Shattered (Michael Bennett #14)(47)

I watched carefully for a few seconds, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jeremy Pugh or one of the others I might recognize. The closed-captioning mentioned that the anarchist group was protesting a Supreme Court ruling about schools requiring vaccinations for students.

As they were interviewing one of The Burning Land protesters—a woman, about twenty-five, with a spear tattooed on the side of her face—I looked past her to the people swarming the front of the Supreme Court Building. That left those who worked inside only one exit route.

This would be my best chance of finding Justice Robert Steinberg.





Chapter 60



Even in my sluggish Prius, I made it to the Supreme Court Building in less than half an hour. The protest seemed to have gone downhill from the time when I’d seen it reported on the TV. Bottles smashed in the street right in front of the Prius. A rock sailed past the windshield. I knew I couldn’t assist the DC and Supreme Court Police in their containment efforts.

A young woman wearing a sundress held a flower up to a police officer. She smiled as she stepped forward. I wanted to yell through the car window to the cop, Move back! Keep space between you! But I couldn’t.

The cop stared at the young woman with the flower just as she raised a plastic cup. She splashed something into his face. He dropped his nightstick and reached up to grab his eyes as two other cops moved him off the front line. I hoped it wasn’t pool acid or something as dangerous. I’d seen the chemical used in other protests. The media rarely picked up on it.

I knew the justice typically drove a black Mercedes sedan. I’d barely pulled my Prius to the curb when I saw the gate to the underground parking garage open.

I held my breath as a blue Cadillac SUV emerged from the exit. Before I could react, I saw a black hood ease out behind it. A moment later, Justice Steinberg’s Mercedes pulled into the street and headed north. There was no way he would notice something like this Prius following him.

Not long after leaving the Supreme Court Building, he pulled into the one place most Americans looking to complete a home project eventually go: The Home Depot. This one was on Rhode Island Avenue in the Brentwood section of DC. And I had an opportunity to intercept him.

I hung back in the parking lot and let him walk inside. He’d gone for the casual disguise of removing his suit coat and loosening his tie. As I sat in my rented car, I realized this was the first live view I’d gotten of the justice. I’d never heard Justice Steinberg speak other than answering some not-so-difficult questions during his televised confirmation hearing.

Maybe my thinking had been off. Since when had I looked at a murder and not bothered to see each suspect in person?

Justice Robert Steinberg was a moderate with good bipartisan support. He had a trim figure and a steady stride that radiated athletic vitality. He looked younger than his forty-one years. He shied away from all the talk in the media about being the youngest justice ever appointed to the Supreme Court.

It didn’t take me long to catch up to the justice. As I edged closer, I could see the resemblance to his sister. The justice was fit, but few people outside the US Navy SEALs could rival Beth’s level of fitness.

He picked up a couple of things in the paint department and was heading toward the rear of the cavernous store. And no one recognized him. Not one person. If Steinberg had been an actor or singer, he would’ve been mobbed. But no one recognized one of the most influential people in the US.

I tried to anticipate where he’d go. I got ahead of him and waited.





Chapter 61



I decided to make my move in plumbing. The justice was meticulously inspecting three or four brands of toilet parts. I suppose close study is how one becomes a successful lawyer, college professor, and Supreme Court justice.

Interviewing well-known people can breed false familiarity, the feeling of knowing them from TV or movies or speeches. In fact, all you’re seeing is the character they play. I don’t care who you are or what you investigate, having a preconceived notion about a suspect influences the interview.

I once interviewed a well-known music producer who was accused of running down a rival with his SUV. I’d seen the music producer on TV and concluded he might’ve been talented making albums, but he wasn’t particularly smart. At least in the way we normally define smart people.

It wasn’t till we got into the interview, with his attorney present, that I learned he was a graduate of the University of Michigan and had earned a master’s degree in accounting before his music career had taken off.

I didn’t need that surprise right at the beginning of our interview. It turned out, even with a master’s from a good school like the University of Michigan, the music producer had poor judgment. And a temper. That combination rarely works out well. In fact, he had threatened his rival the night before, and the rival’s girlfriend had the voicemail recording.

Eventually he pled guilty to manslaughter, and he was still at a prison in upstate New York. Common sense is always more important than money or even a decent education. The problem is that you can’t teach common sense.

I stood, looking up at a wall full of replacement parts for sinks. Like a fisherman, I remained patient. I was letting my fish swim toward me. The justice moved on from toilet parts until he was about five feet away from me.

That’s when he surprised me. Maybe shocked is a better word.