The Flag on Gorbachev Crater

10. Smerll’s Headquarters

Persons visiting the Ethics Section of the Metropolitan Bar Committee would find nothing unusual in the outer offices. One encountered first an amiable gray-haired receptionist, who might direct the visitor to one of the side offices, where the resident investigators worked. The central areas were occupied by secretaries, files, and miscellaneous office equipment.

Off to one side, facing the Federal Courthouse, was Room 1313, the Hearing Room. Despite air-conditioning, the room smelled of death.

This thirteenth floor of the Bar Building was the micro-empire of Irwin Smerll, which he ruled from a corner office in the rear.

Most of the wall space in Smerll’s office was covered with framed epigrams printed in heavy black letters. If the light was just right, a visitor with 20/20 vision could read some of them from Smerll’s doorway.

The first said:

Next:

Moving on around:

Then a solid exhibit, mounted and framed: a thirty-two automatic, now empty, of course, and the barrel sealed. Under it the legend, “The suicide weapon used by W. Matthew Rood (formerly Esquire), the day following his disbarment.”

Then more epigrammata:

And finally, not an epigram, but a list. Inspection revealed eighteen names of persons once members of the Metropolitan Bar, and the dates of their disbarment or other destruction. There was room at the bottom for several more names, and a very close inspection would reveal (written very lightly in pencil) the initials “D.B.” The date was blank.

Smerll operated his section on the theory that a crooked lawyer subconsciously wanted to be caught. It was ironic, he thought, and it was tragic, but it was all very true. And good to know. Because sooner or later the errant attorney would send Ethics a gilt-edged invitation to discover him in the very act of his malfeasance. In most cases all Smerll had to do was watch, wait, and pounce. And that, he told himself, is how I will eventually get you, Mr. Lily-white Beckwith.

And sure enough—out of the blue—enter the Arabian courtesan. He remembered her from the Glenwood football game. Was she really just sixteen? Is this a genuine case of contributing to the delinquency of a minor? Or even (dared he hope?) of statutory rape?

Smerll was sitting at his desk and wondering if he had enough to disbar Beckwith, when his secret watch service on Beckett’s docket in the Patent Office faxed him a copy of az-Zahra’s patent application.

“It’s her!” he muttered ungrammatically to himself. He sat down to read. He read every word, some of them twice. “Flying carpet?” he whispered. “Colossal deliberate fraud!” He lifted his eyes to heaven, and he said, “O Lord, I thank thee.”