Brad Meltzer - The Tenth Justice

Following Marcia to her office, Ober tried to guess what he had done wrong this time. Since his promotion to administrative assistant, visits to Marcia’s office had become commonplace. There was one when his reply letter to an irate constituent simply said, “Relax.” There was another when he misspelled Mrs. Stevens’s name on a letter to another senator. And there was another when Marcia caught him making prank calls to Republican staffers, telling them to “Give up.”

As he stepped into Marcia’s office, Ober noticed the stiff-shouldered stranger sitting in one of the chairs facing Marcia’s desk. When he saw the solemn look on the man’s face, Ober knew this visit wasn’t about the coffee he had spilled on Marcia’s computer.

“Take a seat,” Marcia said, pointing to the empty seat next to the stranger. “This is Victor Langdon, from the FBI.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ober said, extending his hand.

“Can we get to the point?” Victor asked.

Marcia’s eyes were focused on Ober. “I wanted to tell you about an anonymous fax I got a few hours ago,” she explained. “It said that the death threat you investigated a few months ago was actually written by you. The fax also accused you of writing the threat to Senator Stevens in an attempt to advance your own career. Considering that your promotion was based on your handling of that situation, we were wondering what you had to say for yourself.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ober said. Crossing his legs, he tried his best not to panic.

“I don’t want to play that game,” Victor said, pointing a finger at Ober.

“Ober, don’t lie about this one,” Marcia pleaded, her hands in tight fists on her desk. “This is serious.”

“It’s not the way it looks…” Ober stuttered.

“Do you deny it?” Victor asked.

“If you didn’t write it, and you know who did, tell us,” Marcia said.

Ober leaned away from Victor. “It wasn’t a real death threat. The senator was never in danger.”

“I already told the FBI that,” Marcia said. “Just tell them who wrote it.”

Trying to figure out a way to avoid implicating Ben, Ober was silent.

“If you don’t tell us who wrote it, I’ll be forced to ask for your resignation,” Marcia said.

“Attempted assassination means you’ll get life in prison,” Victor added, grabbing Ober’s armrest.

Ober pushed Victor’s hand away. “It was never an assassination.”

“Then tell us what happened,” Victor said. “Who wrote the letter?”

Again, Ober fell silent.

“Ober, please make this easier on yourself,” Marcia said, leaning on her desk.

“That’s it,” Victor said, standing up. “It’s clear we can’t do this here. I’m taking him in for questioning.”

Marcia shot from her chair. “No, you’re not. You promised me full jurisdiction with this. It’s clear the senator was never in danger.”

“Why are you protecting this kid?” Victor asked.

“I’m not protecting him. I just-”

“I wrote it,” Ober interrupted, whispering into his chest.

“What?” Marcia asked.

“I wrote it,” he repeated, his eyes focused on the floor. “I wrote the letter.”

“You did?” Marcia asked.

“I knew it,” Victor said, returning to his seat.

“Why would you do that?” Marcia asked.

“I can’t explain it,” Ober said, refusing to look up. “I wrote it. That’s it. That’s all I want to say.”

Victor grabbed his notepad from Marcia’s desk and started taking notes. “Was it a real threat to the senator?” he asked.

“No,” Ober said. “Not at all. The senator’s been nothing but terrific to me.”

“So it was for the promotion?” Marcia asked. “The fax was right?”

“It’s not a hundred percent right, but it might as well be true,” Ober said. “I wrote the letter, and the letter got me the promotion.” As silence filled the room, both Marcia and Victor stared at Ober. Looking up at his two interrogators, Ober’s eyes welled with tears. “What?” he asked. “What else do you want me to say? I wrote it.”

Victor turned to Marcia. “If you like, I can take him down to-”

“Leave him alone,” Marcia said. “We’ll handle this in-house. And I expect you to keep your promise-I don’t want to see one word about this in the press.”

“Playing it safe before the election?” Victor asked.

“What do you think?” Marcia asked, returning to her seat. She scribbled some quick notes to herself and then looked up at Ober. “If you tender your resignation, we won’t file charges.”

“What if I want to keep my job?” Ober asked, his face now pasty white.

“That’s not an option,” she said. “At this point, you’re fired. If you’d like to tender your resignation first, I can save both of us a great deal of headache. Otherwise, we’ll have to formally release you, which means documenting the entire story for your personnel file.”

“But-”

“That’s the deal,” Marcia said as she resumed her writing.

Ober realized he had no choice. “I’ll resign.”

“Fine,” Marcia said, putting down her pen. “You have ten minutes to clean out your office. Leave your Senate I.D. with me.”

As he walked back to his office, Ober’s mind was flooded with the repercussions of the past half hour. After two years in Washington, he had nothing to show for it-his first professional success was now gone. His short-lived promotion had given him the slightest taste of victory, but once again, he felt himself sliding back toward failure. He could never show his face in the office again. When he saw his colleagues on the street, he’d have to lie about why he quit. His parents and relatives would also have to hear the fabricated excuse for why he no longer worked in the Senate. And it better be a good excuse, he thought as he reached his desk, because my mother is going to kill me.

As he collected his personal belongings, Ober’s hands were shaking. Removing his diploma from the wall, he was afraid he’d drop it. Although he had been instructed not to take any files from his office, Ober opened his desk drawer and pulled out the only folder that was definitely his. Flipping through the three hundred and twenty-seven photocopies of himself, he thought about the day he started working for Senator Stevens and how he’d sneaked into the copy room to make the first picture in the pile. He remembered the excitement of starting the photo album and how he wanted to keep it a secret from his roommates until it was finished. I guess it’s finished, he thought, staring at the pile of paper in his hands. It’s all finished. Now I can finally show Eric and Nathan and Ben. Ben. Ben. Ben. Simmering in the silence, Ober took the folder and hurled it against the wall, causing three hundred and twenty-seven pages to fly through the air. What’s wrong with me? he wondered, collapsing in his old chair. Then, amid the remains of the paper hurricane that covered his former office, Ober cried.

This can’t be happening, Ben thought as he sprinted from the Metro station to his house. Maybe Eric heard the story wrong. Rounding the corner of his block, Ben stepped on a sheet of ice, which sent his body skidding and his right hip smashing into the frozen pavement. Ignoring the pain as he stumbled to his feet, he resumed his mad dash toward the house. He threw open the front door, ran inside, and saw Ober sitting on the sofa. Still dressed in his navy suit, with his tie loosened, Ober glared directly at the television, refusing to acknowledge Ben’s entrance.

“I came as soon as I heard,” Ben said, dropping his coat on the floor. “How’re you doing? Are you okay?” Pausing, but getting no response, Ben tried again. “C’mon, Ober, talk to me. I’m here to help.”