Supreme Justice Read Online Free PDF Page B

know—had gone sub rosa to a “doctor” who turned out to be a flunked-out med student who left her with an infection that turned septic. Gabe Sloan had never really recovered from the loss of his child, and he’d wound up losing his marriage as well.
    Reeder found it frustrating that his friend remained such a hardline conservative after so obvious an indictment of the radical right’s antiabortion stand. But this was too touchy an area to explore, even with so close a friend. Or was that because Gabe was so close a friend?
    “Yeah, we made the announcement this morning,” the FBI agent said. “Since when do you watch the news?”
    “You’re wearing your ‘testifying’ suit.”
    After loosening his silver-striped navy tie, Sloan undid his collar button. He had lively blue eyes and an easy smile that showed lots of white teeth. Well, not as easy as it had once been.
    Sloan said, “You don’t miss a damn thing, do you, Peep?”
    “Trained professional. Don’t try this at home, kids.”
    “So how’s my goddaughter doing?”
    “She’s trying to talk me into funding a getaway for her and that commie boyfriend of hers.”
    Sloan snorted a laugh that sent beer out his nose. “You’re starting to sound like me! . . . How’re the Nats doing tonight?”
    “Two to nothing, bad guys.”
    “Strasburg still in?”
    “Yeah,” Reeder said. “He’s only given up three hits and a walk . . . but one of the hits was a homer.”
    Sloan took another swig of beer, turned away from the ball game. “So what’s this crazy shit you foisted on Bishop about Venter trying to run? A hit on the judge ? Are you kidding? Looking to embarrass us federal boys?”
    “If I wanted to do that,” Reeder said, “I’d have kept my mouth shut.”
    Sloan waved a hand in the air, swallowed some more beer. “So let’s say Venter tried to run. That’s a good motive for a panicky stickup guy to blast him, am I right?”
    “You are right as far as it goes, Gabe. But this was an assassination, no doubt about it. Did you look at the footage?”
    “Yeah!”
    “And what did you see?”
    “I saw a robber pointing a gun at Nicky Blount, and I saw Justice Venter getting up—to intervene, looks like. Then the robber shot the Justice.”
    “Which is exactly,” Reeder replied calmly, “what somebody wanted you to see.”
    Sloan blew a Bronx cheer. “Peep, stop spotting a conspiracy behind every tree, already. How did you dream up this half-assed crapola, anyway?”
    “By watching the footage.”
    “Same as me.”
    “No. You saw it, buddy, but you didn’t watch it.” Reeder sat up, turned away from the screen. “Ever hear of cognitive dissonance?”
    “I had Psych 101, thank you,” Sloan said, a little testy.
    “Prove it.”
    “It’s when you hold on to a belief when all the facts say the opposite.”
    “A-plus, Mr. Sloan,” Reeder said. “Outside the classroom, the practical application is simpler—it’s called overlooking the obvious . . . Come upstairs.”
    Moments later, in his home office, Reeder used the already booted computer at his desk to load the e-mail and run the video on his wall-mounted forty-six-inch monitor between bookcases.
    The second time they went through the video, Reeder froze it as Venter made his first movement to rise. “What do you see?”
    Sloan studied the frame for several seconds. “The Blount kid has a gun in his face. The robber is threatening him . . . and Justice Venter is getting up to try to stop the guy from shooting his clerk.”
    “Okay, here’s what I see,” Reeder said, approaching the screen. “Let’s start with Venter. He’s rising, with a clear path to the holdup man, right?”
    Sloan said, “Yeah—a straight shot. So to speak.”
    “Then why is the judge’s left foot cocked away from the holdup guy?”
    The FBI agent stepped closer, squinting at the screen.
    Reeder pressed: “Justice Venter played football, right?”
    Sloan nodded, straightened. “Yeah, in