cause a problem. He was never technically inclined, my father; the digital revolution was, in his oft-repeated judgment, a gigantic mistake. Trying to calm down, I set the disk on the counter. It has warped a little, and I do not dare try to force it into the slot on the right-hand side of my laptop.
Unbelievable. What a waste.
But maybe there is something left. Who do I know who might have some expertise at retrieving data from a damaged diskette? Only one name comes to mind: my old college friend John Brown, professor of electrical engineering at Ohio State. The last time I was with John, he spotted Lionel Eldridge in the woods behind my house-not that either of us knew it was Lionel at the time. That same innocent afternoon, Mariah told me the private detective’s report was missing, and my father’s arrangements seemed infinitely distant. Now, at last, I hold the arrangements in my hand, and I need John again to help me unpack them.
Why wait? I can call him right now, unless the storm has knocked out the phones along with the power.
I first take the precaution of sliding the disk back into my little sister’s bear. With the storm blasting the windows, that might be the safest place. I have just turned around to look for my address book in the family room when the kitchen door smashes open.
I spin around, expecting to discover that it is the wind.
It isn’t.
Standing just over the threshold as rain sheets into the house, a small gun glittering in his hand, is Associate Justice of the Supreme Court Wallace Warrenton Wainwright.
CHAPTER 62
“Hello, Mr. Justice,” I say as calmly as I can.
“You don’t seem terribly surprised.”
“I’m not.” Although I am, really. I watch his gun hand. I am tired of watching gun hands, but there is little else to do.
He closes the door firmly behind him, purses his thin lips. “Is that it?” He points with the gun. I was holding the bear when he broke in, and I am still clutching it in both hands. When I say nothing, Wainwright sighs. “Don’t play games, Misha. It’s too late for that. Your father obviously hid something inside the teddy bear. What is it?”
“A computer disk.”
He rubs his neck with his free hand. His dark blue rain slicker, which would be hard to see in the middle of the storm, is dribbling water all over the floor. “He told me there was something. He didn’t tell me what. He didn’t tell me where.” His voice is vague, distant, dreamy. I realize that the Justice is as exhausted, both physically and emotionally, as I am. “Everybody knew there was… something. But nobody was looking for a bear. And nobody thought there might be a disk. Not from your low-tech father. People were looking for papers. That was very clever. A disk.” A long exhalation as he pulls himself together again. “So, how long have you been on to me?”
“Ever since I realized the obvious. That my father couldn’t swing all those cases by himself. The federal court of appeals sits in three-judge panels. So, if he was fixing cases, he needed two votes, not one.”
Wainwright moves farther into the room, winding up near the arched entryway into the hall. It occurs to me that his line of fire now covers both me and the back door, as though he is expecting a surprise. He seems to know what he is doing with the gun, so I am determined to make no sudden moves. My plan has succeeded, but it has also failed. I was sure nobody would be out in this storm, and I therefore have no serious hope of rescue.
“So what? It could have been any of a dozen judges. It didn’t have to be me.” He sounds worried, and it occurs to me that he is wondering whether he has done enough to cover his tracks. If I was on to him, who else might be?
“True. But you practically told me yourself. When I came to see you. You said my father was no more likely to fix cases than you were.”
He offers me his famous twisted smile, which I now see is more sardonic than amused. Were all of us so badly fooled for all those years? Did we really mistake his moral arrogance for compassion? He probably enjoyed telling me the literal truth while also lying. Wallace Wainwright, like the Judge, has always known he is smarter than most people. He is not accustomed to having anybody keep up. “I suppose I was being too clever,” he says.
“I suppose.” No reason not to tell him the rest. After all, as long as we are talking, he is not shooting, and I have come to like not being shot. “I also suppose that Cassie Meadows kept you up to date on what was happening.”
Perhaps it is my imagination. The gun seems to waver, just slightly. “What makes you think that?”
“I should have realized it from the start. Mallory Corcoran handed me off to Cassie because he didn’t have time for my problems. He tried to impress me by telling me she was a former Supreme Court law clerk. It was clear to me that everything Cassie learned, somebody else was learning, too. I assumed it was Mallory Corcoran. But then it occurred to me she could just be keeping in touch with her former employer. The Justice whose law clerk she was. So I looked up Cassie in Martindale-Hubbell, and, sure enough, she clerked for Justice Wallace Wainwright. Probably just a coincidence that she was the associate assigned to the matter, but you still reaped the advantage.” He has not told me to put up my hands. I am still holding George Jackson. I want to keep the conversation going. “So was she just a blabbermouth, gossiping with you, or was she part of it, too?”
“I have no intention of answering your questions.” The wind is still whipping outside, and we hear a sharp snap as a tree loses a branch somewhere near the house. Rain continues its steady assault on the windows. In the hallway, Justice Wainwright frowns, stepping slightly to the side, as though unable to stand still. He considers what I have just said, still worried about whether he has somehow exposed himself. Then he shakes his head. “No. No, that wouldn’t have been enough. You wouldn’t jump to that conclusion just because Cassie clerked for me.” The gun centers on my chest. I back toward the sink. He follows, just out of range of any kick or punch I might throw, even if I knew how. As for the bear, Wainwright has not asked for it and I have not offered it. “Why were you not surprised to see me? How did you even know that there was anybody else? You clearly thought your Uncle Jack was keeping tabs on you. Maybe his partners were, too. But why did there have to be a third party?”
“You’re right. The fact that Meadows clerked for you wasn’t enough.” My palms and the small of my back are moist with perspiration. I still have a faint hope of escape. The storm that was supposed to keep me safe can still rescue me, if only I can keep Wainwright talking a little longer. “But I knew there had to be… like you said, a third party… because I knew that there was somebody out there who was unaware of Jack Ziegler’s edict.”
Genuine puzzlement. “What edict?”
“That I wasn’t to be touched. The other people who were after me, they all knew the rules. I couldn’t be hurt, and nobody in my family could be hurt. Jack Ziegler had made a deal with… well, whoever one makes such deals with. The word went out. I would not be harmed, and I would find what my father hid. So everybody just watched me and waited. Then, once I started to get hurt, it was clear that either the rules had changed or a third party was involved. I was… reassured that the rules were not any different. So it had to be an outsider. Someone without contacts in Jack Ziegler’s circles.”
“You’d be surprised where I have contacts, Msha.”
I know what he means, but I shake my head. “It isn’t enough that Jack Ziegler can reach you. You would have to be able to reach him.”
Wainwright doesn’t like this at all; I can see it in his face, which has morphed from sardonic to furious. Maybe he does not like remembering that he was never as close to Jack Ziegler as my father was. A new variation on the Stockholm Syndrome: the bribee wants to be the favorite of the briber. I remind myself not to try scoring points off an armed man.
“So Jack Ziegler put out an edict,” he says finally, letting out a long breath. “He said nobody could harm you.”
