“That’s the best comeback I’ve heard to that question.”
“We try to amuse. I’m calling about your mission to see me yesterday.”
“Yes?”
“Well, it seems your. Captain Rosen has sent a lawyer to town to file suit against the FAA, and although the first round was thrown out of court this morning here in the District, he’s appealing that. So, bottom line, I really can do nothing about this situation while there’s litigation pending.”
Mac shifted the phone to his other hand. “Forgive me for countering you, Administrator Busby, but if I understand it correctly, litigation wouldn’t bar you from reversing an emergency revocation unless a court specifically enjoined you from reversing course, right?”
“It’s our policy, General, and it’s a good one. When legal challenges are pending, I absolutely will not intervene. Too bad they did this. There might have been some wiggle room.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Mac replied, mouthing the appropriate niceties as they ended the call.
Five blocks from the Willard Hotel in a small café catering to the Internet trade, Gracie plunked herself down at a computer terminal and pulled out a small steno pad and pen as she sipped a cup of coffee and nibbled a bagel. She dreaded having to tell April that all her attempts to speak directly to any of the appeals court judges had failed, even though the appeal itself had been filed. For some reason, the rebuff hadn’t fazed her. Or perhaps, she thought, she was already so numb that all blows, however serious, were deflected from her psyche.
She signed into the computer with the customer code purchased from the cashier and called up several phone directory sites, checking them one by one for the home addresses and phone numbers of the various judges. For security reasons, most federal judges carefully concealed their public accessibility behind initials or unlisted numbers, but there was still enough in their biographical sketches to piece together what she needed, and one by one she found the home numbers.
Gracie took a deep breath and dialed the first judge, getting only voice mail. She disconnected and tried the second listing with the same result.
The third number yielded a suspicious wife who finally called her husband to the phone.
“Judge Summers? I am an attorney from Washington state in desperate need of an emergency hearing before your court in an appeal I filed this afternoon with the clerk. Could I please meet with you this evening and explain why this needs to be heard almost immediately?”
“What was your name again?”
She repeated the vital information, including her Washington bar card number.
“Very well. No, Miss O’Brien, you may not come to my home after hours or at any other time without invitation. I intend to complain to your bar about this ex parte contact. How dare you call me at home rather than use normal procedure?”
“Your Honor, this is a case in equity, and—”
The line had gone dead simultaneously with the returning memory of Ben Janssen warning her not to embarrass the firm.
She crossed off his name and tried to memorize the next number long enough to punch it in the dial pad, but the worry over the reaction she’d just received kept blanking her memory.
Gracie placed the cell phone on the surface of the steno pad and dialed the numbers one by one.
Once more a voice mail recording greeted her, and once more she abandoned the call without leaving a message.
There was one number remaining, and she punched it in, listening to it ring eight times before a woman’s voice answered.
“Excuse me, please, but this is Gracie O’Brien, an attorney, and I need to get in touch with Judge Williamson.”
“The judge is out for the evening, ma’am. May I take a message?”
“Oh, boy. He wouldn’t be working in his chambers this evening would he?”
“No, ma’am. The judge is at the Mayflower Hotel speaking at a black-tie dinner.”
“The Mayflower.”
“Yes. You certain I can’t take a message for him?”
“No, thank you.” Gracie ended the call and sat in thought. The Mayflower was less than five blocks away. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed her briefcase, then sat back down and retrieved an Internet biography file on Judge Sander Williamson.
Longest sitting judge on the D.C. appellate court… age seventy-six… a maverick considered too unpredictable to have ever been in the running for the Supreme Court… raconteur, single… and where’s his picture? She launched another search and found a Washington Post article with his picture, enlarged the image and studied it. Williamson’s face had a sharply angular look, his features Lincolnesque without the beard.
The phone rang with April on the other end.
“Gracie, something’s very wrong at home!” She relayed the sequence of calls.
“You say the sheriff found the rear door open?”
“Yes. He’s not sure whether the house has been ransacked, or if Mom and Dad just threw things around and left hurriedly. But I’m calling everywhere.”
“Keep me posted, but let me go for now. I’ll explain later.” Gracie grabbed her briefcase again and headed out the door, covering the short distance to the Mayflower in less than five minutes.
From the hotel’s grand lobby she moved eastward down the large hallway, aware of the restaurant on her right and the grand ballroom. Through an open door she could see the head table and a room full of men in tuxedos accompanied by women in stunning evening gowns, all of them listening intently to a speaker who was in mid-cry, a man she instantly recognized as Williamson.
Gracie picked the rearmost door to the ballroom and had moved inside when a large male hand landed gently on her shoulder, pulling her back into the foyer.
“I need to inspect your briefcase and see your invitation, Miss,” he said.
Gracie handed over the case and pretended to search her purse for the invitation. “You know, I’m late getting here from court, and I’ll bet my senior partner is already in there at Judge Williamson’s table.”
“I’ll need an invitation,” the plainclothes officer repeated.
“What I’m trying to tell you is that I think my senior partner has my invitation, because we passed it over the desk today in some confusion, and I think…”
“He ended up with it?”
“Yes.”
“I have a list. Give me your name.”
A blur of movement caught her attention just as she prepared to answer. Jim Riggs, the senior government lawyer she’d barked at that morning, was moving through the same portal unchallenged, with no invitation in sight.
She reached out and grabbed his sleeve. “There you are!”
Riggs stopped in his tracks as he recognized her. “Well! Miss O’Brien.”
Gracie gestured to the security guard. “Would you be so kind as to confirm to this gentleman that I am, indeed, supposed to be here?”
The lawyer glanced at the security man, then back at Gracie and smiled.
“Why, of course,” he said, turning to the officer. “Miss O’Brien does indeed belong here, and on top of that, she’s sitting with me, where I can keep tight control of her.”
The guard smiled and nodded as he handed over Gracie’s briefcase and stepped back to allow her to pass.
Riggs gestured for Gracie to precede him into the ballroom, and she did so, suddenly feeling very conspicuous as she realized how underdressed she was for such an elegant crowd. He motioned her to an empty chair at one of the tables and sat down beside her, whispering a few words to the woman on his left before leaning toward Gracie and extending his hand.
“By the way, I’m Jim Riggs, Miss O’Brien, the arrogant senior sexist lawyer. Please call me Jim.”
“Thank you, Jim. Call me Gracie. And thanks for helping me get in here.”