“Dorothy,” I began, but then my mobile phone rang.
It was Gideon Parnell. “The chief justice has agreed to meet,” he said. “Can you be in DC this afternoon?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“He’ll see you at four o’clock. Your name will be on a visitor’s list at the court.”
I ended the call and looked at Dorothy. “Looks like we just may have a new client,” I said.
5
The Supreme Court is, I think, the most beautiful building in Washington. It’s a gleaming Greek temple, its exterior bright white Vermont marble, chosen because it was so much whiter than the marble of the buildings that surround it, including the US Capitol. It was modeled after the Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, with its frieze and the Corinthian columns and such.
But mostly I’ve always thought of the Supreme Court building as a triumph of branding.
It was built fairly recently, in 1935. Prior to that, the justices were jammed into close quarters in the basement of the Capitol building. They got no respect. But once they got their own temple of justice, they had a clubhouse, a headquarters, a logo, and a mystique. And along with that mystique came power.
A big chunk of that power and legitimacy, after all, is based on perception and persuasion. So you had a glistening marble landmark, quite prominent, in which nine invisible judges deliberated in absolute secrecy. Like the great and powerful Oz, with the smoke and green fire, and a small man behind the curtain working the props.
When I first moved to Washington, working covert intel for the Defense Department, you could walk right up the grand front steps of the Supreme Court and enter through the heavy bronze doors. But ever since 9/11, the front entrance has been closed off. You have to enter through a basement door on the southwest side.
I’d caught a late morning flight to DC. After I’d landed, I had three hours before I had to be at the court building. That was just enough time to do some quick research.
Later, standing on the plaza in front of the court, I made some phone calls. When I’d gotten what I needed, I called Dorothy.
“Any progress?” I asked
“So far it’s a dead end.” I’d asked her to dig up whatever she could on an escort named Heidi L’Amour, who was employed by LilySchuyler.com, which marketed itself as a high-end escort service in DC.
“According to the Lily Schuyler website it says she’s on vacation. So there’s no way to set up a date with her. That leaves us with just a name, and, you know, there’s a teensy-weensy chance that this name might be fake.”
“You think?” I smiled. “What about trying a Google image search for her picture, see if it comes up on any other adult websites?”
“Already tried it. Nothing.”
“Means she probably doesn’t work for other escort services. The odds are she’d use the same photos if she did.”
“You could call the phone number and offer a bonus if she’ll come back from vacation. You know, you like her look and she’s the only one you’ll settle for.”
“Maybe. But I’m guessing she’s gone into hiding. She knows all hell’s about to break loose, as soon as that article’s published.”
“I’ll keep at it,” Dorothy said. “Maybe I’ll have a brainstorm.”
Then I joined a long line of tourists and passed through a metal detector, up a short flight of stairs to a large open hallway where clots of tourists were milling around. A few others strode by with a sense of purpose. Lawyers, I assumed. They were too well dressed to be reporters.
I took the elevator up one flight, as Gideon had instructed me, and when I got out I looked around for the marshal’s office, where I was supposed to check in. A large beefy uniformed cop with a blond crewcut and ruddy cheeks approached, a metal clipboard in hand.
“Help you, sir?”
“The marshal’s office?”
“Do you have a visitor’s pass?”
“I have an appointment.”
“With?”
“Justice Claflin.”
He nodded, looked at his clipboard. “Name?”
“Nicholas Heller.”
“May I see some form of government-issued ID?”
I showed him my driver’s license.
“Right this way, sir.”
I followed him to a bank of coin-operated lockers outside a cloakroom. “You need to check any laptop computer, cell phone, PDA, iPad, or any other electronic device. If you prefer, you can use one of these lockers.”
I nodded, fished around in my pockets for a quarter, but I didn’t have any. He slid one into the slot, pulled out the key, and handed it to me. I thanked him.
“Good idea to check your stuff in a locker,” the cop said. “Can’t trust anyone around here.”
6
Jeremiah Claflin, the chief justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, had a bland, almost generic look about him: short graying brown hair, small nose, fine features. You’d call him nice-looking but not handsome. There was nothing interesting about his face. As soon as he was out of your sight, you’d forget what he looked like. He had deep lines on his forehead and crow’s feet around his eyes. He looked like he spent a lot of time in the sun, probably sailing.
He greeted me politely but gave off a vibe that he had a lot more important things to do. “Jerry Claflin,” he murmured as we shook hands in his paneled waiting area. He was in shirtsleeves and a tie, no jacket.
He gestured me to a couple of wingback chairs on either side of a large fireplace. His office was lined with old law books and had oriental rugs on the floor and a killer view of the Capitol dome.
“So, Mr. Heller,” he said, “you’re — what, a private eye?” He said the words with a moue of disgust, the way you might say “carbuncle” or “abscess.”
“If you want.”
“Then what do you call yourself?”
“A private intelligence operative.”
“Is that like being a ‘mortician’ rather than an ‘undertaker’?”
I smiled. He was known for his acid sense of humor. I decided to give some back. “Maybe more like being ‘justice’ instead of ‘judge.’ There’s a difference.”
He laughed, pleasantly. Touché. I wasn’t particularly bothered by his contempt for me. He needed me a lot more than I needed him.
Then he blinked a few times and smiled thinly. “I have to tell you, it’s not at all clear to me why you’re here.”
“I’m beginning to wonder the same thing. You’re a busy man, so let’s get right down to it. Apparently Slander Sheet is about to publish an exposé about your relationship with a call girl. Which I assume is entirely false, right?”
He pursed his lips, scowled. “I’m not even going to dignify that.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to dignify it. Did you have a relationship with a call girl from the escort service Lily Schuyler?”
“That’s preposterous on the face of it.”
“Which means — what? True or false?”
Claflin peered at me askance, as if wondering whether I was a moron.
I said, “You’re going to have to put it in plain English for me. Sometimes I miss the subtleties.”
“You’re asking me if I had sex with a hooker? The answer is absolutely not. No, I did not. Is that unsubtle enough for you?”
“And you’ve never met a woman named Heidi L’Amour, is that right?”
“That’s right. I’d never heard the name before this e-mail came in.” He gestured vaguely at the printout of questions I was holding.
“Now, one of the reporter’s questions asks — the most serious charge — whether it’s true that this escort you claim you never met was a gift of sorts to you. Whether her fee was paid by Tom Wyden, the gambling mogul. You’re a friend of Mr. Wyden’s, is that correct?”