Ive got nothing against him.

Then why the hell dont you two get along like you used to? Ive talked to Mike. Its not on account of him.

Look, Pop, hes got his life and Ive got mine. I dont remember you being all touchy-feely with Uncle Ben.

My brother was a bum and a drunk. Your brother aint either of those.

Being a drunk and a bum arent the only vices in the world.

Damn, I just dont understand you, son.

Join the crowd.

Ed put out his cigarette on the concrete floor, stood and leaned against one of the garages exposed wall studs. Jealousy aint right between brothers. You should feel good about what hes done with his life.

Oh, so you think Im jealous?

Are you?

Fiske took another sip of beer and looked over at the belly-button-high wire fence surrounding his fathers small backyard. It was currently painted dark green. Over the years it had seen many different colors. John and Mike had painted it each summer, the color being whatever the trucking firm Ed worked for had left over from its annual office repainting. Fiske looked over at the apple tree that spread over one corner of the yard. He motioned with his beer. Youve got caterpillars. Get me a flare.

Ill get to it.

Pop, you dont even like standing on a chair.

Fiske took off his jacket, grabbed a ladder from the garage and took the flare his father handed him. He ignited it, positioned the ladder under the bulging nest and climbed up. It took a few minutes, but the nest slowly dissolved under the heat of the flare. Fiske climbed back down and stamped out the flare while his father raked up the remains of the nest.

And you just saw my problem with Mike.

What? Ed looked confused.

When was the last time Mike was down here to help? Hell, just to see you or Mom?

Ed scratched at his beard stubble and fumbled in his pants pocket for another cigarette. Hes busy. He gets down when he can.

Sure he does.

Hes got important work to do for the government. Up there helping all them judges. Its the damn highest court in the land, you know that.

Well, guess what, Pop, I keep pretty busy too.

I know that, son. But

But, I know, its different. Fiske threw his jacket over his shoulder, wiped the sweat from his eyes. The mosquitoes would be out soon. That made him think of water. His father kept a trailer at a campground down by the Mattaponi River. You been down to the trailer lately?

Ed shook his head, relieved at the change in subject. Naw, planning to go soon, though. Take the boat out before it gets too cold.

Fiske rubbed another bead of sweat off his forehead. Let me know, I might run down with you.

Ed scrutinized his eldest son. How you doing?

Professionally? Lost two, won two this week. I take that as an acceptable batting average these days.

You be careful, son. I know you believe in what youre doing and all, but thats a damn rough bunch youre lawyering for. Some of them might remember you from your cop days. I lie awake at night thinking about that.

Fiske smiled. He loved his father as much as he did his mother, and, in some subtle ways of men, even more. The thought of his father still losing sleep over him was very reassuring. He slapped his father on the back.

Dont worry, Pop, I never let my guard down.

How about the other thing?

Fiske unconsciously touched his chest. Doing just fine. Hell, probably live to be a hundred.

I hope you do, son, his father said with great conviction as he watched his boy leave. Ed shook his head as he thought of how far his sons had drifted apart and his being unable to do anything about it. Damn, was all he could think of to say before sitting down on the toolbox to finish his beer. ["C10"]CHAPTER TEN

It was early in the morning as Michael Fiske quietly hummed his way through the broad, high-ceilinged hallway toward the clerks mail room. As he entered the room, a clerk looked up. You picked a good time, Michael. We just got in a shipment.

Any con mail? Michael asked, referring to the ever-growing number of petitions from prisoners. Most of them were filedin forma pauperis,meaning, literally, in the form of a pauper. There was a separate docket kept for these petitions, and it was so large that one clerk was specially designated to manage the filings. The IFPs, as they were termed by Court personnel, were usually a place to discover either humor over some ridiculous claim or occasionally a case worthy of the Courts attention. Michael knew that some of the most important Court decisions ever had resulted from IFP cases thus his early morning ritual of panning for appellate gold in the paper piles.

From the hand scribblings Ive tried to decipher so far, Id say that was a good bet, the clerk responded. Michael dragged a box over to one corner. Within its confines was an array of complaints, penned miseries, a procession of claimed injustice of varying content and description. But none of them could be simply shrugged off. Many were from death row inmates; for them, the Supreme Court represented the last hope before legal extermination. For the next two hours Michael dug through the box. He was very accomplished at this now. It was like expertly shucking corn, his mind scanning the lengthy documents with ease, effortlessly probing through the legalese to the important points, comparing them to pending cases as well as precedents from fifty years ago pulled from his encyclopedic memory; then filing them away and moving on. However, at the end of two hours he had not found much of great interest. He was thinking of heading up to his office when his hand closed around the plain manila envelope. The address label was typewritten, but the envelope had no return address. That was strange, Michael thought. People seeking to plead their case before the Court normally wanted the justices to know where to find them in the rare event that their plea was answered. There was, however, the left side of a postal return receipt card affixed to it. He slid open the envelope and removed the two sheets of paper. One of the functions of the clerksmail room was to ensure that all filings met the strict standards of the Court. For parties claiming indigent status, if their petitions were granted, the Court would waive certain filing requirements and fees, and even engage and pick up some of the expenses of counsel, although the attorney would not bill for his or her time. It was an honor simply to stand before the Court as an advocate. Two of the forms required to achieve indigent status were a motion for leave to file as a pauper, and an affidavit signed by the prisoner, basically swearing to the persons impoverished status. Neither was in the envelope, Michael quickly noted. The appeal would have to be kicked back. When Michael started reading whatwasin the envelope, all thoughts of any filing deficiencies vanished. After he finished, he could see the sweat from his palms leach onto the paper. At first Michael wanted to put the pages back in the envelope and forget he had ever seen them. But, as though he had now witnessed a crime himself, he felt he had to do something.

Hey, Michael, Murphys chambers just called down for you, the clerk said. When Michael didnt answer, the clerk said again, Michael? Justice Murphy is looking for you.

Michael nodded, finally managing to focus on something other than the papers in his hand. When the clerk turned back to his work, Michael put the pages back in the manila envelope. He hesitated an instant. His entire legal career, his entire life, could be decided in the next second or so. Finally, as though his hands were acting independently from his thoughts, he slipped the envelope into his briefcase. By doing so before the petition had been officially processed with the Court, he had just committed, among other crimes, theft of federal property, a felony. As he raced out of the mail room, he almost collided head-on with Sara Evans. She smiled at first, but the look changed quickly when she saw his face. Michael, whats wrong?