Phillip Margolin - Supreme Justice

“You sure reacted quickly. If you hadn’t knocked the gun out of the killer’s hand, we’d both be dead.”

“Amen to that. I guess my old instincts aren’t too far beneath the surface.”

“Lucky for us.”

“Lucky isn’t the half of it. I was seconds away from being an obituary. But it’s not the attack that’s bothering me; it’s the reason I was attacked that has me worried.”

Keith Evans had gotten home a little before six and nuked a TV dinner. It was chicken something with a side of something else, but ten minutes after he’d tossed the tray into the trash, he couldn’t remember what he’d eaten.

After dinner, Keith channel-surfed for ten minutes before turning off his set. One mystery Keith wished the FBI could solve was how, with two million cable channels, there was never anything on TV that could hold his interest. He dropped the remote on an end table and wandered over to the bookshelf that stood against the front wall of the small living room in his small apartment. Keith could have afforded something a little bigger, but he was home so rarely that he’d decided it wasn’t worth the money to upgrade. He looked at the titles of a few books he’d picked up from a used-book bin at a local mystery bookstore, but nothing excited him.

Keith hated to admit it, but he was bored. He had started his professional life as a cop almost twenty years ago in Nebraska, where an intuitive leap had helped him track down a serial killer who had baffled the FBI for five years. The agent assigned to the case had been so impressed that he’d recruited Keith for the Bureau. Keith had never duplicated his uncanny series of deductions in any other case since joining the FBI. His successes were the result of dogged police work. At forty years of age, he had given up on any dreams he may have had of being the Bureau’s Sherlock Holmes, but his involvement in the D.C. Ripper case, which had ended Christopher Farrington’s presidency, had revived him. Now that the case was over, he missed the excitement of being at the center of the law-enforcement universe.

Keith was trying to decide what to do next when his cell phone rang. The display identified Maggie Sparks, his partner. It had to be important if she was calling so soon after he’d left the office.

Brad was in the middle of a conversation with the judge when Keith Evans and Maggie Sparks walked into Justice Moss’s chambers. The two FBI agents represented a study in contrasts. Evans was six two with thinning blond hair, streaked with gray, and tired blue eyes. He was carrying extra weight around his middle, and his once broad shoulders were stooped. Sparks was slim and athletic with glossy black hair, high cheekbones, and a dark complexion. She looked young and vigorous, and the grim tasks that had weighed down her partner’s psyche did not appear to have touched her yet.

“What are you doing here?” Brad asked Keith.

“Maggie and I have been assigned to investigate the attempt on Justice Moss’s life,” Keith said. The agent pointed at Brad’s chin. “What happened to you?”

“Mr. Miller was wounded in the line of duty,” Moss said.

Brad turned to his boss. “You lucked out, judge. The FBI has put two of their best on this case. Keith was the head of the D.C. Ripper task force and his investigation was one of the threads that brought down President Farrington’s presidency.”

“I’ve seen Agent Evans on TV,” Justice Moss said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“This is Maggie Sparks, my partner. May we sit down?’ Keith asked, indicating two armchairs positioned across from the couch on which Brad and Justice Moss were sitting.

“Please.”

“I know you’ve already given a statement to the police,” Keith said to the judge, “but would you mind telling us what happened?”

Justice Moss gave a detailed description of everything that occurred from the time the killer stepped from behind the pillar until her assailant fled into the Supreme Court Building.

“Has there been any luck finding this guy?” Brad asked when the judge was finished.

“The building is being searched, but it’s pretty big. Hopefully, he’ll be found, but he could have left the building before the search was organized.”

“I’d be surprised if the person who tried to kill me is still here,” Justice Moss said. “He seemed very professional.”

“Why do you say that?” Maggie asked.

“I had the impression that he knew what he was doing, and I assume that includes working out an escape route. When you go to the garage, you’ll see that he couldn’t have planned on getting away by car. There are barricades at the top of the exit ramp that would have been up if the alarm was raised. So he must have worked out a way to get out of the Court once he was through with me.”

“Why are you so certain your assailant was a professional?” Keith asked.

“It was the way he moved. He handled Brad and the guard easily, and his gun was equipped with a silencer. He definitely had some type of training.”

“Can you think of any reason for this attempt on your life?” Keith asked.

“No, I can’t. My assailant may just be a mental case or some right-wing fanatic.”

“Are you considering a case this term that might set off someone like that?”

“No, we don’t have any hot-button issues like abortion or gay rights before the Court this term.”

“What about a case that affects an individual or a business?” Agent Sparks asked.

“That would be almost any case. They’re all very important to the litigants, but I honestly can’t think of a case that would get someone so upset they would try to kill me. And what would be the point. There are eight more justices. There have been instances where a justice has had to recuse himself or herself or has been unable to sit because of illness, and the Court has conducted business as usual.”

“What about personal enemies? Can you think of a court employee who was fired or someone in your personal life with a grudge?”

Moss shook her head. “I’ll give it some thought, but right now… No, I can’t think of anyone who would want me dead.”

Felicia Moss had lived alone for most of her life. There had been a brief marriage to a civil rights lawyer when she was in her late thirties, but that had only lasted two years, through no fault of her spouse. After the divorce, there’d been an occasional lover, but her work had been her real significant other. Felicia didn’t regret the lack of companionship. She had decided long ago that she preferred to live alone, so the only tics and foibles she had to put up with were her own.

With the exception of her stint on Wall Street, the judge had never had an income comparable to those of men like Millard Price, but she had been a wise investor, and the returns from her portfolio allowed her to afford a pleasant apartment in an old and elegant high-rise in the Kalorama Triangle near Connecticut Avenue. Three policemen accompanied her home from the Court. One watched her door while the other two searched her apartment to make sure no one was waiting for her inside. When the search was complete, two of the officers left, leaving the third on guard in the hall outside her apartment.

Felicia could tell that Brad had been shaken by the attack in the garage, but she had always possessed the ability to shuck off the violent emotions that crippled others when they faced danger. She experienced no trembling of the hand or shortness of breath when the officers left her alone. However, she was overwhelmed by fatigue, and she dropped into an armchair and closed her eyes as soon as the door closed. She had always possessed an inordinate amount of energy, but she was in her midseventies, and age was catching up to her more rapidly than she would have wished.