The Tenth Justice - Brad Meltzer [34]
“You said that?” Ben blurted.
“See, I knew I was too aggressive.”
“Lisa, don’t beat yourself up. You were just being yourself. You can’t be faulted for that. You’re an aggressive woman, and most men are intimidated by aggressive women. You’ve seen the talk shows—the average guy in America wants a complacent, weaker woman, simply because they’ve been taught to feel threatened by strong women.”
“Okay, Freud. Now where does that leave me?”
“You’re left with much less to choose from, but the quality of those men is three hundred percent better than the average loser. The gene pool you’re fishing from is more confident, more sophisticated, more intelligent…”
“They’re men like yourself,” Lisa said sarcastically.
“Exactly. We’re a new breed of men. We’re not afraid to let our feelings show. We like strong women. Sexually, we enjoy being dominated.”
“You’re not afraid to cry at the end of the Rocky movies,” Lisa added.
“Correct. And we like the smell of potpourri.”
“Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but what if I don’t want the sensitive type? What if I want a big, dumb jock who’ll be fun to fool around with, and who won’t care if I don’t call him?”
“You like big jocks?”
“For a few thrills, sure. I’d never marry one, but they’re fun to hook up with.”
Confused, Ben scratched his forehead. “How can you like big jocks? How can you go to bed with someone who just thinks of you as a sexual conquest?”
“Let me tell you something, the sexual conquest is a two-way street, and I’m driving a Ferrari.”
Laughing, Ben said, “I take back what I said before. You’re way too aggressive to find a man. You’ll probably be lonely for the rest of your life.” Getting up from the sofa, Ben flipped through the newest pile of paper on his desk. “What’s happening today?”
“A whole new batch of cert petitions just came in. Hollis wants us to really tear through them since he expects we’ll write the opinion for the Grinnell decision.”
“They didn’t vote on that already, did they?”
“Take a look at your watch, moron,” Lisa said. “Conference isn’t until tomorrow. Hollis doesn’t think they’ll even get to it, but it’ll definitely be done by next week. Osterman’s been stalling. And Justice Veidt’s clerks said Veidt’s on the fence, so Osterman has been working on him since the cert petition came in.
“What’s wrong with Veidt? Do you think he has a thing for Osterman?”
“I doubt it,” Lisa said. “Veidt’s an intellectually unimpressive justice who knows he was selected because he was confirmable. I think he figures that by hanging with the chief justice, it’ll give him some credibility.”
“That could be,” Ben said, “but my way’s much cooler. Can you imagine? Two Supreme Court justices caught in a sordid love affair? How great would that be?”
“It’d sure be more interesting than reading cert petitions all day.”
After a quick lunch in the Court’s cafeteria, Ben walked down to Mailboxes & Things on Constitution Avenue. Time to break out the overcoat, he thought as a chilly November wind pulled the last leaves from the trees. Fighting off the impending arrival of winter, Ben blew warm air into his cupped hands. Within ten minutes, he arrived at the store, which was painted red, white, and blue—the color scheme of choice for so many D.C. vendors.
“Can I help you?” a cashier wearing a turtleneck asked.
“Yes, I received an overdue payment notice for a P.O. box. Not only did I pay for my box in advance, but the number on the bill wasn’t my box.”
“Oh, I’m sure we just made a mistake,” the cashier said. “Let me look up your name.”
“My name is Be—” Catching himself, Ben remembered the fake name he’d given to open the box. “My name is Alvy Singer.”
“Singer, Singer…” the cashier said, looking through his files. “Here it is.” He pulled out the file and continued, “You opened box twelve twenty-seven on October twenty-eighth, and you paid for that in advance. You then opened box thirteen twenty-seven on October twenty-ninth, requesting that you be billed for it.” Reading the file, the cashier added, “It says here you also paid an extra twenty-five-dollar