Page 9 of Hush
“We’re checking them out. Lincoln’s gang hasn’t ever threatened a witness or tried to hurt anyone who went to trial. It’s been a lot of bluster in the past.” Mike held open the door to Tom’s chambers. “We’re still looking at them all individually. But I doubt that the gang will risk the federal government coming down on them to take out a witness against Wayne Lincoln.”
In the grand scheme of things, Lincoln was a small fish in the very large, very violent sea of DC’s gangland. Tom shrugged out of his robe and hung it on the hook behind his door.
Mike stood in the center of Tom’s office, fidgeting. His eyes darted to Tom’s top desk drawer.
“Do you have plans for lunch?” Tom grabbed his suit jacket.
“Ahh, no, Judge Brewer.” Mike straightened. “Are you eating with the law clerks again?”
At least once a week, he sat down with the law clerks, all recent grads from law school, and talked them through their first year in the profession. To a person, the law clerks started with the fire-eyed optimism and passion of a graduate, dedicated to changing the world through profound and world-shaking legal work. By the end of the year, they were worn down by the system. They traded bets on settlements and deals likely to be made before going to trial and had their ears open for cushy corporate jobs that would pull them away from the grind and toil of public law.
“Not today. They’re having a special lunch with Chief Judge Fink.” Tom winked as Mike’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. It was late spring, the time for most of the law clerks to start handing in resignation letters and start fancying their wardrobes for their future corporate gigs. Chief Judge Fink liked to give them all one last pep talk, extolling the virtues of public service.
Tom eyed Mike, still standing in the center of his office like he was out of place, like a coat rack in the middle of the rug. He fidgeted, and kept looking at Tom’s desk.
He didn’t know Mike well enough to ask him about what had happened. He really didn’t know him well enough to offer to take his phone, either, and it seemed like Mike’s phone was burning inside his desk, an infrared beacon blazing in the office. He should give it back. He should tell Mike he hoped everything was all right and focus on his own work. He shouldn’t get involved.
But that’s not at all what he did.
His mouth seemed to have a mind of its own. “I am in the mood for some BBQ. Want to join me? There’s a great place up on Seventh.”
He’d lost count of how many times he’d stunned Mike that morning, how many times he’d seen Mike’s jaw drop, just slightly. It did again, Mike’s mouth hanging open for a moment before he snapped it shut, his teeth audibly clacking.
I don’t know what I’m doing either. Tom shrugged and smiled, already letting Mike off the hook, feigning a casualness that was so very far removed from what he really felt. He felt like ants were racing in his veins, like his heart was an engine struggling to start.
But then, Mike smiled. “Sure. The weather’s great. Want to walk, or should I bring my car around?”
“Let’s walk.”
They fell into step together, heading for the staircase in the center of the Prettyman Courthouse Annex. The E. Barrett Prettyman U.S. Courthouse proper housed the main judiciary and the DC Court of Appeals, and, tucked away in its dark recesses, the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court, the FISA court of wiretapping fame. In the Bryant Annex, the triple-football-field-length marble hall attached to the main courthouse, the United States District Court for the District of Columbia, the DC federal court, made its home. Courtrooms were on the second and fourth floors, and in the center of the Annex, a spiral staircase enclosed in bright maple wood paneling curved upward through all levels. White marble steps gleamed underfoot as they padded down the four floors side by side.
The courthouse, as always, was bustling, and Mike kept one shoulder just in front of Tom, his marshal’s duty to protect. Tom smiled at the side of his head and kept close. He was making sure he wouldn’t lose Mike in the crowd. Or so he told himself.
The sun was warm as they pushed out of the Annex and turned onto C Street. Across from them, DC’s Metropolitan Police headquarters gleamed, and behind them, the U.S. Capitol rose over the Prettyman Courthouse. A cloudless sky, blue like tropical waves lapping against a postcard shoreline, wrapped over DC.
“How did your questioning go yesterday? You were following up on the online threats, right? You thought it was just them shooting their mouths off?” He probably should have waited for Mike to officially brief him on the situation, since it was an official threat made against him. But, work, at least, was something for them to talk about. He was scraping the bottom of the barrel for conversation topics that weren’t about the weather, sports, or something completely lame.
Mike laughed. “Okay, you’re not going to believe what happened…”
Mike was back beside the bench for the afternoon, stuffed full of ribs and coleslaw. He groaned the whole walk back, complaining that he’d fall asleep for sure during the afternoon session. Tom promised him that he’d charge him with contempt of court and sentence him to perform a song and dance routine on the bench if he heard one single snore.
Mike’s flush stained his cheeks a deep rose, and he couldn’t look at Tom as they climbed the stairs back to the fourth floor.
He did bring his laptop into the courtroom, and Tom spotted him running background checks on each of the people behind Lincoln, sitting on the side of the defense in the courtroom.
No snores, though, and they wrapped up at four, recessing until nine the following day. Tom promised the court he’d be on time.
Half of the court laughed.
Mike again escorted him back to his chambers and then took up position in the center of Tom’s office, his briefcase slung over one shoulder. He waited while Tom took off his robe and hung it behind his door.
He was different than this morning, that was for sure. He was back to his relaxed self, and had a small smile, the same tiny grin he always seemed to wear, curving up his lips. His eyes were back to their laughing glint, the blue in his gaze just a touch lighter than the sky had been at lunch.
A day away from his phone, and whoever had been trying to hurt him, had done him a world of good. Still, Tom reached for his desk drawer and tugged it open. Mike’s phone glared up at him, the flashing light pulsing as if accusing Tom of holding it hostage. He half expected it to buzz again.
But the phone was silent.
“Here you go.” He passed it across the desk to Mike. “I hope everything is going to be okay. I know it’s not my place to ask…” He trailed off. He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t have gotten involved. He wasn’t Mike’s friend. And he wasn’t Mike’s dad, either.
