“What about travel?”

“It’s not a good idea, at least for now. The Director thinks the justices should remain in the D.C. area until the end of the year.”

“Are you crazy? Is he crazy? If I asked my brethren to follow that request they would all leave town tonight and travel for the next month. That’s absurd.” Runyan frowned at his law clerks, who shook their heads in disgust. Truly absurd.

Lewis was unmoved. This was expected. “As you wish. Just a suggestion.”

“A foolish suggestion.”

“The Director did not expect your cooperation on that one. He would, however, expect to be notified in advance of all travel plans so that we can arrange security.”

“You mean, you plan to escort each Justice each time he leaves the city?”

“Yes, Chief. That’s our plan.”

“Won’t work. These people are not accustomed to being baby-sat.”

“Yes, sir. And they’re not accustomed to being stalked either. We’re just trying to protect you and your honorable brethren, sir. Of course, no one says we have to do anything. I think, sir, that you called us. We can leave, if you wish.”

Runyan rocked forward in his chair and attacked a paper clip, prying the curves out of it and trying to make it perfectly straight. “What about around here?”

Lewis sighed and almost smiled. “We’re not worried about this building, Chief. It’s an easy place to secure. We don’t expect trouble here.”

“Then where?”

Lewis nodded at a window. The noise was louder. “Out there somewhere. The streets are full of idiots and maniacs and zealots.”

“And they all hate us.”

“Evidently. Listen, Chief, we’re very concerned about Justice Rosenberg. He still refuses to allow our men inside his home—makes them sit in a car in the street all night. He will allow his favorite Supreme Court officer what’s his name? Ferguson to sit by the back door, outside, but only from 10 P.M. to 6 A.M. No one gets in the house but Justice Rosenberg and his male nurse. The place is not secure.”

Runyan picked his fingernails with the paper clip and smiled slightly to himself. Rosenberg’s death, by any means or method, would be a relief. No, it would be a glorious occasion. The Chief would have to wear black and give a eulogy, but behind locked doors he would chuckle with his law clerks. Runyan liked this thought.

“What do you suggest?” he asked.

“Can you talk to him?”

“I’ve tried. I’ve explained to him that he is probably the most hated man in America, that millions of people curse him every day, that most folks would like to see him dead, that he receives four times the hate mail as the rest of us combined, and that he would be a perfect and easy target for assassination.”

Lewis waited. “And?”

“Told me to kiss his ass, then fell asleep.”

The law clerks giggled properly, then the FBI agents realized humor was permitted and joined in for a quick laugh.

“So what do we do?” asked Lewis, unamused.

“You protect him as best you can, put it in writing, and don’t worry about it. He fears nothing, including death, and if he’s not sweating it, why should you?”

“The Director is sweating, so I’m sweating, Chief. It’s very simple. If one of you guys gets hurt, the Bureau looks bad.”

The Chief rocked quickly in his chair. The racket from outside was unnerving. This meeting had dragged on long enough. “Forget Rosenberg. Maybe he’ll die in his sleep. I’m more concerned over Jensen.”

“Jensen’s a problem,” Lewis said, flipping pages.

“I know he’s a problem,” Runyan said slowly. “He’s an embarrassment. Now he thinks he’s a liberal. Votes like Rosenberg half the time. Next month, he’ll be a white supremacist and support segregated schools. Then he’ll fall in love with the Indians and want to give them Montana. It’s like having a retarded child.”

“He’s being treated for depression, you know.”

“I know, I know. He tells me about it. I’m his father figure. What drug?”

“Prozac.”

The Chief dug under his fingernails. “What about that aerobics instructor he was seeing? She still around?”

“Not really, Chief. I don’t think he cares for women.” Lewis was smug. He knew more. He glanced at one of his agents and confirmed this juicy little tidbit.

Runyan ignored it, didn’t want to hear it. “Is he cooperating?”

“Of course not. In many ways he’s worse than Rosenberg. He allows us to escort him to his apartment building, then makes us sit in the parking lot all night. He’s seven floors up, remember. We can’t even sit in the lobby. Might upset his neighbors, he says. So we sit in the car. There are ten ways in and out of the building, and it’s impossible to protect him. He likes to play hide-and-seek with us. He sneaks around all the time, so we never know if he’s in the building or not. At least with Rosenberg we know where he is all night. Jensen’s impossible.”

“Great. If you can’t follow him, how could an assassin?”

Lewis hadn’t thought of this. He missed the humor. “The Director is very concerned with Justice Jensen’s safety.”

“He doesn’t receive that many threats.”

“Number six on the list, just a few less than you, your honor.”

“Oh. So I’m in fifth place.”

“Yes. Just behind Justice Manning. He’s cooperating, by the way. Fully.”

“He’s afraid of his shadow,” the Chief said, then hesitated. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

Lewis ignored it. “In fact, the cooperation has been reasonably good, except for Rosenberg and Jensen. Justice Stone bitches a lot, but he listens to us.”

“He bitches at everyone, so don’t take it personally. Where do you suppose Jensen sneaks off to?”

Lewis glanced at one of his agents. “We have no idea.” A large section of the mob suddenly came together in one unrestrained chorus, and everyone on the streets seemed to join in. The Chief could not ignore it. The windows vibrated. He stood and called an end to this meeting.

Justice Glenn Jensen’s office was on the second floor, away from the streets and the noise. It was a spacious room, yet the smallest of the nine. Jensen was the youngest of the nine, and he was lucky to have an office. When nominated six years earlier at the age of forty-two, he was thought to be a strict constructionist with deep conservative beliefs, much like the man who nominated him. His Senate confirmation had been a slugfest. Before the Judiciary Committee, Jensen performed poorly. On sensitive issues he straddled the fence, and got kicked from both sides. The Republicans were embarrassed. The Democrats smelled blood. The President twisted arms until they broke, and Jensen was confirmed by one very reluctant vote.

But he made it, for life. In his six years, he had pleased no one. Hurt deeply by his confirmation hearings, he vowed to find compassion and rule with it. This had angered Republicans. They felt betrayed, especially when he discovered a latent passion for the rights of criminals. With scarce ideological strain, he quickly left the right, moved to the center, then to the left. Then, with legal scholars scratching their little goatees, Jensen would bolt back to the right and join Justice Sloan in one of his obnoxious antiwomen dissents. Jensen was not fond of women. He was neutral on prayer, skeptical of free speech, sympathetic to tax protestors, indifferent to Indians, afraid of blacks, tough on pornographers, soft on criminals, and fairly consistent in his protection of the environment. And, to the further dismay of the Republicans who shed blood to get him confirmed, Jensen had shown a troubling sympathy for the rights of homosexuals.

At his request, a nasty case called Dumond had been assigned to him. Ronald Dumond had lived with his male lover for eight years. They were a happy couple, totally devoted to each other, and quite content to share life’s experiences. They wanted to marry, but Ohio laws prohibited such a union. Then the lover caught AIDS, and died a horrible death. Ronald knew exactly how to bury him, but then the lover’s family intervened and excluded Ronald from the funeral and burial. Distraught, Ronald sued the family, claiming emotional and psychological damage. The case had bounced around the lower courts for six years, and now had suddenly found itself sitting on Jensen’s desk.