The Tenth Justice - Brad Meltzer [150]
“He’s terrified to call them. You know how his mom is. She’ll be on his back the moment she hears what happened.”
“I know. I was thinking about that. To be honest, I think that’s what he’s most scared of.”
“I don’t think he’s scared of anything,” Eric said. “I’m not even sure he’s upset about his job. I think he’s more devastated by the fact that all of us aren’t getting along.”
“He was saying that when I was there.”
“It’s because he’s such a social animal,” Eric explained.
“He’s like a puppy—if everyone’s happy, he’s happy. But if everyone’s sad, he’s miserable.”
“Keep talking to him. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“I agree. It’s just that—”
“Ben, is that you?” Nathan asked angrily as he picked up the phone in the living room. “Where the hell have you been for the past three hours? Get your ass—”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Ben shot back. “If you want to kick and scream, come meet me tomorrow. I told Eric where.” Ben hung up the phone.
Early Saturday morning, Ben sat up in bed, unable to sleep. In the second bed was Lisa, who was having no such trouble. He looked at his watch and saw that it was seven in the morning. After taking the longest shower of his life, he turned on the television with the sound off, hoping to be distracted by cartoons. Unimpressed, he shut off the TV and returned to his bed. For a full hour, Ben stared at the white stucco ceiling.
At nine o’clock, Ben took the phone into the bathroom. Sitting on the closed toilet, he called information and asked for the number of the Marshals Service. He dialed the number and asked for Director DeRosa.
After a moment, a woman answered the phone. “Director DeRosa’s office. Can I help you?”
“Is the director in today?” Ben asked in his most genial tone.
“I’m sorry, he’s not. Is it anything I can help you with?”
“You probably can,” Ben said, recognizing the voice of DeRosa’s receptionist. “My name’s Ben Addison. I’m the guy who hand-delivered that message from Justice Hollis a couple of weeks ago. I have another message I’m supposed to relay, and I was wondering if you knew how to contact Director DeRosa.” For effect, Ben paused for a second. “It’s an emergency.”
“Hold on a moment,” the receptionist said. “I can try to transfer you to his home number.”
Ben prayed that DeRosa would explain everything: that it was a clerical error, that everything was fine, and everyone was still in place.
“Mr. Addison?”
“I’m here,” Ben said.
“I’m sorry, but the director won’t take your call. I just spoke to him, and he said he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. He has no idea who you are.”
“He knows who I am,” Ben said. “You know who I am. I met you two weeks—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Addison. I spoke to him personally, and that’s what he said.”
“What are you talking about? What’s your name?” Ben asked.
“Have a good day, Mr. Addison,” the receptionist said as she hung up.
As Ben put down the phone, reality set in. That’s it, he thought. I’m done. Staring down at the stark linoleum floor, Ben wondered exactly what his next move should be. His thoughts were interrupted when the bathroom door swung open. He looked up and saw Lisa, who had obviously been listening.
“What’d they say?” she asked.
“DeRosa’s gone,” Ben said, his voice shaking. “He’s denying he ever met me.”
“Then that’s it—it’s over,” Lisa said, leaning on the door frame. “Are you going to go to the press?”
“I don’t know about the press, but I have to tell someone.”
“You should tell Hollis.”
“Maybe,” Ben said as his mind worked through all the consequences. “I was thinking that I should also put my story in writing. That way, no matter what happens, it’ll all be documented.”
“I wouldn’t be so worried about the writing part,” Lisa said. “Before you face the world, you have to face your roommates.”
At seven-thirty that evening, Ben braved the late January chill and sat on one of the few concrete visitor benches surrounding the Jefferson Memorial. Unable to sit still, he repeatedly shifted his weight, searching for a comfortable position. As he stared blankly at the waterfront walkway leading