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votes to grant cert. With Ron stepping down, I don’t think there are four votes in Woodruff , so maybe we can dispose of the case.”
    Several of the justices looked appalled at Price’s lack of compassion. A few looked angry.
    “The body’s not cold yet, Millard,” Martinez said. “I don’t think this is the time to make a hasty decision about a case that some of us feel strongly about.”
    “Well, the votes aren’t here,” Price said. “We can take a poll, but I don’t think a vote to grant cert will carry.”
    “I’m not going to be rushed into a vote, given these circumstances,” Justice Moss said. “We have no idea how Ron’s successor will vote, and I’m not certain how I’m coming down. I say we exercise the right under 28 USC, Section 1 to defer our vote.”
    A few of the other justices voiced agreement. Chief Justice Bates said, “I’d like a show of hands. How many of you are in favor of deferring Woodruff ?”
    Seven of the eight justices raised their hands, Price being the only dissenter.
    “All right, then,” Bates said. “Let’s take a twenty-minute break to clear our heads.”
    Moss wanted to talk to Price about the way he’d acted, but he rushed out of the room.
    “What was that about?” Justice Mazzorelli asked Felicia, his eyes on Price’s retreating back. Mazzorelli, a staunch conservative, often clashed with Felicia on legal issues, but he was an amiable colleague.
    “I have no idea. Millard doesn’t usually get worked up about our cases.”
    “Maybe he didn’t get enough sleep last night.” Mazzorelli shook his head. “I bet Ron didn’t get any at all. Poor bastard.”
    Moss let Mazzorelli steer the conversation away from Price and the Woodruff cert petition, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the judge’s overreaction.

Chapter Seven
    Dennis Masterson worked a kink out of his neck as he carried his coffee mug to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his spacious corner office. Masterson’s workplace was the largest of any partner at Rankin Lusk, which was fitting because he was the firm’s biggest rainmaker. The oak-paneled walls of his domain were a testament to his power. They were decorated with pictures of Masterson posed with every important person who had worked inside the Beltway for the past thirty years.
    Most of the partners in the major D.C. law firms labored in obscurity, known only to the members of their country club and the legislators and political appointees they lobbied, but Masterson was familiar to any American who watched the evening news or political talk shows. A quarterback at Dartmouth and a law review editor at Yale, he had joined Rankin Lusk after two tours in Vietnam. Seven years ago, Masterson had taken a sabbatical to serve as the director of the CIA. Three years ago, there had been a very embarrassing incident in Afghanistan, and Masterson had rejoined Rankin Lusk when the president, in need of a scapegoat, had asked him to fall on his sword. Masterson had toyed with the idea of resisting the request, but there was a lot of money to be made in the private sector and it didn’t hurt his business prospects to be owed a favor by the leader of the free world.
    Masterson was six four with the patrician features of a man born to wealth. With his snow white hair and steely blue eyes, he was the personification of wisdom and sincerity, and the perfect guest on any television talk show. During his CIA days, he had been the ideal person to bear witness before a congressional committee. Masterson’s connections with the defense and intelligence industries made him indispensable to his firm.
    Masterson’s disposable and untraceable cell phone rang. Only one person had the number to this particular phone and that person only called with important news.
    “The conference just ended,” the voice on the other end of the line said, “and there’s been a development. Justice Chalmers resigned. His wife has Alzheimer’s and—”
    “I’ve