Inside the Hotung building, he was met by a young lawyer holding an iPad like a clipboard. Sean’s eyes darted about the room and after a moment he was back to the day he’d found Abby; he was at a function in this very space that day. Bile crept up his throat.
He walked into the moot courtroom. He’d been in this room many times when he was at the Justice Department. Georgetown’s moot courtroom was designed to look like the courtroom in the Supreme Court. The bench was mahogany like the bench at One First Street, albeit a third the size. The red-rosette carpet matched the high court’s. And the podium was the precise size and distance from the bench as the real thing. Everything aimed at making the practice argument sessions as real as possible for the advocates. Today, though, Sean wouldn’t be questioned about a case, but rather interrogated about his background and judicial philosophy. Preparation for the Kabuki theater that was modern Supreme Court confirmation hearings. The art of giving the non-answer.
At the bench were six murder board participants assigned to play members of the Senate Judiciary Committee. At the last confirmation hearing for Mason James, the committee had taken it easy on the nominee, surprising everyone except for Sean and Emily—well, and the committee members James blackmailed. Without his own Sebastian Finkle to deliver dirt files to hostile committee members, Sean would have to prepare the old-fashioned way.
The spectator gallery was filled with administration handlers, justice department lawyers, and their respective entourages. Sean’s old friend Professor Jonathan Tweed, who was charged with organizing the murder boards, greeted him with a big smile.
After hellos and small talk, Tweed began the session. “Don’t go easy on this guy,” he said to the mock senators.
And they didn’t. The questions were tough. Sean floundered as his mind meandered: From thoughts of Ryan to Mason James. From Billy Brice to Abby’s last days. To Kenny Baldwin dying in the rain. He realized that he was like the man in Jack’s joke, the man fired from the orange juice factory—unable to concentrate. Tweed was a good moderator and kept the proceedings moving along. But Sean wasn’t performing well.
Seeming to sense Sean was struggling, Tweed called for a break. The room cleared. Sean assumed that Tweed had directed the others to leave so he could give a pep talk. Tweed sauntered over and put a hand on Sean’s shoulder.
“You’re doing great,” Tweed said.
“No, I’m not.”
Tweed didn’t correct him. “You okay? You look tired.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry I’m distracted. Maybe some coffee will help.”
“Did you watch the RBG and Elena Kagan videos I e-mailed you?” Tweed asked. “Just do what they did and you’ll be fine.”
“I did. I’ll do my best to emulate them. This is such a waste of time. Have the senators ever gotten answers that revealed the nominee’s real views?”
“Yeah … Robert Bork,” Tweed said, with a laugh.
Sean smiled. “You want to come over for dinner tonight?”
“I’d love to, but I have a bit of a drive. Staying at the lake house.”
“The life of a law professor.”
“Hey, you’re going to be a Supreme Court justice. You know what John Roberts once said about the job: ‘Only Supreme Court justices and schoolchildren are expected to and do take the entire summer off.’” Tweed grinned. “You got a little more prep in you?”
“I think so.”
“Good, go get yourself some coffee.”
Sean walked out of the moot courtroom. He nodded to the mock senators and other members of the team who brushed by, intent to get to Tweed when they saw Sean leave the room. Concerned, no doubt. The café just outside the moot courtroom was closed, but there was a table in the atrium set up with coffee and snacks.
He checked his phone. Two missed calls from Blake Hellstrom. Sean dialed the number, and Hellstrom picked up on the first ring.
“Sean, I’m glad you called, I was just about to call you myself. I have some news.”
“Ryan didn’t kill Brice,” Sean blurted into the phone. He told Hellstrom what he’d learned from the detective, that Brice died not from a blow to the head but from a crushed larynx.
“If that’s true, let’s talk about coming forward. The State’s Attorney will be receptive to helping, and I think they’ll be open to a confidential immunity deal.”
“I think that sounds right. Maybe we should—”
“Sean,” Hellstrom interrupted. His voice had a hint of concern to it.
“Yeah?”
“I was actually calling about something else. My team has been looking into Japan. We found something unexpected.”
CHAPTER 83
Sean’s shoes clacked on the marble floor of the Supreme Court. Like every summer, the building was virtually a ghost town. Jon Tweed was right, only school children and justices take the summer off.