Phillip Margolin - Supreme Justice

The affair ended almost as soon as it began, and Masterson had no illusions about Gaylord’s reason for beginning it. Every move she made was calculated to give her an edge. The president had grown up dirt-poor and had financed degrees in business and law with scholarships won in beauty pageants. She’d made a personal fortune and important contacts while serving as counsel to a major corporation, and her rapid rise in politics was well documented. The president was a shark with a dangerously high IQ, and Masterson knew he would have to be careful to gain what he wanted without being eaten.

The Rose Garden came into view, and the chauffer pulled up in front of a door that stood between the Oval Office and the State Dining Room. A Secret Service agent led Masterson upstairs to the private quarters and left him in a small study. After making Masterson wait for fifteen minutes, Maureen Gaylord walked in. The stately brunette was dressed in an understated outfit that the truly discerning would know was the product of a top fashion designer.

“Dennis,” she said, flashing a warm smile that lit up her wonderful features. Masterson savored the moment. He knew the smile would disappear as soon as Gaylord learned the reason for his late-night visit.

“The presidency hasn’t aged you a bit, Maureen,” Masterson said after they’d cheek-kissed and were both seated.

“You were always great at flattery, but keep it up. I need to hear something nice after dealing with that asshole from North Korea all day.”

“Then you should welcome my visit. I’m here to ease the burden of your office.”

“Oh,” Gaylord said. The president knew there was no such thing as a free lunch when the ex-CIA director was involved.

“Vivian Chalmers is a wonderful woman. It’s got to be tough for Ron.”

“He’s devastated. I was one of the first people he told,” the president said.

Masterson nodded sympathetically. “Ron is going to be tough to replace.”

“I agree.”

“But I believe I’ve found the perfect person for you to nominate.” Masterson was relaxed. A calm smile illuminated his handsome features. “You know I had some terrific people working for me at the CIA. Well, the brightest person in the group is now a respected academic with a deep understanding of the world around us.”

“And who would that be, Dennis?”

“Audrey Stewart.”

“You’re kidding?”

“You can use another woman on the Court.”

“Audrey is to the right of Attila the Hun. There would be a donnybrook in the Senate, and the liberals would go insane.”

Masterson stopped smiling and fixed Gaylord with a cold stare. “I guarantee that I can deliver the votes, Maureen.”

“And how exactly will you do that?”

“The same way J. Edgar Hoover kept a string of presidents in line. The director of the CIA has access to secrets. I’ve kept proof of some very dark ones for a rainy day.”

For the first time, Maureen Gaylord looked less sure of herself.

“Why Stewart? She’s very smart, but so are any number of qualified candidates I could name.”

“I regard Audrey very highly,” Masterson answered evasively.

“Well, I don’t, but I’ll place her in my pool of possible nominees, and I’ll see what my advisors think.”

“I’d prefer something more substantial,” Masterson said, his tone hardening.

“That’s the best I can do, Dennis. You’re not the only person advocating for a candidate. All I’ll promise is that I will consider your suggestion seriously.”

Masterson reached into his pocket and slid a DVD case across the coffee table that separated them. Under the DVD was a seemingly innocent photograph of Gaylord and a man who appeared to be of Middle Eastern origin sitting in a hotel lobby. Masterson watched the color drain from the president’s face as he stood up.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I’d appreciate it if you’d consider Audrey as a possible nominee to the Court. Why don’t you give me a call when you’ve made a decision?”

The president of the United States was still staring at the photograph when Masterson closed the door to the study behind him. Although he appeared supremely confident, the encounter had left him drained. As an attorney, he was well aware of the federal criminal statutes he’d violated by blackmailing the president, but the consequences of having cert granted in Woodruff were potentially far worse. Besides, he was certain that Gaylord would not want the conversation that had been recorded on the DVD he’d given her heard by anyone who didn’t already know about it.

Masterson told his driver to take him home. Then he opened the bar in the back of the limousine and poured a glass of fifteen-year-old single-malt scotch. He took a sip and closed his eyes. When he was calmer, he considered his problem.

Masterson’s mole in the Court had told him that if Moss was going to vote to bring Woodruff to the Court, the justices were just one vote shy of the four votes needed to grant cert. If Stewart was appointed, it wouldn’t matter what Moss did, but Masterson didn’t like leaving anything to chance. Moss was the wild card. She was the Court’s brightest legal mind and she had a knack for bringing other justices over to her way of thinking. Gaylord was right when she said that the liberals would go berserk if Audrey was nominated. Masterson was pretty certain that he could leverage the votes he needed to get Stewart the appointment, but nothing was certain in politics. It always helped to have a contingency plan, and Masterson decided to put his into action.

Daphne Haggard had grown up in New England. Then she’d moved to Chicago and Wisconsin. She should have been used to the cold, but she hated it. If the temperature had been in the eighties while she was standing in this land of majestic trees with its coat of sparkling white snow, she would have appreciated the forest’s serene beauty. But each time she tried to lose herself in the picture-postcard landscape, a gust of wind would whip through the trees and lacerate her cheeks. If she had half a brain, she told herself, she’d be living in San Diego or Miami.

What was she doing out here supervising the search for more body parts? How likely was it that the search teams would find anything? Daphne hunched her shoulders, pulled her navy blue watch cap more firmly over her ears, and took a long sip of steaming hot coffee from the thermos she clutched in her gloved hands. She should be home in front of a fire instead of freezing her butt off on a fool’s errand. Still, this might be their only chance. The storm that had prevented a search when the thigh had been discovered had lasted several days, but the weather had warmed and a lot of the snow had melted. It was getting cold again, but no more snow was predicted until the weekend, which meant they had a narrow window to blanket the area and pray for a miracle. Once the bad weather came in earnest, the search would have to be suspended for months. Of course, by the time they could resume, a match with a missing person would probably have been made from the DNA taken from the tissue sample that had been forwarded to NamUs and all of this suffering in the cold would have been for nothing.

Daphne was working herself into a deep depression when two Explorer Scouts crashed through the trees.

“We found a leg!” one of the boys shouted.

“It’s on the other side of the stream,” the second boy chimed in.

“Show me,” Daphne said.

The two scouts raced to a place where the stream narrowed, and Daphne hurried to keep up. The water was high because of the runoff from the snow and moving fast. Daphne almost unbalanced on the slick stones that covered the streambed, but she caught herself before she fell into the freezing water. The bank on the other side was a gentle incline, and she made it to the top in time to see the scouts disappear into a copse of birch trees. The limbs were bare, and she kept her eye on the red ski parka one of the scouts was wearing. By the time Daphne entered the forest, the two boys had stopped.