V.T.'s mouth fell open. "You're telling me that this 'fraternity' or 'think tank' can arrange to have me appointed to the highest court in the country? I thought that was the prerogative of the president and confirmed by Congress?"
Dean Newbury spread his hands as if to say stranger things have happened. "I wouldn't say 'arrange,' or even guarantee that such a thing could be done. Of course, you would have to be qualified, perhaps by starting with an appointment to a federal bench for a bit of seasoning. But we do have a certain amount of influence in the political arena, as well as with the American Bar Association, which as you may know has for the past fifty years issued its evaluations of the credentials of nominees to the federal bench and particularly the Supreme Court."
"Yes, I know the ABA issues a report to Congress on whether they believe a candidate is 'well qualified,' 'qualified,' or 'not qualified.' But they have no official standing in the selection process," V.T. pointed out.
"Perhaps not, but a 'well qualified' usually leads to confirmation," his uncle replied. "Presidents and the Congress can't be expected to know the qualifications of every nominee. As in any other business, they rely on advisors, including the ABA."
V.T.'s mind was reeling. He'd promised his uncle that he would keep an open mind, but that was when he thought the job offer was going to be a senior partnership and eventual control of the family firm. He wasn't naive enough to think that such things as nominations to the U.S. Supreme Court were free of political maneuvering. Anybody who read a newspaper knew how rancorous and partisan the proceedings could be once the nominee got to the congressional hearings. But something that a few powerful men could arrange?
V.T. thought that the group was a little carried away with its self-importance and influence. Then again, he thought, I'm sure the demagogues of the Christian right sit around convincing themselves that they have more influence than they do. Just like the left-wing appeasers in the Democratic Party think the public will follow them like lemmings just because they rail nonstop against everything the incumbent Republicans try to do, particularly as it relates to counterterrorism. Which is, of course, why they keep getting disappointed in November.
"Well," he said, flustered. He cleared his throat to give himself a little more time to find the right words without insulting his uncle. "This is certainly unexpected, and I don't really even know how to respond without a great deal more thought. But I do appreciate the honor that you consider me worth the thought."
"Well, my boy, I have to admit there's a little ego involved," the old man said. "There's been a Newbury on that council for nearly two hundred years. We don't want to mess up that run now, do we?"
The elevator opened and V.T. stepped in. He turned around and nodded. "I'd hate to be the one to do that. I'll give it a fair hearing."
When the doors closed, Dean Newbury stood for a moment pondering his next move. He turned and reentered the meeting room and immediately addressed the others. "So, gentlemen, your thoughts?"
"Dangerous, this fire you're playing with," the television commentator said. "His father betrayed you…us…and your nephew works for the enemy, the Jew Karp."
"Well, I believe the old, overused saw is 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' But I am not sure that my nephew cannot be turned to a friend," Dean Newbury replied. "You better than most of us understand how easily opinions can be swayed with the right choice of words and enticement. And besides, haven't we always held that blood is thicker than water?"
"Blood of firstborn sons," the senator pointed out. "He was not brought up in the brotherhood."
Dean Newbury understood the argument. He'd heard it before. The seats around the table had been passed from firstborn son to firstborn son for more than two hundred years. Ever since their ancestors had first arrived, fleeing the reach of the British Navy. But the line of succession had not always been straight. Some of their predecessors had been childless or had not produced male heirs. Or the firstborn son had died, like Quilliam, and there'd even been several who rejected the cause, like Quilliam, and had to be watched carefully for any sign of disloyalty.
Therefore, sometimes the seats had been filled in other ways. Second sons had been indoctrinated and accepted into the brotherhood to replace their fathers, or, as would be V.T.'s case, a first son of a second son. But they usually started the process of "education" much younger than V.T., when the mind was easier to mold.
However, Dean Newbury had been forced into the present situation by several betrayals. The first was his own body, which had failed to produce any more male heirs, only two daughters, who themselves had only produced daughters. The second had been Quilliam, who'd recoiled from his rightful place and joined the marines.
The third betrayal, or actually a series of betrayals, he laid at the feet of his brother, Vincent. Their father had never trusted Dean's younger brother, who had not been given much more than a basic understanding of the family's history and did not know the true source and extent of their wealth.
It had been a struggle just to get him to go to law school so that he could at least help the firm's pantheon of rich and important clients. Then they'd had to wean him from the radical clique of do-good lawyers who met in Brooklyn at Julius Karp's house and spent their Saturday evenings prattling about a sacrosanct Constitution, when anybody with any intelligence knew that adjustments needed to be made to the document to reflect modern concerns.
However, Vincent had learned more than he should have about the family's business. Never the full story or the details, or the names of the other members of the council, but enough to be dangerous. Then he'd somehow made it past the state-of-the-art security system, gained access to Dean's office, and stole the old mustard-colored book that was kept on a shelf. He'd berated himself for keeping the book, or at least for keeping it where someone might see it. But then he hadn't expected to be betrayed by his own brother.
The reasons for keeping the book were uncharacteristic for Dean Newbury. Most copies of the self-published book had been destroyed before they could get out to the public. It had been written by another traitor in the late 1930s, who had met an untimely end sleeping off a bender inside a warehouse where he kept most copies of the book. The warehouse mysteriously caught fire, killing the author and destroying all other copies of the book and the printing plates that made them. However, several copies had been saved by the arsonist to present to members of the council, including Dean's father.
How long the book was missing before he noticed it was not in its place, Dean didn't know. He wasn't even sure at first who took it because the security camera tapes, which were recycled once a week, had already been wiped clean. It had remained a troubling mystery until a security guard saw his brother on one of the monitors enter the office and remove something from under his desk.
Nothing was found on a subsequent security sweep, but Dean suspected that his brother had removed a listening device. There'd been a moment of panic, when he recalled a recent conversation he'd had with Jamys Kellagh regarding "the project." But he calmed down when he thought about the fact that they'd been speaking in the ancient tongue, which few would know how to translate, and even if someone did, they'd spoken in code.
What had been done after that was necessary in regard to his brother's betrayal. Vincent's chef had been instructed to prepare a stew with a large amount of foxglove stem cut up in the mix. Foxglove was of course a natural source of digitalis-a useful medication for heart disease, but also fatal if taken in too great an amount. A cursory examination, however, would have led to the conclusion that Vincent was the victim of an accidental overdose. But even that wasn't a worry, as the Newbury family doctor had pronounced the death was due to a massive heart attack, and then the family's contact at the Medical Examiner's Office rubber-stamped the death certificate.