Текст книги "The Simple Truth"

Автор книги: David Baldacci

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Hello? He listened for a couple of minutes, gave a series of instructions and hung up. A slug had been found in the alleyway where Michael Fiskes body had been discovered. It apparently had ricocheted off one wall and gotten wedged in some trash that had fallen behind a Dumpster. From what Chandler had been told, the slug was in very good shape with little projectile deformity. The lab would have to confirm that it was actually the bullet that had killed the young clerk. That would be fairly easy to determine for a sickening reason: The slug would have blood, bone and brain tissue residue on it that could be linked pretty much conclusively to the head of Michael Fiske. With the bullet in hand, they could now search hard for the murder weapon. Ballistics could match the slug to the gun that had fired it with the reliability of matching fingerprints to a human hand. Chandler rose and went into the living room, purposely leaving his own gun behind. He sat down in a recliner that matched his bulky proportions. The room was dark and he did not move to turn on a light. He had too many lights around him at work. Lights in his office beating down on him every day. Harsher lights in the autopsy room, that made every piece of flesh enormous, ominously raw, memorable to the point of Chandlers excusing himself every once in a great while to go to the mens room, where his stomach showed its appreciation for the polished skill of official dismemberment. The popping lights of the photographers at a crime scene or a courthouse. Too many damn lights. Darkness was quiet, darkness was soothing. Darkness was how he wanted his retirement to be. Cool and dark. Like his fountain in the backyard. Warren McKennas words had disturbed Chandler, though he had tried hard not to show it. He couldnt bring himself to accept that John Fiske could murder his own brother. But, truth be known, wouldnt that be exactly what Fiske wanted Chandler to believe? But then he had something else to think about. Michael Fiskes phone calls to Fort Jackson. And now Rufus Harmss escape. Were they connected? Fiske was covering for Sara Evans, that was clear. Chandler shook his head. He would have to sleep on it, because his old brain was running on empty. He started to get up and then stopped abruptly. The arms suddenly encircled his neck, startling him. His hands gripped the persons forearms as his eyes popped huge. His gun where the hell was his gun?

Working hard or hardly working?

He immediately relaxed and looked up into Juanitas face. The edges of her mouth were crinkled into the beginnings of a smile. Her face always held that same look, as though she were about to tell a joke or laugh at one. That look never failed to cheer him up no matter how lousy his day had been, no matter how many bodies he had poked and probed. He put a hand on his heaving chest. Damn, woman, you sneak up on me like that again, the only thing Im going to be working is my angel wings.

She sat down on his lap. She was wearing a long white robe, bare feet showing. Come on, now, a big, strong fella like yourself? And arent you being a bit presumptuous about those angel wings?

He slid an arm around her waist, which, after three children, wasnt as small as on their wedding night, but then neither was his. They hadgrowntogether, he often liked to say. Balance was essential in life. One fatty and one skinny was just heading for disaster. There was no one alive who knew him better than Juanita. Maybe that was really the one important product of a successful marriage: the knowledge that there was one other soul out there who had your number, all the way down to the last possible decimal place, out there with pi, maybe more; if that was possible, Juanita had his. He smiled back at her. Sure, Im one big, strong guy, but sensitive, baby. Us sensitive types, you just never know what might knock us over. And after a life spent fighting crime, I thought the Lord would be up there right now sewing together a nice fancy pair of angel wings for me, size extra-large, of course. Hes all-knowing, so Hell be aware of the fact that Ive spread some in my old age. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and they held hands. She swept her fingers through his disappearing hair. She could sense that his humor was forced.

Buford, why dont you tell me whats bothering you so we can talk about it and then you can come to bed? Its getting pretty late. Tomorrows always another day.

Chandler smiled at her remark. Hey, what happened to my poker face? As I look a culprit in the eye and wear him down without ever revealing what Im really thinking.

You stink at poker. So talk to me, baby.

She rubbed at his kinked-up neck and he reciprocated by massaging her long feet.

You remember that young man I was telling you about? John Fiske? His brother was a clerk at the Supreme Court?

I remember. And now another clerk dead too.

Right. Well, I was over at his brothers apartment tonight, going through it for evidence collection. McKenna, that agent from the FBI, showed up.

The one you said was wound up like a grenade ready to blow? Couldnt figure him out?

Hes the one.

Mmm-hmm.

Well, we found a life insurance policy that pays John Fiske half a million dollars upon his brothers death.

So, they were family, werent they? You have life insurance, dont you? I get rich if you die, right? She lightly smacked the top of his head. You better have, anyway. Promising me all this nice stuff my whole life and never delivering. I better be rich when your sorry butt kicks off.

They both laughed and exchanged lingering hugs.

Fiske never told me about the insurance policy. I mean, come on, thats a classic motive for murder.

Well, maybe he doesnt know about the policy.

Maybe, Chandler conceded. Anyway, McKenna laid out this whole theory that has Fiske killing his brother for the money, getting another clerk at the Court to help him because shes got a thing for him and then throwing all this misdirection at us, offering to help with the investigation and whatnot. Even lying about an intruder at his brothers apartment. I have to admit, he put together a pretty convincing argument, at least on the surface.

So John Fiske was at his brothers apartment?

Yep. Claims some guy hit him there and took off. Maybe stole some stuff from the apartment, something that tied in to the murder.

Well, if John Fiske was at his brothers apartment and made up the story about this intruder person, and he knew about the life insurance policy, why didnt he search his brothers apartment for the policy? Why leave it for you to find and get suspicious?

Chandler stared at her, wide-eyed.

Buford, are you okay?

Damn, sweetie, I thought I was the detective in the family. Now, how the hell did I miss that one?

Because youre overworked and underappreciated, thats why. She got up and extended her hand to his. But if you come upstairs right now, I will show you some extra-special appreciation. Leave your sensitive side down here, though, baby, and just bring your other parts upstairs. She looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes that he knew did not indicate sleepiness. Chandler quickly rose, took her hand and together they walked up the stairs. ["C47"]CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

As the Jeep raced down the road, Tremaine scrutinized the passengers of each car they passed.

The damn luck, Rayfield moaned. We couldnt have missed them by more than a few minutes.

Tremaine ignored him, focusing instead on the car in front of them. The dome light of the car came on as they passed, revealing the driver and passenger. The passenger was unfolding a map. As Tremaine stared at the cars interior he hit the brakes, ripped the Jeep to the left and went across the median. The vehicle bumped and jostled in the grassy ditch before the tires found asphalt again and they were heading back toward Riders office. Rayfield grabbed Tremaines shoulder. What the hell are you doing?

They suckered us. The guy and the gal. Their story was bullshit.

How do you know that?

The light in the bathroom.

The light? What about it?

It wasnt on. The bitch was in there in the dark. It hit me when I saw the dome light go on in the car back there. There was no light coming from under the bathroom door when she was in there. When she opened the door she didnt hit the light switch because the bathroom was already dark. She wasnt using the can. She was standing in the bathroom in the pitch-dark. And guess why?

Rayfields face went pale. Because Harms and his brother were in there too. While he looked at the road ahead he had another thought. The guy said his name was John Michaels. Could it have been John Fiske?

And the girl was Sara Evans. Thats what Im thinking. You better call and let the others know.

Rayfield picked up the cell phone. Well never catch up to Harms now.

Yes, we will.

How the hell can we?

Tremaine drew on thirty years of Army training, studying what the other side would do in a particular scenario. Fiske said he saw them get in a car. Opposite of a car is a truck. He said it was an old car. Opposite of that is anewtruck. He said they were going north, so we go south. Its only been five minutes. Well catch them.

I hope to God youre right. If they were at Riders office He broke off and looked anxiously out the window. Tremaine looked over at him. Then that means the Harms brothers aint running. That means they were looking for something Rider had. And that sure as hell is not good news for us. He nodded at the phone. Make that call. Well take care of Harms and his brother. Theyll have to deal with Fiske and the woman. *����*����* Because of the high-profile nature of the case, the FBI had offered the use of its laboratory to perform the analysis on the slug found in the alley. After comparing tissue samples taken from Michael Fiskes remains, the slug was deemed to have been fired through his brain. The slug was a 9mm of a type typically carried by law enforcement personnel. With that information, Agent McKenna sat down in front of a computer terminal at the Hoover Building and typed in a high-priority request to the Virginia State Police. Within a few minutes he had his answer. John Fiske had a 9mm SIG-Sauer registered to his name, a carryover from his cop days. Within minutes McKenna was in his car. Two hours later he turned off Interstate 95 and headed through the darkened streets of downtown Richmond. His car rumbled over the aged and uneven streets of Shockoe Slip. He parked in a secluded area near the old train station. Ten minutes later he was standing in John Fiskes office, having picked the locks of the building and the lawyers office with remarkable ease. He looked around the darkened space using a small light. He had decided to search Fiskes office first rather than his apartment. It only took a couple of minutes until he found it. The 9mm pistol was relatively light and compact. Wearing gloves, McKenna palmed it for a moment and then put it in his pocket. He shone his light around the rest of the office. The beam caught on something and he went over to the bookcase. He picked up the framed picture. The flashlight kicked up too much glare on the glass covering the photo, so McKenna took it over to the window and looked at it under the moonlight. The Fiske brothers looked like any others, standing side by side. Michael Fiske was taller and better-looking than his older brother, but the fire in John Fiskes eyes burned with a greater intensity. John had on his police uniform, so this had been taken a while back, McKenna knew. The older brother had seen much of life wearing that uniform, just as McKenna had in his career at the FBI. Sometimes those experiences gave you that fire, or else harshly took it away. He put the photo back and left the office. In another five minutes the FBI agents car was heading north once again. Two hours later, back at his home in a well-to-do northern Virginia suburb, McKenna sat in his small study and alternated sipping on a beer and pursing his lips around a cigarette. He held the pistol he had taken from Fiskes office. It was nicely maintained, a solid piece of work. Fiske had made a good choice in ordnance. As a cop he would have relied on this weapon to survive. Years ago policemen rarely had to pull their sidearm. That had changed. Fiske had killed a man with this gun, McKenna knew. Fired the shot that had taken anothers life. McKenna understood the complexities of that journey a journey that was typically compressed within the span of a few seconds. The heat of the metal, the nauseating smell of exploded powder. Unlike in the movies, a bullet didnt blow a man backward several feet. A man fell where you shot him; made him crap and pee in his pants, plunged him to the dirt without a word. McKenna had killed a man too. It was quick, reflexive; he had seen the eyes bulge out, the body twist. Then McKenna had gone back to the spot where he had fired from and noted the two bullet holes on the wall on either side of where he had stood. The dead man had gotten off his own shots. They had miraculously passed on either side of the FBI agent. McKenna would later learn that the dead man had an eye disability that threw off his depth perception. McKenna had gone on, lived to see his wife and kids because the dead man had a wobbly pupil. On the drive home, McKenna had soiled his pants. He put the pistol down and cast his thoughts forward now. His snitch in the clerks office had paid off. Tomorrow, both Fiske and Evans would face some tough questioning. He would get hold of Chandler first thing, lay the facts before him, and let the pugnacious homicide detective do his duty. McKenna got up and walked around the room. On the walls were framed photos of him with a number of important people. Carefully arranged on a side table were the numerous awards and commendations Warren McKenna had earned with his wits and his courage as an FBI agent. He had led a long, productive career on the side of law enforcement, but that had not made up for one event that had caused him great shame ever since. It had happened so many years ago, and yet was still one of the clearest memories he possessed. What he had done back then was, today, compelling him to frame John Fiske for a crime. He put out the cigarette and moved silently through the house. His wife had long since gone to bed. His two children were grown and on their own. He had done all right financially, although FBI agents never earned the big dollars, unless they gave up the badge. But his wife, a partner in a major D.C. law firm, had. Thus, the house was large, expensively furnished, and basically empty. He looked back in the direction of the den. His distinguished career, neatly tallied on that table, lastingly captured in those photos. He took a long breath as the darkness clung to him. Penance was a lifelong responsibility. *����*����* The plane touched down and taxied to a stop. Commercial jets and some private planes could not land at National after ten oclock at night because of noise-level restrictions, but the small aircraft Fiske and Sara were flying in could take off and land pretty much wherever it wanted. A few minutes later Fiske and Sara were headed toward the parking garage at National Airport.

We flew all the way out there, nearly got slaughtered and we came back empty-handed, Sara muttered. Brilliant idea on my part.

Thats where youre wrong, Fiske said. They reached the car and climbed in. So what exactly did we learn? she asked.

Quite a few things. One, we saw Rufus Harms face-to-face. I think hes telling the truth, whatever the truth happens to be.

You cant be sure of that.

He came to Riders office, Sara, when he should be doing his best to get out of the country. He came to get the appeal he had written. Why would he do that unless he believed it to be true?

I dont know, Sara admitted. If it was his appeal, why not just write it again?

Rider had filed his own document with it. You saw that in my brothers briefcase. Now that Riders dead, that was something Harms couldnt duplicate. He also mentioned something he got from the Army. A letter. Maybe he thought that would help, so he came to get both.

That makes more sense.

The Army guys were on a blood hunt. They didnt come there to look for Rufus Harms. They came there to search Riders office.

How do you know that?

They didnt even ask us if wed seen anyone suspicious, anyone who looked like Rufus. I had to volunteer the information. And they werent doing it in their official capacity. The middle of the night, machine guns. They werent MPs or anything. They were of fairly high rank, judging from their age and attitude. Barging into civilian offices with machine guns at midnight, thats not how the Army does things.

Maybe youre right.

So Im thinking whatever was in that appeal had something to do with those guys personally.

But we dont even know who they are.

Yes, we do. Rufus said their names at Riders office. Tremaine, Vic Tremaine and the other guys name is Rayfield. Theyre in the Army, which means they must be connected with Fort Jackson somehow. Rufus said they did something to him. Im sure he meant back in the stockade.

John, even if they somehow encouraged him to kill that little girl, or even ordered him to do it for some hellish reason, the most theyd get pinned on is some sort of accessory. And after all these years? If thats all Harms has, he has nothing, you damn well know that.

The problem is we dont know enough about the actual events back then. If some people visited Harms in the stockade on the night the little girl was killed, there should be a record of that.

Sara looked skeptical. After twenty-five years?

And then theres the letter from the Army that Harms mentioned. What sort of letter would the Army be sending a court-martialed con?

Do you think the letter somehow triggered this?

It could have had some information that Harms didnt know about before. I dont know what it could be or why he wouldnt have known it before, though.

Wait a minute. If Tremaine and Rayfield are from Fort Jackson, why would they let that kind of a letter reach Harms? Isnt a prisoners mail censored?

Fiske thought for a moment. Maybe it just slipped through.

Or maybe it didnt come to the prison at all. Josh Harms seems to know all about it; maybe he got the letter, put two and two together and told Rufus about it.

And then Rufus maybe fakes a heart attack somehow, gets taken to the nearest hospital and thats where Josh breaks him out?

That works.

I just wish we knew what happened at Fort Jackson that day. Its pretty clear from what Josh and Rufus said that my brother visited him at the prison.

Why not call or go to the prison? Then we can find out if Michael was there.

Fiske shook his head. If those two guys are at the prison, theyll have covered that up, maybe transferred anyone who saw Mike out of the place. And we cant go to Chandler with it, because what would we say? Two Army guys are looking for a prisoner who escaped from their custody. So what?

Well, if Rayfield and Tremaine work at the prison, then Michael walked right into the lions den. Even though you two werent close, Im really surprised Michael didnt try to call you for help. He might still be alive if he had.

Fiske froze at her words and then closed his eyes. He said nothing more as they drove along. *����*����* When they reached Saras cottage, Fiske went directly to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer.

Do you have any cigarettes?

She raised her eyebrows. I didnt think you smoked.

I havent for years. But I really need one right now.

Well, youre in luck. She pulled a chair over and set it next to the kitchen counter. She slipped off her pumps and stepped onto the chairs seat. Ive found that if I make it as difficult as possible to get to my little stash, I crave them less. I guess I have a real lazy streak.

Fiske watched as she stood on tiptoe and reached up over the highest cabinet, her fingers barely scraping the top edge.

Sara, come on, let me do that. Youre going to kill yourself.

Ive got it, John. Just about there. She stretched her body as far as she could and Fiske found himself staring at the tops of her exposed thighs as her dress had risen. She started to sway a bit, so he placed a hand on her waist to steady her. On the back of her right thigh was a small birthmark, almost perfectly triangular in shape and a dull red in color. It seemed to pulse with each of her exertions. He glanced down at her feet as he continued to hold on to her, the bottom of his hand resting lightly on the softness of her hip. Her toes were long and uncramped, as though she went barefoot often. He looked away.

Got em. She held up the pack. Camels okay?

As long as you can light one end, I dont really care. He helped her down, took out a cigarette, and then looked at her. You in? You did all the work. She nodded and he nudged one out for her. They took a moment lighting up and Sara joined Fiske with a beer. They went out onto the small rear deck that looked out over the river and sat down in a faded wooden glider.

You made a good choice in housing, he commented.

The first time I saw it, I could see myself living here forever. She drew her legs up under her, tapped her cigarette against the deck rail, and watched as the breeze carried the ash away. She arched her long neck and took a long sip of beer.

Impulsive of you.

She put the beer down and studied his face. Havent you ever felt that way about something?

He thought about it for a moment. Not really. So whats next? Husband, kids? Solely the career path? He took a puff and waited for her to answer. She took another swallow of beer and watched the car lights pass over the Woodrow Wilson Bridge in the distance. Then she stood up. Want to go sailing?

He looked up at her in surprise. A little late for that, isnt it?

No later than our last boat trip. Ive got the permit and the boat lights. Well just do a lazy circle and come back in. Before he could answer, she disappeared into the cottage. Within a couple minutes she came back out wearing jean cutoffs, a tank top and deck shoes, her hair pulled back in a bun. Fiske glanced down at his dress shirt, slacks and loafers. I didnt bring my sailor suit.

Thats okay. Youre not the sailor, I am. She had two fresh beers. They walked down to the dock. It was miserably humid, and Fiske quickly broke a sweat helping Sara ready the sails. While standing on the bow to rig the jib sail, Fiske slipped and almost tumbled into the water. If you had fallen into the Potomac, we wouldnt need the moon to sail by, youd be glowing all by yourself, Sara said, laughing. The water was flat, no shore wind evident, so Sara fired up the auxiliary engine and they motored out into the middle of the river, where the sails finally caught a breeze and swelled with the warm air. For the next hour they moved in slow ovals across the river. The boat had a light, and the moon was at three-quarters and there were no other craft on the river. Fiske took a turn at the helm, with Sara coaching him at the tiller until he felt comfortable. Each time they tacked into the wind, the mainsail would shudder and drop, Fiske would duck and Sara would swing the boom around and watch as the canvas filled again and propelled them along. She looked over at him and smiled. It feels magical to catch something invisible and yet so powerful, and compel it to do your bidding, doesnt it? The way she said it, so girlish, with so much frank wonder, he had to smile. They drank beer and both smoked another cigarette after several humorous attempts at lighting up in the face of a stiff wind. They talked about things unrelated to present events, and both felt relieved to be able to do so even for a short time.

You have a nice smile, Sara remarked. You should use it more often.

By the time they headed back in, Fiske had a blister on the inside of his thumb from clutching the boom line. They docked the boat and tied down the sails. Sara went up to the cottage and came back with more beer and a bag of chips and salsa. Dont let it be said that I dont feed my guests.

They sat on the boat and drank, and whittled down at the chips. The wind started to pick up and the temperature dipped suddenly as a late night storm rolled in. They watched as the clouds turned black-edged and pops of lightning appeared on the horizon. In her tank top shirt, Sara shivered a little and Fiske put his arm around her. She leaned into him. Then a few drops of rain hit and Sara jumped up. With Fiskes help she pulled out the vinyl covers and snapped them into place across the open compartments of the boat.

We better head in, she said. They walked up to the cottage, running the last few feet as it started to pour.

Long day tomorrow, Sara said, looking at the kitchen clock while patting her wet hair with a paper towel.

Especially after no sleep last night, Fiske added, yawning. They turned the lights off and headed upstairs. Sara said goodnight and went to her room. Fiske watched breeze in along with some of the rain. A shaft of lightning flared across the sky and connected with the earth somewhere. The boom was deafening. So much power, Fiske thought. He went down the hallway to the other bedroom and undressed. He sat on the bed in his undershorts and T-shirt, listening to the rain. His room was stuffy, but he made no move to open a window. The house was too old to have central air, but it didnt have window-mounted air conditioners either. Apparently Sara preferred the river breeze to cool her. A clock hanging on the wall ticked the seconds at him. He caught himself measuring his pulse against it. His heart was pumping fast, gallons of blood gushing through him. He pulled on his trousers, rose and went down the hallway. Her room was dark now, but the door was still open. The curtains kicked up and down with the bursts of wind. He stood in the doorway and watched her as she lay in bed, only a sheet over her. She was watching him watching her. Was she waiting for him? Letting him come to her this time? He moved into the room, hesitantly, as though this was the first time he had entered a womans bedroom. She didnt move or speak, neither encouraging nor discouraging. He lay down next to her and she immediately moved next to him, as though refusing to give him the opportunity to rethink his decision, to flee from her. She wore no clothes. Her body was warm, her skin smooth; the breasts spongy and heat-filled; the scent of the outside air thick over them. Saras hair was tangled and falling in her face. Her lips clenched and then opened; her fingers stroked him gently, everywhere. Together, they worked his pants off and let them fall to the floor. They kissed, lightly at first, and then with greater depth. She moved to raise his T-shirt, to rub his chest, his belly against hers. He moved her hand away and pulled his shirt back down. As the rain hit the roof and glanced off the windows, Fiske slid off his undershorts, lifted his body up, and eased himself down on top of her. *����*����* Sara awoke early, the first shafts of sunlight just dropping over the windowsill. Behind the storm had come waves of deliciously chilly air, and a sky that would transform fully from pink and gray to a deep blue in another hour. She put out her arm to touch him and felt the empty space next to her. She quickly sat up and looked around. Wrapping the sheet around her, she rushed down the hallway and checked the guest room. Empty. So was the bathroom. In a panic she reached the top of the stairs and stopped, a smile edging across her face. She watched Fiske as he poured a cup of coffee and then returned to cracking eggs in a bowl, to which he then added grated cheddar cheese. Sara stood there, the smell of simmering onion reaching her nostrils. Fiske was fully dressed, his hair damp from the shower. As he turned to pull open the refrigerator door, he saw her. Sara clutched the sheet a little tighter around her.

I thought you might have left.

Thought Id let you sleep in. It was a late night.

A wonderful night, she wanted to say, but didnt. You okay? she asked as casually as she could, unable as yet to fully read the subtle messages behind his words, his movements and expressions. Especially about something as recent as their lovemaking. Was the choice of eggs over lying next to her until they both awoke a bad sign?

Im fine, Sara. He smiled, as if to show her that this was actually so. She smiled back. Whatever youre making smells wonderful.

Nothing fancy. Western omelet.

I usually have dry toast and kitchen sink coffee. Its a nice change. Do I have time to shower?

Make it fast.

Not like last night. She smiled, flicked her eyebrows and turned away. The sheet was fully open in the back. Fiske watched her go, aroused again at the sight of her naked body, the delicate, sensual tensing of her back, legs and buttocks. He sat down at the kitchen table and looked around the cozy space. He had stood on the rear deck for a while and watched the sun slowly rise over him. Dawn always seemed so much purer over water, as though these two essential elements of life, heat and water, produced a near-spiritual performance. He glanced back at the stairs as the sound of the shower started. He had watched Sara after she had fallen asleep. In the darkness of the night, their mingled scents a second skin, it had seemed as though he belonged next to her, and she to him. But then the blunt clarity of morning had come. Fiske lifted the coffee cup to his lips, but then quickly put it back down. If he had called his brother back right away, Mike would be alive right now. Fiske could never dodge that truth. He would, in fact, have to live with it forever. ["C48"]CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Elizabeth Knight also awoke at the crack of dawn, showering and dressing quickly. Jordan Knight still slept soundly and she made no move to wake him. She brewed the coffee, poured a cup, took her notebook and sat out on the terrace and watched the sun come up. She looked over every page of her materials for oral argument today, which included the last bench memo Steven Wright would ever author. His blood seemed to replace the ink on the page. As she thought this, she had to fight back the tears again. She swore to herself that he wouldnt die in vain. Ramsey would not carry this day, this case. Knight already had great incentive to make sure that Barbara Chance and women like her could sue the Army for damages for, in essence, condoning the cruel, sadistic and illegal behavior of its male personnel. The organization had not been invented that deserved immunity from such action. But now her motivation, her will to win, to beat Ramsey, had grown a thousandfold. She finished her coffee, packed her briefcase and took a cab to the Supreme Court. *����*����* Fiske rubbed his reddened eyes and tried to put the memory of the night before and its bewildering complexities out of his mind. He sat in a special section reserved for members of the Supreme Court bar. He looked over at Sara, who sat with the other clerks in a section of seats perpendicular to the bench. She looked over at him and smiled. When the justices appeared from behind the curtain and took their seats, Perkins finished his little speech and everyone came to rigid attention. Fiske looked over at Knight. Her subtle movements, an elbow resting lightly here, a finger sifting through paper there, were those of nearly uncontrollable raw energy. She looked, he thought, like a rocket straining at its tethers, desperately wanting to explode. He looked over at Ramsey. The man was smiling, looking calm, in control. If Fiske were a betting man, though, his chips would be at the extreme right of the bench, directly in front of Justice Elizabeth Knight. The case ofChance v. United Stateswas called. Chances attorney, a hired gun from Harvard Law School, who made a practice of appearing before the Supreme Court with much success, launched into his argument with vigor. Until Ramsey cut in.