Georgetown
When Supreme Court justice Anthony Kennedy retired in July 2018, at the behest and with the encouragement of the administration (some think he was pressured by the president with blackmail on his son. The Bad King—acting on the recommendation of the Federalist Society, a cabal of extreme right-wing Washington lawyers—nominates a federal appeals court judge and right-wing favorite to replace the retiring Kennedy. Everyone, of course, remembers the contentious and controversial confirmation hearing, and the lengths to which his conservative Republican supporters in the Senate went to thwart an FBI investigation and attack and discredit the woman—a California professor, Christine Blasey Ford—who bravely came forth with the credible allegation that more than thirty years earlier The Judge (then seventeen or eighteen years-old) and a friend had dragged her against her will, when she was just fourteen years old, into an upstairs bedroom room at a drunken beer party where he attempted to rape her.
After a truncated FBI investigation in which several critical witnesses were not even interviewed or called to testify in the Republican controlled Senate confirmation hearing, The Judge, known derisively in liberal Washington circles as The Frat Boy, was confirmed—amid a swirl of financial irregularities—in a close bipartisan vote where the Maine senator Susan Collins—after much hand wringing and a feigned show of conscience—predictably voted with the Republican majority. In a private one-on-one meeting with The Judge prior to the final vote, Collins maintained that she asked him directly about his position on Roe, and he had responded to her that “it was settled law.”
The Judge, after more than a year on the Court, is over the humiliation of his confirmation hearing—the red-faced embarrassment, the sniveling and sobbing, the very public declamation “I like beer” as an excuse for his excessive drinking and crude (Animal House) frat-boy behavior. Now he basks daily in the reverential glow of the young clerks he has hand-picked to do the real judicial work of helping him render his conservative right-wing opinions. He relishes the stature his judgeship confers on him in the close-knit community of Federalist Society recommended judges like Alito, Gorsuch, and Thomas that form the conservative bloc on the Court. And he is proud that he will be rolling back (reversing) much of the progressive social legislation of the past fifty years—particularly the 1973 Roe v. Wade abortion decision.
Now he is concentrated on making himself the standard bearer on the Court for a conservative political agenda. He is celebrated on Fox News by commentators like Sean Hannity, and the egregious Tucker Carlson, and he considers himself a hero of the far-right, is proud to identify himself (though only tangentially) with The Bad King’s MAGA policies. Many major decisions are about to come down, and The Judge takes especial pride in the pivotal conservative role that he is now playing on the Court. He has helped to set the conservative docket of cases that, as Billy has described to Rosie, will form the phalanx of a broad-based, direct attack on fifty years of hard-won social justice in courts across the country. That is, if allowed to succeed.
Never much of an athlete (though he boasts proudly of playing sports in high school) The Judge has, in the last year, got himself into the habit of getting up early and running in the mornings—and, indeed, he is up early this last day of his life. He leaves his luxury house on Prospect Street in upscale Georgetown and follows the running path along the D.C. side of the Potomac River to the running trail through the Foundry Branch Valley Nature Park.
The morning is quiet; there is a mist among the trees along the trail and the pudgy judge is looking at his watch, marking his time. His breathing is labored, but the usual pain in his right knee (the result, he claims, of a high school football injury) is now starting to diminish as the endorphins kick in. He takes a moment to appreciate the quiet of the morning, the peace and solemnity of the surroundings. Then he looks again at his watch and decides to pick up his pace. He passes the moss encrusted trunk of a centuries old fallen oak, a familiar landmark along the trail. There is a squirrel on the ground picking at a nut. He looks again at his watch and does not notice behind him the emergence of another runner onto the trail. His heart rate has settled into a comfortable rhythm, and he is thinking now about the day’s work on the Court. He will—with the help of his clerks—be drafting what he hopes will be the Court’s majority opinion laying out the legal arguments for the anti-choice June Medical Services v. Gee, a case that will reverse the earlier Hellerstedt decision and restrict a woman’s access to a legal abortion and be a precursor to the reversal (repeal) of the historic 1973 Roe v. Wade abortion rights decision.
The runner behind him picks up the pace and quickly closes a fifty-yard gap. The Judge is sweating profusely now. His T-shirt is soaked around his neck, under his arms, and around his ample girth. He is solaced though that he always feels refreshed and re-invigorated after these morning runs. When he gets back to his elegant Georgetown home, he will shower and put on his best (favorite) pin-striped, navy-blue suit. After all, today will be a landmark day on the Court. He expects that he will cast the deciding majority vote that could lead the Court to the ultimate overturn of Roe—a conservative dream for almost fifty years. This will burnish considerably his bona fides among the right-wing, anti-choice crowd and make him a hero on the conservative right.
He suddenly realizes though that he is not alone on the trail. When he turns to look behind him, he is surprised to see that there is another runner right at his back. He feels a push, like something being stuck on the back of his shirt. The last thing he sees is a strange kind of satisfied smile on the face of a man he does not recognize, and then the close-quarters muzzle flash of a silenced Walther PPK semi-automatic pistol. The shooter barely breaks stride and continues another hundred yards or so before ducking off the trail into the woods.
Twenty minutes later another runner comes upon the crumbled body lying on the trail. The relatively small entry hole—right at the base of the skull—of a .380 caliber bullet gives the only evidence of what happened.
MSNBC Washington Studio
Rosie is in a make-up chair getting prepped for a hit (interview) with Andrea Mitchell on her 1:00 PM show when the news first breaks. The report is brief. The Supreme Court justice—known in liberal Washington circles as The Frat Boy—was found dead on a running trail in the Foundry Branch Valley Nature Park. There was, it stated, some evidence of foul play. Not mentioned was a note stuck to the body on FBI letterhead and scrawled in red crayon:
To Judge Gorsuch:
Resign Today
Or You Are Next
Rosie experiences a dark premonition, and a moment of panic. She tries to call Billy, but he does not answer his phone. Usually when she calls him, Billy picks up on the second or third ring. Her worry and concern—anxiety—only grows. She goes on with Andrea and talks briefly about her reporting on Russian meddling attempts on behalf of The Bad King’s re-election effort in the coming 2020 election. But the story that is now being characterized in the media—on the broadcast and cable news stations—as an “assassination” is overwhelming the early afternoon news cycle.
Official Washington is in turmoil. Rosie still cannot reach Billy, and her stomach is twisting into knots. She goes to her reporter’s desk in the White House Correspondent’s room. The West Wing, too, is in turmoil. The Bad King is on a rampage. He can be heard from the Oval Office yelling down the hall for his chief of staff, Mark Meadows. Media reports on the killing are sketchy. There is still no mention of the warning to judge Gorsuch, scrawled in red crayon on FBI letterhead, and signed cryptically—the Lone Ranger. The White House though has been given the intelligence by the FBI and—oddly enough—in the morning CIA presidential brief, which The Bad King routinely never reads. This morning though he is screaming at his harried staff to arrange an immediate briefing with CIA director Gina Haspel, convinced it is all part of a Deep State plot to cheat him of the signature achievement of his administration, the stacking of the Court with conservative justices, and the repeal of Roe.
Rosie finally connects with Billy. “Where are you,” she demands to know, the tension in her voice apparent.
Billy is calm. “I’m in McLean, Rosie. I’ve got a meeting coming up with Shane.”
Rosie knows, of course, that Billy was out running that morning in the park along the Potomac, and she wants to ask him straight out if he had anything to do with The Judge’s death, but she hides her worst fears and bites her tongue.
“We need to talk, Billy,” she finally says.
“I’ll see you back at the hotel—around 5:30,” he replies. Then he abruptly hangs up the phone.
Billy meets Shane MacGregor, CIA counterintelligence/counterterrorism chief in charge of the Russia House division, in a coffee shop in suburban Mclean, Virginia. They are just sitting down, and news is breaking all over the major networks and cable stations that Neil Gorsuch, The Bad King’s first conservative appointment to the Supreme Court, has that afternoon resigned. There are now—within a twenty-four-hour period—two vacancies on the nine-member Supreme Court. The conservative Republican establishment is upside down, and the administration is topsy-turvy. The former five-member conservative majority is now just a three-member minority.
Shane and Billy get their coffees and sit down at a circular table in the rear of the small shop. Shane takes a phone-like device out of his inside jacket pocket and places it on the table between them. Billy recognizes it as a surveillance monitor.
Shane is cryptic, “We got a couple of rather sensitive issues to discuss today.” He touches the side button on the case to activate the monitor. “This will detect and interrupt any electronic attempts to eavesdrop on our conversation.”
Billy notices that Shane is without the manila file folders that he usually brings to their meetings. Then he reminds himself that the spymaster is legendary in the Agency for his photographic memory, his almost complete recall of even the most arcane minutia, detail bits of intelligence data, critical pieces of conversations, and important file information.
Billy also notices that his friend is not his usual amiable self. The CIA man is reticent, idly stirs his coffee and stares across the table at Billy. Briefly, he looks down, checks the screen on the surveillance monitor, then asks Billy the question:
“So, did you pop The Judge?”
Billy grins with satisfaction. “Yeah.”
Shane makes a little grimace, breathes a heavy sigh, is bland. “I thought so.” He pauses, stirs his coffee again, then: “The Judge wasn’t on our list,” he says flatly, referencing the secret Final Solution plan of political assassinations.
Billy smiles back. “He was on my list.” He then goes on to explain.
“The Frat Boy was about to put in a vote that would hurt, possibly put in jeopardy, the lives of millions of young women—all for some bullshit, pro-life conservative ideology. He needed to be taken out. I think you—even with your Catholic upbringing—would agree with that. And now with Gorsuch’s resignation—and even with the Chief Justice voting with the conservatives—there will be a deadlock on the Court and the appellate decisions will be maintained and Roe will be upheld. And women—in private consultation with their doctors—will be able to make personal decisions about what is best for their health and their bodies.”
Regarding Gorsuch, Billy interjects, “let’s not forget, Shane, Gorsuch was nominated by a president who lost the election by four million popular votes, and confirmed by a Senate Republican majority that represents less than 50% of the electorate. That’s hardly what I call democracy.”
Shane glances again at the small screen on the surveillance monitor, then looks up at Billy. “The FBI will be investigating, you know.”
Billy just shrugs. “Fuck the FBI. Let them investigate. Those assholes couldn’t find their own cocks with a GPS and map directions. I left them a titillating clue—on FBI stationary no less—a warning to Gorsuch, and a call for him to resign.” Billy chuckles to himself. “That should keep them running in circles, chasing their own tails for a while.”
Billy pauses and looks meaningfully at his CIA friend. “Unless you give me up.”
Shane sighs and just shakes his head. “C’mon, Billy, you know I’m not going to do that. We’re confederates—soon to be implicated with each other in much more serious crimes.” He grins. “After all, we both want the same things. Our methods are just sometimes a little different. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”
Billy nods. “Thanks.”
Shane half laughs. “Well, the world is no doubt a better place. But just so we understand each other, Billy, don’t push your luck too far with this vigilante shit. Be careful. You have got a signed amnesty grant of immunity from President Obama, but if you go off the reservation—play the Lone Ranger—and get caught, and this administration wants to prosecute you, I’ve never heard of you, and I won’t know you, and the CIA won’t be able to protect you. You will be on your own. Do you understand?”
Somewhat chastened, “I understand, Shane,” Billy replies.
Shane sits up straight in his chair, and then in his best deadpan, “So, tell me—”Lone Ranger”—why did you hang that sign on The Judge’s back?
Billy gets a little laugh. “To throw the dogs off the scent.” He smiles. “The Bad King hates and distrusts you guys in the intel community. I just thought I would give him a bogus trail to follow. An empty tree for his hounds in the Justice Department to bark up.”
Shane takes a slow sip of coffee, puts his cup down and looks across the table at Billy. “Well, you certainly accomplished that. They are going nuts over there in the West Wing. Reports are that The Bad King is almost crazy, screaming down the hall at everyone within earshot, and FBI Director Wray has been summoned to go there this afternoon and explain just what the fuck is going on, and get the FBI to shake every tree and look under every rock in Washington.”
Shane gets a sardonic look. “A conservatively stacked Supreme Court was this president’s signature accomplishment for his base, and now—thanks to the Lone Ranger—he’s got two vacancies just overnight. I guess they are scrambling like hell over there in the West Wing to come up with replacements that they can push through the Senate before the vote on the Hellerstedt case comes up. But the signals coming back are no one wants the nomination.”
Billy smiles with satisfaction. “Good. That’s what I intended.”
Shane swallows hard, blinks, and looks across the table at Billy. “I get it, Billy, that this is feather in your liberal cap, but you really put a bag of shit on our doorstep. The Bad King is paranoid. He sees enemies in his sleep and around every corner and believes the intel community is all out to get him—a Deep State conspiracy bent on destroying his presidency. He Tweets this bullshit every day and threatens retribution against his political enemies and anyone who defies or crosses him. He has dedicated, career public service officials here in Washington so scared—here at CIA, the FBI, and in the Justice Department—that they are even afraid to perform their jobs for fear they will run afoul of him, piss him off and become a target of his retribution. This is not how the government is supposed to work, Billy.”
Shane is animated now. “And now he’s got his criminal attorney general and sycophant, The Consigliere, investigating anybody who has ever criticized or crossed him in the slightest way.” The spy chief is angry. “He uses the Justice Department to persecute and punish his political enemies. He’s nothing but an authoritarian despot, a tin-pot banana republic dictator and a fucking tyrant who believes he’s totally above the law.”
Billy frowns and makes a face. “Your past is just catching up with you, Shane. CIA has, for seventy years now, had its dirty hand in everything shady going on around the globe—political assassinations, military coups—and everything is mostly fucked-up!”
Shane has a lot of respect for Billy, and his talents, but— “Come down off your high horse, Billy,” he responds. “You’re no White Knight, you know. You’ve never offered to send back any of the money—millions of dollars, if I remember correctly—paid to you for all the “dirty work” you’ve done for CIA.”
Notwithstanding their friendship and long association—the dark ops, political assassinations, and clandestine operations that Billy had been involved in over the years under CIA auspices—their relationship has always been less than perfect. Billy believes in causes, but not always the same causes as his friend. And he has gotten under Shane’s skin a few times by incautiously reminding the CIA man that the agency is—notwithstanding all the home-spun flag-waving, patriotism, and propaganda—not necessarily a force for good in the world.
“Espionage is a dirty business, Billy. We do not—any of us—wear white chiffon gloves. You, of all people, should know that.”
“That’s right, Shane. You use me when you need me to do your dirty work—take out the trash, the bad guys you don’t want to deal with.”
On different occasions, Billy had brought up to his friend the CIA’s uninvited, and often disastrous, meddling in the internal affairs of sovereign governments like the coup orchestrated in Iran in 1953 to unseat the popular, democratically elected Mossadegh because he nationalized foreign (U.S.) oil companies and had genuflected too many times toward the Soviet Union.
Billy had questioned his friend about the many political assassinations, like the killing of Allende in Chili, the CIA’s role in destabilizing Central and South American leftist governments in favor of right-wing regimes more friendly toward Washington, it’s involvement in the 1954 Guatemalan coup de état, the 1976 Argentinian coup that deposed the popular, democratically elected Isabel Peron, the failed Bay of Pigs invasion and its many attempts to assassinate Fidel Castro between 1959 and 2000.
Billy had even asked his friend point-blank if the CIA had been involved in the plane crash that killed the popular Panamanian president, reformer and political activist, Omar Torrijos.
“Was the plane crash really an accident?” Billy once asked.
Shane, in response, gave Billy a hard look, non-committal look. “That’s classified.”
Shane brings the conversation at the table back to the president, and the problem the assassination of The Judge and the Gorsuch resignation is causing for the CIA.
Billy is direct and to the point. “Look, Shane. You are all big boys—and girls—at CIA. You can, and—if history is any precedent—you will take care of yourselves.”
Shane stares back, and helplessly shakes his head. “You never quit do you, Billy?”
The response is quick, and Billy is unapologetic. “No. And I won’t stop fighting for what is right—not as long as there’s still breath in this body. I’ve got a card to play, Shane,” Billy comes back, “and it’s an ace—a presidential grant of amnesty. And with all the dirty work I’ve done in patriotic service to the flag and this country, the last thing you and CIA want is me giving testimony in front of a grand jury. Remember, Shane, I am a lawyer. I worked on the Court. I know the law.”
Shane sighs. “Settle down, Billy.” He meets Billy’s steady gaze. “I didn’t call this meeting to talk about the hit on The Judge. Granted, though, he was going to be a problem regarding the Court’s attack on Roe. My sources tell me that the oral arguments are concluding in the current anti-choice June Medical Services v. Gee case, the primary challenge to Roe, and the vote is coming up. So right now, they are frantic over there on Pennsylvania Avenue, scrambling to find replacements. Judges they can cram through the Senate and get onto the Court, conservative toadies, before the vote. The same sources tell me that they have already put some feelers out through their friends at the Federalist Society, but the signals coming back are not positive. Everyone is scared, and no one wants the job.”
Billy looks happy. “Well, like I said, that’s exactly what I intended.”
“Well, Billy, you got your wish,” Shane replies.
The CIA man pauses and gives an obligatory nod toward Billy. “But, thanks to your kindergarten, crayon handiwork—on FBI letterhead—with the Lone Ranger warning to Gorsuch, the hit on The Judge is now a pressing problem for CIA. The Company has come under the microscope—the leering, prying eyes of this ass hole president. I’m sure that just this morning, after the news came out, the president called the majority leader and demanded that the Senate Intelligence Committee launch an investigation into the role the intelligence community might have played in the assassination.”
Shane continues. “The Judge was also probably going to be a critical vote in enjoining banks like Deutsche Bank and Capital One from releasing any of the president’s tax or financial records. Now that is not going to happen. And I understand, from what I heard this morning, that this really has the moron crazy. The last thing he wants is for the world to find out he’s not really a multi-billionaire, but just a financially strapped tax cheat, phony real estate developer, and money launderer, who for at least the last twenty years has been funded with Russian money through loans from Deutsche Bank.”
Shane pauses. “You really did kill two birds with one stone, Billy. However, in the broader scheme of things, The Judge was a small fish. But, putting all that aside, and the reason I called you here today, I’ve got something bigger for you—something that just might appeal to your idealism and Boy Scout nature.”