Michaels used his burner phone to call and reserve one of the conference rooms in the Jefferson building. He didn’t even get much pushback either from the woman who answered the phone. She happily booked it for him and asked him to make sure he had his driver’s license with him when he checked into the front desk. When Michaels reached the front desk, he pawned off his fake credentials to gain access without as much as a second glance.
“There you go, Mr. Orwell,” she said. “Or would you prefer I just call you George?”
“I’ll leave that up to you,” Michaels said, amused that the secretary asked him that without even a hint of irony. He understood she had no inkling of an idea who George Orwell was.
I really need to get to work on our education program.
“Just sign right here,” she said, pointing to the clipboard on her desk.
Michaels scrawled his fake name and then took the key off the counter. He wound his way through the maze of rooms until he arrived at the conference room. Eight chairs surrounded a table comprised of fabricated dark wood. It was simple, devoid of any of the touches that always accompanied his meetings in the White House. Although, Michaels didn’t mind. He reveled in the raw moment, one devoid of people fussing over him in an effort to gain more favor within the White House hierarchy.
He slung his briefcase onto the table and sat down. Exhaling a long breath, he opened up his attaché and studied the stack of papers he’d placed inside before giving the Secret Service the slip.
After a half-hour, the first person opened the door, tentatively poking his head inside.
“Am I in the right spot?” the man asked with a furrowed brow.
“Absolutely,” Michaels said. He’d yet to remove the disguise.
“Care to tell me what this is all about?” the man asked.
“What is this all about? It’s about accountability—and an incredible opportunity for you to change the course of world history. Please, have a seat, Justice Kellerman.”
Kellerman hesitated for a moment before pulling out a chair and sitting down.
“Who are you?” Kellerman asked.
“In due time, Justice Kellerman, in due time.”
Michaels leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers as he awaited the arrival of the others justices.
Justice Frank Kellerman had been the justice Michaels was the most familiar with. At age 84, Kellerman was not long for the Supreme Court, if not the world. His thick glasses betrayed his attempts to act as if his vision was sufficient. The gangly hearing aid devices affixed around each ear were necessary for distinguishing any sounds. Using a cane to support, he hobbled around Washington, oblivious to the glances and fingers pointing at him. Not that Kellerman would’ve cared if he could’ve seen the looks of pity and heard the whispers. In his prime, he was a battering ram to congressional laws run amok, outspoken in his criticism of lower court judges attempting to legislate from the bench. To consider him a strict constitutionalist was a gross understatement. Kellerman established the bar on what it meant to be the kind of judge who interpreted the U.S. Constitution—nothing more, nothing less. He revered the past and worshipped the framers from long ago who crafted the enduring laws of the land.
Kellerman was the one justice Michaels needed to convince the most to correct a gross injustice from years ago and help pave the way for a more stable—and just—future.
“If there was one thing you wish you could change about the Constitution, what would it be?” Michaels asked.
Kellerman looked up and scowled as he shot a glance at Michaels.
“Did you say something?”
“Yes, Justice Kellerman,” Michaels answered, careful to enunciate precisely and speak loudly, “I did. I asked you if there was one thing you could change about the Constitution, what would it be?”
Kellerman glared at him. “It’s perfect as it is.”
“Perfect? Are you sure?”
“Perfect as something made by men could be.”
Michaels’ eyebrows shot upward. “So, you’re implying that it’s not exactly perfect?”
“What are you getting at Mr.—”
“Orwell.”
“What are you getting at, Mr. Orwell?”
“I’m just wondering if there is something worth changing in the Constitution—and if you’d help me do that.”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that? I’m a justice on the Supreme Court, not a legislator. Damn kids today don’t even know how the branches of government work. Stupid education system. We’ve got a nation full of dummies, I tell ya.”
Before Michaels could respond, the next justice walked in and then another. By the time the fourth justice filed in, Kellerman raised his objections.
“What is this all about anyway, Mr. Orwell? This is starting to feel very strange to me, and I don’t like it.”
Then the fifth justice walked in.
Michaels stood up and walked over to the door, shutting it and then locking it. Once he pulled the blinds, he proceeded to take off his disguise.
“Gentlemen and lady,” Michaels said, giving a distinct nod toward Justice Camille Williams. “I know this is very unorthodox, perhaps even political suicide should anyone ever learn about this meeting. However, I’m trusting that you will all keep the details of this meeting and the fact that it even happened confidential. Can I trust you to do that?”
All the justices nodded, except for Kellerman. He stared at Michaels, making the President wonder if Kellerman knew who he was.
“Justice Kellerman,” Michaels said. “It’s me, the President.”
“Where’d that Orwell guy go?”
Michaels suppressed a smile. “He was just standing in for me until I could get here and didn’t want to cause a scene when he left.”
“What are we doing here?” Kellerman asked. “I demand to know right now or I’m gonna get up and walk out.”
“Settle down, Justice Kellerman,” Michaels said. “I need to give you all a little context first before continuing this unorthodox meeting.”
“By all means, continue,” Kellerman grumbled. “You are the President, for god’s sake.”
Michaels put on his best politician face and
