The Tenth Justice - Brad Meltzer [141]
“Hello. Justice Hollis’s chambers,” Ben said as he picked up the receiver.
“Hi, Ben,” Rick said. “How’s everything in the big house?”
Closing his eyes, Ben said, “Tell me what you want.”
“What I want?” Rick asked. “Who says I want anything? I called to say hello.”
“C’mon, Rick, I really don’t have the time for this. What’s the story this time?”
“What’s the matter there?” Rick asked. “You don’t sound as confident as the last time I spoke to you.”
“I’m fine,” Ben said through clenched teeth.
“I assume you and your roommates got my package?”
“Yes, we got the damn package. Now what do you want?”
“Down to business,” Rick said. He cleared his throat. “I want the American Steel case, and I want it tonight.”
“But that case comes down Monday,” Ben said, panicking.
“I know when it comes down,” Rick said. “And I want it personally delivered by you, to me.”
“I need to think about this,” Ben said.
“You have a half hour.”
“I won’t be here in a half hour. I’ll be at lunch with Osterman.”
“I’ll call you back at exactly two o’clock,” Rick said. “At that time, I want an answer. Obviously, from my recent mailing, I’m sure you understand the consequences.”
“Wait a minute,” Ben said. “What about—”
“There’s nothing else to talk about,” Rick said. “Good-bye.”
“What’d he say?” Lisa asked as Ben hung up.
“I have to go,” Ben said, looking at his watch. “I’m late for Osterman.”
“Tell me what happened,” Lisa said.
Ignoring her, Ben left the office and ran down the stairs to Osterman’s office on the first floor.
“You’re two minutes late,” the secretary said. “Expect him to mention it.”
“Great.” Ben walked into Osterman’s office, the largest in the Court. Across the sea of burgundy carpeting, Osterman was seated at his desk, which was a perfect replica of the one used by John Jay, the first Chief Justice. In an ornate gold frame on the desk was Oliver Wendell Holmes’s 1913 description of the Court: “We are very quiet there, but it is the quiet of a storm centre….” In no mood to acknowledge the accuracy of the quotation, Ben stood in front of the desk and waited for the Chief Justice to look up from his stack of papers.
After waiting almost a minute, Ben cleared his throat.
Osterman abruptly looked up at his guest. “You’re late. Now give me a moment.” Small and lanky, Samuel Osterman had thick glasses and a thin comb-over of black hair. At fifty-nine, he was one of the youngest Chief Justices in history, but his poor selections in eyewear and hairstyle made him look old beyond his years. Looking back up at Ben, he said, “Rather than facing the weather outside, I’ve asked that our food be delivered to us.” He pointed to the antique table on the right side of the room. “I figured we’d eat up here.”
“That’s fine with me,” Ben said.
“Sit, please.”
“Thank you,” Ben said, easing himself into the leather chair opposite Osterman’s desk.
“Columbia, Yale Law, and some time with Judge Stanley,” Osterman said, recalling the facts from memory. “So how has your term been so far?”
“Very enjoyable,” Ben said.
“Nervous about something?” Osterman asked, pointing to Ben’s foot, which was tapping against the carpet.
“No,” Ben said as he stopped tapping. “Just a bad habit. How was your vacation?”
“It was fine. And yours?”
“Wonderful,” Ben said dryly.
“Tell me,” Osterman said, “any new cert petitions come through that sound worthwhile?”
“Actually, there’s one that challenges the president’s new farm subsidy program. It seems intriguing.”
“Farmers are Jeffersonian reactionaries who haven’t had a progressive thought in their lives,” Osterman said.
“That’s one way to look at it,” Ben said, surprised by Osterman’s reaction. “But don’t you feel that—”
“Ben, don’t feel. Law is not about feeling. If you learn one thing during your time with the Court, you should learn that life is a tragedy for those who feel and a comedy for those who think.”
“And it’s a musical for those who sing,” Ben offered. When he saw Osterman’s