While Justice Sleeps(2)
At that point, uncomfortable murmurs spread through the crowd, peppered with chuckles of derision, and Wynn turned back once more. “Laugh if you will, you carrion of society. But mark my words—hell has come to earth, and your parents have elected its offspring.”
With that, he shoved his hand into his pocket and glared at President Stokes, then marched toward him. Yanking his hand free from his pocket, Justice Wynn stopped in front of Stokes and extended his right hand. The president came awkwardly to his feet and accepted the gesture, and the justice muttered something near his ear.
The video played the strained handshake before the justice stalked offstage, trailed by the clearly distraught college president.
“Not sure what Justice Wynn whispered there, but I think it’s safe to say he won’t be endorsing the president for reelection,” deadpanned the late-night host, to raucous applause. “They call Justice Wynn the ‘Voice of the People,’ but now everyone is wondering if he’s the one hearing voices. He’s known for riding the subway in DC, but this makes me wonder if he’ll be living in the tunnels soon. Scary that he’s the swing vote on some big decisions the Court will make this month. And even scarier is that he’s probably not the worst one. I wonder if they’ll give him his own reality show, Crazy Justice.” Laughter followed, and Wynn flicked off the television.
“Funny man,” he muttered to himself, staring again at the storm raging beyond the windows. “Thoreau had it right about nature versus man. Nature always wins.” As he spoke in the empty room, his voice held no venom, only resignation. Nature, he knew, was a crafty adversary. While a man slept peacefully in his bed, Nature rummaged through tissue and cell down to chromosomes so slight as to be invisible. With a capricious flick, it switched on the time bomb that would explode a man’s life. A man’s brain.
“Leaving me a mewling, puking shadow of myself for others to feed upon like viscera,” he acknowledged morosely. No one replied. Too often, these days, his conversations spun out to meet no response.
They’d all left him. One wife dead, another deserted. His only son despised him.
The Court was no better. A collection of sycophants and despisers, plotting against him. Pretending to care about him. But he’d discovered the way to do what must be done, and the few to whom he could entrust the tasks ahead.
Wynn struggled from the chair and crossed to a bookshelf. He shifted the books to the carpet. The task was harder than it should have been. With a glance over his shoulder, he checked that the door was still closed.
“Don’t want that sneaky viper to creep up on me and steal more of my secrets,” he muttered. Wynn entered the combination to the safe. The lock popped quietly and flashed its green entry signal. He tugged at the handle.
Inside, the contents were exactly as he’d left them. Soon, though, he’d forget what lay inside. Worse, he’d forget that he even had a safe and the other hiding places he’d set across the whorish town. Places that might betray him by refusing to be found. Such was his fated end. From brilliant jurist to a hollowed-out shell of a man chased by shadows, betrayed by memory.
Time had winnowed itself down to nothingness. At some point, his enemies would attempt to rush him toward death, but he knew a secret. Between the end and now lay uncharted territory that he alone had begun to map. His enemies would try to follow him, but they would fail. All except the ones who could follow the breadcrumbs.
Each term, the U.S. Supreme Court held its hearings and issued its edicts like gods from Olympus. By law, they commenced their deliberations on the first Monday in October, parceling out times for lawyers and the wretched they represented to beg the indulgence of him and his fellow jurists. But the clock struck midnight at the end of June, shutting the door on deliverance or condemnation. By tradition, they parceled out their weightiest decisions in those final weeks, occasionally eking into July, but never during his tenure. No, June 30 was his D-Day, his Waterloo, his checkmate.
He slammed the safe door shut and leaned heavily against the cold metal, his forehead pressed against his lifted arm. What if she couldn’t finish it? If they too got lost, like he had. Perhaps if he told the Chief what he’d done, what he’d learned, she’d be able to help him. But if she knew, she’d be honor-bound to stop him. Deny him this last act of penance.
Part of him recognized the argument swirling in his head. A vicious tug-of-war he scarcely recalled from day to day. The neurologist had warned him that the symptoms would worsen. That the shadows in his once-clear mind would grow fangs and horns. That he would see enemies.
No, he reminded himself. There were enemies. Enemies he had to fight. Because if he told the truth, they might not believe him. Worse, they would destroy the truth. Too many doctors whispering about his deteriorating health, about paranoia and anxiety and conspiracy brought on by neurological disease.
It was better this way, to wait and see if his opponents accepted his King’s Gambit. An opening sacrifice to strengthen his game. The White House thought itself so clever. Use his body’s own betrayal against him. Send in a spy to watch his moves and figure out what he’d learned. Executive privilege versus the great jurist Howard Wynn? Pah!
Filled with adrenaline, Wynn replaced the books, opened the study door, and returned to his chair. His mind was made up. Again. He would play the labyrinthine game the law demanded, and he would win. They wouldn’t stop him.