The Divine Appointment, page 13
He entered through the public entrance, walked through the metal detector, and was issued a visitor tag. The security officer told him to discard his cup of café mocha from Starbucks that was only half empty. That made him mad, but the officer had a gun and a badge, and Holland didn’t. So he complied. His first stop was the administrative office, where he demanded to see Jessica Caldwell’s personnel file.
“Those records are confidential, sir,” the lady behind the counter said. She was polite but firm. She was old enough to be his mother and addressed him as if she was.
He decided he’d demonstrate how smart he was. He was an investigative reporter, after all, and investigative reporters were smarter than everyone else in the world. He smiled and placed the palms of his hands on the counter.
“Haven’t you heard of the Freedom of Information Act?” he asked and spoke slowly when he said “Freedom of Information Act.”
He then stepped back and anticipated that she would dash off to get the file and whatever else he needed. She might even ask if I want a cup of coffee, he thought.
But several seconds elapsed, and she didn’t move. She simply glared at him with indignation.
So Holland raised his eyebrows in a way that meant hurry up.
Still nothing. Finally she waved him closer. He leaned over the top of the counter.
“Mr. Fletcher, personnel files are exempt from the Freedom of Information Act.”
“Exempt?”
“Exempt.”
“You mean that I can’t see her file?”
“That’s correct.”
He stood up tall and spoke in a very serious voice. “You know I’ll get the Washington Post to file a lawsuit and force you to give it to me.”
She snickered and covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh, but if that is what you want to do, then please do so. This is the Supreme Court, after all.”
She continued to smile. She’d had this conversation before, Holland realized. He wasn’t getting anywhere. He decided it was time to bring in the big guns.
“What if I said ‘please’?” Holland smiled.
Another giggle. “That won’t work either.”
Defeated, Holland turned to the door. “Thanks anyway.”
Maybe now the mystery caller would leave him alone.
When he spun around he bumped into a young lady he hadn’t seen earlier. She was in her late twenties, slender and attractive, with curly, sandy blond hair. She was dressed professionally in a beige business suit and white blouse and carried a stack of expandable folders. Holland almost knocked them from her arms.
“Excuse me,” he said and caught a couple of the folders before they fell to the floor.
After he made sure she was all right, he exited the administrative office and hurried down the hallway.
She followed him. “Were you asking about Jessica Caldwell?” she asked to his back.
Holland pivoted abruptly. “Yes, I was. Did you know her?”
“I knew her. We shared a town house.”
Finally this investigation was getting interesting. He had discovered a beautiful woman who knew Jessica Caldwell. Maybe there was a hope of a front-page story after all. Or at least a date.
“I’m Holland Fletcher.” He extended his hand.
She shifted all the folders she was carrying to under her left arm and shook his hand. “I’m Tiffany. Tiffany Ramsey.”
Holland reluctantly released her hand. “Nice to meet you, Tiffany. Did you say you roomed with Jessica Caldwell?”
“The last year she clerked for Justice Robinson was the first year I clerked for Justice Crawford. We shared a town house in Georgetown. Why were you asking about her?”
“I’m an investigative reporter with the Washington Post. It’s not often that a Supreme Court law clerk is murdered. I was thinking about doing a human-interest-type story about her.” Holland waited and pondered his next question. “Is there some place where we can get a cup of coffee?”
Tiffany nodded. “The Supreme Court cafeteria. Let me put these files away and we’ll go.”
After Tiffany took care of the files in a room that Holland was forbidden from entering, she emerged and the two headed toward the cafeteria. Once there, they walked between the metal railings that formed a short maze. As they waited in line, they chatted about things other than Jessica Caldwell before reaching the cashier. Holland ordered a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll. Tiffany ordered just coffee. Holland paid for both, and they sat at a table in a corner of the room.
“Several of the law clerks flew to Nashville for Jessica’s funeral. It was terrible…and so soon after Justice Robinson’s death.”
“I’m sure it was tough on all of you,” Holland said sympathetically. He blew on his coffee and took a sip. The coffee was mediocre at best. “What can you tell me about her?”
Tiffany sat back from the table slightly and crossed her legs to the side. It appeared to Holland that she didn’t plan on letting him get too close.
“I’m not sure I like talking to a reporter about my friend. All I can say is that she was a good roommate, a good friend, and a brilliant lawyer.”
Holland smiled. “That was a nice company line. Did the justices circulate a memo through the building that told everyone what to say about Jessica Caldwell?”
Tiffany looked at him over the top of her paper coffee cup. Her green eyes were intoxicating. “Of course not. It’s just that I’m uncomfortable talking about her. I don’t want what I say to end up in some newspaper article. That’s all.”
Holland finished the last of his roll and coffee. “Do you think the doctor got her pregnant?” He watched Tiffany’s face and body language closely. They told something different from what came out of her mouth.
“I don’t have any reason to think otherwise. Why?”
Tiffany knew something. Just what, he wasn’t certain, but she knew something. Otherwise, why would she stop him in the first place when she knew he was asking about Jessica? And why would she agree to come get a cup of coffee with him? He knew it would take more than a cup of coffee to get her to show him her cards.
“No reason. I’m just looking for a story.”
“That doesn’t seem like a human-interest story to me.” Her eyes narrowed.
“You got me there.” Holland smiled and removed a business card from his wallet and handed it to Tiffany. “If something comes up that you want to talk about, give me a call. I’m going to work on this story for a few more days. How can I reach you if I want to talk to you again?”
“You can call the operator here in the building and she will connect you.” She glanced at her watch. “I really need to get back to work.”
He had hoped for a home number, but no such luck. They stood and walked to the exit that opened onto First Street. Holland departed for his dented Camry and hoped Tiffany didn’t see him in it.
Holland drove back to the Post headquarters and told his editor he was working on something big. He changed clothes at his apartment, put on a baseball cap and sunglasses, and was back on First Street by 2:30 p.m. He grabbed some lunch along the way. He parked one and a half blocks from the Supreme Court employees’ secure parking lot and waited.
And waited.
At about 4:30 p.m. he saw her. She was unmistakable. A cover girl.
When he was in college, Holland and his fraternity brothers had used a ten-point scale to measure the appearance of girls on campus. It was shallow and chauvinistic, he knew, but it gave them something to talk about. Holland continued to use the rating system and had tried to date women who were at least a seven. But most of the time he found himself with a five or a six. He decided that Tiffany was at least an eight. She exited the Supreme Court building through the employees’ entrance and waved good-bye to the security officer. The officer followed her with his eyes—evidently he liked what he saw—until she sat down in a dark green Volvo C70 convertible.
Holland’s Camry had difficulty following her. She drove fast and dangerously, west on Constitution Avenue, then Virginia Avenue NW. Her dark blond hair blew in the wind. He lost her briefly on Twenty-third Street, but the red light at the Pennsylvania Avenue intersection saved him. He was stopped four cars behind her, and she didn’t see him. When the light changed to green, he stayed close but not too close as she zigged and zagged along M Street NW and then Wisconsin Avenue. She finally parked in front of a town house on tree-lined Thirty-seventh Street NW, closed the top to the convertible, and used a key to enter through the front door.
After Tiffany was safely inside, Holland drove past the front of the building and memorized the number on the door of the town house. One-half block northwest of Tiffany Ramsey’s town house a black Mercedes-Benz S65 pulled away from the curb and fell in behind him. He glanced at it in his rearview mirror. The windows were tinted, and he couldn’t see the driver clearly. That made him nervous. It trailed him for six blocks until he turned right on Van Ness Street and the Mercedes turned left. He exhaled deeply.
“You’re being paranoid, Fletcher,” he told himself.
The Shelton residence, Vicksburg, Mississippi
During the two weeks after his nomination, Dunbar Shelton made the rounds on Capitol Hill and the obligatory handshaking with all the senators. He met individually with each one. It was less than pleasant but necessary. One of the hazards of being nominated. He spent the next week in mock Judiciary Committee hearings orchestrated by Porter McIntosh. He hadn’t been home since the Rose Garden press conference. His wife had been home once and then returned to DC, but he had stayed in Washington.
It was Wednesday, the second week of June, and he was glad to be on his way to Vicksburg for some rest and relaxation before the confirmation hearings began. Life was much slower in the Mississippi delta than in DC.
Judge Shelton performed well during the mock hearings and would go through another round of simulated questioning before the real hearings began next week. But he needed to get away from Washington for a few days to recover.
He and Victoria—Vicki, he affectionately called her—flew on a chartered Gulfstream jet from Reagan Washington National to Jackson International Airport in Jackson, Mississippi. A limousine was waiting to take them to Vicksburg. Two FBI agents met them at the airport and escorted their limousine on the fifty-mile trek. Judge Shelton and Vicki were both exhausted from the whirlwind of activities that went along with the nomination. He dozed during the flight, and neither said much during the ride from the airport. But it was a comfortable, relaxing silence.
They arrived at their house on Fayette Street about 9:30 p.m. The sky was completely dark except for the stars glistening overhead. The FBI agents parked at the curb across the street from the Sheltons’ house.
The house had been in Judge Shelton’s family for generations. It was only six blocks from the court square. When he had been in private practice, he’d walked to his downtown office some days. He and Vicki had reared their four children here: three daughters and a son. Vicki had aged well despite four kids. She was five feet six and slim. Her black hair held only flecks of gray. Margaret, their oldest daughter, practiced with a one-hundred-lawyer firm in Jackson, Mississippi. John Edward, named for Judge Shelton’s paternal grandfather, coached high school football in Hattiesburg. Vivian and Melissa—the family called her Missy—were sorority girls at Mississippi State University.
Judge Shelton and Vicki exited the car and entered the house. The driver carried their luggage and set it inside the door. Their part-time housekeeper, Florence, had stacked the mail and copies of the Vicksburg Post on the solid-oak kitchen table. Judge Shelton scanned the headlines while Vicki thumbed through the mail.
“That’s a tragedy,” Judge Shelton commented. He held up the previous day’s edition of the newspaper and read the full article.
“What’s that, dear?”
“It says Trooper Rusty Jones was shot and killed Monday night during a traffic stop on I-20 near Clinton. I knew him.”
“Does it say what happened?”
“Just that he was killed and the motorist fled.” He put down that newspaper and picked up the next day’s edition. “Today’s Post says that the authorities are still trying to find the motorist who shot Trooper Jones. I hope they catch him or her, whoever did it. Rusty was a good man.”
“You want me to send flowers to the funeral?”
Judge Shelton had by now flipped to the obituaries in the back of the newspaper. “The obit says that a college fund for his children has been established at First National Bank. Let’s make a donation to that instead of flowers.”
“I’ll do that tomorrow. Let’s go to bed,” Vicki urged. “I’m exhausted. Florence left a note that Billy Ray is coming to get your car in the morning for its regular servicing. He thought that might be easier than your driving it to his garage. The note said to leave the keys under the mat, and that way he won’t have to disturb us in the morning.”
Judge Shelton laid the newspaper on the kitchen table and yawned and stretched. “That sounds like a good idea. And I’ll tell the guys out front to be expecting him.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Shelton residence, Vicksburg, Mississippi
The next morning at 7:00 a.m. Agent Brian Cole and Agent Fred Michaels sat across the street from the Sheltons’ house in an unmarked, dark-colored sedan. Agent Cole was in the driver’s seat. The sun was still low in the eastern sky, and clouds were nowhere to be seen. The two FBI agents were drinking coffee and eating doughnuts delivered by a patrol officer with the Vicksburg City Police.
A dented white Chevy pickup approached and parked at the curb in front of the Shelton house. A sign on the driver’s door of the truck read Bolton’s Garage. A middle-aged, wiry man with closely cropped red hair exited the truck wearing a grimy uniform of navy blue pants and a gray-and-blue-
striped shirt with buttons down the front. He waved at the FBI agents.
“That must be Billy Ray,” Agent Cole said and gave a stiff wave back.
Agent Michaels held a chocolate-glazed doughnut in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. His mouth was too full to respond verbally, so he nodded his agreement.
Billy Ray walked up the driveway to the carport where Judge Shelton’s Lexus LS was parked beside Vicki’s Cadillac STS. He opened the driver’s-side door and bent over to look for the keys under the floor mat. Then he eased himself into the driver’s seat and closed the door.
The explosion knocked both Judge Shelton and Vicki from their bed. He landed facedown. He was dazed but not unconscious. He didn’t know what had happened but knew that something was terribly wrong. He was quickly aware of the heat and billowing smoke.
“Vicki!” he called out. “Vicki!”
“I’m over here.” Her voice was faint.
He lifted himself onto the side of the bed. “Where?”
“On the floor by the bed.”
He crawled over the top of the bed and peered down at her lying on the floor. She was in peach-colored silk pajamas and the bedcovers were tangled around her. He slid off the bed onto the floor beside her. The room was filling with thick, black smoke.
“Are you okay?” he asked anxiously.
“I’m not sure,” she mumbled. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, but we’ve got to get out of here. Can you move?”
“I think so,” she said and tried to sit up.
“Judge Shelton!” an anxious voice yelled from somewhere in the house. “Judge Shelton!”
“We’re in here!”
He was trying to untangle Vicki from the bedcovers when Agents Cole and Michaels crawled into the room.
“We’ve got to get you out of here,” Agent Cole said. “But stay on all fours. The smoke will rise to the ceiling.”
“I’m not leaving without Vicki.”
“Michaels will take care of her. C’mon.”
Agent Cole grabbed Judge Shelton and practically dragged him toward the front door. Judge Shelton could hear sirens wailing at him from a distance. The closer to the front of the house he got, the hotter the air felt. He could hear a popping noise and smelled fire. It seemed like an eternity before he and Agent Cole finally reached the front door. The fresh air felt good.
“Can you walk?”
“I think so. Where’s Vicki?”
“They’re right behind us, sir.”
Judge Shelton got to his feet with assistance, and Agent Cole grabbed him by the elbow. He stumbled through the door onto the porch and then into the yard. He supported himself against Agent Cole. Vicki and Agent Michaels were on their heels. Two ambulances screamed to a stop in front of the house, and paramedics raced to Judge Shelton and Vicki. Red and white lights flashed from both vehicles and sirens blared. The first fire truck came to a stop behind the ambulances and firemen scrambled in all directions.
The paramedics placed Judge Shelton in the rear of one of the ambulances and Vicki in the other. His burgundy-and-white-striped pajamas and face were covered in soot, and his left arm and hand were covered in blood. Agent Cole stood beside the open rear door of the ambulance. He stared toward the house.
The paramedics put an oxygen mask over Judge Shelton’s face and began to examine him. The female paramedic wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his right biceps. She sterilized the contusion on his forehead and bandaged an abrasion on his left forearm. His knees were bruised, and he could feel them begin to swell.
“I think you’re going to be all right,” the female paramedic said. A stethoscope was draped around her neck. She looked into Judge Shelton’s eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. “You and your wife are very lucky.”
Judge Shelton finally looked back at his house and saw it engulfed in flames. The once majestic oaks behind the house were ablaze, and the one-hundred-year-old magnolia tree in the front yard was stripped bare. Firefighters ran in all directions, pulling fire hoses and spraying water. He could hear instructions being yelled. The carport was completely destroyed. The two cars were nothing more than burning metal frames. The Lexus was upside down on top of the Cadillac.
