“You certainly have some interesting opinions.”
He poured himself a cup of coffee while she looked over her papers.
“Ramsey still grooming you to become a good member of his camp?”
“Oh, he’s pushing all the right buttons, saying all the right things. However, I’m afraid some of my recent actions aren’t sitting all that well with him.”
“You go your own way, Beth, just like always. You’re smarter than all of them. Hell, you should be chief justice.”
She put an arm around his thick shoulders. “Like maybe you should be president?”
He shrugged. “I think the U.S. Senate is challenge enough for me. Who knows, this might be the last roundup for yours truly.”
She pulled her arm away. “We really haven’t talked about it.”
“I know. We’re both busy. Too many demands on our time. When things settle down, we’ll talk. I think we have to.”
“You sound serious.”
“Can’t keep on the treadmill forever, Beth.”
She let out a troubled laugh. “I’m afraid I signed on for life.”
“Good thing about politics. You can always decide not to run again. Or you can lose your seat.”
“I thought there was a lot more you wanted to accomplish.”
“It’s not going to happen. Too many obstacles. Too many games. To tell you the truth, I’m getting kind of tired.”
Beth Knight started to say something and then stopped. She had jumped firmly into the “game” of the Supreme Court.
Jordan Knight picked up his coffee and kissed her on the cheek. “Go get ’em, Ms. Justice.”
As the senator walked off, she rubbed her face where he had kissed it. She tried to study her papers once more, but found she couldn’t. She simply sat there, her mind suddenly whirling in many different directions.
* * *
John Fiske held the photo of himself and his brother. He had sat there for almost twenty minutes with it, not even looking at it for much of that time. Finally he stood it up on his bookcase, went over to the phone and dialed his brother’s number. There was no answer and Fiske didn’t bother leaving a message. He then called the Supreme Court, but was told Michael was not yet in. He called thirty minutes later and was told by another person that Michael would not be in at all that day. Figures, he thought. He couldn’t get hold of his brother when he had at last gotten up the nerve to call him. Was that what it was — nerve? He sat down at his desk and tried to work, but his eyes kept stealing over to that photo.
Finally, he packed his briefcase, grateful that he had to go to court, grateful to get away from some nagging feelings.
In the course of the morning, he had two hearings back to back. One he won convincingly; with the other he was torn apart by the judge, who seemingly took every opportunity to ridicule his legal arguments, while the assistant commonwealth attorney stood by politely, holding back the smiles; you had to maintain the professional facade, because it could be your butt being put through the wringer the next time. Everyone here understood that. Or at least those who stuck with it did.
He next went to the Richmond city jail and then the county jail in Henrico to speak with clients. With one, he discussed strategy for the man’s upcoming trial. His inmate client offered to go on the witness stand and lie. Sorry, you won’t be doing that, Fiske told him. With another client the talk was about the ubiquitous plea bargain. Months, years, decades. How much time? Will I have a shot at parole? Suspended sentence? Help me out, man. I got a woman and kids. I got bizness to take care of. Okay, right. What’s a little murder and mayhem compared to that?
With the last client, things took a very different turn. “We’re not in good shape here, Leon. I think we should plead,” Fiske advised.
“Nope. We go to trial.”
“They’ve got two eyewitnesses.”
“Is that right?”
Leon had been charged with the shooting of a child. It had been a dispute between two gangs of skinheads, and the little girl had gotten in the way — a fairly common tragedy these days. “Well, they’re not going to hurt me if they don’t testify, are they?”