Guilty Minds

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?”

“No, that’s not correct.”

I arched a brow.

“I once attended a function at his home in Las Vegas. Before I was appointed to the court.”

“Have you been in touch with him since being named to the court?”

“He’s invited me to various functions, and each time I’ve declined.”

“So you haven’t seen him since coming to work in this building?”

“That’s right. Do those questions allege otherwise?”

I shook my head. “Is he a friend?”

“No. We’ve shaken hands once or twice.”

“Does he have a reason to want to bring you down?”

“Quite the opposite. A few months ago we handed down a decision on Wyden Desert Resorts v. PokerLeader. A decision that came down in his favor.”

“All right. Now, this reporter alleges that on three nights this past month, you had, uh, sessions with this Heidi L’Amour.”

“Which I’ve already told you is false.”

“Right, but can you account for your whereabouts on those three nights?”

He hesitated for an instant, but long enough to put me on alert. “I was at home,” he said.

“Actually, on one of those nights, weren’t you at the annual Mock Trial and Dinner of the Shakespeare Theatre Company at Sidney Harman Hall on F Street?” That was in the quickie background file Dorothy had prepared for me by the time I landed at Reagan National Airport. It was a star-studded event the Supreme Court justices seemed to do every year.

“No. I had to cancel my appearance at the Mock Trial. I was feeling a little under the weather.”

Dorothy had missed that. He must have been scheduled to appear, but the website hadn’t been updated. “So you were at home all three of those nights?”

He nodded pensively.

“Excellent. So your wife can establish your alibi.”

He paused. “My wife and I are separated. This is not generally known. It’s also nobody’s business.”

But I already knew this, of course. I’d wondered whether he would try to gloss that over with me. “This is Washington,” I said. “Everything is everybody’s business. So do you live in the Chevy Chase house or does she?”

“She does. I live at the Watergate.”

“I see.”

“I live alone. So that, uh, won’t work as an alibi.”

I could have tormented the chief justice further, asking whether the doormen or the lobby attendants would back him up, but I’d done enough. “You actually weren’t at the Watergate on those nights, were you?”

He gave me a look that I couldn’t quite read. Was he surprised or offended or just taken aback? He didn’t reply right away, so I went on, watching him intently. “For that entire week, you were somewhere else.” Just before our meeting, I’d gone to the Watergate and asked a few questions, dispensed a little cash. I’d done my due diligence.

Now he looked away. I noticed a reddening in his cheeks, but I wasn’t sure whether I was seeing a flush of anger or the sting of embarrassment. I remained silent. I’m a big believer in the power of silence.

“It’s irrelevant where I was,” Claflin said.

“If we want to blow this story out of the water, I’m afraid it’s entirely relevant. The simplest refutation is to establish an ironclad alibi.”

“Then I think we’re going to have a problem.”

I waited, said nothing.

“Your challenge is to prove I never met with this prostitute. I’m afraid I can’t help you beyond what I’ve already said.”

But I persisted. “The court was in recess that week. You had no public appearances, gave no speeches. There’s nothing on the public record for that entire week. The Watergate’s security cameras, the parking lot cameras, they’re all going to reveal you weren’t home at the time of the alleged incidents. Did you travel somewhere?” I was bluffing, of course. I didn’t have time to check out security cameras.

He continued looking away. Finally he turned toward me and spoke. “Can I trust your confidence?”

“Of course.”

“If this gets out I’m going to have real problems.”

“I understand.”

“The reason I wasn’t home that week is that I was at Sibley Hospital, in the inpatient mental health clinic. I was having electroconvulsive therapy.”

I tried to hide my astonishment. “Electroshock therapy?”

He nodded. “For depression. You can understand why it’s important to me that this be kept private.”

“So you have an alibi we can’t use,” I finally said, because it was all I could think to say.