jg.thepelicanbrief-第13部分

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ed；　then　perhaps　someone　wanted　a　different　Court　for　a　future　decision。　That's　what's　intriguing。　Who　would　kill　Abe　and　Glenn　because　of　how　they　might　vote　on　a　case　this　year；　next　year；　or　five　years　from　now？　I　want　the　clerks　to　pull　up　every　case　now　pending　in　the　eleven　circuits　below。〃　
　　
　　Justice　McDowell　shook　his　head。　〃e　on；　Ben。　That's　over　five　thousand　cases；　a　small　fraction　of　which　will　eventually　end　up　here。　It's　a　wild…goose　chase。〃　
　　
　　Manning　was　equally　unimpressed。　〃Listen；　fellas。　I　served　with　Abe　Rosenberg　for　thirty…one　years；　and　I　often　thought　of　shooting　him　myself。　But　I　loved　him　like　a　brother。　His　liberal　ideas　were　accepted　in　the　sixties　and　seventies；　but　grew　old　in　the　eighties；　and　are　now　resented　in　the　nineties。　He　became　a　symbol　for　everything　that's　wrong　in　this　country。　He　has　been　killed；　I　believe；　by　one　of　these　radical　right…wing　hate　groups；　and　we　can　research　cases　till　hell　freezes　over　and　not　find　anything。　It's　retribution；　Ben。　Pure　and　simple。〃
　　
　　〃And　Glenn？〃　Thurow　asked。
　　
　　〃Evidently　our　friend　had　some　strange　proclivities。　Word　must　have　spread；　and　he　was　an　easy　target　for　such　groups。　They　hate　homosexuals；　Ben。〃　
　　
　　Ben　was　still　pacing；　still　ignoring。　〃They　hate　all　of　us；　and　if　they　killed　out　of　hatred　the　cops'll　catch　them。　Maybe。　But　what　if　they　killed　to　manipulate　this　Court？　What　if　some　group　seized　this　moment　of　unrest　and　violence　to　eliminate　two　of　us；　and　thus　realign　the　Court？　I　think　it's　very　possible。〃　
　　
　　The　Chief　cleared　his　throat。　〃And　I　think　we'll　do　nothing　until　after　they　are　buried；　or　scattered。　I'm　not　saying　no；　Ben；　just　wait　a　few　days。　Let　the　dust　settle。　The　rest　of　us　are　still　in　shock。〃　
　　
　　Thurow　excused　himself　and　left　the　room。　His　bodyguards　followed　him　down　the　hall。　
　　
　　Justice　Manning　stood　with　his　cane　and　addressed　the　Chief。　〃I　will　not　make　it　to　Providence。　I　hate　flying；　and　I　hate　funerals。　I'll　be　having　one　myself　before　long；　and　I　do　not　enjoy　the　reminder。　I'll　send　my　sympathies　to　the　family。　When　you　see　them；　please　apologize　for　me。　I'm　a　very　old　man。〃　He　left　with　a　clerk。
　　
　　〃I　think　Justice　Thurow　has　a　point；〃　said　Jason　Kline。　〃We　at　least　need　to　review　the　pending　cases　and　those　likely　to　arrive　here　from　the　lower　circuits。　It's　a　long　shot；　but　we　may　stumble　across　something。〃
　　
　　I　agree；〃　said　the　Chief。　〃It's　just　a　bit　premature；　don't　you　think？〃
　　
　　〃Yes；　but　I'd　like　to　get　started　anyway。〃
　　
　　〃No。　Wait　till　Monday；　and　I'll　assign　you　to　Thurow。〃　
　　
　　Kline　shrugged　and　excused　himself。　Two　clerks　followed　him　to　Rosenberg's　office；　where　they　sat　in　the　darkness　and　sipped　the　last　of　Abe's　brandy。　
　　
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　　IN　A　CLUTTERED　STUDY　CARREL　on　the　fifth　level　of　the　law　library；　between　the　racks　of　thick；　seldom…used　law　books；　Darby　Shaw　scanned　a　printout　of　the　Supreme　Court's　docket。　She　had　been　through　it　twice；　and　though　it　was　loaded　with　controversy；　she　found　nothing　that　interested　her。　Dumond　was　causing　riots。　There　was　a　child　pornography　case　from　New　Jersey；　a　sodomy　case　from　Kentucky；　a　dozen　death　penalty　appeals；　a　dozen　assorted　civil　rights　cases；　and　the　usual　array　of　tax；　zoning；　Indian；　and　antitrust　cases。　From　the　puter　she　had　pulled　summaries　of　each；　then　reviewed　them　twice。　She　piled　a　neat　list　of　possible　suspects；　but　they　would　be　obvious　to　everyone。　The　list　was　now　in　the　garbage。　
　　
　　Callahan　was　certain　it　was　the　Aryans　or　the　Nazis　or　the　Klan；　some　easily　identifiable　collection　of　domestic　terrorists；　some　radical　band　of　vigilantes。　It　had　to　be　right…wingers；　that　much　was　obvious；　he　felt。　Darby　was　not　so　sure。　The　hate　groups　were　too　obvious。　They　had　made　too　many　threats；　thrown　too　many　rocks；　held　too　many　parades；　made　too　many　speeches。　They　needed　Rosenberg　alive　because　he　was　such　an　irresistible　target　for　their　hatred。　Rosenberg　kept　them　in　business。　She　thought　it　was　somebody　much　more　sinister。　
　　
　　He　was　sitting　in　a　bar　on　Canal　Street；　drunk　by　now；　waiting　on　her　though　she　had　not　promised　to　join　him。　She　had　checked　on　him　at　lunch；　and　found　him　on　the　balcony　upstairs；　drunk　and　reading　his　book　of　Rosenberg　opinions。　He　had　decided　to　cancel　con　law　for　a　week；　said　he　might　not　be　able　to　teach　it　anymore　now　that　his　hero　was　dead。　She　told　him　to　sober　up；　and　she　left。　
　　
　　A　few　minutes　after　ten；　she　walked　to　the　puter　room　on　the　fourth　level　of　the　library　and　sat　before　a　monitor。　The　room　was　empty。　She　pecked　away　at　the　keyboard；　found　what　she　wanted；　and　soon　the　printer　was　spewing　forth　page　after　page　of　appeals　pending　in　the　eleven　federal　appellate　courts　around　the　country。　An　hour　later；　the　printer　stopped；　and　she　now　possessed　a　six…inch…thick　summary　of　the　eleven　dockets。　She　hauled　it　back　to　her　study　carrel　and　placed　it　in　the　center　of　the　cluttered　desk。　It　was　after　eleven；　and　the　fifth　level　was　deserted。　A　narrow　window　gave　an　uninspiring　view　of　a　parking　lot　and　trees　below。　
　　
　　She　kicked　off　her　shoes　again　and　inspected　the　red　paint　on　the　toes。　She　sipped　a　warm　Fresca　and　stared　blankly　at　the　parking　lot。　The　first　assumption　was　easy…the　killings　were　done　by　the　same　group　for　the　same　reasons。　If　not；　then　the　search　was　hopeless。　The　second　assumption　was　difficult…the　motive　was　not　hatred　or　revenge；　but　rather　manipulation。　There　was　a　case　or　an　issue　out　there　on　its　way　to　the　Supreme　Court；　and　someone　wanted　different　justices。　The　third　assumption　was　a　bit　easier…the　case　or　issue　involved　a　great　deal　of　money。　
　　
　　The　answer　would　not　be　found　in　the　printout　sitting　before　her。　She　flipped　through　it　until　midnight；　and　left　when　the　library　closed。　
　　
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　　AT　NOON　THURSDAY　a　secretary　carried　a　large　sack　decorated　with　grease　spots　and　filled　with　deli　sandwiches　and　onion　rings　into　a　humid　conference　room　on　the　fifth　floor　of　the　Hoover　Building。　In　the　center　of　the　square　room；　a　mahogany　table　with　twenty　chairs　along　each　side　was　surrounded　with　the　top　FBI　people　from　across　the　country。　All　ties　were　loosened　and　sleeves　rolled　up。　A　thin　cloud　of　blue　smoke　hung　around　the　cheap　government　chandelier　five　feet　above　the　table。　
　　
　　Director　Voyles　was　talking。　Tired　and　angry；　he　puffed　on　his　fourth　cigar　of　the　morning　and　walked　slowly　in　front　of　the　screen　at　his　end　of　the　table。　Half　the　men　were　listening。　The　other　half　had　pulled　reports　from　the　pile　in　the　center　of　the　table　and　read　about　the　autopsies；　the　lab　report　on　the　nylon　rope；　Nelson　Muncie；　and　a　few　other　quickly　researched　subjects。　The　reports　were　quite　thin。　
　　
　　Listening　carefully　and　reading　intently　was　Special　Agent　Eric　East；　only　a　ten…year　man　but　a　brilliant　investigator。　Six　hours　earlier　Voyles　had　picked　him　to　lead　the　investigation。　The　rest　of　the　team　had　been　selected　throughout　the　morning；　and　this　was　the　organizational　meeting。　
　　
　　East　was　listening　and　hearing　what　he　already　knew。　The　investigation　could　take　weeks；　probably　months。　Other　than　the　slugs；　nine　of　them；　the　rope；　and　the　steel　rod　used　in　the　tourniquet；　there　was　no　evidence。　The　neighbors　in　Georgetown　had　seen　nothing；　no　exceptionally　suspicious　characters　at　the　Montrose。　No　prints。　No　fibers。　Nothing。　It　takes　remarkable　talent　to　kill　so　cleanly；　and　it　takes　a　lot　of　money　to　hire　such　talent。　Voyles　was　pessimistic　about　finding　the　gunmen。　They　must　concentrate　on　whoever　hired　them。　
　　
　　Voyles　was　talking　and　puffing。　〃There's　a　memo　on　the　table　regarding　one　Nelson　Muncie；　a　millionaire　from　Jacksonville；　Florida；　who's　allegedly　made　threats　against　Rosenberg。　The　Florida　authorities　are　convinced　Muncie　paid　a　bunch　of　money　to　have　the　rapist　and　his　lawyer　killed。　The　memo　covers　it。　Two　of　our　men　talked　with　Muncie's　lawyer　this　morning；　and　were　met　with　great　hostility。　Muncie　is　out　of　the　country；　according　to　his　lawyer；　and　of　course　he　has　no　idea　when　he　will　return。　I've　assigned　twenty　men　to　investigate　him。〃