan. The sex was great, but sleep was often a tug-of-war with pillows and sheets pulled back and forth.
   She watched the ceiling and listened to him snore occasionally in his Scotch-induced coma. The sheets were wrapped like ropes around his knees. She had no cover, but she was not cold. October in New Orleans is still muggy and warm. The heavy air rose from Dauphine Street below, across the small balcony outside the bedroom and through the open french doors. It brought with it the first stream of morning light. She stood in the doors and covered herself with his terry-cloth robe. The sun was rising, but Dauphine was dark. Daybreaks went unnoticed in the French Quarter. Her mouth was dry.
   Downstairs in the kitchen, Darby brewed a pot of thick French Market chicory. The blue numbers on the microwave said it was now ten minutes before six. For a light drinker, life with Callahan was a constant struggle. Her limit was three glasses of wine. She had neither a law license nor a job, and she could not afford to get drunk every night and sleep late. And she weighed a hundred and twelve pounds and was determined to keep it there. He had no limit.
   She drank three glasses of ice water, then poured a tall mug full of chicory. She flipped on lights as she climbed the stairs, and eased back into the bed. She flicked the remote controls, and suddenly, there was the President sitting behind his desk looking somehow rather odd in a brown cardigan with no tie. It was an NBC News special report.
   “Thomas!” She slapped him on his shoulder. No movement. “Thomas! Wake up!” She pressed a button and the volume roared. The President said good morning.
   “Thomas!” She leaned toward the television. Callahan kicked at the sheets and sat up, rubbing his eyes and trying to focus. She handed him the coffee.
   The President had tragic news. His eyes were tired and he looked sad, but the rich baritone exuded confidence. He had notes but didn’t use them. He looked deep into the camera, and explained to the American people the shocking events of last night.
   “What the hell,” Callahan mumbled. After announcing the deaths, the President launched into a flowery obituary for Abraham Rosenberg. A towering legend, he called him. It was a strain, but the President kept a straight face while lauding the distinguished career of one of the most hated men in America.
   Callahan gaped at the television. Darby stared at it. “That’s very touching,” she said. She was frozen on the end of the bed. He had been briefed by the FBI and CIA, he explained, and they were assuming the killings were related. He had ordered an immediate, thorough investigation, and those responsible would be brought to justice.
   Callahan sat upright and covered himself with the sheets. He blinked his eyes and combed his wild hair with his fingers. “Rosenberg? Murdered?” he mumbled, glaring at the screen. His foggy head had cleared immediately, and the pain was there but he couldn’t feel it.
   “Check out the sweater,” Darby said, sipping the coffee, staring at the orange face with heavy makeup and the brilliant silver hair plastered carefully in place. He was a wonderfully handsome man with a soothing voice—thus he had succeeded greatly in politics. The wrinkles in his forehead squeezed together, and he was even sadder now as he talked of his close friend Justice Glenn Jensen.
   “The Montrose Theatre, at midnight,” Callahan repeated.
   “Where is it?” she asked. Callahan had finished law school at Georgetown.
   “Not sure. But I think it’s in the gay section.”
   “Was he gay?”
   “I’ve heard rumors. Evidently.” They were both sitting on the end of the bed with the sheets over their legs. The President was ordering a week of national mourning. Flags at half-staff. Federal offices closed tomorrow. Funeral arrangements were incomplete. He rambled for a few more minutes, still deeply saddened, even shocked, very human, but nonetheless the President and clearly in charge. He signed off with his patented grandfather’s smile of complete trust and wisdom and reassurance.
   An NBC reporter on the White House lawn appeared and filled in the gaps. The police were mute, but there appeared to be no suspects at the moment, and no leads. Yes, both justices had been under the protection of the FBI, which had no comment. Yes, the Montrose was a place frequented by homosexuals. Yes, there had been many threats against both men, especially Rosenberg. And there could be many suspects before it was all over.
   Callahan turned off the set and walked to the french doors, where the early air was growing thicker. “No suspects,” he mumbled.
   “I can think of at least twenty,” Darby said.
   “Yeah, but why the combination? Rosenberg is easy, but why Jensen? Why not McDowell or Yount, both of whom are consistently more liberal than Jensen? It doesn’t make sense.” Callahan sat in a wicker chair by the doors and fluffed his hair.
   “I’ll get you some more coffee,” Darby said.
   “No, no. I’m awake.”
   “How’s your head?”
   “Fine, if I could’ve slept for three more hours. I think I’ll cancel class. I’m not in the mood.”
   “Great.”
   “Damn, I can’t believe this. That fool has two nominations. That means eight of the nine will be Republican choices.”
   “They have to be confirmed first.”
   “We won’t recognize the Constitution in ten years. This is sick.”
   “That’s why they were killed, Thomas. Someone or some group wants a different Court, one with an absolute conservative majority. The election is next year. Rosenberg is, or was, ninety-one. Manning is eighty-four. Yount is early eighties. They could die soon, or live ten more years. A Democrat may be elected President. Why take a chance? Kill them now, a year before the election. Makes perfect sense, if one was so inclined.”
   “But why Jensen?”
   “He was an embarrassment. And, obviously, he was an easier target.”
   “Yes, but he was basically a moderate with an occasional leftward impulse. And he was nominated by a Republican.”
   “You want a Bloody Mary?”
   “Good idea. In a minute. I’m trying to think.”
   Darby reclined on the bed, sipped the coffee, and watched the sunlight filter across the balcony. “Think of it, Thomas. The timing is beautiful. Reelection, nominations, politics, all that. But think of the violence and the radicals, the zealots, the pro-lifers and gay haters, the Aryans and Nazis, think of all the groups capable of killing, and all the threats against the Court, and the timing is perfect for an unknown, inconspicuous group to knock them off. It’s morbid, but the timing is great.”
   “And who is such a group?”
   “Who knows?”
   “The Underground Army?”
   “They’re not exactly inconspicuous. They killed Judge Fernandez in Texas.”
   “Don’t they use bombs?”
   “Yeah, experts with plastic explosives.”
   “Scratch them.”
   “I’m not scratching anybody right now.” Darby stood and retied the robe. “Come on. I’ll fix you a Bloody Mary.”
   “Only if you drink with me.”
   “Thomas, you’re a professor. You can cancel your classes if you want to. I am a student and…”
   “I understand the relationship.”
   “I cannot cut any more classes.”
   “I’ll flunk you in con law if you don’t cut classes and get drunk with me. I’ve got a book of Rosenberg opinions. Let’s read them, sip Bloody Marys, then wine, then whatever. I miss him already.”
   “I have Federal Procedure at nine, and I can’t miss it.”
   “I intend to call the dean and have all classes canceled. Then will you drink with me?”
   “No. Come on, Thomas.” He followed her down the stairs to the kitchen and the coffee and the liquor.


   Without removing the receiver from his shoulder, Fletcher Coal punched another button on the phone on the desk in the Oval Office. Three lines were blinking, holding. He paced slowly in front of the desk and listened while scanning a two-page report from Horton at Justice. He ignored the President, who was crouched in front of the windows, gripping his putter with gloved hands, staring fiercely first at the yellow ball, then slowly across the blue carpet to the brass putting cup ten feet away. Coal growled something into the receiver. His words were unheard by the President, who lightly tapped the ball and watched it roll precisely into the cup. The cup clicked, cleared itself, and the ball rolled three feet to the side. The President inched forward in his socks to the next ball, and breathed downward at it. It was an orange one. He tapped it just so, and it rolled straight into the cup. Eight in a row. Twenty-seven out of thirty.
   “That was Chief Runyan,” Coal said, slamming the receiver down. “He’s quite upset. He wanted to meet with you this afternoon.”
   “Tell him to take a number.”
   “I told him to be here at ten tomorrow morning. You have the Cabinet at ten-thirty, and National Security at eleven-thirty.”
   Without looking up, the President gripped the putter and studied the next ball. “I can’t wait. What about the polls?” He swung carefully and followed the ball.
   “I just talked to Nellson. He ran two, beginning at noon. The computer is digesting it now, but he thinks the approval rating will be somewhere around fifty-two or fifty-three.”
   The golfer looked up briefly and smiled, then returned to his game. “What was it last week?”
   “Forty-four. It was the cardigan without the tie. Just like I said.”
   “I thought it was forty-five,” he said as he tapped a yellow one and watched it roll perfectly into the cup.
   “You’re right. Forty-five.”
   “That’s the highest in—”
   “Eleven months. We haven’t been above fifty since Flight 402 in November of last year. This is a wonderful crisis, Chief. The people are shocked, yet many of them are happy Rosenberg is gone. And you’re the man in the middle. Just wonderful.” Coal punched a blinking button and picked up the receiver. He slammed it down without a word. He straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket.
   “It’s five-thirty, Chief. Voyles and Gminski are waiting.”
   He putted and watched the ball. It was an inch to the right, and he grimaced. “Let them wait. Let’s do a press conference at nine in the morning. I’ll take Voyles with me, but I’ll keep his mouth shut. Make him stand behind me. I’ll give some more details and answer a few questions. Networks’ll carry it live, don’t you think?”
   “Of course. Good idea. I’ll get it started.”
   He picked off his gloves and threw them in a corner. “Show them in.” He carefully leaned his putter against the wall and slid into his Bally loafers. As usual, he had changed clothes six times since breakfast, and now wore a glen plaid double-breasted suit with a red and navy polka-dot tie. Office attire. The jacket hung on a rack by the door. He sat at his desk and scowled at some papers. He nodded at Voyles and Gminski, but neither stood nor offered to shake hands. They sat across the desk, and Coal took his usual standing position like a sentry who couldn’t wait to fire. The President pinched the bridge of his nose as if the stress of the day had delivered a migraine.
   “It’s been a long day, Mr. President,” Bob Gminski said to break the ice. Voyles looked at the windows.
   Coal nodded, and the President said: “Yes, Bob. A very long day. And I have a bunch of Ethiopians invited for dinner tonight, so let’s be brief. Let’s start with you, Bob. Who killed them?”

   “I do not know, Mr. President. But I assure you we had nothing to do with it.”
   “Do you promise me, Bob?” He was almost prayerful.
   Gminski raised his right hand with the palm facing the desk. “I swear. On my mother’s grave, I swear.”
   Coal nodded smugly as if he believed him, and as if his approval meant everything.
   The President glared at Voyles, whose stocky figure filled the chair and was still draped with a bulky trench coat. The Director chewed his gum slowly and sneered at the President.
   “Ballistics? Autopsies?”
   “Got ‘em,” Voyles said as he opened his briefcase.
   “Just tell me. I’ll read it later.”
   “The gun was small-caliber, probably a .22. Point-blank range for Rosenberg and his nurse, powder burns indicate. Hard to tell for Ferguson, but the shots were fired from no farther than twelve inches away. We didn’t see the shooting, you understand? Three bullets into each head. They picked two out of Rosenberg—found another in his pillow. Looks like he and the nurse were asleep. Same type slugs, same gun, same gunman, evidently. Complete autopsy summaries are being prepared, but there were no surprises. Causes of deaths are quite obvious.”
   “Fingerprints?”
   “None. We’re still looking, but it was a very clean job. Appears as if he left nothing but the slugs and the bodies.”
   “How’d he get into the house?”
   “No apparent signs of entry. Ferguson searched the place when Rosenberg arrived around four. Routine procedure. He filed his written report two hours later, and it says he inspected two bedrooms, a bath, and three closets upstairs, and each room downstairs, and of course found nothing. Says he checked all windows and doors. Pursuant to Rosenberg’s instructions, our agents were outside, and they estimate Ferguson’s four o’clock inspection took from three to four minutes. I suspect the killer was waiting and hiding when the Justice returned and Ferguson walked through.”
   “Why?” Coal insisted.
   Voyles’ red eyes watched the President and ignored his hatchet man. “This man is obviously very talented. He killed a Supreme Court Justice maybe two and left virtually no trail. A professional assassin, I would guess. Entry would not be a problem for him. Eluding a cursory inspection by Ferguson would be no problem for him. He’s probably very patient. He wouldn’t risk an entry when the house was occupied and cops around. I think he entered sometime in the afternoon and simply waited, probably in a closet upstairs, or perhaps in the attic. We found two small pieces of attic insulation on the floor under the retractable stairs—suggests they had recently been used.”
   “Really doesn’t matter where he was hiding,” the President said. “He wasn’t discovered.”
   “That’s correct. We were not allowed to inspect the house, you understand?”
   “I understand he’s dead. What about Jensen?”
   “He’s dead too. Broken neck, strangled with a piece of yellow nylon rope that can be found in any hardware store. The medical examiners doubt the broken neck killed him. They’re reasonably confident the rope did. No fingerprints. No witnesses. This is not the sort of place where witnesses come rushing forward, so I don’t expect to find any. Time of death was around twelve-thirty this morning. The killings were two hours apart.”
   The President scribbled notes. “When did Jensen leave his apartment?”
   “Don’t know. We’re relegated to the parking lot, remember. We followed him home around 6 P.M., then watched the building for seven hours until we found out he’d been strangled in a queer joint. We were following his demands, of course. He sneaked out of the building in a friend’s car. Found it two blocks from the joint.”
   Coal took two steps forward with his hands clasped rigidly behind him. “Director, do you think one assassin did both jobs?”
   “Who in hell knows? The bodies are still warm. Give us a break. There’s precious little evidence right now. With no witnesses, no prints, no screwups, it’ll take time to piece this thing together. Could be the same man, I don’t know. It’s too early.”
   “Surely you have a gut feeling,” the President said.
   Voyles paused and glanced at the windows. “Could be the same guy, but he must be superman. Probably two or three, but regardless, they had to have a lot of help. Someone fed them a lot of information.”
   “Such as?”
   “Such as how often Jensen goes to the movies, where does he sit, what time does he get there, does he go by himself, does he meet a friend. Information we didn’t have, obviously. Take Rosenberg. Someone had to know his little house had no security system, that our boys were kept outside, that Ferguson arrived at ten and left at six and had to sit in the backyard, that—”
   “You knew all this,” the President interrupted.
   “Of course we did. But I assure you we didn’t share it with anyone.” The President shot a quick conspiratorial glance at Coal, who was scratching his chin, deep in thought.
   Voyles shifted his rather wide rear and gave Gminski a smile, as if to say, “Let’s play along with them.”
   “You’re suggesting a conspiracy,” Coal said intelligently with deep eyebrows.
   “I’m not suggesting a damned thing. I am proclaiming to you, Mr. Coal, and to you, Mr. President, that, yes, in fact, a large number of people conspired to kill them. There may be only one or two killers, but they had a lot of help. It was too quick and clean and well organized.”
   Coal seemed satisfied. He stood straight and again clasped his hands behind him.
   “Then who are the conspirators?” the President asked. “Who are your suspects?”
   Voyles breathed deeply and seemed to settle in his chair. He closed the briefcase and laid it at his feet. “We don’t have a prime suspect, at the moment, just a few good possibilities. And this must be kept very quiet.”
   Coal sprang a step closer. “Of course it’s confidential,” he snapped. “You’re in the Oval Office.”
   “And I’ve been here many times before. In fact, I was here when you were running around in dirty diapers, Mr. Coal. Things have a way of leaking out.”
   “I think you’ve had leaks yourself,” Coal said.
   The President raised his hand. “It’s confidential, Denton. You have my word.” Coal retreated a step.
   Voyles watched the President. “Court opened Monday, as you know, and the maniacs have been in town for a few days. For the past two weeks, we’ve been monitoring various movements. We know of at least eleven members of the Underground Army who’ve been in the D.C. area for a week. We questioned a couple today, and released them. We know the group has the capability, and the desire. It’s our strongest possibility, for now. Could change tomorrow.”
   Coal was not impressed. The Underground Army was on everyone’s list.
   “I’ve heard of them,” the President said stupidly.
   “Oh yes. They’re becoming quite popular. We believe they killed a trial judge in Texas. Can’t prove it, though. They’re very proficient with explosives. We suspect them in at least a hundred bombings of abortion clinics, ACLU offices, porno houses, gay clubs, all over the country. They’re just the people who would hate Rosenberg and Jensen.”
   “Other suspects?” Coal asked.
   “There’s an Aryan group called White Resistance that we’ve been watching for two years. It operates out of Idaho and Oregon. The leader gave a speech in West Virginia last week, and has been in the area for a few days. He was spotted Monday in the demonstration outside the Supreme Court. We’ll try to talk to him tomorrow.”
   “But are these people professional assassins?” Coal asked.
   “They don’t advertise, you understand. I doubt if any group performed the actual killings. They just hired the assassins and provided the legwork.”
   “So who’re the assassins?” the President asked.
   “We may never know, frankly.”
   The President stood and stretched his legs. Another hard day at the office. He smiled down at Voyles across the desk. “You have a difficult task.” It was the grandfather’s voice, filled with warmth and understanding. “I don’t envy you. If possible, I would like a two-page typewritten double-spaced report by 5 P.M. each day, seven days a week, on the progress of the investigation. If something breaks, I expect you to call me immediately.”
   Voyles nodded but did not speak.
   “I’m having a press conference in the morning at nine. I would like for you to be here.”
   Voyles nodded but did not speak. Seconds passed and no one spoke. Voyles stood noisily and tied the strap around the trench coat. “Oh well, we’ll be going. You’ve got the Ethiopians and all.” He handed the ballistics and autopsy reports to Coal, knowing the President would never read them.
   “Thanks for coming, gentlemen,” the President said warmly. Coal closed the door behind them, and the President grabbed the putter. “I’m not eating with the Ethiopians,” he said, staring at the carpet and a yellow ball.
   “I know it. I’ve already sent your apologies. This is a great hour of crisis, Mr. President, and you are expected to be here in this office surrounded by your advisers, hard at work.”
   He putted, and the ball rolled perfectly into the cup. “I want to talk to Horton. These nominations must be perfect.”
   “He’s sent a short list of ten. Looks pretty good.”
   “I want young conservative white men opposed to abortion, pornography, queers, gun control, racial quotas, all that crap.” He missed a putt, and kicked off his loafers. “I want judges who hate dope and criminals and are enthusiastic about the death penalty. Understand?”
   Coal was on the phone, punching numbers and nodding at his boss. He would select the nominees, then convince the President.


   K. O. Lewis sat with the Director in the back of the quiet limousine as it left the White House and crawled through rush-hour traffic. Voyles had nothing to say. So far, in the early hours of the tragedy, the press had been brutal. The buzzards were circling. No less than three congressional subcommittees had already announced hearings and investigations into the deaths. And the bodies were still warm. The politicians were giddy and wrestling for the spotlight. One outrageous statement fueled another. Senator Larkin from Ohio hated Voyles, and Voyles hated Senator Larkin from Ohio, and the senator had called a press conference three hours earlier and announced his subcommittee would immediately begin investigating the FBI’s protection of the two dead justices. But Larkin had a girlfriend, a rather young one, and the FBI had some photographs, and Voyles was confident the investigation could be delayed.
   “How’s the President?” Lewis finally asked.
   “Which one?”
   “Not Coal. The other one.”
   “Swell. Just swell. He’s awfully tore up about Rosenberg, though.”
   “I bet.”
   They rode in silence in the direction of the Hoover Building. It would be a long night.
   “We’ve got a new suspect,” Lewis finally said.
   “Do tell.”
   “A man named Nelson Muncie.”
   Voyles slowly shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
   “Neither have I. It’s a long story.”
   “Gimme the short version.”
   “Muncie is a very wealthy industrialist from Florida. Sixteen years ago his niece was raped and murdered by an Afro-American named Buck Tyrone. The little girl was twelve. Very, very brutal rape and murder. I’ll spare you the details. Muncie has no children, and idolized his niece. Tyrone was tried in Orlando, and given the death penalty. He was guarded heavily because there were a bunch of threats. Some Jewish lawyers in a big New York firm filed all sorts of appeals, and in 1984 the case arrives at the Supreme Court. You guessed it—Rosenberg falls in love with Tyrone and concocts this ridiculous Fifth Amendment self-incrimination argument to exclude a confession the punk gave a week after he was arrested. An eight-page confession that he, Tyrone, wrote himself. No confession, no case. Rosenberg writes a convoluted five-to-four opinion overturning the conviction. An extremely controversial decision. Tyrone goes free. Then, two years later he disappears and has not been seen since. Rumor has it Muncie paid to have Tyrone castrated, mutilated, and fed to the sharks. Just a rumor, say the Florida authorities. Then in 1989, Tyrone’s main lawyer on the case, man named Kaplan, is gunned down by an apparent mugger outside his apartment in Manhattan. What a coincidence.”
   “Who tipped you?”
   “Florida called two hours ago. They’re convinced Muncie paid a bunch of money to eliminate both Tyrone and his lawyer. They just can’t prove it. They’ve got a reluctant, unidentified informant who says he knows Muncie and feeds them a little info. He says Muncie has been talking for years about eliminating Rosenberg. They think he went a little over the edge when his niece was murdered.”
   “How much money has he got?”
   “Enough. Millions. No one is sure. He’s very secretive. Florida is convinced he’s capable.”
   “Let’s check it out. Sounds interesting.”
   “I’ll get on it tonight. Are you sure you want three hundred agents on this case?”
   Voyles lit a cigar and cracked his window. “Yeah, maybe four hundred. We need to crack this baby before the press eats us alive.”
   “It won’t be easy. Except for the slugs and the rope, these guys left nothing.”
   Voyles blew smoke out the window. “I know. It’s almost too clean.”


   The Chief slouched behind his desk with a loosened tie and a haggard look. Around the room, three of his brethren and a half-dozen clerks sat and talked in subdued tones. The shock and fatigue were evident. Jason Kline, Rosenberg’s senior clerk, looked especially hard-hit. He sat on a small sofa and stared blankly at the floor while Justice Archibald Manning, now the senior Justice, talked of protocol and funerals. Jensen’s mother wanted a small, private Episcopal service Friday in Providence. Rosenberg’s son, a lawyer, had delivered to Runyan a list of instructions the Justice had prepared after his second stroke in which he wanted to be cremated after a non-military ceremony and his ashes dropped over the Sioux Indian Reservation in South Dakota. Though Rosenberg was Jewish, he had abandoned the religion and claimed to be agnostic. He wanted to be buried with the Indians. Runyan thought that was appropriate, but did not say so. In the outer office, six FBI agents sipped coffee and whispered nervously. There had been more threats during the day, several coming within hours of the President’s early morning address. It was dark now, almost time to escort the remaining justices home. Each had four agents as bodyguards

   Justice Andrew McDowell, at sixty-one now the youngest member of the Court, stood in the window, smoking his pipe and watching traffic. If Jensen had a friend on the Court, it was McDowell. Fletcher Coal had informed Runyan that the President would not only attend Jensen’s service but wanted to deliver a eulogy. No one in the inner office wanted the President to say a word. The Chief had asked McDowell to prepare a few words. A shy man who avoided speeches, McDowell twirled his bow tie and tried to picture his friend in the balcony with a rope around his neck. It was too awful to think about. A Justice of the Supreme Court, one of his distinguished brethren, one of the nine, hiding in such a place watching those movies and being exposed in such a ghastly manner. What a tragic embarrassment. He thought of himself standing before the crowd in the church and looking at Jensen’s mother and family, and knowing that every thought would be on the Montrose Theatre. They would ask each other in whispered voices, “Did you know he was gay?” McDowell, for one, did not know, nor did he suspect. Nor did he want to say anything at the funeral.
   Justice Ben Thurow, age sixty-eight, was not as concerned about burying the dead as he was about catching the killers. He had been a federal prosecutor in Minnesota, and his theory grouped the suspects into two classes—those acting out of hatred and revenge, and those seeking to affect future decisions. He had instructed his clerks to begin the research.
   Thurow was pacing around the room. “We have twenty-seven clerks and seven justices,” he said to the group but to no one in particular. “It’s obvious we won’t get much work done for the next couple of weeks, and all close decisions must wait until we have a full bench. That could take months. I suggest we put our clerks to work trying to solve the killings.”
   “We’re not police,” Manning said patiently.
   “Can we at least wait until after the burials before we start playing Dick Tracy?” McDowell said without turning from the window.
   Thurow ignored them, as usual. “I’ll direct the research. Loan me your clerks for two weeks, and I think we can put together a short list of solid suspects.”
   “The FBI is very capable, Ben,” the Chief said. “They haven’t asked for our help.”
   “I’d rather not discuss the FBI,” Thurow said. “We can mope around here in official mourning for two weeks, or we can go to work and find these bastards.”
   “What makes you so sure you can solve this?” Manning asked.
   “I’m not sure I can, but I think it’s worth a try. Our brethren were murdered for a reason, and that reason is directly related to a case or an issue already decided or now pending before this Court. If it’s retribution, then our task is almost impossible. Hell, everybody hates us for one reason or another. But if it’s not revenge or hatred, then perhaps someone wanted a different Court for a future decision. That’s what’s intriguing. Who would kill Abe and Glenn because of how they might vote on a case this year, next year, or five years from now? I want the clerks to pull up every case now pending in the eleven circuits below.”
   Justice McDowell shook his head. “Come on, Ben. That’s over five thousand cases, a small fraction of which will eventually end up here. It’s a wild-goose chase.”
   Manning was equally unimpressed. “Listen, fellas. I served with Abe Rosenberg for thirty-one years, and I often thought of shooting him myself. But I loved him like a brother. His liberal ideas were accepted in the sixties and seventies, but grew old in the eighties, and are now resented in the nineties. He became a symbol for everything that’s wrong in this country. He has been killed, I believe, by one of these radical right-wing hate groups, and we can research cases till hell freezes over and not find anything. It’s retribution, Ben. Pure and simple.”
   “And Glenn?” Thurow asked.
   “Evidently our friend had some strange proclivities. Word must have spread, and he was an easy target for such groups. They hate homosexuals, Ben.”
   Ben was still pacing, still ignoring. “They hate all of us, and if they killed out of hatred the cops’ll catch them. Maybe. But what if they killed to manipulate this Court? What if some group seized this moment of unrest and violence to eliminate two of us, and thus realign the Court? I think it’s very possible.”
   The Chief cleared his throat. “And I think we’ll do nothing until after they are buried, or scattered. I’m not saying no, Ben, just wait a few days. Let the dust settle. The rest of us are still in shock.”
   Thurow excused himself and left the room. His bodyguards followed him down the hall.
   Justice Manning stood with his cane and addressed the Chief. “I will not make it to Providence. I hate flying, and I hate funerals. I’ll be having one myself before long, and I do not enjoy the reminder. I’ll send my sympathies to the family. When you see them, please apologize for me. I’m a very old man.” He left with a clerk.
   “I think Justice Thurow has a point,” said Jason Kline. “We at least need to review the pending cases and those likely to arrive here from the lower circuits. It’s a long shot, but we may stumble across something.”
   “I agree,” said the Chief. “It’s just a bit premature, don’t you think?”
   “Yes, but I’d like to get started anyway.”
   “No. Wait till Monday, and I’ll assign you to Thurow.”
   Kline shrugged and excused himself. Two clerks followed him to Rosenberg’s office, where they sat in the darkness and sipped the last of Abe’s brandy.


   In a cluttered study Carrel on the fifth level of the law library, between the racks of thick, seldom-used law books, Darby Shaw scanned a printout of the Supreme Court’s docket. She had been through it twice, and though it was loaded with controversy, she found nothing that interested her. Dumond was causing riots. There was a child pornography case from New Jersey, a sodomy case from Kentucky, a dozen death penalty appeals, a dozen assorted civil rights cases, and the usual array of tax, zoning, Indian, and antitrust cases. From the computer she had pulled summaries of each, then reviewed them twice. She compiled a neat list of possible suspects, but they would be obvious to everyone. The list was now in the garbage.
   Callahan was certain it was the Aryans or the Nazis or the Klan—some easily identifiable collection of domestic terrorists—some radical band of vigilantes. It had to be right-wingers—that much was obvious, he felt. Darby was not so sure. The hate groups were too obvious. They had made too many threats, thrown too many rocks, held too many parades, made too many speeches. They needed Rosenberg alive because he was such an irresistible target for their hatred. Rosenberg kept them in business. She thought it was somebody much more sinister.
   He was sitting in a bar on Canal Street, drunk by now, waiting on her though she had not promised to join him. She had checked on him at lunch, and found him on the balcony upstairs, drunk and reading his book of Rosenberg opinions. He had decided to cancel con law for a week—said he might not be able to teach it anymore now that his hero was dead. She told him to sober up, and she left.
   A few minutes after ten, she walked to the computer room on the fourth level of the library and sat before a monitor. The room was empty. She pecked away at the keyboard, found what she wanted, and soon the printer was spewing forth page after page of appeals pending in the eleven federal appellate courts around the country. An hour later, the printer stopped, and she now possessed a six-inch-thick summary of the eleven dockets. She hauled it back to her study carrel and placed it in the center of the cluttered desk. It was after eleven, and the fifth level was deserted. A narrow window gave an uninspiring view of a parking lot and trees below.
   She kicked off her shoes again and inspected the red paint on the toes. She sipped a warm Fresca and stared blankly at the parking lot. The first assumption was easy—the killings were done by the same group for the same reasons. If not, then the search was hopeless. The second assumption was difficult—the motive was not hatred or revenge, but rather manipulation. There was a case or an issue out there on its way to the Supreme Court, and someone wanted different justices. The third assumption was a bit easier—the case or issue involved a great deal of money.
   The answer would not be found in the printout sitting before her. She flipped through it until midnight, and left when the library closed.


   At noon Thursday a secretary carried a large sack decorated with grease spots and filled with deli sandwiches and onion rings into a humid conference room on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building. In the center of the square room, a mahogany table with twenty chairs along each side was surrounded with the top FBI people from across the country. All ties were loosened and sleeves rolled up. A thin cloud of blue smoke hung around the cheap government chandelier five feet above the table.
   Director Voyles was talking. Tired and angry, he puffed on his fourth cigar of the morning and walked slowly in front of the screen at his end of the table. Half the men were listening. The other half had pulled reports from the pile in the center of the table and read about the autopsies, the lab report on the nylon rope, Nelson Muncie, and a few other quickly researched subjects. The reports were quite thin.
   Listening carefully and reading intently was Special Agent Eric East, only a ten-year man but a brilliant investigator. Six hours earlier Voyles had picked him to lead the investigation. The rest of the team had been selected throughout the morning, and this was the organizational meeting.
   East was listening and hearing what he already knew. The investigation could take weeks, probably months. Other than the slugs, nine of them, the rope, and the steel rod used in the tourniquet, there was no evidence. The neighbors in Georgetown had seen nothing—no exceptionally suspicious characters at the Montrose. No prints. No fibers. Nothing. It takes remarkable talent to kill so cleanly, and it takes a lot of money to hire such talent. Voyles was pessimistic about finding the gunmen. They must concentrate on whoever hired them.
   Voyles was talking and puffing. “There’s a memo on the table regarding one Nelson Muncie, a millionaire from Jacksonville, Florida, who’s allegedly made threats against Rosenberg. The Florida authorities are convinced Muncie paid a bunch of money to have the rapist and his lawyer killed. The memo covers it. Two of our men talked with Muncie’s lawyer this morning, and were met with great hostility. Muncie is out of the country, according to his lawyer, and of course he has no idea when he will return. I’ve assigned twenty men to investigate him.”
   Voyles relit his cigar and looked at a sheet of paper on the table. “Number four is a group called White Resistance, a small group of middle-aged commandos we’ve been watching for about three years. You’ve got a memo. Pretty weak suspect, really. They’d rather throw firebombs and burn crosses. Not a lot of finesse. And, most importantly, not much money. I doubt seriously if they could hire guns as slick as these. But I’ve assigned twenty men anyway.”
   East unwrapped a heavy sandwich, sniffed it, but decided to leave it alone. The onion rings were cold. His appetite had vanished. He listened and made notes. Number six on the list was a bit unusual. A psycho named Clinton Lane had declared war on homosexuals. His only son had moved from their family farm in Iowa to San Francisco to enjoy the gay life, but had quickly died of AIDS. Lane cracked up, and burned the Gay Coalition office in Des Moines. Caught and sentenced to four years, he escaped in 1989 and had not been found. According to the memo, he had set up an extensive coke-smuggling operation and made millions. And he used the money in his own little private war against gays and lesbians. The FBI had been trying to catch him for five years, but it was believed he operated out of Mexico. For years he had written hate mail to the Congress, the Supreme Court, the President. Voyles was not impressed with Lane as a suspect. He was a nut who was way out in left field, but no stone would go unturned. He assigned only six agents.
   The list had ten names. Between six and twenty of the best special agents were assigned to each suspect. A leader was chosen for each unit. They were to report twice daily to East, who would meet each morning and each afternoon with the Director. A hundred or so more agents would scour the streets and countryside for clues.
   Voyles talked of secrecy. The press would follow like bloodhounds, so the investigation must be extremely confidential. Only he, the Director, would speak to the press, and he would have precious little to say.
   He sat down, and K. O. Lewis delivered a rambling monologue about the funerals, and security, and a request from Chief Runyan to assist in the investigation.
   Eric East sipped cold coffee, and stared at the list.


   In thirty-four years, Abraham Rosenberg wrote no fewer than twelve hundred opinions. His production was a constant source of amazement to constitutional scholars. He occasionally ignored the dull antitrust cases and tax appeals, but if the issue showed the barest hint of real controversy, he waded in with both fists. He wrote majority opinions, concurrences to majorities, concurrences to dissents, and many, many dissents. Often he dissented alone. Every hot issue in thirty-four years had received an opinion of some sort from Rosenberg. The scholars and critics loved him. They published books and essays and critiques about him and his work. Darby found five separate hardback compilations of his opinions, with editorial notes and annotations. One book contained nothing but his great dissents.
   She skipped class Thursday and secluded herself in the study carrel on the fifth level of the library. The computer printouts were scattered neatly on the floor. The Rosenberg books were open and marked and stacked on top of each other.
   There was a reason for the killings. Revenge and hatred would be acceptable for Rosenberg alone. But add Jensen to the equation, and revenge and hatred made less sense. Sure he was hateable, but he had not aroused passions like Yount or even Manning.
   She found no books of critical thought on the writings of Justice Glenn Jensen. In six years, he had authored only twenty-eight majority opinions, the lowest production on the Court. He had written a few dissents, and joined a few concurrences, but he was a painfully slow worker. At times his writing was clear and lucid, at times disjointed and pathetic.
   She studied Jensen’s opinions. His ideology swung radically from year to year. He was generally consistent in his protection of the rights of criminal defendants, but there were enough exceptions to astound any scholar. In seven attempts, he had voted with the Indians five times. He had written three majority opinions strongly protective of the environment. He was near perfect in support of tax protestors.
   But there were no clues. Jensen was too erratic to take seriously. Compared to the other eight, he was harmless.
   She finished another warm Fresca, and put away for the moment her notes on Jensen. Her watch was hidden in a drawer. She had no idea what time it was. Callahan had sobered up and wanted a late dinner at Mr. B’s in the Quarter. She needed to call him.


   Dick Mabry, the current speechwriter and word wizard, sat in a chair beside the President’s desk and watched as Fletcher Coal and the President read the third draft of a proposed eulogy for Justice Jensen. Coal had rejected the first two, and Mabry was still uncertain about what they wanted. Coal would suggest one thing. The President wanted something else. Earlier in the day, Coal had called and said to forget the eulogy because the President would not attend the funeral. Then the President had called, and asked him to prepare a few words because Jensen was a friend and even though he was a queer he was still a friend.
   Mabry knew Jensen was not a friend, but he was a freshly assassinated justice who would enjoy a highly visible funeral.
   Then Coal had called and said they weren’t sure if the President was going but work up something just in case. Mabry’s office was in the Old Executive Office Building next door to the White House, and during the day small bets had been placed on whether the President would attend the funeral of a known homosexual. The office odds were three to one that he would not.
   “Much better, Dick,” Coal said, folding the paper.
   “I like it too,” the President said. Mabry had noticed that the President usually waited for Coal to express approval or displeasure over his words.
   “I can try again,” Mabry said, standing.
   “No, no,” Coal insisted. “This has the right touch. Very poignant. I like it.”
   He walked Mabry to the door and closed it behind him.
   “What do you think?” the President asked.
   “Let’s call it off. I’m getting bad vibes. Publicity would be great, but you’d be speaking these beautiful words over a body found in a gay porno house. Too risky.”
   “Yeah. I think you’re—”
   “This is our crisis, Chief. The ratings continue to improve, and I just don’t want to take a chance.”
   “Should we send someone?”
   “Of course. What about the Vice President?”
   “Where is he?”

   “Flying in from Guatemala. He’ll be in tonight.” Coal suddenly smiled to himself. “This is great VP stuff, you know. A gay funeral.”
   The President chuckled. “Perfect.”
   Coal stopped smiling and began pacing in front of the desk. “Slight problem. Rosenberg’s service is Saturday, only eight blocks from here.”
   “I’d rather go to hell for a day.”
   “I know. But your absence would be very conspicuous.”
   “I could check into Walter Reed with back spasms. It worked before.”
   “No, Chief. Reelection is next year. You must stay away from hospitals.”
   The President slapped both hands on his desk and stood. “Dammit, Fletcher! I can’t go to his service because I can’t keep from smiling. He was hated by ninety percent of the American people. They’ll love me if I don’t go.”
   “Protocol, Chief. Good taste. You’ll be burned by the press if you don’t go. Look, it won’t hurt, okay? You don’t have to say a word. Just ease in and out, look real sad, and allow the cameras to get a good look. Won’t take an hour.”
   The President was gripping his putter and crouching over an orange ball. “Then I’ll have to go to Jensen’s.”
   “Exactly. But forget the eulogy.”
   He putted. “I met him only twice, you know.”
   “I know. Let’s quietly attend both services, say nothing, then disappear.”
   He putted again. “I think you’re right.”


   Thomas Callahan slept late and alone. He had gone to bed early, and sober, and alone. For the third day in a row he had canceled classes. It was Friday, and Rosenberg’s service was tomorrow, and out of respect for his idol, he would not teach con law until the man was properly put to rest.
   He fixed coffee and sat on the balcony in his robe. The temperature was in the sixties, the first cold snap of the fall, and Dauphine Street below bustled with brisk energy. He nodded to the old woman without a name on the balcony across the street. Bourbon was a block away and the tourists were already out with their little maps and cameras. Dawn went unnoticed in the Quarter, but by ten the narrow streets were busy with delivery trucks and cabs.
   On these late mornings, and they were many in number, Callahan cherished his freedom. He was twenty years out of law school, and most of his contemporaries were strapped into seventy-hour weeks in pressurized law factories. He had lasted two years in private practice. A behemoth in D.C. with two hundred lawyers hired him fresh out of Georgetown and stuck him in a cubbyhole office writing briefs for the first six months. Then he was placed on an assembly line answering interrogatories about IUDs twelve hours a day, and expected to bill sixteen. He was told that if he could cram the next twenty years into the next ten, he just might make partner at the weary age of thirty-five.
   Callahan wanted to live past fifty, so he retired from the boredom of private law. He earned a master’s in law, and became a professor. He slept late, worked five hours a day, wrote an occasional article, and for the most part enjoyed himself immensely. With no family to support, his salary of seventy thousand a year was more than sufficient to pay for his two-story bungalow, his Porsche, and his liquor. If death came early, it would be from whiskey and not work.
   He had sacrificed. Many of his pals from law school were partners in the big firms with fancy letterheads and half-million-dollar earnings. They rubbed shoulders with CEOs from IBM and Texaco and State Farm. They power-schmoozed with senators. They had offices in Tokyo and London. But he did not envy them.
   One of his best friends from law school was Gavin Verheek, another dropout from private practice who had gone to work for the government. He first worked in the civil rights division at Justice, then transferred to the FBI. He was now special counsel to the Director. Callahan was due in Washington Monday for a conference of con law professors. He and Verheek planned to eat and get drunk Monday night.
   He needed to call and confirm their eating and drinking, and to pick his brain. He dialed the number from memory. The call was routed then rerouted, and after five minutes of asking for Gavin Verheek, the man was on the phone.
   “Make it quick,” Verheek said.
   “So nice to hear your voice,” Callahan said.
   “How are you, Thomas?”
   “It’s ten-thirty. I’m not dressed. I’m sitting here in the French Quarter sipping coffee and watching pedestrians on Dauphine. What’re you doing?”
   “What a life. Here it’s eleven-thirty, and I haven’t left the office since they found the bodies Wednesday morning.”
   “I’m just sick, Gavin. He’ll nominate two Nazis.”
   “Well, of course, in my position, I cannot comment on such matters. But I suspect you’re correct.”
   “Suspect my ass. You’ve already seen his short list of nominees, haven’t you, Gavin? You guys are already doing back ground checks, aren’t you? Come on, Gavin, you can tell me. Who’s on the list? I’ll never tell.”
   “Neither will I, Thomas. But I promise this—your name is not among the few.”
   “I’m wounded.”
   “How’s the girl?”
   “Which one?”
   “Come on, Thomas. The girl?”
   “She’s beautiful and brilliant and soft and gentle—”
   “Keep going.”
   “Who killed them, Gavin? I have a right to know. I’m a taxpayer and I have a right to know who killed them.”
   “What’s her name again?”
   “Darby. Who killed them, and why?”
   “You could always pick names, Thomas. I remember women you turned down because you didn’t like the names. Gorgeous, hot women, but with flat names. Darby. Has a nice erotic touch to it. What a name. When do I meet her?”
   “I don’t know.”
   “Has she moved in?”
   “None of your damned business. Gavin, listen to me. Who did it?”
   “Don’t you read the papers? We have no suspects. None. Nada.”
   “Surely you have a motive.”
   “Mucho motives. Lots of hatred out there, Thomas. Weird combination, wouldn’t you say? Jensen’s hard to figure. The Director has ordered us to research pending cases and recent decisions and voting patterns and all that crap.”
   “That’s great, Gavin. Every con law scholar in the country is now playing detective and trying to solve the murders.”
   “And you’re not?”
   “No. I threw a binge when I heard the news, but I’m sober now. The girl, however, has buried herself in the same research you’re doing. She’s ignoring me.”
   “Darby. What a name. Where’s she from?”
   “Denver. Are we on for Monday?”
   “Maybe. Voyles wants us to work around the clock until the computers tell us who did it. I plan to work you in, though.”
   “Thanks. I’ll expect a full report, Gavin. Not just the gossip.”
   “Thomas, Thomas. Always fishing for information. And I, as usual, have none to give you.”
   “You’ll get drunk and tell all, Gavin. You always do.”
   “Why don’t you bring Darby? How old is she? Nineteen?”
   “Twenty-four, and she’s not invited. Maybe later.”
   “Maybe. Gotta run, pal. I meet with the Director in thirty minutes. The tension is so thick around here you can smell it.” Callahan punched the number for the law school library and asked if Darby Shaw had been seen. She had not.


   Darby parked in the near-empty lot of the federal building in Lafayette, and entered the clerk’s office on the first floor. It was noon Friday, court was not in session, and the hallways were deserted. She stopped at the counter and looked through an open window, and waited. A deputy clerk, late for lunch and with an attitude, walked to the window. “Can I help you?” she asked in the tone of a lowly civil servant who wanted to do anything but help.
   Darby slid a strip of paper through the window. “I would like to see this file.” The clerk took a quick glance at the name of the case, and looked at Darby. “Why?” she asked.
   “I don’t have to explain. It’s public record, isn’t it?”
   “Semipublic.”
   Darby took the strip of paper and folded it. “Are you familiar with the Freedom of Information Act?”
   “Are you a lawyer?”
   “I don’t have to be a lawyer to look at this file.”
   The clerk opened a drawer in the counter, and took out a key ring. She nodded, pointing with her forehead. “Follow me.”
   The sign on the door said JURY ROOM, but inside there were no tables or chairs, only file cabinets and boxes lining the walls. Darby looked around the room.
   The clerk pointed to a wall. “That’s it, on this wall. The rest of the room is other junk. This first file cabinet has all the pleadings and correspondence. The rest is discovery, exhibits, and the trial.”
   “When was the trial?”
   “Last summer. It went on for two months.”
   “Where’s the appeal?”
   “Not perfected yet. I think the deadline is November 1. Are you a reporter or something?”
   “No.”
   “Good. As you obviously know, these are indeed public records. But the trial judge has placed certain restrictions. First, I must have your name and the precise hours you visited this room. Second, nothing can be taken from this room. Third, nothing in this file can be copied until the appeal is perfected. Fourth, anything you touch in here must be put back exactly where you found it. Judge’s orders.”
   Darby stared at the wall of file cabinets. “Why can’t I make copies?”
   “Ask His Honor, okay? Now, what’s your name?”
   “Darby Shaw.”
   The clerk scribbled the information on a clipboard hanging near the door. “How long will you be?”
   “I don’t know. Three or four hours.”
   “We close at five. Find me at the office when you leave.” She closed the door with a smirk. Darby opened a drawer full of pleadings, and began flipping through files and taking notes. The lawsuit was seven years old, with one plaintiff and thirty-eight wealthy corporate defendants who had collectively hired and fired no less than fifteen law firms from all over the country. Big firms, many with hundreds of lawyers in dozens of offices.
   Seven years of expensive legal warfare, and the outcome was far from certain. Bitter litigation. The trial verdict was only a temporary victory for the defendants. The verdict had been purchased or in some other way illegally obtained, claimed the plaintiff in its motions for a new trial. Boxes of motions. Accusations and counteraccusations. Requests for sanctions and fines flowing rapidly to and from both sides. Pages and pages of affi davits detailing lies and abuses by the lawyers and their clients. One lawyer was dead.
   Another had tried suicide, according to a classmate of Darby’s who had worked on the fringes of the case during the trial. Her friend had been employed in a summer clerkship with a big firm in Houston, and was kept in the dark but heard a little.
   Darby unfolded a chair and stared at the file cabinets. It would take five hours just to find everything.


   The publicity had not been good for the Montrose. Most of its customers wore dark sunglasses after dark, and tended to enter and exit rather quickly. And now that a U.S. Supreme Court Justice had been found in the balcony, the place was famous and the curious drove by at all hours pointing and taking pictures. Most of the regulars went elsewhere. The bravest darted in when the traffic was light.
   He looked just like a regular when he darted in and paid his money inside the door without looking at the cashier. Baseball cap, black sunglasses, jeans, neat hair, leather jacket. He was well disguised, but not because he was a homosexual and ashamed to be hanging around such places.
   It was midnight. He climbed the stairs to the balcony, smiling at the thought of Jensen wearing the tourniquet. The door was locked. He took a seat in the center section on the floor, away from anyone else.
   He had never watched queer movies before, and after this night he had no plans to watch another one. This was his third such smut house in the past ninety minutes. He kept the sunglasses on and tried to avoid the screen. But it was difficult, and this irritated him.
   There were five other people in the theater. Four rows up and to his right were two lovebirds, kissing and playing. Oh, for a baseball bat and he could put them out of their misery. Or a nice little piece of yellow ski rope.
   He suffered for twenty minutes, and was about to reach in his pocket when a hand touched his shoulder. A gentle hand. He played it cool.
   “Could I sit by you?” came the rather deep and manly voice from just over his shoulder.
   “No, and you can remove your hand.”
   The hand moved. Seconds passed, and it was obvious there would be no more requests. Then he was gone.
   This was torture for a man violently opposed to pornography. He wanted to vomit. He glanced behind him, then reached carefully into the leather jacket and removed a black box, six inches by five and three inches thick. He laid it on the floor between his legs. With a scalpel, he made a careful incision in the cushion of the seat next to him, then, while glancing around, inserted the black box into the cushion. There were springs in this one, a real antique, and he delicately twisted the box from one side to the other until it was in place with the switch and the tube barely visible through the incision.
   He took a deep breath. Although the device had been built by a true professional, a legendary genius at miniature explosives, it was not pleasant carrying the damned thing around in a coat pocket, just centimeters from his heart and most other vital organs. And he wasn’t particularly comfortable sitting next to it now.
   This was his third plant of the night, and he had one more, at another movie house where they showed old-fashioned heterosexual pornography. He was almost looking forward to it, and this irritated him.

   He looked at the two lovers, who were oblivious to the movie and growing more excited by the minute, and wished they could be sitting right there when the little black box began silently spewing forth its gas, and then thirty seconds later when the fireball would flash-fry every object between the screen and the popcorn machine. He would like that.
   But his was a nonviolent group, opposed to the indiscriminate killing of innocent and/or insignificant people. They had killed a few necessary victims. Their specialty, however, was the demolition of structures used by the enemy. They picked easy targets—unarmed abortion clinics, unprotected ACLU offices, unsuspecting smut houses. They were having a field day. Not one single arrest in eighteen months.
   It was twelve-forty, time to leave and hurry four blocks to his car for another black box, then six blocks over to the Pussycat Cinema, which closed at one-thirty. The Pussycat was either eighteen or nineteen on the list, he couldn’t remember which, but he was certain that in exactly three hours and twenty minutes the dirty movie business in D.C. would take a helluva blow. Twenty-two of these little joints were supposed to receive black boxes tonight, and at 4 A.M. they were all supposed to be closed and deserted, and demolished. Three all-nighters were scratched from the list, because his was a nonviolent group.
   He adjusted his sunglasses and took one last look at the cushion next to him. Judging from the cups and popcorn on the floor, the place got swept once a week. No one would notice the switch and tube barely visible between the ragged threads. He cautiously flipped the switch, and left the Montrose.


   Eric East had never met the President, nor been in the White House. And he’d never met Fletcher Coal, but he knew he wouldn’t like him.
   He followed Director Voyles and K. O. Lewis into the Oval Office at seven Saturday morning. There were no smiles or handshakes. East was introduced by Voyles. The President nodded from behind the desk but did not stand. Coal was reading something.
   Twenty porno houses had been torched in the D.C. area, and many were still smoldering. They had seen the smoke above the city from the back of the limo. At a dump called Angels a janitor had been badly burned and was not expected to live.
   An hour ago they had received word that an anonymous caller to a radio station had claimed responsibility for the Underground Army, and he promised more of the same in celebration of the death of Rosenberg.
   The President spoke first. He looked tired, East thought. It was such an early hour for him. “How many places got bombed?”
   “Twenty here,” Voyles answered. “Seventeen in Baltimore and around fifteen in Atlanta. It appears as though the assault was carefully coordinated because all the explosions happened at precisely 4 A.M.”
   Coal looked up from his memo. “Director, do you believe it’s the Underground Army?”
   “As of now they’re the only ones claiming responsibility. It looks like some of their work. Could be.” Voyles did not look at Coal when he spoke to him.
   “So when do you start making arrests?” the President asked.
   “At the precise moment we obtain probable cause, Mr. President. That’s the law, you understand.”
   “I understand this outfit is your top suspect in the killings of Rosenberg and Jensen, and that you’re certain it killed a federal trial judge in Texas, and it most likely bombed at least fifty-two smut houses last night. I don’t understand why they’re bombing and killing with immunity. Hell, Director, we’re under siege.”
   Voyles’ neck turned red, but he said nothing. He just looked away while the President glared at him.
   K. O. Lewis cleared his throat. “Mr. President, if I may, we are not convinced the Underground Army was involved with the deaths of Rosenberg and Jensen. In fact, we have no evidence linking them. They are only one of a dozen suspects. As I’ve said before, the killings were remarkably clean, well organized, and very professional. Extremely professional.”
   Coal stepped forward. “What you’re trying to say, Mr. Lewis, is that you have no idea who killed them, and you may never know.”
   “No, that’s not what I’m saying. We’ll find them, but it will take time.”
   “How much time?” asked the President. It was an obvious, sophomoric question with no good answer. East immediately disliked the President for asking it.
   “Months,” Lewis said.
   “How many months?”
   “Many months.”
   The President rolled his eyes and shook his head, then with great disgust stood and walked to the window. He spoke to the window. “I can’t believe there’s no relation between what happened last night and the dead judges. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just paranoid.”
   Voyles shot a quick smirk at Lewis. Paranoid, insecure, clueless, dumb, out of touch. Voyles could think of many others.
   The President continued, still pondering the window. “I just get nervous when assassins are loose around here and bombs are going off. Who can blame me? We haven’t killed a President in over thirty years.”
   “Oh, I think you’re safe, Mr. President,” Voyles said with a trace of amusement. “The Secret Service has things under control.”
   “Great. Then why do I feel as though I’m in Beirut?” He was almost mumbling into the window.
   Coal sensed the awkwardness and picked up a thick memo from the desk. He held it and spoke to Voyles, much like a professor lecturing to his class.
   This is the short list of potential nominees to the Supreme Court. There are eight names, each with a biography. It was prepared by Justice. We started with twenty names, then the President, Attorney General Horton, and myself cut it to eight, none of whom have any idea they are being considered.”
   Voyles still looked away. The President slowly returned to his desk, and picked up his copy of the memo. Coal continued.
   Some of these people are controversial, and if they are ultimately nominated we’ll have a small war getting them approved by the Senate. We’d prefer not to start fighting now. This must be kept confidential.”
   Voyles suddenly turned and glared at Coal. “You’re an idiot, Coal! We’ve done this before, and I can assure you when we start checking on these people the cat’s out of the bag. You want a thorough background investigation, and yet you expect everyone contacted to keep quiet. It doesn’t work that way, son.”
   Coal stepped closer to Voyles. His eyes were glowing. “You bust your ass to make sure these names are kept out of the papers until they’re nominated. You make it work, Director. You plug the leaks and keep it out of the papers, understand?”
   Voyles was on his feet, pointing at Coal. “Listen, asshole, you want them checked out, you do it yourself. Don’t start giving me a bunch of boy scout orders.”
   Lewis stood between them, and the President stood behind his desk, and for a second or two nothing was said. Coal placed his memo on the desk and retreated a few steps, looking away. The President was now the peacemaker. “Sit down, Denton. Sit down.”
   Voyles returned to his seat while staring at Coal. The President smiled at Lewis and everyone took a seat. “We’re all under a lot of pressure,” the President said warmly.
   Lewis spoke calmly. “We’ll perform the routine investigations on your names, Mr. President, and it will be done in the strictest of confidence. You know, however, that we cannot control every person we talk to.”
   “Yes, Mr. Lewis, I know that. But I want extra caution. These men are young and will shape and reshape the Constitution long after I’m dead. They’re staunchly conservative, and the press will eat them alive. They must be free from warts and skeletons in the closet. No dope smokers, or illegitimate children, or DUIs, or radical student activity, or divorces. Understand? No surprises.”
   “Yes, Mr. President. But we cannot guarantee total secrecy in our investigations.”
   “Just try, okay?”
   “Yes, sir.” Lewis handed the memo to Eric East.
   “Is that all?” Voyles asked.
   The President glanced at Coal, who was ignoring them all and standing before the window. “Yes, Denton, that’s all. I’d like to have these names checked out in ten days. I want to move fast on this.”
   Voyles was standing. “You’ll have it in ten days.”


   Callahan was irritated when he knocked on the door to Darby’s apartment. He was quite perturbed and had a lot on his mind, a lot that he wanted to say, but he knew better than to start a fight because there was something he wanted much worse than to blow off a little steam. She had avoided him for four days now while she played detective and barricaded herself in the law library. She had skipped classes and failed to return his calls, and in general neglected him during his hour of crisis. But he knew when she opened the door he would smile and forget about being neglected.
   He held a liter of wine and a real pizza from Mama Rosa’s. It was after ten, Saturday night. He knocked again, and looked up and down the street at the neat duplexes and bungalows. The chain rattled from inside, and he instantly smiled. The neglect vanished.
   “Who is it?” she asked through the chain.
   “Thomas Callahan, remember? I’m at your door begging you to let me in so we can play and be friends again.”
   The door opened and Callahan stepped in. She took the wine and pecked him on the cheek. “Are we still buddies?” he asked.
   “Yes, Thomas. I’ve been busy.” He followed her through the cluttered den to the kitchen. A computer and an assortment of thick books covered the table.
   “I called. Why didn’t you call me back?”
   “I’ve been out,” she said, opening a drawer and removing a corkscrew.
   “You’ve got a machine. I’ve been talking to it.”
   “Are you trying to fight, Thomas?”
   He looked at her bare legs. “No! I swear I’m not mad. I promise. Please forgive me if I appear to be upset.”
   “Stop it.”
   “When can we go to bed?”
   “Are you sleepy?”
   “Anything but. Come on, Darby, it’s been three nights.”
   “Five. What kind of pizza?” She removed the cork and poured two glasses. Callahan watched every move.
   “Oh, it’s one of those Saturday night specials where they throw on everything headed for the garbage. Shrimp tails, eggs, crawfish heads. Cheap wine too. I’m a little low on cash, and I’m leaving town tomorrow so I have to watch what I spend, and since I’m leaving I thought I’d just come on over and get laid tonight so I wouldn’t be tempted by some contagious woman in D.C. What do you think?”
   Darby was opening the pizza box. “Looks like sausage and peppers.”
   “Can I still get laid?”
   “Maybe later. Drink your wine and let’s chat. We haven’t had a long talk in a while.”
   “I have. I’ve been talking to your machine all week.”
   He took his wineglass and the bottle and followed her closely to the den, where she turned on the stereo. They relaxed on the sofa.
   “Let’s get drunk,” he said.
   “You’re so romantic.”
   “I’ve got some romance for you.”
   “You’ve been drunk for a week.”
   “No I haven’t. Eighty percent of a week. It’s your fault for avoiding me.”
   “What’s wrong with you, Thomas?”
   “I’ve got the shakes. I’m all keyed up and I need companionship to knock the edge off. Whatta you say?”
   “Let’s get half drunk.” She sipped her wine and draped her legs across his lap. He held his breath as if in pain.
   “What time is your flight?” she asked.
   He was gulping now. “One-thirty. Nonstop to National. I’m supposed to register at five, and there’s a dinner at eight. After that I may be forced to roam the streets looking for love.”
   She smiled. “Okay, okay. We’ll do it in a minute. But let’s talk first.”
   Callahan breathed a sigh of relief. “I can talk for ten minutes, then I’ll just collapse.”
   “What’s up for Monday?”
   “The usual eight hours of airhead debate on the future of the Fifth Amendment, then a committee will draft a proposed conference report that no one will approve. More debate Tuesday, another report, perhaps an altercation or two, then we adjourn with nothing accomplished and go home. I’ll be in late Tuesday evening, and I’d like a date at a very nice restaurant, after which we can go back to my place for an intellectual discussion and animal sex. Where’s the pizza?”
   “In there. I’ll get it.”
   He was stroking her legs. “Don’t move. I’m not the least bit hungry.”
   “Why do you go to these conferences?”
   “I’m a member, and I’m a professor, and we’re just sort of expected to roam the country attending meetings with other educated idiots and adopting reports nobody reads. If I didn’t go, the dean would think I was not contributing to the academic environment.”
   She refilled the wineglasses. “You’re uptight, Thomas.”
   “I know. It’s been a rough week. I hate the thought of a bunch of Neanderthals rewriting the Constitution. We’ll live in a police state in ten years. I can’t do anything about it, so I’ll probably resort to alcohol.”
   Darby sipped slowly and watched him. The music was soft and the lights low. “I’m getting a buzz,” she said.
   “That’s about right for you. A glass and a half and you’re history. If you were Irish you could drink all night.”
   “My father was half Scottish.”
   “Not good enough.” Callahan crossed his feet on the coffee table and relaxed. He gently rubbed her ankles. “Can I paint your toes?”
   She said nothing. He had a fetish for her toes, and insisted on doing the nails with bright red polish at least twice a month. They’d seen it in Bull Durham, and though he wasn’t as neat and sober as Kevin Costner, she had grown to enjoy the intimacy of it.
   “No toes tonight?” he asked.
   “Maybe later. You look tired.”
   “I’m relaxing, but I’m filled with virile male electricity, and you will not put me off by telling me I look tired.”
   “Have some more wine.”

   Callahan had more wine, and sank deeper in the sofa. “So, Ms. Shaw, who done it?”
   “Professionals. Haven’t you read the papers?”
   “Of course. But who’s behind the professionals?”
   “I don’t know. After last night, the unanimous choice seems to be the Underground Army.”
   “But you’re not convinced.”
   “No. There have been no arrests. I’m not convinced.”
   “And you’ve got some obscure suspect unknown to the rest of the country.”
   “I had one, but now I’m not so sure. I spent three days tracking it down, even summarized it all real nice and neat in my little computer, and printed out a thin rough draft of a brief which I have now discarded.”
   Callahan stared at her. “You’re telling me you skipped classes for three days, ignored me, worked around the clock playing Sherlock Holmes, and now you’re throwing it away.”
   “It’s over there on the table.”
   “I can’t believe this. While I sulked around in loneliness all week, I knew it was for a worthy cause. I knew my suffering was for the good of the country because you would peel away the onion and tell me tonight or perhaps tomorrow who done it.”
   “It can’t be done, at least not with legal research. There’s no pattern, no common thread in the murders. I almost burned up the computers at the law school.”
   “Ha! I told you so. You forget, dear, that I am a genius at constitutional law, and I knew immediately that Rosenberg and Jensen had nothing in common but black robes and death threats. The Nazis or Aryans or Kluxers or Mafia or some other group killed them because Rosenberg was Rosenberg, and because Jensen was the easiest target and somewhat of an embarrassment.”
   “Well, why don’t you call the FBI and share your insights with them? I’m sure they’re sitting by the phone.”
   “Don’t be angry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
   “You’re an ass, Thomas.”
   “Yes, but you love me, don’t you?”
   “I don’t know.”
   “Can we still go to bed? You promised.”
   “We’ll see.”
   Callahan placed his glass on the table, and attacked her. “Look, baby. I’ll read your brief, okay? And then we’ll talk about it, okay? But I’m not thinking clearly right now, and I won’t be able to continue until you take my weak and trembling hand and lead me to your bed.”
   “Forget my little brief.”
   “Please, dammit, Darby, please.”
   She grabbed his neck and pulled him to her. They kissed long and hard, a wet, almost violent kiss.


   The cop stuck his thumb on the button next to the name of Gray Grantham, and held it down for twenty seconds. Then a brief pause. Then another twenty seconds. Pause. Twenty seconds. Pause. Twenty seconds. He thought this was funny because Grantham was a night owl and had probably slept less than three or four hours, and now all this incessant buzzing echoing throughout his hallway. He pushed again and looked at his patrol car parked illegally on the curb under the streetlight. It was almost dawn, Sunday, and the street was empty. Twenty seconds. Pause. Twenty seconds.
   Maybe Grantham was dead. Or maybe he was comatose from booze and a late night on the town. Maybe he had someone’s woman up there and had no plans to answer the door. Pause. Twenty seconds.
   The mike crackled. “Who is it!”
   “Police!” answered the cop, who was black and emphasized the po in police just for the fun of it.
   “What do you want?” Grantham demanded.
   “Maybe I gotta warrant.” The cop was near laughter.
   Grantham’s voice softened, and he sounded wounded. “Is this Cleve?”
   “It is.”
   “What time is it, Cleve?”
   “Almost five-thirty.”
   “It must be good.”
   “Don’t know. Sarge didn’t say, you know. He just said to wake you up ‘cause he wanted to talk.”
   “Why does he always want to talk before the sun comes up?”
   “Stupid question, Grantham.”
   A slight pause. “Yeah, I guess so. I presume he wants to talk right now.”
   “No. You got thirty minutes. He said be there at six.”
   “Where?”
   “There’s a little coffee shop on Fourteenth near the Trinidad Playground. It’s dark and safe, and Sarge likes it.”
   “Where does he find these places?”
   “You know, for a reporter you can ask the dumbest questions. The name of the place is Glenda’s, and I suggest you get going or you’ll be late.”
   “Will you be there?”
   “I’ll drop in, just to make sure you’re okay.”
   “I thought you said it was safe.”
   “It is safe, for that part of town. Can you find it?”
   “Yeah. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
   “Have a nice day, Grantham.”


   Sarge was old, very black, with a head full of brilliant white hair that sprang out in all directions. He wore thick sunglasses whenever he was awake, and most of his coworkers in the West Wing of the White House thought he was half blind. He held his head sideways and smiled like Ray Charles. He sometimes bumped into door facings and desks as he unloaded trash cans and dusted furniture. He walked slowly and gingerly as if counting his steps. He worked patiently, always with a smile, always with a kind word for anyone willing to give him one. For the most part he was ignored and dismissed as just another friendly, old, partially disabled black janitor.
   Sarge could see around corners. His territory was the West Wing, where he had been cleaning for thirty years now. Cleaning and listening. Cleaning and seeing. He picked up after some terribly important people who were often too busy to watch their words, especially in the presence of poor old Sarge.
   He knew which doors stayed open, and which walls were thin, and which air vents carried sound. He could disappear in an instant, then reappear in a shadow where the terribly important people could not see him.
   He kept most of it to himself. But from time to time, he fell heir to a juicy bit of information that could be pieced together with another one, and Sarge would make the judgment call that it should be repeated. He was very careful. He had three years until retirement, and he took no chances.
   No one ever suspected Sarge of leaking stories to the press. There were usually enough big mouths within any White House to lay blame on each other. It was hilarious, really. Sarge would talk to Grantham at the Post, then wait excitedly for the story, then listen to the wailing in the basement when the heads rolled.
   He was an impeccable source, and he talked only to Grantham. His son Cleve, the cop, arranged the meetings, always at odd hours at dark and inconspicuous places. Sarge wore his sunglasses. Grantham wore the same with a hat or cap of some sort. Cleve usually sat with them and watched the crowd.
   Grantham arrived at Glenda’s a few minutes after six, and walked to a booth in the rear. There were three other customers. Glenda herself was frying eggs on a grill near the register. Cleve sat on a stool watching her.
   They shook hands. A cup of coffee had been poured for Grantham.
   “Sorry I’m late,” he said.
   “No problem, my friend. Good to see you.” Sarge had a raspy voice that was difficult to suppress with a whisper. No one was listening.
   Grantham gulped coffee. “Busy week at the White House.”
   “You could say that. Lot of excitement. Lot of happiness.”
   “You don’t say.” Grantham could not take notes at these meetings. It would be too obvious, Sarge said when he laid the ground rules.
   “Yes. The President and his boys were elated with the news of Justice Rosenberg. This made them very happy.”
   “What about Justice Jensen?”
   “Well, as you noticed, the President attended the memorial service, but did not speak. He had planned to give a eulogy, but backed out because he would have been saying nice things about a gay fella.”
   “Who wrote the eulogy?”
   “The speechwriters. Mainly Mabry. Worked on it all day Thursday, then he backed out.”
   “He also went to Rosenberg’s service.”
   “Yes, he did. But he didn’t want to. Said he’d rather go to hell for a day. But in the end, he chickened out and went anyway. He’s quite happy Rosenberg was murdered. There was almost a festive mood around the place Wednesday. Fate has dealt him a wonderful hand. He now gets to restructure the Court, and he’s very excited about this.”
   Grantham listened hard. Sarge continued.
   “There’s a short list of nominees. The original had twenty or so names, then it was cut to eight.”
   “Who did the cutting?”
   “Who do you think? The President and Fletcher Coal. They’re terrified of leaks at this point. Evidently the list is nothing but young conservative judges, most of whom are obscure.”
   “Any names?”
   “Just two. A certain man named Pryce from Idaho, and one named MacLawrence from Vermont. That’s all I know about names. I think they are both federal judges. Nothing more on this.”
   “What about the investigation?”
   “I haven’t heard much, but as usual I’ll keep my ears open. There doesn’t appear to be much going on.”
   “Anything else?”
   “No. When will you run it?”
   “In the morning.”
   “It’ll be fun.”
   “Thanks, Sarge.”
   The sun was up now and the café was noisier. Cleve strolled over and sat next to his father. “You guys about finished?”
   “We are,” Sarge said.
   Cleve glanced around. “I think we need to leave. Grantham goes first, I’ll follow, then Pop here can stay as long as he wants.”
   “Mighty nice of you,” Sarge said.
   “Thanks, fellas,” Grantham said as he headed for the door.


   Verheek was late as usual. In the twenty-three-year history of their friendship, he had never been on time, and it was never a matter of being only a few minutes late. He had no concept of time and wasn’t bothered with it. He wore a watch but never looked at it. Late for Verheek meant at least an hour, sometimes two, especially when the person kept waiting was a friend who expected him to be late and would forgive him.
   So Callahan sat for an hour in the bar, which suited him just fine. After eight hours of scholarly debate, he despised the Constitution and those who taught it. He needed Chivas in his veins, and after two doubles on the rocks he was feeling better. He watched himself in the mirror behind the rows of liquor, and in the distance over his shoulder he watched and waited for Gavin Verheek. Small wonder his friend couldn’t cut it in private practice, where life depended upon the clock.
   When the third double was served, an hour and eleven minutes after 7 P.M., Verheek strolled to the bar and ordered a Moosehead.
   “Sorry I’m late,” he said as they shook hands. “I knew you’d appreciate the extra time alone with your Chivas.”
   “You look tired,” Callahan said as he inspected him. Old and tired. Verheek was aging badly and gaining weight. His forehead had grown an inch since their last visit, and his pale skin highlighted the heavy circles under his eyes. “How much do you weigh?”
   “None of your business,” he said, gulping the beer. “Where’s our table?”
   “It’s reserved for eight-thirty. I figured you would be at least ninety minutes late.”
   “Then I’m early.”
   “You could say that. Did you come from work?”
   “I live at work now. The Director wants no less than a hundred hours a week until something breaks. I told my wife I’d be home for Christmas.”
   “How is she?”
   “Fine. A very patient lady. We get along much better when I live at the office.” She was wife number three in seventeen years.
   “I’d like to meet her.”
   “No, you wouldn’t. I married the first two for sex and they enjoyed it so much they shared it with others. I married this one for money and she’s not much to look at. You wouldn’t be impressed.” He emptied the bottle. “I doubt if I can hang on until she dies.”
   “How old is she?”

  “Don’t ask. I really love her, you know. Honest. But after two years I now realize we have nothing in common but an acute awareness of the stock market.” He looked at the bartender. “Another beer, please.”
   Callahan chuckled and sipped his drink. “How much is she worth?”
   “Not nearly as much as I thought. I’m not sure really. Somewhere around five million, I think. She cleaned out husbands one and two, and I think she was attracted to me for the challenge of marrying just an average joe. That, and the sex is great, she said. They all say that, you know.”
   “You always picked losers, Gavin, even in law school. You’re attracted to neurotic and depressed women.”
   “And they’re attracted to me.” He turned the bottle up and drained half of it. “Why do we always eat in this place?”
   “I don’t know. It’s sort of traditional. It brings back fond memories of law school.”
   “We hated law school, Thomas. Everyone hates law school. Everyone hates lawyers.”
   “You’re in a fine mood.”
   “Sorry. I’ve slept six hours since they found the bodies. The Director screams at me at least five times a day. I scream at everybody under me. It’s one big brawl over there.”
   “Drink up, big boy. Our table’s ready. Let’s drink and eat and talk, and try to enjoy these few hours together.”
   “I love you more than my wife, Thomas. Do you know that?”
   “That’s not saying much.”
   “You’re right.”
   They followed the maitre d’ to a small table in the corner, the same table they always requested. Callahan ordered another round, and explained they would be in no hurry to eat.
   “Did you see that damned thing in the Post?” Verheek asked.
   “I saw it. Who leaked it?”
   “Who knows. The Director got the short list Saturday morning, hand-delivered by the President himself, with rather explicit demands about secrecy. He showed the list to no one over the weekend, then this morning the story hit with the names of Pryce and MacLawrence. Voyles went berserk when he saw it, and a few minutes later the President called. He rushed to the White House and they had a huge cuss fight. Voyles tried to attack Fletcher Coal, and had to be restrained by K.O. Lewis. Very nasty.”
   Callahan hung on every word. “This is pretty good.”
   “Yeah. I’m telling you this part because later, after a few more drinks, you’ll expect me to tell you who else is on the list and I won’t do it. I’m trying to be a friend, Thomas.”
   “Keep going.”
   “Anyway, there’s no way the leak came from us. Impossible. It had to come from the White House. The place is full of people who hate Coal, and it’s leaking like rusty pipes.”
   “Coal probably leaked it.”
   “Maybe so. He’s a sleazy bastard, and one theory has him leaking Pryce and MacLawrence to scare everyone, then later announcing two nominees who appear more moderate. It sounds like something he would do.”
   “I’ve never heard of Pryce and MacLawrence.”
   “Join the club. They’re both very young, early forties, with precious little experience on the bench. We haven’t checked them out, but they appear to be radically conservative.”
   “And the rest of the list?”
   “That was quick. Two beers down, and you’ve already popped the question.”
   The drinks arrived. “I want some of those mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat,” Verheek told the waiter. “Just to munch on. I’m starving.”
   Callahan handed over his empty glass. “Bring me an order too.”
   “Don’t ask again, Thomas. You may have to carry me out of here in three hours, but I’ll never tell. You know that. Let’s say that Pryce and MacLawrence seem to be reflective of the entire list.”
   “All unknowns?”
   “Basically, yes.”
   Callahan sipped the Scotch slowly and shook his head. Verheek removed his jacket and loosened his tie. “Let’s talk about women.”
   “No.”
   “How old is she?”
   “Twenty-four, but very mature.”
   “You could be her father.”
   “I may be. Who knows.”
   “Where’s she from?”
   “Denver. I told you that.”
   “I love Western girls. They’re so independent and unpretentious and they tend to wear Levis and have long legs. I may marry one. Does she have money?”
   “No. Her father was killed in a plane crash four years ago and her mother got a nice settlement.”
   “Then she has money.”
   “She’s comfortable.”
   “I’ll bet she is. Do you have a photo?”
   “No. She’s not a grandchild or a poodle.”
   “Why didn’t you bring a picture?”
   “I’ll get her to send you one. Why is this so amusing to you?”
   “It’s hilarious. The great Thomas Callahan, he of the disposable women, has fallen hard.”
   “I have not.”
   “It must be a record. What, nine, ten months now? You’ve actually maintained a steady relationship for almost a year, haven’t you?”
   “Eight months and three weeks, but don’t tell anyone, Gavin. It’s not easy for me.”
   “Your secret’s safe. Just give me all the details. How tall is she?”
   “Five-eight, hundred and twelve pounds, long legs, tight Levis, independent, unpretentious, your typical Western girl.”
   “I must find one for myself. Are you gonna marry her?”
   “Of course not! Finish your drink.”
   “Are you, like, monogamous now?”
   “Are you?”
   “Hell no. Never have been. But we’re not talking about me, Thomas, we’re talking about Peter Pan here, Cool Hand Callahan, the man with the monthly version of the world’s most gorgeous woman. Tell me, Thomas, and don’t lie to your best friend, just look me in the eyes and tell me if you have succumbed to a state of monogamy.”
   Verheek was leaning halfway across the table, watching and grinning stupidly.
   “Not so loud,” Callahan said, looking around.
   “Answer me.”
   “Give me the other names on the list, and I’ll tell you.”
   Verheek withdrew. “Nice try. I think the answer is yes. I think you’re in love with this gal, but too cowardly to admit it. I think she’s got your number, pal.”
   “Okay, she does. Do you feel better?”
   “Yeah, much better. When can I meet her?”
   “When can I meet your wife?”
   “You’re confused, Thomas. There’s a basic difference here. You don’t want to meet my wife, but I do want to meet Darby. You see. I assure you they are very dissimilar.”
   Callahan smiled and sipped. Verheek relaxed and crossed his legs in the aisle. He tilted the green bottle to his lips.
   “You’re wired, buddy,” Callahan said.
   “I’m sorry. I’m drinking as fast as I can.”
   The mushrooms were served in simmering skillets. Verheek stuffed two in his mouth and chewed furiously. Callahan watched. The Chivas had knocked off the hunger pains, and he would wait a few minutes. He preferred alcohol over food anyway.
   Four Arabs noisily filled a table next to them, yakking and jabbering in their language. All four ordered Jack Daniel’s.
   “Who killed them, Gavin?”
   He chewed for a minute, then swallowed hard. “If I knew, I wouldn’t tell. But I swear I do not know. It’s baffling. The killers vanished without a trace. It was meticulously planned and perfectly executed. Not a clue.”
   “Why the combination?”
   He stuffed another in his mouth. “Quite simple. It’s so simple, it’s easy to overlook. They were such natural targets. Rosenberg had no security system in his townhouse. Any decent cat burglar could come and go. And poor Jensen was hanging around those places at midnight. They were exposed. At the exact moment each died, the other seven Supremes had FBI agents in their homes. That’s why they were selected. They were stupid.”
   “Then who selected them?”
   “Someone with a lot of money. The killers were professionals, and they were probably out of the country within hours. We figure there were three, maybe more. The mess at Rosenberg’s could have been done by just one. We figure there were at least two working on Jensen. One or more looking out while the guy with the rope did his thing. Even though it was a dirty little place, it was open to the public, and quite risky. But they were good, very good.”
   “I’ve read a lone assassin theory.”
   “Forget it. It’s impossible for one man to kill both of them. Impossible.”
   “How much would these killers charge?”
   “Millions. And it took a bunch of money to plan it all.”
   “And you have no idea?”
   “Look, Thomas, I’m not involved in the investigation, so you’ll have to ask those guys. I’m sure they know a helluva lot more than I do. I’m just a lowly government lawyer.”
   “Yeah, who just happens to be on a first-name basis with the Chief Justice.”
   “He calls occasionally. This is boring. Let’s get back to women. I hate lawyer talk.”
   “Have you talked to him lately?”
   “Picking, Thomas, always picking. Yes, we chatted briefly this morning. He’s got all twenty-seven law clerks scouring the federal dockets high and low looking for clues. It’s fruitless, and I told him so. Every case that reaches the Supreme Court has at least two parties, and each party involved would certainly benefit if one or two or three justices would disappear and be replaced by one or two or three more sympathetic to its cause. There are thousands of appeals that could eventually end up here, and you can’t just pick one and say ‘This is it! This is the one that got ‘em killed.’ It’s silly.”
   “What did he say?”
   “Of course he agreed with my brilliant analysis. I think he called after he read the Post story to see if he could squeeze something out of me. Can you believe the nerve?”
   The waiter hovered over them with a hurried look.
   Verheek glanced at the menu, closed it, and handed it to him. “Grilled swordfish, blue cheese, no vegetable.”
   “I’ll eat the mushrooms,” Callahan said. The waiter disappeared.
   Callahan reached into his coat pocket and removed a thick envelope. He laid it on the table next to the empty Moosehead. “Take a look at this when you get a chance.”
   “What is it?”
   “It’s sort of a brief.”
   “I hate briefs, Thomas. In fact, I hate the law, and the lawyers, and with the exception of you, I hate law professors.”
   “Darby wrote it.”
   “I’ll read it tonight. What’s it about?”
   “I think I told you. She is very bright and intelligent, and a very aggressive student. She writes better than most. Her passion, other than me of course, is constitutional law.”
   “Poor thing.”
   “She took off four days last week, totally ignored me and the rest of the world, and came up with her own theory, which she has now discarded. But read it anyway. It’s fascinating.”
   “Who’s the suspect?”
   The Arabs erupted in screaming laughter, slapping each other and spilling whiskey. They watched them for a minute until they died down.
   “Don’t you hate a bunch of drunks?” Verheek said.
   “It’s sickening.”
   Verheek stuffed the envelope into his coat on the back of his chair. “What’s her theory?”
   “It’s a bit unusual. But read it. I mean, it can’t hurt, can it? You guys need the help.”
   “I’ll read it only because she wrote it. How is she in bed?”
   “How’s your wife in bed?”
   “Rich. In the shower, in the kitchen, at the grocery. She’s rich in everything she does.”
   “It can’t last.”
   “She’ll file by the end of the year. Maybe I’ll get the townhouse and some change.”
   “No prenuptial agreement?”
   “Yes, there is, but I’m a lawyer, remember. It’s got more loopholes than a tax reform act. A buddy of mine prepared it. Don’t you love the law?”
   “Let’s talk about something else.”
   “Women?”
   “I’ve got an idea. You want to meet the girl, right?”
   “We’re talking about Darby?”
   “Yes. Darby.”