He thought for a second, then faced me with bright, candid eyes. “Anyone else, Chris, and I’d figure this for bureaucratic dirt gathering. But you neglect your self-interest to the point of irresponsibility. You’re investigating Mary Carelli like you’re investigating Lasko. Look, you’re the brightest lawyer I’ve seen here. Don’t screw yourself up. You’ve got to learn to let things go that can’t be helped.”
I tried to find a way to ask for help. And to tell him that I appreciated the concern. But I couldn’t seem to combine them. He saw my confusion. “Chris, what do you want to be doing five years from now? Private practice? You could make a lot of money. You could do well here, too, if you wanted. You’ve got a great record.”
Hearing the alternatives out loud gave me a bleak, wasted feeling. “So where am I?”
He answered me indirectly. “I hear you had another hassle with McGuire this morning.”
“News travels fast.”
“You gave Ike Feiner fifteen minutes alone to chortle.”
“I didn’t know he was capable of chortling.”
Robinson gave a smile which didn’t connect with his eyes. “Look, McGuire and Feiner are already pissed at you. If you start rattling the wrong cages, they could really screw you. On the outside too. Don’t think the firms in this town don’t ask around before they hire a government lawyer. If McGuire lets the word out you’re not welcome here, you’ll be as popular as the clap.”
That was right, I knew. But the rewards of good behavior seemed weightless. I didn’t know what I wanted and didn’t want what I could have. Perhaps McGuire was right about people like me. “I appreciate what you’ve said, Jim. But I just got it tucked to me on the Hartex case. The next time I go down kicking and screaming.”
He looked disturbed. “That may happen.”
“I’m running out of time here, anyhow.”
“It’s the only career you’ve got. I wouldn’t take it so lightly.”
“Believe me, I don’t.”
Robinson stared at me thoughtfully. “OK,” he finally said. “I called a friend of mine at Civil Service. Carelli got out of law school when you did. University of Chicago, top 10 per cent. Scholarship student. The records show that she went to work as a staffer on the Senate Commerce Committee, the bunch that keeps tabs on us. So I called a guy I know over at the committee. Turns out he knew her, but not as well as you might think. She keeps her private life to herself. He did say that she is very tough and very partisan. She didn’t have any rank on him, but he crossed her up on something and nearly lost his job. Turned out she had some senator’s ear. So my buddy’s not her biggest booster. But he admits that she is very smart. So that’s it,” he concluded in an unimpressed tone. “A typical Washington biography. If you hanged people in this town for being political, you wouldn’t have anyone left to answer the phone.”
He was still eyeing me. “All right,” I smiled, “I’ll put her on the back burner.”
Robinson looked relieved. I rose, then remembered McGuire’s lunch. “I heard a rumor,” I fabricated, “that one of the commissioners was leaving.” If one really was, it was news to me. “But I forgot who. Heard anything?”
“Yeah. I had lunch with Ludlow’s assistant the other day. He says Ludlow’s going back into private practice. But keep that down. He hasn’t announced it yet, and the White House hasn’t come up with a replacement.”
Joe McGuire would do nicely. “That’s too bad. I liked Ludlow. Well, I’d better get to work on a subpoena for Sam Green. Next Monday OK with you?”
“Fine.” He leaned back. “You know, this kind of case only makes careers in reverse. So stick to Lasko and leave the other alone.”
I knew what he meant. Robinson liked thinking about Green and Lasko much better than thinking about Mary Carelli. He had organized his world long ago. Carelli, he, and I were all “shirts” Green and Lasko were “skins.” I couldn’t really blame him. It made keeping score a lot easier.
I took some files back to my office to work on Green’s subpoena. Debbie had a phone message from Mary Carelli. The first tug on my leash. I thought about ignoring it. Then I headed out to see what she wanted.
Five
The trip to the Chairman’s office was upward, both literally and esthetically. The top floor suite was a soothing collection of rust shag rugs, white walls, padded leather, and impressionist paintings. What struck me, though, was the quiet, as if good taste swallowed noise. I was used to the third floor catacombs-sounds of typing, telephones, shouts, and footsteps ping-ponging between tile and cinder blocks. It was as though I had stepped from a rush hour subway directly into a library. The sensation was pleasant. I found myself wondering how it felt to McGuire.
The receptionist fit the room. She was a thin, birdlike woman who could have been the custodian of rare books. I stifled the urge to request the Summa Theologica and asked instead for Mary Carelli. I had barely sunk into one of the leather chairs when Chairman Woods surprised me.
“You’re Chris Paget, aren’t you? I’m Jack Woods.” He was tall-about six feet two-and broad shouldered, with short brown hair. He offered me a large, strong hand, and gestured toward his office with the other. “Come on in and chat for a second. Mary’s running a little late.” He had a deep, rich voice and a youthful lopsided smile which knocked several years off an age I gauged at late thirties. It was all very democratic. I trailed him into his office.
Woods waved me in and sat behind a simple cherry desk. I chose another padded chair and looked around. The office had the same look of shag and cool white. The walls were improved by two bright Chagall prints, from which effect I subtracted the stolid cheerlessness of one formal picture of the President. His books ranged from financial tomes to the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, several Faulkner novels, and a volume of poetry by Dylan Thomas. I searched his face for clues as to whether he had read any of them. The dark blue eyes, strong jaw, and broad, open face were pleasant, but uninformative. Of more interest was his nose; it had once been aquiline but now featured a couple of detours to the right. I remembered that he had played football; someone’s elbow had lent his face some character. It gave a faintly jarring hint of subcutaneous tension to the nice-boy look. But it told me nothing about the books.
He had followed my eyes. “I don’t have much time for reading these days. Breaking into this job has been a real experience.” The engaging smile reappeared. “I hope I can keep up.”
I wasn’t used to commissioners seeking my encouragement. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
He looked thoughtfully at the Chagalls, as if they had some connection to his work. “Still, I’m concerned. A lot of commissioners come into agencies like this for PR value. They punch their tickets and leave. But they never really learn their jobs. Never really have an impact. I don’t want to be another one.” I agreed with him about ticket-punching. But if this was just for my benefit, he was an awfully quick study. I half-believed in his sincerity.
Woods waved up at the law school diploma which hung behind his desk. “You went there, too, didn’t you, Chris?”
I wondered whether he knew as much about McGuire’s other ninety-nine lawyers. “Yes, I did. I got out three years ago.”
Woods smiled slightly at the diploma, as if satisfied that we were peers. Then he turned his candid eyes to me. “I’m very concerned about the Lasko case.” He spoke seriously, leaning forward as if he wished to share the full weight of his concern.
I chose a neutral tone. “So I understand.”
The eyes seemed to at once accord trust and demand attention. He was very, very good. “I’m concerned for several reasons. To be honest, I know I’m young for this job. I want to do well here. And I don’t want this agency to act indiscreetly. That means both that I don’t want us to go out on a limb and that I don’t want inaccurate charges against Lasko to rub off on the President. Is that understandable?”