Supreme Justice

Chapter Seven

Dennis Masterson worked a kink out of his neck as he carried his coffee mug to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his spacious corner office. Masterson’s workplace was the largest of any partner at Rankin Lusk, which was fitting because he was the firm’s biggest rainmaker. The oak-paneled walls of his domain were a testament to his power. They were decorated with pictures of Masterson posed with every important person who had worked inside the Beltway for the past thirty years.

Most of the partners in the major D.C. law firms labored in obscurity, known only to the members of their country club and the legislators and political appointees they lobbied, but Masterson was familiar to any American who watched the evening news or political talk shows. A quarterback at Dartmouth and a law review editor at Yale, he had joined Rankin Lusk after two tours in Vietnam. Seven years ago, Masterson had taken a sabbatical to serve as the director of the CIA. Three years ago, there had been a very embarrassing incident in Afghanistan, and Masterson had rejoined Rankin Lusk when the president, in need of a scapegoat, had asked him to fall on his sword. Masterson had toyed with the idea of resisting the request, but there was a lot of money to be made in the private sector and it didn’t hurt his business prospects to be owed a favor by the leader of the free world.

Masterson was six four with the patrician features of a man born to wealth. With his snow white hair and steely blue eyes, he was the personification of wisdom and sincerity, and the perfect guest on any television talk show. During his CIA days, he had been the ideal person to bear witness before a congressional committee. Masterson’s connections with the defense and intelligence industries made him indispensable to his firm.

Masterson’s disposable and untraceable cell phone rang. Only one person had the number to this particular phone and that person only called with important news.

“The conference just ended,” the voice on the other end of the line said, “and there’s been a development. Justice Chalmers resigned. His wife has Alzheimer’s and-”

“I’ve known that for two hours,” Masterson interrupted. “What happened with the Woodruff petition?”

“It’s still alive.”

Masterson swore. “Millard couldn’t kill it?”

“He tried but Moss stepped in and convinced the other judges to defer a vote.”

“What’s the count?”

“Justices David and Martinez want cert granted. Moss won’t take a position, but Price thinks she’s leaning toward voting to grant.”

“Thank God for Chalmers’ wife. He would have been the fourth vote if Moss is in favor.”

Masterson went quiet. The caller waited.

“I want Moss’s chambers bugged,” Masterson said. “We have to know which way she’s leaning.”

“I’m on it.”

Masterson broke the connection and returned his attention to the world outside his office. In the streets below, people scurried back and forth with no idea of who was really running the world. From this height, they looked like ants, and Masterson viewed them with the same dispassion he viewed any other insect. Of the billions of people in the world, only a few counted, and he was one of them. But that could change if Sarah Woodruff’s case didn’t die in conference. As it stood now, Woodruff was just another criminal case from a Podunk state known for tree huggers, pretty mountains, and running shoes. Masterson could not risk the scrutiny it would receive if the Supreme Court took it up. Woodruff had to stay buried, and Dennis Masterson was willing to do anything to keep it six feet under.