The Court (9 page)

Haywood Cross sat behind his immaculate desk. His office always looked as if it had just been staged as an advertisement for quality office furniture. Cross, the firm's managing partner, had a fetish about neatness.

Jerry Green sat opposite the regal desk in a large leather chair. “The President wants me to do a job for him,” he said to Cross. “The White House people tell me it'll only take a couple weeks, but they want me to carry the title for a few months. For looks.”

“For looks?”

Green smiled. “Public relations. If I'm on and off the payroll in just a few weeks, the press corps might smell something odd, and perhaps connect the short term with my job assignment. But a couple of months won't excite any undue interest.”

“It would be very difficult to spare you for several months, Jerry. Although I do rather like the idea of one of our partners being counsel to the President. That sort of thing always impresses the clients.”

“Actually, I'd only be occupied for the few weeks. After that I'd be available to the firm. Informally, of course. Obviously, I won't be able to appear in court or before an agency during those months, but I can drop by. If any question comes up, I can always say I was just cleaning up a few things. I plan to donate my federal salary to charity. That should prevent any crackpot raising a conflict of interest issue.”

Haywood Cross beamed. “Well, that's much better. You're one of our key men around here, Jerry, but a few weeks away won't hurt the firm. And, all things considered, I think this arrangement will work out very well all the way around.”

“I'll take an official leave of absence from the firm for those months.”

The managing partner nodded. “There should be no problem. Of course, you know as well as I do, Jerry, that petty jealousies exist within this firm. That's true of all large law offices, of course. Still, I don't think anyone can raise any serious objections. It's very much in the firm's interest. If there's any trouble, I'll handle it. As I say, it will be a bit of prestige for us. Also, I daresay, it will open a few doors with the present administration. Of course,” he smiled, “that's your field, so I know I'm not suggesting anything you haven't thought of before.”

Green was pleased. It was going just as well as he had anticipated. Even if the FTC case went against him, his new position would insulate him against any possible dismissal from the gilded offices of Harley Dingell.

“It certainly won't hurt the firm,” Green said, with just the right inflection. He knew Haywood Cross would use his own imagination to make the appointment a hundred times more powerful and influential than it was. Amos Deering had been right about the effect of the title.

“What are your duties to be at the White House?” Cross asked. “That is, if you can say.”

He could say, but that would diminish the mystique he had created. “I understand the President has several things in mind. As you know, Haywood, we worked together during the Reagan administration.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Cross was duly impressed.

“Anyway, I've been assured that my assignment won't take long.”

“It's nothing, er, questionable, I trust?”

Green smiled. “Quite respectable in every way.”

“Of course.” The managing partner smiled.

“I'll keep you advised.”

“When do you start?”

“I wanted to have this talk with you first, Haywood. I told the President I needed your approval.” It was a lie, but he saw the flush of pleasure in Cross's smooth face. “So if it's agreeable with the firm, I'll notify the White House today, and they'll make the announcement tomorrow.”

“That quick?”

“If government really wants something, you'd be surprised how fast things can move.”

Cross shook his head as he stood up. “Jerry, the very best of luck.” He extended his hand. “And we shall be glad when you can return.”

Haywood Cross's skin was as dry as old leaves, but his grasp was firm.

“I'll dictate something about the request for leave and have my girl bring it to you, Haywood. I won't be seeing you for a few weeks, but I'll check in by telephone now and then.”

“Please do. It all sounds very exciting.”

Green walked down the thickly carpeted hall to his own office. It was as large as Haywood Cross's office, all the partners' offices were of equal size, but Green's office was certainly not as neat as the managing partner's. Green felt secure in his office, comfortable and safe. It was very much a refuge. He wished he was an “office” lawyer, as were most of the other senior partners, then he would never have to leave the womblike protection that the place seemed to provide.

He sat back in his high-backed swivel chair and closed his eyes. The thing had worked out exactly as he had hoped. It was a triumph. He would be able to exist in this comfortable cocoon for many years, and just on the strength of a few weeks' work for the President. The title, Special Counsel, would provide the necessary job insurance. But he still wondered about the price he would have to pay.

The universal desire to return home was celebrated in song and story, but he didn't want to go. Lansing. He hadn't been back since the funeral. He wondered at his own acute sense of foreboding.

Green reached across the desk and idly fingered the gold frame holding his wife's picture. It was a typical studio shot, the face lighted and retouched until it was almost unrecognizable. Still, even with the softening magic of the photographer's art, the face reflected the cool hardness of the woman portrayed. She certainly had none of the softness of Regina Kelso.

He drew his hand away from the picture, surprised that he should even remember Regina Kelso. Regina was a part of his youth, part of Lansing, but she was a pleasant part of memory. He tried to recall the name of the writer who said that old loves were always the best. Memory was ever changing, and like an artist, it kept altering the hues and tones until only the desired impression was left. Truth and reality were often discarded by memory as it completed its idealized image.

He pulled out a yellow pad and forced his mind away from recollection and onto the task of composing his leave of absence statement. It would have to be worded just right. He could ill afford to employ language that might allow some envious partner a wedge to eject him permanently from the firm. At the same time, the words had to be definite enough to demonstrate vividly that he was divorced from the firm's business for a while. The White House had to be protected. It was attention to detail that counted. Many an investigation came to nothing because a lawyer had had the foresight to set down just the right words.

But he found it difficult to concentrate. The damn Lansing assignment was like a trip to the dentist, he couldn't stop thinking about it. All kinds of memories came flooding back. He didn't want to, but he thought of his parents and the big house on Okemos Street. He thought of his brother. For a moment he could visualize his brother's eyes when they last met. Then he felt anger.

The thoughts of Regina Kelso, the big house, and the other images fled from his mind. It was the thought of his brother that had done it. He breathed deeply, then expelled the air through clenched teeth. He was now able to concentrate and his pen danced across the lined yellow paper as he wrote.

*   *   *

“Mrs. Howell, this is Dr. Gibson.”

“How nice to meet you, doctor. Dr. Kaufman has told me quite a bit about you. All very impressive.”

Gibson was a very tall, graying, storklike man. He blinked over his glasses at the small plump woman before him. “Thank you,” he said simply.

Dr. Kaufman beamed. “Doctor Gibson is considered the top neurosurgeon in the United States. We have called him in as a consultant. He'll go over our findings and conduct his own examination. Your husband is an important man, Mrs. Howell. He's getting the very best medical care the country can offer.”

“I deeply appreciate it.”

“Any history of stroke in his family?” Gibson asked abruptly.

She shook her head. “Not that I know of. There have been family members with heart problems, but no strokes, as far as I know.”

The tall doctor nodded. “That in itself is a good sign. The more we learn about these matters, the more everything points to the importance of genetic factors.”

“Why do you say it's good?” she asked.

Gibson attempted a smile, but failed. His face was not accustomed to the expression. “If it isn't hereditary, perhaps your husband's problem is a comparatively minor mishap involving one of the blood vessels in the brain. We have had some success with surgical repair in many such cases.”

“And if it is hereditary?”

Gibson shrugged. “Usually, the stroke signals a breakdown of the whole system. Much like old original auto parts wearing out. When one goes, the others usually do. If we repair, something else will just let go. The people with a family history of stroke usually aren't good candidates for remedial surgery.”

“This surgery,” she paused, as if carefully selecting her words, “I presume it is, well, dangerous?”

The tall doctor's eyes seemed cold, almost lifeless. “We won't cross any bridges, Mrs. Howell, until we get to them. I will study the CAT scan and the other clinical tests, and then I'll consult with the excellent team of physicians here. If it appears that surgery might be a solution, then we'll discuss it with you fully. The decision, of course, will be yours.”

She bit her lip, and her eyes were suddenly filled with tears.

Dr. Kaufman casually put one arm about her and gave her an affectionate hug.

Gibson never changed expression. “I'm a surgeon, not a gambler, Mrs. Howell.” The words were spoken sharply.

“Don't worry,” Dr. Kaufman said softly.

She nodded. “My children,” she began, then stopped for a moment. “My children are grown, and I would want them to, well, help with any decision like that.”

Dr. Kaufman gently patted her cheek. “This is a terrible time for you. Let us carry your cross for a while, all right? You quit worrying and let us do it. Just take a break. Go home, have a drink, grab a hot tub, and relax. I promise you that Dr. Gibson and I will worry for you.” He laughed. “Is it a deal?”

She looked up at him, blinked and then smiled. “Yes, that does sound good. I think that would make me feel better.”

“Fine,” Kaufman said. “You go home now and let us take care of things.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

She left the small waiting lounge.

Kaufman spoke only after they watched her board the elevator. “I know your reputation as a brain surgeon, Gibson, but let me tell you, you have an absolutely lousy bedside manner.”

Gibson looked at him coolly. “In my line of work, Kaufman, I end up killing more people than Hitler. I have to maintain a certain detachment just to retain my sanity.”

“Maybe so,” Kaufman said, frowning. “But if you don't keep the family happy you end up to your ass in malpractice suits. It's not only a kindness, it's a form of self-protection.”

“Perhaps. I prefer competency over familiarity, however. And no one has collected off me yet.” Gibson's expressionless eyes looked like two stones as they peered over the glasses at Kaufman. “Now let's take a look at sleeping beauty, shall we? I've always entertained a theory that judges really have no brains. Now I shall get an opportunity to actually look.”

*   *   *

She knew she wouldn't come, but she was enjoying herself. She used her well-developed stomach muscles to exert pressure. She increased the motion of her body as she straddled him. His hands clutched at her breasts. His eyes were wide, his teeth clenched. She liked the reddening flush of his skin as his facial muscles contorted and turned his handsome face into a grimace. He raised his head, shuddered, then lay back. She experienced a sense of power over him, as if she just had beaten him in a fight. It was pleasant.

He lay exhausted beneath her but she kept methodically gyrating.

“Hey, I'm through,” he whispered.

“Good?” she asked.

“Great,” he sighed.

She gently slid off and lay beside him. Reaching across his hairy chest, she picked up her watch from the nightstand. It was almost four.

“Does that help relax the tensions of the working day?” she whispered.

He could only nod. It was very much like a victory. She could understand the elation of prizefighters after they had demolished their opponents. She had a sudden urge to shout, to give vent to her triumph, to somehow exult in her physical powers.

“I have to go, love,” she said. “I'll grab a quick shower. I want to check in at my office before I go home.” She rolled off the bed. She could see her reflection in the bedroom mirror. She was trim, slim-waisted, and athletic. She liked what she saw.

“You're one hell of a woman, Carol.”

She smiled at him. He lay like a broken doll, his thick legs akimbo, his muscles lax.

“It depends on the partner, my dear.” She knew men always liked to hear that. They always seemed to treasure that image; she was the violin and they were the inspired master player. The opposite was true, but it always pleased them to think otherwise.

She showered and dressed quickly. He still lay on the bed, the sheet pulled up to his waist.

“Carol, I'm crazy about you. When can I see you again?”

She smiled. “I thought we agreed there would be no emotional entanglements.”

He sat up. “Jesus, don't tell me Carol Green's nothing but a hit-and-run girl.”

“Oh?”

“Like a sailor on leave; just bed them and scram. You don't seem the type.”

She laughed. “I've been compared to a number of things, but never to a horny sailor. I think that just may be a compliment.”

“I want to see you again.” He climbed out of the bed. She admired his nakedness. Most men had beautiful bodies. He was well muscled and had a nice sprinkling of body hair. And she found his dimpled grin infectious.