Authors: Allen Drury
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Genre Fiction, #Political, #Contemporary Fiction
“Not me,” Janie said.
“—or somebody will tell her,” he repeated firmly, “and then she’ll call me. Would you like a report when she does?”
“No,” she said, laughing in spite of herself. “Of course not. But I just want her to call you, that’s all.”
“So do I,” he said calmly.
“But I expect,” Janie added, “she may say something mean. I don’t think she likes you to be famous.”
“No, it isn’t that. And you mustn’t be so critical of your mother.”
“She’s critical of you.”
“That’s something else. It’s also none of your business, young lady.”
“Well, I don’t understand it!” his daughter said flatly. He sighed.
“I think she just doesn’t—like Washington too well. She’d rather I wasn’t in public life.”
“Well, you are,” Janie remarked. “She ought to be used to it by this time.”
“I know,” he said. “But—maybe she never will be. We’ll just have to see. Anyway,” he went on firmly, closing that subject,
“I’m
glad I’m in public life, and I’m very glad I have your support. I’m very glad you called. Thank you very much for that, baby. I’ve got to get back to work and clear up a few things here, right now, so I’ll see you later at home, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy,” she said. “I love you.”
“I love you too, baby,” he said, and put down the phone with another sigh. His secretary promptly buzzed again. This time it was the call he expected.
“Well,” she said, “you made it, Mr. Justice. I suppose I should congratulate you.”
“I expect most people will,” he said, voice calm and, he knew, infuriating. Her voice rose sharply, as expected, in reply.
“And so I’d better not go against the crowd, hm? Well, I expect they’ll congratulate me, too. In fact, some of my friends already have.”
“And how did you answer them?” he couldn’t help asking. “With a scream?”
“I should have. But no, as always I’m being the perfect wife. ‘Thank you so much—such an opportunity for him—yes, he can be of great service—so honored the President considered him worthy—you think he will be a great Justice?—well, aren’t you kind and sweet—I shall
certainly
tell him… You seem to be very popular.”
“I’m getting a few calls myself.”
“All favorable?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“There’s no possibility you’d turn it down?”
“The Supreme Court?” He snorted. “Oh, come now. I accepted two hours ago, when the President called. But don’t worry. The Court doesn’t have a very heavy social schedule. You won’t have to play the perfect wife too many times a year.”
“Then I really
will
be bored,” she said, and sounded genuinely bleak. “But I think I’ll go right ahead entertaining anyway. It’s the only thing to keep myself from going mad.”
He uttered a sound that combined protest and resignation.
“You’re always so frantic lately. Why don’t you just relax and take it easy? There are plenty of things to keep you busy in this town. And even on the Main Line I think they consider Supreme Court Justices worthy of some respect.” He tried to be light. “I mean, there are only nine of us in the whole world, after all. Rarity should mean something.”
“I’m bored,” she said, “don’t you see? Bored, bored, bored! As I’ve told you before.”
“Then,” he said quietly, “I can only conclude that, at the heart of it, you’re bored with me. Because Washington is not all that boring a city. It is, in fact, a very exciting city. So I guess I’m the culprit.”
There was silence, after which she said in a rather distant, thoughtful voice, “Yes, I’m afraid that’s probably the truth. There was a time once, quite a long time, when you weren’t. We had fun when we were younger and you were just starting up the ladder. And for quite a while after that. But the higher you’ve gone, the more absorbed you’ve become. The more your career and ambitions have meant to you, the less I have.”
“That isn’t true! That’s a horrible thing to say! I have been a good and loving husband, a good father—”
“Yes,” she interrupted sharply. “You’ve taken Janie away from me, all right, there’s no doubt of that.”
“I haven’t taken Janie away from you! I can’t help it if Janie finds you cold and me loving. You’ve had her with you a lot more than I have. I’m sorry if you feel left out, but that must have been your own decision. It wasn’t mine.”
It was her turn to cry out.
“Oh! How can you be so—so cruel! How can you be so
obtuse?
I don’t think you’ve understood anybody’s feelings but your own, or been interested in anybody’s feelings but your own, for the past ten years. You’ve been so busy scheming how to get on that Court that you’ve just lost all touch with human emotions! You no longer have a heart, if you ever had one!”
“That isn’t how Janie sees it,” he said, knowing he shouldn’t, but driven by some devil he seemed unable to control. “Now is it?”
“Oh!” she cried again.
“Oh!”
And began to cry, which he thought was probably just a trick, so far had they parted from one another in these recent years and so little did he trust the honesty of her emotions now.
“The thing I will always remember about this day,” he went on quietly in words that he knew were searing, but again, he seemed unable to stop, “is that my own wife spoiled it for me with this telephone call. I thought all my family would be happy for me. The rest are, but the most important one is not. I feel a dead weight of opposition as I take up these new burdens. It doesn’t make them any easier to carry, and it spoils the day that should have been one of the happiest of my life.”
“You are impossible,” she said in a choked voice. “Just
impossible.
So
superior.
And so
smug.
And so—so
perfect.”
“I’m sorry,” he said evenly, “but if that’s the way you feel, then maybe we’d better be honest about it and get a divorce.”
“Oh, no,” she said with a bitter little laugh. “Oh, no, I won’t let you get away with it that easily. I’ll stay around for a while and go right on pretending that everything’s all right. You’ve put me in hell, but that will be
your
hell, Tay. The perfect Justice will continue to have the perfect wife. And how envious the rest of them will be. And how happy we will be.”
“I’m going to hang up now,” he said in a dulled voice. I’ll see you at home. We can talk about it there.”
“No!”
she said. “We won’t ever talk about it again! We’ll just go on, that’s all. We’ll just go on.”
“All right,” he said in the same lifeless tone. “Well just go on.”
But how they could, or how he could take up his new responsibilities with the clear head and untroubled heart he felt he must have, he did not know; and all through the afternoon as he took more calls, accepted more congratulations, answered questions from the media, taped two television segments for the evening news, a leaden sadness and worry dragged him down. Just before he left the Department of Labor at 6 p.m., after his secretary had gone for the day, he put in a call to the
Washingtonian.
“Catherine Corning, please,” he requested, holding his voice steadier than he at first thought he could.
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, “but I believe she’s gone for the day.”
“Do you have a home number for her?”
The standard Washington answer came back.
“I’m sorry, but she has an unlisted number and we’re not permitted to give them out. If you wish to leave your name and number, I can have her call you tomorrow—”
He took a deep breath.
“Just tell her that her friend from Civics I called.”
“Civics I?” the receptionist asked in a puzzled voice. “What agency of the government is that?”
“Just tell her,” he said with a sudden impatient harshness. “She’ll understand.”
“Is this some kind of a joke?”
“That’s for her to decide,” he said in the same tone. “Just do as I say, please.”
“I’ll see she gets the message.” There was a sniff. “I only hope you know what you’re doing.”
I hope so, too, sister, he thought bitterly as he put on his coat and hat and let himself out, saying good night to the handful of guards on night duty. You bet your bottom dollar I hope so, too.
***
Chapter 3
In the obscure little cabin huddled in the woods near the town of Pomeroy Station, Earle Holgren was slowly and methodically putting on his jogging shorts and shoes as the sun slanted swiftly lower through the trees and the long southern twilight began. He had just made love to Janet, who lay sprawled on the bed.
“You look like a damned sack of potatoes,” he said in a contemptuous voice.
“I didn’t notice you minding much in the last few minutes,” she replied with an unimpressed yawn. “Or maybe you were so hot it wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“Don’t be so damned smart,” he said, suddenly threatening, swinging around and coming toward her with a menacing air.
“Okay, okay,” she said, waving him off with an unhurried hand. “No need to get nasty about it. You must really be full of p. and v., to be going jogging after
that.”
She chuckled suddenly. “I know you aren’t full of anything else at the moment.”
“You’re so damned funny,” he said. “Someday you’ll die laughing.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe. We’ll see. Where are you going now, back to your precious atomic plant?”
“It isn’t
my
plant,” he said, “and it isn’t precious. It’s a damned vicious crime against all of humanity. It’s a desecration of the earth and the sky and all the creatures therein. It’s an abomination against mankind.”
“You really sound like a hill preacher,” she said with mock admiration. “I guess it’s living around here for the past few months. When are we going to leave this dump and get back to someplace that’s fun?”
“Soon enough,” he said grimly. “Soon enough.”
“Going to take me and John Lennon Peacechild with you?” she inquired, sitting up lazily and pulling on her robe; but he could tell she was really asking and really paying attention to his answer.
“Of course I am,” he said scornfully. “What makes you think I wouldn’t?”
“I don’t know,” she said, yawning again. “Sometimes I just wonder.”
“Well, don’t wonder!” he ordered sharply. “People get hurt wondering.”
She looked suddenly alert. The dullness miraculously dropped away.
“That’s the second time today you’ve told me about people getting hurt. What are you planning? Going to hurt somebody? Going to hurt us?”
“No, I am not going to hurt somebody!” he said furiously. “And I’m not going to hurt you! Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“Have fun at the old atomic plant,” she said, yawning yet again and apparently turning dull and uncaring as abruptly as she had roused. “They must think you’re part of the scenery, by this time.”
“They won’t be there,” he said sharply. “It’s past quitting time. You don’t catch those capitalistic two-TV bastards working any more than they have to. The day crew won’t be there.”
“Well,” she said, looking around vaguely for John Lennon Peacechild, who was peacefully snoring in his crib in the corner, “don’t get hurt prowling around. I imagine they’ve got guards.”
“Yes, they’ve got guards. They’re friends of mine.”
“Oh, you know them,” she said, and once again he had the impression that she was paying attention much more closely than she would have him know.
“Yes, I know them. Now get your ass up off that bed and start getting supper. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, standing up and starting toward the crib. “Yes,
sir.
When are they ever going to finish that old plant, anyway? 1995? It seems like we’ve been here forever.”
“Next Friday,” he said with a grim satisfaction. “At three p.m. in the afternoon.”
“My,” she said admiringly as she scooped up John Lennon Peacechild and began crooning to him as he grunted and reached for her breast “You
do
know everything about that old plant, don’t you?”
“I don’t know a damned thing,” he said angrily as he flung open the door and stepped outside. “Not a damned thing.”
“That’s good!” she cried as he slammed the door. “Because I think it’s best not to know about things like that!”
Instantly he flung the door open again and glared at her.
“And what the hell do you mean by that?”
“Not a thing,” she said as John Lennon Peacechild nuzzled greedily at her bulging flesh. “Not a thing at all. After all,” she said, giving him an innocent look over the baby’s busily working head, “what could I know? You’re the one who knows everything.”
“You get that damned supper,” he ordered grimly. “And don’t ask me any more damned questions, hear?”
And slammed out again and started jogging along the lane toward the deserted roadway in the gathering dusk.
“Yes, sir,” she said thoughtfully as she stepped to the window and watched him go. “Yes,
sir!”
***
Chapter 4
In Washington, too, the long twilight began, and past the stately front entrance to the Supreme Court the stream of home-going cars passed steadily on their way to Maryland and Virginia. Skillful lighting illuminated the great white building so that its front portico seemed to glow from within. Along the main floor, obscured by trees and shrubbery, other lights burned. All of the Justices and their staffs were still at work. The day of Taylor Barbour’s nomination was drawing to a close. In the chambers of the Chief Justice, following the pleasant custom he had established soon after his appointment five years ago, he and such brethren as wished to were gathered to hail the coming of the night with whatever potion pleased them.
Duncan Elphinstone, who had always been a very light drinker, was holding a glass of white wine, as were Mary-Hannah McIntosh and Ray Ullstein. Wally Flyte and Rupert Hemmelsford, veterans of innumerable similar sessions in the Senate, were both drinking bourbon and water. Moss Pomeroy was sipping a vodka and tonic, Hughie Demsted the same, Clem Wallenberg a martini. They had just filled their glasses. Turning to one another with mock solemnity, they joined the Chief in their invariable toast, originally proposed by Justice Flyte in a characteristically irreverent moment:
“To the Honorable the Supreme Court and the Honorable Us!”
“Moss,” Hughie Demsted said, “tell us about your buddy Barbour. What can we expect?”
Moss looked thoughtful for a moment as they all settled down on chairs and sofas and studied him expectantly.
“W—ell,” he began slowly. “I first met Taylor Barbour in the library at Harvard Law School just about”—his eyes narrowed as he calculated—“twenty-four years ago this very day. Or maybe yesterday, I’m not quite sure. Anyway, a long time ago. We racked up positively brilliant grades together and we scoured the eastern seaboard for young ladies. You all know his general record—”
“I do,” Justice Hemmelsford said, “and it’s too damned liberal for me. But I will say he’s a good lawyer.”
“He is that,” Justice Demsted agreed, “and personally, I find his liberal record quite acceptable.”
“You
would,” Rupert Hemmelsford said. “All you young fellows are alike.”
“I don’t see Moss winning any liberal ratings,” Hughie demurred with a grin.
“I try,” Moss said. “I try. Anyway, you know that his record is liberal, that in private practice he got away from corporate law and got more and more deeply involved in social causes, and that finally that brought him to the favorable attention of our great co-worker in the White House, who thereupon appointed him an Assistant Attorney General and then Solicitor General, which meant that he spent most of his time up here arguing the government’s side. I defer to my elders as to how good he was at that.”
“I thought he was very cogent,” the Chief said. “Very well informed, and well prepared.”
“Very effective as an advocate,” Ray Ullstein agreed. Wally Flyte nodded.
“A damned good speaker. He can be very powerful when he wants to be.”
“He impresses me as being very sincere in what he believes,” Mary-Hannah said.
“And I’m not?” Justice Hemmelsford demanded in mock indignation. “Why, Justice McIntosh! What a thing to say about a brother!” And his eyebrows twitched and blinked and he gave her a sidelong, amiable leer. She laughed.
“Rupert, you old fraud, of course you’re sincere. Sometimes you’re more sincere than sincere. That’s why I always tremble when I find we’re on opposite sides of something. I expect to be decimated by one of those zinging minority opinions you hand down. Positively scathing!”
“The fact that I am in the minority so often says something I don’t like too well about this Court,” Rupe Hemmelsford observed seriously. “I think there’s entirely too much of this five-to-four business.”
“You wouldn’t mind if it were five to four your way, Rupe,” Justice Demsted remarked. “So stop the crocodile tears.”
“Actually,” Duncan Elphinstone said thoughtfully, “it would please me, too, if we could find a little more unanimity these days on some things. I agree with Rupe, we’re very much a five-to-four Court right now; one man—or woman—can swing it a little too easily, it seems to me. Maybe it’s just foolish personal pride on my part, but once in a while I’d like to see ‘the Elphinstone Court’ really agree on something. Now,” he added in a tone so unconsciously wistful that they all looked amused, “I suppose Taylor Barbour will bring in one more discordant note.”
“One more liberal note,” Justice Wallenberg said approvingly.
“One more radical note,” Justice Hemmelsford responded gloomily.
“Oh, come on, now,” Justice Pomeroy objected. “One more independent and self-respecting note, to join a similar chorus from the rest of us. He’s a brilliant man, he’s a great advocate, he’s compassionate, tolerant, broad-minded and determined. What more could you ask?”
“God!” Rupert Hemmelsford snorted. “Do we need any more determined people on this Court? That’s half the trouble now.”
“Personally—” Justice Ullstein said quietly, and because he so rarely spoke up to assert himself about anything, saving that for his incisive, clear-cut and powerful opinions from the Bench, they all turned to him respectfully. “Personally, I think it is well that the diversity of the Court is going to be maintained. I know the Chief would like us to be more unanimous. I suppose any Chief Justice would like to have his Court speak with one voice, as John Marshall often managed to persuade his to do. But I’m afraid it won’t work now as it did then. Still, I should like to see more unanimity because I should like to see more consistency. I think consistency is the key to the law; as well, I might add, as the key to the Court’s continuing strength as a co-equal branch of the government.
“Some of us can still remember World War II days when Joseph Stalin inquired, ‘How many divisions has the Pope?’ How many divisions do we have? None, when you come right down to it. But we, like the Pope, possess a mighty army nonetheless, for our strength rests on the willing and freely accorded acceptance of a free and democratic people. But that is all it rests on. John Marshall virtually made the Court out of whole cloth, single-handedly and over the furious opposition of his second cousin, Thomas Jefferson, who fought him all the way. He succeeded and so here we are. But if we are not consistent, if we sway too much with each passing wind, if we are divided too often and for too long, then our strength wavers and we are by that diminished.
“I hope our new Justice may aid us to find a more generally acceptable ground among our differing opinions. I welcome his coming.”
“Hear, hear,” Hughie Demsted said, and all, even Justice Wallenberg in a rather grudging way, gave Justice Ullstein a little round of friendly applause, as they sometimes did when he delivered one of his rare personal pronouncements.
“He may do that,” Moss Pomeroy said, “though actually we all know that he’s going to go with the liberal side, which will just guarantee more five-to-fours. But, that’s life.” He uttered their closing formula. “Another, anyone?”
“Not I, thanks,” Hughie said. “It’s late and I’ve got to run. We’ve got guests coming for dinner and Kate will never forgive me.”
“I, too,” Mary-Hannah said. “Can you give me a ride to Watergate, Hughie?”
“With pleasure. Anyone else need one?”
“I’m staying to do a little more work,” Wally Flyte said, and several others, including the Chief Justice, said the same. They parted with friendly good-byes. By tacit agreement it had long ago been decided that no one would take a second drink. Their pleasant little ritual simply gave whoever was free, and wanted to, a chance to meet at the end of the day—exchange news and views on whatever might interest them—relax together for a few minutes before going home or out into the nighttime social Washington—become more friendly with one another.
As he bade them all good night and returned to his own big desk to consume a hasty cup of soup and a hamburger, reopen the briefs on
Steiner
v.
Oregon,
up for certiorari from the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, and start working on into the night, the Chief congratulated himself once again that what they had unanimously christened “The Certiorari Club” had been a good inspiration on his part. The Elphinstone Court was not as unified as he would have liked but it was a friendly Court in contrast to some in the not so distant past which had housed real feuds among the Justices. He liked that and prided himself upon it. He had no doubt that Taylor Barbour would fit into it, as a person, very well.
Before getting to work again, he decided to go out for a moment to the Great Hall of the Court and, as he liked to put it, “restore myself.” There in the huge echoing marble foyer lined with busts of former Chief Justices, his habit was to stand off to the side in a niche beside one of his predecessors and, turning toward the oaken doors of the Court Chamber at the far end, simply surrender himself for a moment to the past and to the awesome majesty of the law which he and his fellow Justices each in their time embodied. He had been on the Court nine years now, Chief Justice for five, and it still was a thrill to him to cross the broad marble esplanade on First Street Northeast, climb slowly—at seventy it was becoming slower—the fifty-three marble steps to the oval marble esplanade in front of the building, go through the pair of six-ton bronze doors past the guards and the admonitory sign SILENCE, and enter this vast white chamber where tourists, law clerks, building staff, guards, newsmen, lawyers, Justices crisscrossed as they went about the business of the Court.
There was rarely an hour of the day when the Great Hall was not busy. There was always life there: the life of the law, to which he was devoted, and from whose contemplation he always drew renewed strength.
So it was on this night when the Court was about to be complete again with its ninth Justice. He looked forward with real anticipation to the addition of Taylor Barbour. The Court, as Ray Ullstein had truly said, rested on the freely given acceptance of a democratic people: over and above his other responsibilities and burdens, each Justice carried the preservation of that acceptance on his shoulders. Anything that showed undue dissension, anything that broke the solemnity of the law, anything that reduced the dignity and the stature of the institution had the potential of weakening in some measure that acceptance.
His great predecessor John Marshall, fourth Chief Justice and virtually single-handed creator of the Court as the country knew it today, had always been extremely jealous of the reputation and standing of the Court. He had fought his cousin Jefferson to a standstill on the issue of the Court’s right to determine the constitutionality of the laws, and had won; and nearly all Justices from the early days of the struggling Republic on through the gathering storm of civil war, right on down to today’s violence-plagued, crime-ridden nation, had been vividly conscious of that responsibility. He was confident Tay would bear it well.
The challenges had been tough before, Edmund Duncan Elphinstone reflected now, but perhaps no tougher, if as tough, as those the Court faced today. Very soon now, in some form or other, the issue of violence would come up to them. And it was very apt to be, as they had discussed with foreboding this morning, not only the violence of criminal against victim but the counter-violence of an enraged citizenry against the criminal. Then might come testings he did not really want to think about at this moment. But he knew that sooner or later he must. And so must they all.
He sighed heavily, completely unconscious of anyone around.
“Good night, Chief!” someone called cheerfully. He came out of his reverie to see a bright-faced, rosy-cheeked young woman in her mid-twenties hurrying by with a briefcase on her way out of the building.
“Good night, counsel,” he said. “I hope you’ve had a good day.”
“Busy,” she called back over her shoulder. “I work for Justice Ullstein.
Busy!
But I’ll survive!”
“Good girl!” he called after her with a smile. “So will we all.” Adding to himself more grimly than he had realized he felt:
I
hope.
He waved good night to the guards, turned to the right at the end of the now almost deserted Great Hall and made his way along the corridor that ran parallel to and around the Chamber, and so to his offices and the offices of the other Justices beyond. He had a good crew with which to navigate the heavy seas that appeared to lie ahead. The bequests of three very different Presidents, they were a highly individual and in some ways, he supposed, quirky bunch. Yet all were brilliant lawyers, dedicated public servants, devoted defenders of the law and the Constitution as each saw it.
His mind ran over them as he crossed his silent office and went into the tiny kitchen that had been installed by Chief Justice Warren Burger, who loved to cook and often prepared lunch for himself or an occasional guest or two. He opened a can of tomato soup, put it in a pan and set it to heat; took two frozen hamburger patties out of the small refrigerator, unwrapped them, put them in the oven; went into the bathroom and made himself ready for the sumptuous meal that always worried Birdie, dining alone at home in Georgetown, but which he always found quite enough on the frequent nights when he stayed late working. In the mirror a wise, wrinkled, kindly little face topped by a startling upright shock of snow-white hair looked back at him with an analytical expression.
“Birdie,” he had demanded not long ago after reading a profile of himself in the
New York Times,
“do I look ‘monkey-faced’? Am I a ‘Roger B. Taney type’? Do I look as though I might have been ‘weaned on a pickle’? Do I, now, really?”
“Of course not, dear,” she had replied promptly, but with a gentle little chuckle that caused him to give her a sharp look before starting to smile himself. “At least, not
entirely.
Your expression always indicates that it was probably a
sweet
pickle.”
“Now, how,” he demanded, “is that supposed to help my wounded ego?”
“Well,” said his companion of forty-five years with the amiable candor he always prized and always relied upon, “you must admit you aren’t a blond, six-foot Viking. You are rather small, you know, which of course is fine with me, otherwise, since I’m also five feet four, I probably wouldn’t ever have married you. And you aren’t any Rudolph Valentino, which is also fine with me, because that means I haven’t had to worry about you—too much—with other women. And you do rather resemble Chief Justice Taney, a bit. But, then, not all you Chief Justices can look like Charles Evans Hughes, after all. There was only one of
him.”