Текст книги "The Simple Truth"

Автор книги: David Baldacci

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Sara looked down. I guess I do, dont I?

Take it from someone who has two grown daughters. Dont rush it. Let it take its natural course. You have plenty of time. End of motherly advice.

Sara smiled. Thanks.

Now, how is the bench memo coming onChance v. U.S.?

I know Stevens been working on it nonstop.

Steven Wright is not holding up well here.

Well, hes trying really hard.

You have to help him, Sara. Youre the senior clerk. I should have had that memo two weeks ago. Ramsey has his ammo bag filled and the precedents are completely on his side. I need to be at least equal to that if Im going to have a shot.

Ill make it a top priority.

Good.

Sara rose to leave. And I think youll handle the chief justice just fine.

The women exchanged smiles. Elizabeth Knight had become almost a second mother to Sara Evans, replacing the one she had lost as a young child. As Sara walked out the door, Knight sat back in her chair. Where she was now was the culmination of a lifetime of work and sacrifice, luck and skill. She was married to a well-respected United States senator, a man she loved and who loved her. She was one of only three women who had ever donned the robes of a Supreme Court justice. She felt humble and empowered at the same time. The president who had nominated her was still in office. He had seen her as a reliable middle-of-the-road jurist. She had not been that active politically, so he could not exactly expect her to toe his partys line, but he probably expected her to be judicially passive, letting the solution to the really important questions fall to the peoples elected representatives. She had no deep-set philosophies like Ramsey or Murphy. They decided cases not so much on the facts of each one, but on the broad positions each case represented. Murphy would never vote to uphold or reverse any case in favor of capital punishment. Ramsey would wither and die before he would side with a defendant in a criminal rights case. Knight could not choose her sides in that manner. She took each case, each party, as they came. She agonized over the facts. While she thought about the broader impact of the courts decisions, she also worried about the fairness to the actual parties. It often meant she was the swing vote on a lot of cases, and she didnt really mind that. She was no wallflower, and she had come here to make a difference. Only now was she seeing what a very great impact she could have. And the responsibility that came with such power was what humbled her. And frightened her. Made her stare at the ceiling wide awake as her husband slept soundly beside her. Still, she thought with a smile, there was no other place she would rather be; no other way she would rather be spending her life. ["C9"]CHAPTER NINE

John Fiske walked into the building located in the West End of Richmond. The place was officially called a rest home, but, plain and simple, it was a place for the elderly to come to die. Fiske tried to ignore the moans and cries as he strode down the corridor. He saw the feeble bodies, heads dipping low, limbs useless, encased in the wheelchairs, stacked like shopping carts against the wall, waiting for a dance partner who was never going to show up. It had taken all the resolve he and his father had in order to move Johns mother into this place. Michael Fiske had never faced up to the fact that their mothers mind was gone, eaten away by Alzheimers. The good times were easy to enjoy. The real worth of a person came from how he acted during the bad times. As far as John Fiske was concerned, his brother Mike had failed that test miserably. He checked in at the desk. How is she today? he asked the assistant administrator. As a frequent visitor here, he knew all the staff.

Shes had better ones, John, but your being here will perk her up, the woman answered.

Right, Fiske muttered as he walked to the visitors room. His mother awaited him there, dressed, as always, in her housecoat and slippers. Her eyes wandered aimlessly, her mouth moving, but no words coming out. When Fiske appeared at the doorway, she looked at him, a smile breaking across her face. He walked over and sat down across from her.

Hows my Mikey? Gladys Fiske asked, tenderly rubbing his face. Hows Mommas baby?

Fiske took a deep breath. It was the same damn thing, for the last two years. In Gladys Fiskes devastated mind he was Mike, he would always be his brother until the very end of his mothers life. John Fiske had somehow completely vanished from her memory, as if he had never been born. He gently touched her hands, doing his best to quiet the absolute frustration inside him. Im fine. Doing good. Pops good too. He then added quietly, Johnnys doing good too, he asked about you. Always does.

Her stare was blank. Johnny?

Fiske attempted this every time, and every time the response was the same. Why did she forget him and not his brother? There had to have been some deep-rooted facet in her that had allowed the Alzheimers to erase his identity from her life. Was his existence never that strong, never that important to her? And yet he had been the son who had always been there for his parents. He had helped them as a boy, and continued to be there for them as a man. Everything from giving them a large part of his income to getting up on the roof on a suffocating August day, in the middle of a hellish trial, to help his old man shingle their house, because he didnt have the cash to pay someone to do it. And Mike, always the favorite, always the one to go his own way, his own selfish way, Fiske thought . . . Mike was always hailed as the great one, the one who would do the family proud. In reality, his parents had never been that extreme in their views of their sons; Fiske knew that. But his anger had skewed that truth, empowering the bad and subverting the good.

Mikey? she said anxiously. How are the children?

Theyre fine, theyre good, growing like weeds. They look just like you. Having to pretend that he was his brother and had fathered children made Fiske want to collapse to the floor bawling. She smiled and touched her hair. He picked up on that. Looks good. Pop says youre prettier than ever. Gladys Fiske had been an attractive woman for most of her life, and her appearance had been very important to her. The effects of the Alzheimers had, in her case, accelerated the aging process. She would have been terribly upset with how she looked now, Fiske knew. He hoped his mother still saw herself as twenty years old and the prettiest she would ever be. He held out a package he had brought. She seized it with the glee of a child and tore off the wrapping. She touched the brush delicately and then ran it through her hair very carefully.

Its the most beautiful thing Ive ever seen.

She said that about everything he brought her. Tissues, lipstick, a picture book. The most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Mike. Every time he came here, his brother scored brownie points. Fiske forced these thoughts away and spent a very pleasant hour with his mother. He loved her so much. He would rip from her the disease that had destroyed her brain if he could. Since he couldnt, he would do anything to spend time with her. Even under anothers name. *����*����* Fiske left the rest home and drove to his fathers house. As he turned onto the familiar street, he looked around the disintegrating boundaries of his first eighteen years of life: dilapidated homes with peeling paint and crumbling porches, sagging wire fences, and dirt front yards running down to narrow, cracked streets where twin streams of ancient, battered Fords and Chevys docked. Fifty years ago, the neighborhood had been a typical starter community for the postWorld War II masses filled with the unshakable confidence that life would only get better. For those who hadnt crossed that bridge of prosperity, the most visible change in their worn-out lives was a wooden wheelchair ramp grafted over the front stoop. As he looked at one of the ramps, Fiske knew he would choose a wheelchair over the rot of his mothers brain. He pulled into the driveway of his fathers well-kept home. The more the neighborhood fell apart around him, the harder his old man worked to keep it at bay. Perhaps to keep the past alive a little longer. Maybe hoping his wife would come home twenty years old again with a fresh, healthy mind. The old Buick was in the driveway, its body rusted a little, but the engine in mint condition thanks to its owners skills as a master mechanic. Fiske saw his father in the garage, dressed in his usual outfit of white T-shirt and blue work pants, hunkered over some piece of equipment. Retired now, Ed Fiske was at his happiest with his fingers full of grease, the guts of some complex machinery strewn out helter-skelter in front of him.

Cold beers in the fridge, Ed said without looking up. Fiske opened the old refrigerator his father kept in the garage and pulled out a Miller. He sat down on a rickety old kitchen chair and watched his father work, just as he had done as a young boy. He had always been fascinated with the skill of his fathers hands, the way the man confidently knew where every piece went.

Saw Mom today.

With a practiced roll of his tongue, Ed pushed the cigarette he was puffing on to the right side of his mouth. His muscular forearms flexed and then relaxed as he ratcheted a bolt tight.

Im going tomorrow. Thought Id get all dressed up, bring some flowers, a little boxed dinner Ida is going to make up. Make it real special. Just me and her.

Ida German was the next-door neighbor. She had lived in the neighborhood longer than anyone else. She had been good company to his father ever since his wife had gone away.

Shell love that. Fiske sipped on his beer and smiled at the picture the two would make together. Ed finished up what he was doing and took a minute to clean up, using gasoline and a rag to get the grease off his hands. He grabbed a beer and sat down on an old toolbox across from his son.

Talked to Mike yesterday, he said.

Is that right? Fiske said with no interest.

Hes doing good up there at the Court. You know they asked him back for another year. He must be good.

Im sure hes the best theyve ever had. Fiske stood up and went over to the open doorway. He took a deep breath, letting his lungs fill with the scent of freshly cut grass. Every Saturday growing up, he and his brother would mow the lawn, do the chores and then the family would pile into the mammoth station wagon for the weekly trip to the A&P grocery store. If they had been really good, done all their chores correctly, not clipped the grass too short, theyd get a soda from the machine next to the paper box outside the A&P. To the boys it was liquid gold. Fiske and his brother would think all week about getting that cold soda. They had been so close growing up. Carried the morningTimes Dispatchtogether, played sports together, though John was three years older than his brother. Mike was so gifted physically that he had played varsity sports as a freshman. The Fiske brothers. Everybody knew them, respected them. Those were happy times. Those times were over. He turned back and looked at his father. Ed shook his head. Did you know Mike turned down a teaching job at one of them big law schools, Harvard or something, to stay at the Court? He got a slew of offers from big law firms. He showed me em. Lord, they were talking money I cant even believe. The pride in his voice was obvious.

More power to him, Fiske said dryly. Ed suddenly slapped his thigh. Whats wrong with you, Johnny? What the hell do you have against your brother?

Ive got nothing against him.

Then why the hell dont you two get along like you used to? Ive talked to Mike. Its not on account of him.

Look, Pop, hes got his life and Ive got mine. I dont remember you being all touchy-feely with Uncle Ben.

My brother was a bum and a drunk. Your brother aint either of those.

Being a drunk and a bum arent the only vices in the world.

Damn, I just dont understand you, son.

Join the crowd.

Ed put out his cigarette on the concrete floor, stood and leaned against one of the garages exposed wall studs. Jealousy aint right between brothers. You should feel good about what hes done with his life.

Oh, so you think Im jealous?

Are you?

Fiske took another sip of beer and looked over at the belly-button-high wire fence surrounding his fathers small backyard. It was currently painted dark green. Over the years it had seen many different colors. John and Mike had painted it each summer, the color being whatever the trucking firm Ed worked for had left over from its annual office repainting. Fiske looked over at the apple tree that spread over one corner of the yard. He motioned with his beer. Youve got caterpillars. Get me a flare.

Ill get to it.

Pop, you dont even like standing on a chair.

Fiske took off his jacket, grabbed a ladder from the garage and took the flare his father handed him. He ignited it, positioned the ladder under the bulging nest and climbed up. It took a few minutes, but the nest slowly dissolved under the heat of the flare. Fiske climbed back down and stamped out the flare while his father raked up the remains of the nest.

And you just saw my problem with Mike.

What? Ed looked confused.

When was the last time Mike was down here to help? Hell, just to see you or Mom?

Ed scratched at his beard stubble and fumbled in his pants pocket for another cigarette. Hes busy. He gets down when he can.

Sure he does.

Hes got important work to do for the government. Up there helping all them judges. Its the damn highest court in the land, you know that.

Well, guess what, Pop, I keep pretty busy too.

I know that, son. But

But, I know, its different. Fiske threw his jacket over his shoulder, wiped the sweat from his eyes. The mosquitoes would be out soon. That made him think of water. His father kept a trailer at a campground down by the Mattaponi River. You been down to the trailer lately?

Ed shook his head, relieved at the change in subject. Naw, planning to go soon, though. Take the boat out before it gets too cold.

Fiske rubbed another bead of sweat off his forehead. Let me know, I might run down with you.

Ed scrutinized his eldest son. How you doing?

Professionally? Lost two, won two this week. I take that as an acceptable batting average these days.

You be careful, son. I know you believe in what youre doing and all, but thats a damn rough bunch youre lawyering for. Some of them might remember you from your cop days. I lie awake at night thinking about that.

Fiske smiled. He loved his father as much as he did his mother, and, in some subtle ways of men, even more. The thought of his father still losing sleep over him was very reassuring. He slapped his father on the back.

Dont worry, Pop, I never let my guard down.

How about the other thing?

Fiske unconsciously touched his chest. Doing just fine. Hell, probably live to be a hundred.

I hope you do, son, his father said with great conviction as he watched his boy leave. Ed shook his head as he thought of how far his sons had drifted apart and his being unable to do anything about it. Damn, was all he could think of to say before sitting down on the toolbox to finish his beer. ["C10"]CHAPTER TEN

It was early in the morning as Michael Fiske quietly hummed his way through the broad, high-ceilinged hallway toward the clerks mail room. As he entered the room, a clerk looked up. You picked a good time, Michael. We just got in a shipment.

Any con mail? Michael asked, referring to the ever-growing number of petitions from prisoners. Most of them were filedin forma pauperis,meaning, literally, in the form of a pauper. There was a separate docket kept for these petitions, and it was so large that one clerk was specially designated to manage the filings. The IFPs, as they were termed by Court personnel, were usually a place to discover either humor over some ridiculous claim or occasionally a case worthy of the Courts attention. Michael knew that some of the most important Court decisions ever had resulted from IFP cases thus his early morning ritual of panning for appellate gold in the paper piles.

From the hand scribblings Ive tried to decipher so far, Id say that was a good bet, the clerk responded. Michael dragged a box over to one corner. Within its confines was an array of complaints, penned miseries, a procession of claimed injustice of varying content and description. But none of them could be simply shrugged off. Many were from death row inmates; for them, the Supreme Court represented the last hope before legal extermination. For the next two hours Michael dug through the box. He was very accomplished at this now. It was like expertly shucking corn, his mind scanning the lengthy documents with ease, effortlessly probing through the legalese to the important points, comparing them to pending cases as well as precedents from fifty years ago pulled from his encyclopedic memory; then filing them away and moving on. However, at the end of two hours he had not found much of great interest. He was thinking of heading up to his office when his hand closed around the plain manila envelope. The address label was typewritten, but the envelope had no return address. That was strange, Michael thought. People seeking to plead their case before the Court normally wanted the justices to know where to find them in the rare event that their plea was answered. There was, however, the left side of a postal return receipt card affixed to it. He slid open the envelope and removed the two sheets of paper. One of the functions of the clerksmail room was to ensure that all filings met the strict standards of the Court. For parties claiming indigent status, if their petitions were granted, the Court would waive certain filing requirements and fees, and even engage and pick up some of the expenses of counsel, although the attorney would not bill for his or her time. It was an honor simply to stand before the Court as an advocate. Two of the forms required to achieve indigent status were a motion for leave to file as a pauper, and an affidavit signed by the prisoner, basically swearing to the persons impoverished status. Neither was in the envelope, Michael quickly noted. The appeal would have to be kicked back. When Michael started reading whatwasin the envelope, all thoughts of any filing deficiencies vanished. After he finished, he could see the sweat from his palms leach onto the paper. At first Michael wanted to put the pages back in the envelope and forget he had ever seen them. But, as though he had now witnessed a crime himself, he felt he had to do something.

Hey, Michael, Murphys chambers just called down for you, the clerk said. When Michael didnt answer, the clerk said again, Michael? Justice Murphy is looking for you.

Michael nodded, finally managing to focus on something other than the papers in his hand. When the clerk turned back to his work, Michael put the pages back in the manila envelope. He hesitated an instant. His entire legal career, his entire life, could be decided in the next second or so. Finally, as though his hands were acting independently from his thoughts, he slipped the envelope into his briefcase. By doing so before the petition had been officially processed with the Court, he had just committed, among other crimes, theft of federal property, a felony. As he raced out of the mail room, he almost collided head-on with Sara Evans. She smiled at first, but the look changed quickly when she saw his face. Michael, whats wrong?

Nothing. Im fine.

She gripped his arm. Youre not fine. Youre shaking and your face is white as a sheet.

I think Im coming down with something.

Well, then you should go home.

Ill grab some aspirin from the nurse. Ill be okay.

Are you sure?

Sara, I really have to go. He pulled away, leaving her staring worriedly after him. The rest of the day moved at a glacial pace for Michael and he repeatedly found himself staring at his briefcase, thinking of the contents. Late that night, his days work at the Court finally completed, he furiously rode his bike back to his apartment on Capitol Hill. He locked the door behind him and took out the envelope once more. He grabbed a yellow legal pad from his briefcase and carried everything over to the small dinette table. An hour later he sat back and stared at the numerous notes he had made. He opened his laptop and rewrote these notes onto his hard drive, changing, tinkering, rethinking as he did so, a longtime habit of his. He had decided to attack this problem as he would any other. He would check out the information in the petition as carefully as he could. Most important, he would have to confirm that the names listed on the petition were actually the people he thought they were. If it seemed legitimate, he would return the appeal to the clerksmail room. If it was clearly frivolous, the work of an unbalanced mind or a prisoner blindly lashing out, he had made up his mind to destroy it. Michael looked out the window and across the street at the cluttered line of row houses that had been converted into apartments just like his. Young disciples of government were honeycombed in this neighborhood. Half were still at work, the rest in bed, nightmaring through a list of uncompleted tasks of national importance, at least until the fiveA.M.awakening. The darkness Michael stared into was interrupted only by the wash of a corner streetlight. The wind had gained strength, and the temperature had dropped, in readiness for an advancing storm. The boiler in the old building was not yet engaged, and a sudden chill hit Michael through the window. He pulled a sweatshirt from his closet, threw it on, and returned to stare out to the street. He had never heard of Rufus Harms. According to the dates in the letter, the man had been incarcerated when Michael was only five years old. The spelling in the letter was abysmal, the formation of the letters and words clumsy, resembling a childs humorous first attempts at penmanship. The typewritten letter explained some of the background of the case and was obviously composed by a far better educated person. A lawyer, perhaps, Michael thought. The language had a legal air to it, although it was as though the person typing it had intended his professional together with his personal identity, to remain unknown. The notice from the Army, according to the typewritten letter, had requested certain information from Rufus Harms. However, Rufus Harms denied ever being in the program the Armys records apparently indicated he was in. It had been a cover, Harms was alleging, for a crime that had resulted in a horrific miscarriage of justice a legal fiasco that had caused a quarter century of his life to disappear. Suddenly warm, Michael pressed his face into the coolness of the window and took a deep breath, the air frosting the glass. What he was doing amounted to blatant interference with a partys right to seek his day in court. All of his life Michael had believed in a persons inalienable franchise to have access to the law, no matter how rich or poor. It was not scrip that could be revoked or declared worthless. He comforted himself somewhat with the knowledge that the appeal would have been defeated via a host of technical deficiencies. But this case was different. Even if false, it could still do terrible damage to the reputations of some very important people. If it was true? He closed his eyes. Please, God, do not let it be, he prayed. He turned his head and eyed the phone. He suddenly wondered if he should call and seek his brothers advice. John was savvy in ways his younger brother was not. He might know how to handle the situation better. Michael hesitated for a moment longer, reluctant to admit that he needed any help, especially from that troubling, estranged source. But it also might be a way back into his brothers life. The fault was not entirely on one side; Michael had matured enough to comprehend the elusiveness of blame. He picked up the phone and dialed. He got the answering machine, a result that pleased a certain part of him. He left a message asking for his brothers help but revealing nothing. He hung up, and returned to the window once more. It was probably better that John had not been there to take the call. His brother tended to see things only in rigid lines of black and white, a telling facet of the way he lived his life. Toward the early hours of the morning, Michael drifted off to sleep, growing ever more confident that he could handle this potential nightmare, however it turned out. ["C11"]CHAPTER ELEVEN

Three days after Michael Fiske had taken the file from the clerks mail room, Rufus Harms placed another call to Sam Riders office, but was told the attorney was out of town on business. As he was escorted back to his cell, Rufus passed a man in the corridor.

Lot of phone calls lately, Harms. What, you have a mail-order business going or something? The guards laughed loudly at the mans words. Vic Tremaine was a little under six feet, had white-blond, close-cropped hair, weathered features and was molded like a gun turret. He was the second-in-command of Fort Jackson, and he had made it his personal mission to compress as much misery into Harmss life as he could. Harms said nothing, but stood there patiently as Tremaine looked him up and down.

Whatd your lawyer want? He coming up with another defense for you slaughtering that little girl? Is that it? Tremaine drew closer to the prisoner. You still see her in your sleep? I hope you do. I listen to you crying in your cell, you know. Tremaines tone was openly taunting, the muscles in his arms and shoulders tensing with each word, neck veins pulling taut, as though he were hoping Harms would crack, try something, and that would be the end of the prisoners life tenure here. Crying like a damn baby. I bet that little girls momma and daddy cried too. I bet they wanted to wrap their fingers around your throat. Like you did to their baby. You ever think about that?

Harms did not flinch. His lips remained in a straight line, his eyes looking past Tremaine. Harms had been through isolation, solitary, taunts, physical and mental abuse; everything one man could do to another out of cruelty, fear and hatred, he had endured. Tremaines words, no matter their content or how they were delivered, could not break through the wall that encased him, kept him alive. Sensing this, Tremaine took a step back. Get him out of my sight. As the group headed off, Tremaine called after them, Go back to reading your Bible, Harms. Thats as close as youre ever getting to heaven. *����*����* John Fiske hustled after the woman walking down the hallway of the court building.

Hey, Janet, got a minute?

Janet Ryan was a very experienced prosecutor currently doing her best to send one of Fiskes clients away for a long time. She was also attractive and divorced. She smiled when she turned to him. For you, two minutes.

About Rodney

Wait, refresh my memory. Ive got lots of Rodneys.

Burglary, electronics store, north side.

Firearm involved, police chase, priors now I remember.

Right. Anyway, neither one of us wants to take this sucker to trial.

Translation, John: Your case stinks and mine is overwhelming.

Fiske shook his head. You might have a chain-of-custody problem with some of the evidence.

Mightis such a funny word, dont you think?

And that confession has holes.

They always do. But the fact is your guy is a career crim. And Ill get a jury wholl put him away for a long time.

So why waste the taxpayersmoney, then?

Whats your deal?

Plead to the burglary, possession of stolen property. Drop the nasty little firearm count. We end up with five years with credit for time served.

Janet started walking. See you in court.

Okay, okay, eight, but I need to talk with my guy.

She turned around and ticked off the points on her fingers. He pleads to all of it, including the nasty little firearm count, he gets ten years, forget the time served, and he punches the whole ticket. Probation for another five after that. If he pees funny, he goes back for another ten, no questions asked. If he goes to trial youre looking at a slam-dunk of twenty. And I want an answer right now.

Damn, Janet, wheres the compassion?

Saving it for somebody who deserves it. As you can probably guess, my list is very short. Besides, its a sweetheart deal. Yes or no?

Fiske tapped his fingers against his briefcase.

Going once, going twice, Ryan said.

Okay, okay, deal.

Good doing business with you, John. By the way, why dont you call me sometime. You know, off hours?

Dont you think there might be a conflict lurking there somewhere?

Not at all. Im always hardest on my friends.

She walked off humming while Fiske leaned up against the wall and shook his head. An hour later, he returned to his office and tossed down his briefcase. He picked up the phone and checked his messages at home, listening to the recorded voices at the same time he wrote down notes for an upcoming hearing. When he heard his brothers voice, he didnt even stop writing. One finger flicked out and erased the message. It was rare but not unheard-of for Mike to call. Fiske had never called him back. Now he thought his brother was doing it just to antagonize him. As soon as he completed this thought, he knew it was not true. He rose and went over to a bookcase jammed with trial notebooks and legal tomes. He slid out the framed photograph. It was an old picture. He was in his policemans uniform, Mike stood next to him. Proud little brother just entering manhood and stern-faced big brother, who had already seen a lot of evil in life and expected to see a lot more before he was done. In reality he had experienced firsthand the ugly side of humanity, and was still, but now he did so without the uniform. Just a briefcase, a cheap suit and a fast mouth. Bullets exchanged for words. Till the end of his days. He put the photo back and sat down. However, he looked over at the photo, suddenly unable to concentrate. *����*����* A few days later, Sara Evans knocked and then opened the door to Michael Fiskes office. It was empty. Michael had borrowed a book and she needed it back. She looked around the room but didnt see it lying anywhere. Then she spotted his briefcase underneath the kneehole of his desk. She picked it up. From the weight, she knew there was something inside. The briefcase was locked, but she knew the combination from having borrowed his briefcase a couple of times before. She opened it and immediately saw two books and the papers inside. Neither book was the one she was looking for though. She was going to close it back up but then stopped. She pulled the papers out and then looked at the envelope they had come in. Addressed to the clerks office. She had just glanced at the handwritten page and then the typewritten letter when she heard footsteps. She put the papers back, closed the briefcase and slid it back under the desk. A moment later Michael walked in.