“I can’t take it anymore,” Ben said. Staring into the mirror in the office closet, he picked at a deep shaving cut on his chin. “Why hasn’t he called?”
“It’s only been a week,” Lisa said.
“The longest week of my life,” Ben said as the cut started bleeding. “You’d think by now he’d tell us what he wants.”
“Maybe he’s trying to wear you down.”
“He’s obviously trying to wear me down. The longer he waits, the crazier I get. Typical Rick mind game.”
“I’m not surprised Rick hasn’t called—I’m more surprised you haven’t heard from DeRosa.”
“Don’t even start me on that. The guy promises to keep me informed, and then he doesn’t send a single message. For all I know, the marshals aren’t even out there.”
“Do you feel like you’re being watched?”
“Not at all. Which means they’re either extremely good, or they lied to me.”
“You better get moving,” Lisa said, looking at her watch. “You’re going to miss your first free lunch.”
“They’re lucky it’s free.”
“Don’t give me that,” Lisa said. “You’re about to go to lunch with the Chief Justice of the United States. Don’t pretend you’re not excited.”
“No, you’re right,” Ben said. “I’m very excited. I mean, who wouldn’t want to spend an hour having their intellect crushed?”
“Don’t pay attention to what his clerks say. Their backbones are so weak, they barely stand erect.”
“Well, I’ll have you know, I stand very erect,” Ben said proudly, sticking out his chest. “Super-erect.”
“You’re a one-man erection,” Lisa said as Ben walked to the door. He paused when his phone rang and looked at Lisa. “Let it ring,” she said. “Go enjoy lunch.” When she saw him turn around and head for the phone, she added, “Relax. It’s not him.”
“Hello. Justice Hollis’s chambers,” Ben said as he picked up the receiver.
“Hi, Ben,” Rick said. “How’s everything in the big house?”
Closing his eyes, Ben said, “Tell me what you want.”
“What I want?” Rick asked. “Who says I want anything? I called to say hello.”
“C’mon, Rick, I really don’t have the time for this. What’s the story this time?”
“What’s the matter there?” Rick asked. “You don’t sound as confident as the last time I spoke to you.”
“I’m fine,” Ben said through clenched teeth.
“I assume you and your roommates got my package?”
“Yes, we got the damn package. Now what do you want?”
“Down to business,” Rick said. He cleared his throat. “I want the American Steel case, and I want it tonight.”
“But that case comes down Monday,” Ben said, panicking.
“I know when it comes down,” Rick said. “And I want it personally delivered by you, to me.”
“I need to think about this,” Ben said.
“You have a half hour.”
“I won’t be here in a half hour. I’ll be at lunch with Osterman.”
“I’ll call you back at exactly two o’clock,” Rick said. “At that time, I want an answer. Obviously, from my recent mailing, I’m sure you understand the consequences.”
“Wait a minute,” Ben said. “What about—”
“There’s nothing else to talk about,” Rick said. “Good-bye.”
“What’d he say?” Lisa asked as Ben hung up.
“I have to go,” Ben said, looking at his watch. “I’m late for Osterman.”
“Tell me what happened,” Lisa said.
Ignoring her, Ben left the office and ran down the stairs to Osterman’s office on the first floor.
“You’re two minutes late,” the secretary said. “Expect him to mention it.”
“Great.” Ben walked into Osterman’s office, the largest in the Court. Across the sea of burgundy carpeting, Osterman was seated at his desk, which was a perfect replica of the one used by John Jay, the first Chief Justice. In an ornate gold frame on the desk was Oliver Wendell Holmes’s 1913 description of the Court: “We are very quiet there, but it is the quiet of a storm centre. . . .” In no mood to acknowledge the accuracy of the quotation, Ben stood in front of the desk and waited for the Chief Justice to look up from his stack of papers.
After waiting almost a minute, Ben cleared his throat.
Osterman abruptly looked up at his guest. “You’re late. Now give me a moment.” Small and lanky, Samuel Osterman had thick glasses and a thin comb-over of black hair. At fifty-nine, he was one of the youngest Chief Justices in history, but his poor selections in eyewear and hairstyle made him look old beyond his years. Looking back up at Ben, he said, “Rather than facing the weather outside, I’ve asked that our food be delivered to us.” He pointed to the antique table on the right side of the room. “I figured we’d eat up here.”
“That’s fine with me,” Ben said.
“Sit, please.”
“Thank you,” Ben said, easing himself into the leather chair opposite Osterman’s desk.
“Columbia, Yale Law, and some time with Judge Stanley,” Osterman said, recalling the facts from memory. “So how has your term been so far?”
“Very enjoyable,” Ben said.
“Nervous about something?” Osterman asked, pointing to Ben’s foot, which was tapping against the carpet.
“No,” Ben said as he stopped tapping. “Just a bad habit. How was your vacation?”
“It was fine. And yours?”
“Wonderful,” Ben said dryly.
“Tell me,” Osterman said, “any new cert petitions come through that sound worthwhile?”
“Actually, there’s one that challenges the president’s new farm subsidy program. It seems intriguing.”
“Farmers are Jeffersonian reactionaries who haven’t had a progressive thought in their lives,” Osterman said.
“That’s one way to look at it,” Ben said, surprised by Osterman’s reaction. “But don’t you feel that—”
“Ben, don’t feel. Law is not about feeling. If you learn one thing during your time with the Court, you should learn that life is a tragedy for those who feel and a comedy for those who think.”
“And it’s a musical for those who sing,” Ben offered. When he saw Osterman’s eyebrows lower behind the rim of his eyeglasses, Ben quickly added, “I know what you mean, though.”
Before Osterman could say another word, the office door opened, and his secretary walked in. “Lunchtime.”
An hour later, Ben returned to his office. “Finally,” Lisa said. “Tell me—what’d Rick say? What’d he want? How was lunch?”
“Taking the easiest question first, I’d say lunch was a complete disaster,” he said, collapsing on the sofa. “And y’know how everyone says Osterman has Coke-bottle glasses? He doesn’t. He has bank-teller windows attached to his face.”
“Forget about him,” Lisa said. She had picked up a huge salad from the deli and was eating it at her desk. “What happened with Rick?”
“Oh, yes, asshole number two. He wants American Steel.”
“But that comes down Monday,” Lisa said. “It’s already Friday.”
“I assume that’s the point,” Ben said, slumping on the sofa. “I’m sure the last thing Rick wants is to have us try to scheme around him.”
“Do you think everything will be ready?” Lisa asked through a mouthful of greens.
Ben paused. “I honestly have no idea.”
“What do you mean, you have no idea?”
“I have no idea,” Ben said, raising his voice. “I have no idea where the marshals are; I have no idea if they’re doing anything right; I don’t even know if they’re on my side anymore. For all we know, they could be the ones working with Rick.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“How is that bullshit?” Ben asked defensively. “They promised to contact me, but I haven’t heard from them in a week. Rick is demanding a brand-new case, and he wants it two days earlier than we can give it to him. He has information that’ll get my friends fired and put us all in jail. I’ll be disbarred, and every single thing we’ve worked for will be gone. If the plan doesn’t work out perfectly, I face those consequences. Now where’s the bullshit part?”
“It can still work out perfectly.”
“It’s already screwed up. Involving my roommates makes the whole thing a mess.”
“I don’t want to have this argument. It can still work out. Now what else did Rick say?”
Ben looked at his watch. “He should be calling back any minute. That’s when I have to tell him whether I’ll hand over the decision.”
“Was he adamant about getting it tonight?”
“He seemed to be.”
“Try and stall until Sunday. That way we can contact—” There was a knock at the office door.
“Come in,” Ben yelled. Nancy stepped into the room.
“And how are you two doing today?” Nancy asked, carrying a small pile of books and papers. “Don’t you look tired,” she said to Ben as she handed Lisa a thin manila folder.
“Are these the corrections for the commercial speech dissent?” Lisa wiped the salad dressing off her hands with a napkin before she picked up the folder.
“You got it,” Nancy said. Walking past Ben’s and Lisa’s desks, she approached the back wall of the office and straightened the framed picture of the justices. She then turned toward Ben, who was still stretched out on the sofa. “Have you been getting enough sleep?”
“Oh, yeah. I got a full hour last night.”
“You really should take a day off,” Nancy said. “Every year I watch the clerks here kill themselves. It’s just not worth it.”
“I know . . .” Ben began. His phone started ringing. He jumped from the sofa and put his hand on the receiver.
“Thanks for the delivery. I’ll give you the rewrite before the end of the day,” Lisa said to Nancy.
“Take your time. He doesn’t expect it until Monday,” Nancy said, leaning on Lisa’s desk. “So do you have any interesting plans for the weekend, or are you working?”
Convinced that Nancy was not leaving the office anytime soon, Ben reluctantly picked up the phone. “Justice Hollis’s chambers,” he said. “This is Ben.”
“Are you ready to deliver?” Rick asked.
“Hey, how are you doing?” Ben said, as he struggled to sound as cheerful as possible.
“I’m not joking anymore.”
“I’m fine,” Ben forced a laugh. “I’m just visiting with some colleagues.”
“What’s your answer?” Rick asked.
Ben turned his chair away from Lisa and Nancy. “I need more time.”
“This isn’t Grinnell. You don’t need more time.”
“I do,” Ben said. “It’s not done yet.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Rick warned. “I know that decision is finished.”
“I swear—” Ben began.
Rick hung up.
“Hello? Are you there?” Replacing the receiver, Ben turned around and faced Lisa and Nancy, who were staring at him.
“Is everything okay?” Nancy asked.
“Yeah. Fine,” Ben said nonchalantly. “I got disconnected.”
“Don’t worry,” Nancy said. “They’ll call back.” Walking to the door, she added, “Lisa, I’m serious about the corrections. I can tell Hollis won’t look at it until Monday.”
“Thanks,” Lisa said as Nancy left the room. As soon as the door closed, Lisa looked back at Ben. “What’d he say?”
“The son-of-a-bitch hung up on me!” Ben said. “He asked for the decision, I tried to stall, and he hung up. I don’t believe it.” Ben and Lisa waited for the phone to ring again. After a full minute, Ben said, “He’s not calling back. What the hell is going on?”
“He’s just trying to make you crazy,” Lisa said.
“It’s working,” Ben said. “What should I do?”
“Relax. I’m sure he’ll call back.”
“He’s not calling back. What the hell is going on?”
“He’s just trying to make you crazy.”
“It’s working. What should I do?”
“Relax. I’m sure he’ll call back.”
Smiling as he paced across Lungen’s office, Fisk was thrilled that the microphone was finally working. “I don’t know what they’re up to, but there’s no way this kid is innocent.”
Lungen’s eyes were focused on the small charcoal-gray speaker on his desk. “I don’t know,” he said. “Whoever this Rick is, he’s got Ben terrified. It sounds like he’s being blackmailed.”
“Blackmailed or not, he broke the law.”
“We don’t know that,” Lungen said. “I still think we’re missing half the story.”
“You must be kidding,” Fisk said as he stopped pacing. “Within the first five minutes we put this thing on, we hear them talking about leaking a decision to an outside party.”
“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
“Who needs to jump? The answer is staring us in the face. Regardless of how they got involved, these two are up to no good.”
“The microphone was just installed last night. It took us until lunch to finally get it working, and we’ve heard a total of five minutes of conversation. All I’m saying is that we should give it a bit more time. I want all the facts before we run in with guns blazing.”
“Trust me, we’ll get the facts,” Fisk said as he turned up the volume on the speaker. “The way these two are talking, by next week, Justice Hollis will be interviewing new clerks.”
“That’s it,” Rick said, slapping shut his cellular phone. “I’ve had enough of his shit.” He opened the passenger-side door and got out of the car.
Getting out of the driver’s side, Richard Claremont, American Steel’s executive vice president of marketing, asked, “What’d he say?”
Slamming the car door shut, Rick looked up the block, where he had a perfect view of the Court. “He was trying to stall.” Unfazed by the frigid wind that whipped down First Street, Rick didn’t even button his overcoat. “He sounded nervous, but he was definitely trying to stall.”
“He should be nervous. From everything you’ve said, it sounds like his life is ruined.”
“I don’t want him to be scared, though,” Rick explained, approaching the Court. “If he’s scared, he’ll go to the authorities. But if he still thinks he has a chance of catching me, we have a better chance of getting the decision.”
“So you think he may still go to the police?” Claremont asked.
“Actually, no,” Rick said, watching a busload of bundled-up tourists snap pictures of the nation’s highest tribunal. “Ben’s too concerned about his résumé to do that. That’s the reason I picked him in the first place. He’s got a great deal to lose.”
“Then why didn’t you pick Lisa? From your file on her, she’s got a similar background.”
“Ben’s a much better mark. Between the two, Lisa’s smarter. She never would’ve given up the original decision. Ben’s more anxious to please. I knew he’d bite.”
“If you say so,” Claremont said. “Though it sounds like he hasn’t been as predictable as you’d hoped.”
“He’s had his moments,” Rick said. “But this week has really worn him down. He’s exhausted.” Rick reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Besides, he’s about to realize that this is no game.”
Even two-dimensional, you look good, Ober thought as he admired the most recent photocopy of his face. Sitting at his government-issue desk, he pulled open the bottom-left drawer, removed a thick file folder and added that day’s photocopy to the three hundred and twenty-six other photocopies already in the folder. Every day, Ober placed his face on the photocopier and posed for the world’s quickest portrait in an attempt to create a photo album unlike any other. After writing the date on his newest copy, he placed it in the folder with the others. As he returned the file to its drawer, he saw Marcia Sturgis, the staff director for Senator Stevens, standing in the doorway of his office.
“Ober, can I see you in my office?” Marcia asked abruptly. A Capitol Hill veteran, Marcia had started as a receptionist for Senator Edward Kennedy soon after she had graduated from college, then spent almost twenty years working her way through the bureaucratic ranks. In her view, the years of toiling in obscurity were well worth it—she was currently the most important member of Senator Stevens’s staff. With a workday that began at six in the morning and ended at eleven at night, Marcia controlled most of what the senator saw and heard. She attended committee meetings, organized floor appearances, and edited the senator’s speeches and press releases. She was also responsible for the most important decisions affecting the senator’s staff.
Following Marcia to her office, Ober tried to guess what he had done wrong this time. Since his promotion to administrative assistant, visits to Marcia’s office had become commonplace. There was one when his reply letter to an irate constituent simply said, “Relax.” There was another when he misspelled Mrs. Stevens’s name on a letter to another senator. And there was another when Marcia caught him making prank calls to Republican staffers, telling them to “Give up.”
As he stepped into Marcia’s office, Ober noticed the stiff-shouldered stranger sitting in one of the chairs facing Marcia’s desk. When he saw the solemn look on the man’s face, Ober knew this visit wasn’t about the coffee he had spilled on Marcia’s computer.
“Take a seat,” Marcia said, pointing to the empty seat next to the stranger. “This is Victor Langdon, from the FBI.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ober said, extending his hand.
“Can we get to the point?” Victor asked.
Marcia’s eyes were focused on Ober. “I wanted to tell you about an anonymous fax I got a few hours ago,” she explained. “It said that the death threat you investigated a few months ago was actually written by you. The fax also accused you of writing the threat to Senator Stevens in an attempt to advance your own career. Considering that your promotion was based on your handling of that situation, we were wondering what you had to say for yourself.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ober said. Crossing his legs, he tried his best not to panic.
“I don’t want to play that game,” Victor said, pointing a finger at Ober.
“Ober, don’t lie about this one,” Marcia pleaded, her hands in tight fists on her desk. “This is serious.”
“It’s not the way it looks. . . .” Ober stuttered.
“Do you deny it?” Victor asked.
“If you didn’t write it, and you know who did, tell us,” Marcia said.
Ober leaned away from Victor. “It wasn’t a real death threat. The senator was never in danger.”
“I already told the FBI that,” Marcia said. “Just tell them who wrote it.”
Trying to figure out a way to avoid implicating Ben, Ober was silent.
“If you don’t tell us who wrote it, I’ll be forced to ask for your resignation,” Marcia said.
“Attempted assassination means you’ll get life in prison,” Victor added, grabbing Ober’s armrest.
Ober pushed Victor’s hand away. “It was never an assassination.”
“Then tell us what happened,” Victor said. “Who wrote the letter?”
Again, Ober fell silent.
“Ober, please make this easier on yourself,” Marcia said, leaning on her desk.
“That’s it,” Victor said, standing up. “It’s clear we can’t do this here. I’m taking him in for questioning.”
Marcia shot from her chair. “No, you’re not. You promised me full jurisdiction with this. It’s clear the senator was never in danger.”
“Why are you protecting this kid?” Victor asked.
“I’m not protecting him. I just—”
“I wrote it,” Ober interrupted, whispering into his chest.
“What?” Marcia asked.
“I wrote it,” he repeated, his eyes focused on the floor. “I wrote the letter.”
“You did?” Marcia asked.
“I knew it,” Victor said, returning to his seat.
“Why would you do that?” Marcia asked.
“I can’t explain it,” Ober said, refusing to look up. “I wrote it. That’s it. That’s all I want to say.”
Victor grabbed his notepad from Marcia’s desk and started taking notes. “Was it a real threat to the senator?” he asked.
“No,” Ober said. “Not at all. The senator’s been nothing but terrific to me.”
“So it was for the promotion?” Marcia asked. “The fax was right?”
“It’s not a hundred percent right, but it might as well be true,” Ober said. “I wrote the letter, and the letter got me the promotion.” As silence filled the room, both Marcia and Victor stared at Ober. Looking up at his two interrogators, Ober’s eyes welled with tears. “What?” he asked. “What else do you want me to say? I wrote it.”
Victor turned to Marcia. “If you like, I can take him down to—”
“Leave him alone,” Marcia said. “We’ll handle this in-house. And I expect you to keep your promise—I don’t want to see one word about this in the press.”
“Playing it safe before the election?” Victor asked.
“What do you think?” Marcia asked, returning to her seat. She scribbled some quick notes to herself and then looked up at Ober. “If you tender your resignation, we won’t file charges.”
“What if I want to keep my job?” Ober asked, his face now pasty white.
“That’s not an option,” she said. “At this point, you’re fired. If you’d like to tender your resignation first, I can save both of us a great deal of headache. Otherwise, we’ll have to formally release you, which means documenting the entire story for your personnel file.”
“But—”
“That’s the deal,” Marcia said as she resumed her writing.
Ober realized he had no choice. “I’ll resign.”
“Fine,” Marcia said, putting down her pen. “You have ten minutes to clean out your office. Leave your Senate I.D. with me.”
As he walked back to his office, Ober’s mind was flooded with the repercussions of the past half hour. After two years in Washington, he had nothing to show for it—his first professional success was now gone. His short-lived promotion had given him the slightest taste of victory, but once again, he felt himself sliding back toward failure. He could never show his face in the office again. When he saw his colleagues on the street, he’d have to lie about why he quit. His parents and relatives would also have to hear the fabricated excuse for why he no longer worked in the Senate. And it better be a good excuse, he thought as he reached his desk, because my mother is going to kill me.
As he collected his personal belongings, Ober’s hands were shaking. Removing his diploma from the wall, he was afraid he’d drop it. Although he had been instructed not to take any files from his office, Ober opened his desk drawer and pulled out the only folder that was definitely his. Flipping through the three hundred and twenty-seven photocopies of himself, he thought about the day he started working for Senator Stevens and how he’d sneaked into the copy room to make the first picture in the pile. He remembered the excitement of starting the photo album and how he wanted to keep it a secret from his roommates until it was finished. I guess it’s finished, he thought, staring at the pile of paper in his hands. It’s all finished. Now I can finally show Eric and Nathan and Ben. Ben. Ben. Ben. Simmering in the silence, Ober took the folder and hurled it against the wall, causing three hundred and twenty-seven pages to fly through the air. What’s wrong with me? he wondered, collapsing in his old chair. Then, amid the remains of the paper hurricane that covered his former office, Ober cried.
This can’t be happening, Ben thought as he sprinted from the Metro station to his house. Maybe Eric heard the story wrong. Rounding the corner of his block, Ben stepped on a sheet of ice, which sent his body skidding and his right hip smashing into the frozen pavement. Ignoring the pain as he stumbled to his feet, he resumed his mad dash toward the house. He threw open the front door, ran inside, and saw Ober sitting on the sofa. Still dressed in his navy suit, with his tie loosened, Ober glared directly at the television, refusing to acknowledge Ben’s entrance.
“I came as soon as I heard,” Ben said, dropping his coat on the floor. “How’re you doing? Are you okay?” Pausing, but getting no response, Ben tried again. “C’mon, Ober, talk to me. I’m here to help.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Ober said, his voice quiet and spiritless. “I helped you. My boss found out. I got fired.”
Crossing over to the couch, Ben took a seat next to his friend. “Ober, you know I never meant—”
“I know you didn’t mean for this to happen,” Ober said as his shoulders sagged in defeat.
“I swear, I thought Rick was bluffing. I never thought he’d actually do it, and I thought—”
“It doesn’t matter what you thought,” Ober interrupted, his voice still barely above a whisper. “I lost my job. That’s all that really matters.”
Ben stared up at Eric’s painting, unable to face his roommate. Searching for the perfect reason, the perfect explanation, and the perfect apology, he was silent. In an argument, Ben was never at a loss for words. But when it came to apologies, he was awful. Finally, he came up with “I’m sorry.”
Ober’s eyes welled with tears. He covered his face with his hands.
“I’m so sorry,” Ben said, putting a hand on Ober’s shoulder. “I can’t apologize enough for this.”
“My life is ruined. . . .”
“It’s not ruined,” Ben insisted, struggling to get Ober’s attention. “You’ll get a new job. A better job.”
“No, I won’t,” Ober sobbed. “It took me five months to find that job. How am I going to get a new one?”
“We’ll help you find a new one,” Ben said. “It really isn’t as bad as you think. Between the five of us, we can—”
“That’s not even true,” Ober interrupted, wiping his eyes. “You know I’m not like you guys. I wasn’t a straight-A student. I’m not a genius. I’m a moron.”
“Don’t start with that. You’re as bright as any one of us.”
“No, I’m not,” Ober said, his voice still hushed. “You said it and it was true: I’m really not.”
“You are.”
“No, I’m not,” Ober said. “This’s the sixth job I’ve been fired from. It’ll take me months to find another job. And it’ll be worse than the last one. My life is just like our board-game company—one big bust.”
“Ober, don’t be so rough on yourself,” Ben said, his hand still on Ober’s shoulder. “Life doesn’t revolve around SAT scores and grade-point averages. Once you start looking, a sharp personality will carry you just as far. And if you have anything, you have that.”
“I don’t even have that,” Ober said, pulling away from Ben. “I’m not bright; I’m not resourceful; I don’t work well under pressure. Why do you think I can’t hold down a job? I’ve been failing at this one for months—they would’ve fired me soon anyway. This whole thing with Rick just sped up the process.”
“That’s not true,” Ben said.
“How do you know what’s true?” Ober asked, his eyes once again filling with tears. “You weren’t there. You’ve never seen me at work. Half the time, I don’t even know what I’m doing there.”
“You were an administrative assistant,” Ben interrupted. “That was a good job.”
“It was a below-average job,” Ober said, wiping the tears from his face with the back of his hand. “And the only reason I had it was because I investigated a death threat that I wrote. If it wasn’t for that, I’d still be answering phones.” Catching his breath, he looked into Ben’s eyes. “Why did this have to happen?”
Surprised by Ober’s emotional collapse, Ben almost didn’t recognize the friend he’d known since grade school. But as Ober became more hysterical, Ben instinctively stepped forward. “This was all my fault,” Ben said, embracing him.
“I just want it to be like it was when we first got here,” Ober said, his face buried in Ben’s shoulder. “Just the four of us. No fighting. No arguing.”
“It will be,” Ben said. “I promise.”
“It won’t,” Ober said. “It never will again. It’s over. We’re finished.”
“No, we’re not,” Ben said. “We’re all still friends. We’ll get through it.”
“No, we won’t!” Ober sobbed. “Nathan and you barely speak. Eric and Nathan never speak. I’m having the worst day of my life, and both of them are too damn busy with work to even come home to see me. That’s not a friendship. It’s a joke.”
“We’re not finished,” Ben insisted. “Rick won’t—”
“It doesn’t matter what Rick does anymore,” Ober wailed. “The damage is done. Nathan will never forgive you for getting me fired. And as long as Nathan is mad at you, Eric will be mad at him. You can’t change that.”
Silent as he stared at Ober, Ben knew his friend was right. “What about you?” he finally asked. “Will you forgive me?”
Ober wiped his eyes. “I don’t know.”
“But—”
“Please don’t say anything,” Ober interrupted. “I don’t want to hear it right now.”
Before Ben could respond, the phone rang. Ben glanced at it, then looked back at Ober.
“Pick it up,” Ober said. “You know you want to get it.”
“It’s not that,” Ben said. “It’s just—”
“Pick it up,” Ober insisted.
Ben grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”
“So, you still interested in Wayne and Portnoy?” Alcott asked enthusiastically.
“Adrian?” Ben asked, annoyed.
“Of course,” Alcott answered. “You had said to give you a call so we could set up a lunch, so I figured—”
“Adrian, why are you calling me at home?” Ben asked, rising from the couch. His movement sent the base of the phone crashing to the floor.
“I apologize,” Alcott said. “The secretary at the Court said you were gone for the weekend, and I wanted to set up something for Monday.”
“Let me tell you something,” Ben said, gripping the receiver. “Don’t call me at home. If I’m not at work, I don’t want to be bothered by you. In fact, even when I’m at work, I don’t want to be bothered. I know all about the firm, and an extra lunch isn’t going to get me to go there.”
“I’m—” Alcott stuttered.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Ben interrupted. “If I want to go to lunch, you’ll hear from me. Otherwise, leave me alone. I’m busy.” Without waiting for Alcott’s response, Ben slammed down the phone.
“Who was that?” Ober asked.
“No one,” Ben explained. “It was a—” The phone rang again. Ben picked it up. “Adrian, I’m sure you’re sorry, but I don’t want to hear it right now.”
“This isn’t Adrian, and I’m certainly not sorry.”
“Rick?” Ben asked, knowing the answer to his question.
“Sounds like you’re having quite a night,” Rick said. “Ober gets fired; he’s on the verge of a breakdown; you scream at the one person still recruiting you. I have to be honest; if I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t yell at someone who was offering me a job.”
Ben turned to Ober. “Rick’s been listening all night. The whole place is bugged.” He turned back to the phone. “What do you want, Rick?”
“You know what I want,” Rick said. “The only question is whether you’re going to deliver.”
Ben sat down on the couch. “What do you think?”
“I think Ober’s breaking your heart. So my guess is you’re thinking of turning yourself in,” Rick said. “I just want you to know that if you give me the decision, you can still walk away from all this.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Ben said. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
“If the decision works out, you’ll never hear from me again. Case closed. You get to keep your job. Nathan gets to keep his. I get what I want. All parties are happy.” Without giving Ben a chance to respond, Rick continued, “If you’re interested, go to the Museum of American History at noon on Sunday. There’s a courtesy phone next to the information desk. Wait there, and I’ll leave a message where you can meet me. If you’re not there, your bankbook and Nathan’s letter will be hand-delivered to your respective superiors.”
“I’ll see you there,” Ben said coldly. Without another word, he hung up.
“What’d he say?” Ober asked.
“I hate that bastard,” Ben said. “He’s so damn smug.”
“Just tell me what he said.”
“Not here,” Ben said, looking around the room. “Not another word in this place.” Ben got up from the couch. “Let’s get out of here.”
“No way,” Ober said. “I’m done with this nonsense. You’re on your own.”
“I’m only going to Lisa’s. It’s a safer place to talk.”
“I don’t care where you’re going. I’ve had enough.”
“Are you okay with everything?” Ben asked, picking up his coat from the living room floor.
“Would you be?” Ober asked. “I just need to get some sleep.”
Knowing there was nothing he could say, Ben buttoned his coat, picked up his briefcase, and walked to the door. As he was about to leave, the door flew open and Nathan stormed inside. “Where the hell are you going?” Nathan asked Ben.
“Out,” Ben shot back, aggravated by Nathan’s accusatory tone.
“Hold on a second,” Nathan said. He turned to Ober and asked, “Did you really get fired?” When Ober nodded, Nathan turned back to Ben. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Really?” Ben asked. “Watch this.” Within seconds, Ben was out the door.
Running up the block, Ben headed directly for the nearest pay phone. Finding one a few blocks away, he pulled a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket, grabbed the receiver, and punched in DeRosa’s 800 number. “Answer the damn phone,” Ben said before the call had even registered.
Impatiently waiting for someone to pick up, Ben was alarmed to hear a recorded voice say, “The number you have reached is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.” Within seconds, he hung up and redialed the number, carefully checking to make sure he dialed correctly. Once again, he heard “The number you have reached is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.”
“I don’t believe this,” Ben said. With his eyes closed and his hands locked around the frame of the pay phone, he tried to think of a rational explanation for why the number had been disconnected. There was none. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled, slamming the phone with his fist. His heart pounding, he turned around and screamed, “ARE YOU GUYS OUT THERE? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?” Hoping for a response, but expecting none, Ben silently waited. Nothing. His eyes scanned the area, inspecting every tree, shrub, and hiding spot within his sight. Still nothing. He was on his own. Spotting the “on duty” roof lights of an approaching emerald-green taxi, Ben jumped in front of the car, which screeched to a halt to avoid hitting him.
“What’s wrong with you? You crazy or something?” the cabbie shouted as Ben opened the door.
“Do you know any cheap motels?” Ben asked, climbing inside.
“I know a few,” the driver responded, unnerved.
“Take me to one,” Ben demanded.
Following Ben’s instructions, the driver headed toward Connecticut Avenue. “You okay?” the driver asked.
Ben was staring out the back window, checking to see if anyone was following him. “I’m fine,” he said. “Perfectly fine.”
Ten minutes later, the cab pulled up to the Monument Inn, a plain-looking, one-story building with a neon VACANCY sign. Ben paid the cab driver, walked into the motel, and approached the front desk. “I need a room.”
Packing her briefcase with three soon-to-be-released decisions, Lisa prepared for a long work weekend. Well accustomed to the fact that as long as she worked in the Court, every weekend was a work weekend, Lisa also added three floppy disks, Hollis’s written comments, and photocopies of a dozen already-released decisions that she thought were relevant. She locked her briefcase and scrambled the small combination lock near the handle. As she went to grab her coat, the phone rang.
Fearing that it might be Hollis with a new assignment or another rewrite, Lisa didn’t immediately answer the phone. As always, however, she couldn’t help herself. She had to pick it up. “Hello. This is Lisa.”
“Lisa, I need you to meet me as soon as possible,” Ben demanded.
“What?” Lisa asked. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the Monument Inn. It’s on Upton, near the Van Ness Metro. I’m in room sixteen.”
“What happened with Ober? Is he okay?”
“I’ll tell you about it later,” Ben said. “Now please come over here. I don’t know what to do.”
Forty minutes later, Ben heard a knock on the door. “Who is it?” he asked suspiciously.
“Open the door,” Lisa said.
He looked through the eyehole and let her in.
“What happened?” she asked, walking inside.
Ben peered out of the room to make sure Lisa was alone, then slammed the door and locked it.
Lisa scrunched up her face in disgust. “Nice place,” she said, noticing the peeling wallpaper. “Why didn’t we just meet in a sewer? It’s cleaner and safer.”
“Rick has my house bugged,” Ben said, his face glued to the eyehole on the door. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if yours was, too. I figured we needed a neutral place to talk.”
“Then tell me what happened,” Lisa said, sitting on one of the room’s twin beds.
Turning around, Ben leaned on the door. “They’re not out there,” he said. “They’re gone. I think they switched sides. That’s the only way—”
“Slow down—one thing at a time,” Lisa said. “Who’s not out there?”
Ben walked over to the other bed and sat down across from Lisa. “The marshals. DeRosa. They’re not out there,” he explained. “After talking to Ober, I pushed the panic button and—”
“You dialed the number in your house?” Lisa asked. “Are you crazy? Rick probably heard—”
“I went to a pay phone,” Ben interrupted. “The number’s out of service. It’s been disconnected.”
“Are you kidding me? But DeRosa said—”
“I know what he said. But it’s clear he lied. I think he’s been working with Rick from the beginning. Think about it: DeRosa wouldn’t let Lungen and Fisk know what’s going on, even though they’re the marshals assigned to the Court. He didn’t want me to tell anyone else what I had done. He never took an affidavit from me. He even told me to turn a decision over to Rick. I think Rick approached DeRosa before we did.”
“I don’t know,” Lisa said, grabbing one of the pillows on the bed. “Do you really think Rick has the resources to meet with the head of the Marshals Service?”
“Are you kidding?” Ben asked. “I walked right in to see him. You don’t think Rick can do the same thing?”
Lisa nodded. “But that doesn’t mean they’re necessarily working together.”
“So where does that leave me?”
“There aren’t many options. If I were you, I’d spend tomorrow trying to contact DeRosa. For all we know, the plan is still in effect, and his secretary simply mistyped the phone number.”
“And what if I still can’t contact him?”
“Then I’d think about ending it. Go to the press, go to Hollis, go to anyone that’ll listen, but get the story out there.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking for the past hour. If both DeRosa and Rick are against me, I’m dead.”
“Then there’s your answer,” Lisa said as she threw the pillow aside. “If you find DeRosa, great. But if he’s switched teams, you’ll go to the press and take them all down with you. Either way, you’ll be done with this by Sunday.”
“Great,” Ben said sarcastically. “Now all I have to do is figure out what I’m going to say to my friends.”
“Eric, it’s me,” Ben said, still sitting on the bed in his motel room.
“Where are you?” Eric asked. “Nathan said—”
“I’m at Lisa’s,” Ben lied. “I didn’t feel comfortable talking in the house.”
“Are you coming home tonight?”
“No. I’m sleeping here.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Eric said. “Tell me what’s happening. I heard Rick called again.”
“Forget about Rick. I want to get together with you guys so we can talk about what’s going on.”
“Tell me the place. I’ll be there.”
“I want everyone there,” Ben said. “You, Nathan, and Ober.”
“Fine. Where and when?”
“Tomorrow night at eight o’clock. And I want to meet at the place where we celebrated our first night in D.C.”
“At the—”
“Don’t say it,” Ben interrupted. “The phone’s not safe.”
“Oh, yeah. Ober told me.”
“Exactly,” Ben said. “Meanwhile, how is he holding up?”
“He’s a mess. I’ve never seen him like this before. Nathan and I spoke to him for almost two hours, and he’s still crying like crazy.”
“Has he told his parents yet?”
“He’s terrified to call them. You know how his mom is. She’ll be on his back the moment she hears what happened.”
“I know. I was thinking about that. To be honest, I think that’s what he’s most scared of.”
“I don’t think he’s scared of anything,” Eric said. “I’m not even sure he’s upset about his job. I think he’s more devastated by the fact that all of us aren’t getting along.”
“He was saying that when I was there.”
“It’s because he’s such a social animal,” Eric explained. “He’s like a puppy—if everyone’s happy, he’s happy. But if everyone’s sad, he’s miserable.”
“Keep talking to him. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“I agree. It’s just that—”
“Ben, is that you?” Nathan asked angrily as he picked up the phone in the living room. “Where the hell have you been for the past three hours? Get your ass—”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Ben shot back. “If you want to kick and scream, come meet me tomorrow. I told Eric where.” Ben hung up the phone.
Early Saturday morning, Ben sat up in bed, unable to sleep. In the second bed was Lisa, who was having no such trouble. He looked at his watch and saw that it was seven in the morning. After taking the longest shower of his life, he turned on the television with the sound off, hoping to be distracted by cartoons. Unimpressed, he shut off the TV and returned to his bed. For a full hour, Ben stared at the white stucco ceiling.
At nine o’clock, Ben took the phone into the bathroom. Sitting on the closed toilet, he called information and asked for the number of the Marshals Service. He dialed the number and asked for Director DeRosa.
After a moment, a woman answered the phone. “Director DeRosa’s office. Can I help you?”
“Is the director in today?” Ben asked in his most genial tone.
“I’m sorry, he’s not. Is it anything I can help you with?”
“You probably can,” Ben said, recognizing the voice of DeRosa’s receptionist. “My name’s Ben Addison. I’m the guy who hand-delivered that message from Justice Hollis a couple of weeks ago. I have another message I’m supposed to relay, and I was wondering if you knew how to contact Director DeRosa.” For effect, Ben paused for a second. “It’s an emergency.”
“Hold on a moment,” the receptionist said. “I can try to transfer you to his home number.”
Ben prayed that DeRosa would explain everything: that it was a clerical error, that everything was fine, and everyone was still in place.
“Mr. Addison?”
“I’m here,” Ben said.
“I’m sorry, but the director won’t take your call. I just spoke to him, and he said he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. He has no idea who you are.”
“He knows who I am,” Ben said. “You know who I am. I met you two weeks—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Addison. I spoke to him personally, and that’s what he said.”
“What are you talking about? What’s your name?” Ben asked.
“Have a good day, Mr. Addison,” the receptionist said as she hung up.
As Ben put down the phone, reality set in. That’s it, he thought. I’m done. Staring down at the stark linoleum floor, Ben wondered exactly what his next move should be. His thoughts were interrupted when the bathroom door swung open. He looked up and saw Lisa, who had obviously been listening.
“What’d they say?” she asked.
“DeRosa’s gone,” Ben said, his voice shaking. “He’s denying he ever met me.”
“Then that’s it—it’s over,” Lisa said, leaning on the door frame. “Are you going to go to the press?”
“I don’t know about the press, but I have to tell someone.”
“You should tell Hollis.”
“Maybe,” Ben said as his mind worked through all the consequences. “I was thinking that I should also put my story in writing. That way, no matter what happens, it’ll all be documented.”
“I wouldn’t be so worried about the writing part,” Lisa said. “Before you face the world, you have to face your roommates.”
At seven-thirty that evening, Ben braved the late January chill and sat on one of the few concrete visitor benches surrounding the Jefferson Memorial. Unable to sit still, he repeatedly shifted his weight, searching for a comfortable position. As he stared blankly at the waterfront walkway leading to the Memorial, his eyes danced across the landscape—focusing on nothing in particular while looking at everything. Fifteen minutes later, he was checking his watch at thirty-second intervals, impatiently waiting for the arrival of his roommates. Slowly becoming convinced that they wouldn’t show, he looked up at Jefferson’s ebony silhouette and wondered why he’d let Lisa talk him into this.
“Why the hell did we have to come out here?” he suddenly heard from the western side of the monument. “It’s freezing.” As Eric and Nathan approached Ben, Eric stared at the giant bronze rendering of the country’s third president. “Let me say, meeting like this—late at night at one of the world’s most famous monuments—I feel like I’m in an overblown spy movie.”
“I’m so glad you’re amused,” Nathan said indignantly.
“Listen, I know you’re upset,” Ben said. “We’re all upset. It’s been a bad week. So let’s start over and—”
“No offense, but I’m not in the mood for touchy-feely right now,” Nathan said.
“Give him a chance, tight-ass,” Eric interrupted. “He called you down here to talk—the least you can do is listen.”
“I came here to find out one thing,” Nathan said, crossing his arms. “Are you going to turn yourself in?”
Ben ignored the question. “Where’s Ober?”
“He said he’d be late,” Eric explained. “He was on the phone with his mother when we were leaving.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Ober said, struggling to fight back his tears.
“What kind of question is that?” Barbara Oberman asked. “I want you to get that job back.”
“Mom, I can’t get it back. They fired me. They didn’t like my work, and they fired me.”
“Don’t give me that. Go back and tell them you’ll change your ways. Tell them you’ll work for less money, and that you’ll double your hours. It doesn’t matter how you do it, but get that job back.”
“What’s so important about my old job?”
“What’s so important? Get this through your head, William: You need that job. It was the only place that ever promoted you. The only place that ever respected you. The only place that didn’t fire you within the first six months. You’ve spent over four years failing at everything else you’ve tried, and now you’ve turned this into a disaster as well.”
“I’ll find a new job,” Ober said. “Ben and Nathan said they’d help me look for one.”
“Forget Ben and Nathan. You’re always obsessed with Ben and Nathan. I don’t want to hear about them. For Ben and Nathan, finding a job is simple. Employers love them, their college professors loved them, the high school principal loved them, their kindergarten teachers loved them. For them, finding a job is simple. But you—you’re going to have a harder time.”
“But they said—”
“I don’t care what they said,” she interrupted. “They’re not you. What makes you think they’ll be so eager for a job search?”
“They’re my friends.”
“Big deal, they’re your friends. They don’t know what a job search entails. They’ve never lived in the real world. Looking for a job requires hours and hours of legwork. You remember how hard it was to find the position with Senator Stevens.”
“Yeah, but—”
“But nothing. You said it yourself a few months ago: The three of them are always at work—they don’t have the time to find you a job.”
“Yeah, but Ben helped me find this job. Maybe he can—”
“He can’t do anything for you,” she said. “You have to learn to do things for yourself. They may be your friends, but they’re certainly not your equals. When it comes to finding a job, like everything else in this world, you have to suck it up and do it yourself. Now hang up this phone and think about what I’ve said. I don’t want to hear from you again until you have that job back.”
“I asked you a question,” Nathan said, his breath lingering in the cold air. “Are you going to turn yourself in or not?”
“I’ll get to that,” Ben said. He pointed to the empty spaces on his bench. “How about taking a seat first?”
“I’m fine standing,” Nathan said as Eric sat down.
“Fine. Stand,” Ben said as he glanced over his shoulder.
“What’re you so nervous about?” Nathan asked.
“What do you think?”
“Can you both shut up?” Eric asked. “Stop fighting and relax for a second.” Pointing at Ben, he added, “Talk.”
“Thank you,” Ben said, lowering his voice. “I didn’t want to say this on the phone, but tomorrow morning, I’m turning myself in. Since the decision affects all of us, I wanted to discuss it with you first.”
“I don’t need to discuss it,” Nathan said. “I made my decision the moment I heard about Ober.”
“Good for you,” Ben said. “Eric, any thoughts?”
“It’s your call. I just hope you can handle the consequences.”
“I don’t see what choice I have,” Ben said. “What happened to Ober ripped my heart out. I got him fired; I put the rest of you in jeopardy. I have to end it.”
“That’s real noble of you,” Nathan said. “But I’m warning you, you better end it tomorrow.”
“Or what?” Ben asked defensively. “You’ll do it for me?”
“You’re damn right I will,” Nathan shot back. “And I won’t feel a single bit of guilt doing it. In fact, you’re lucky my boss doesn’t work weekends, or I’d have turned you in today.”
“Why don’t you relax a second?” Eric said.
“Why don’t you shut up?” Nathan said. “No matter how hard you stick up for Ben, he still isn’t going to forgive you completely.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Ben asked.
“What’s wrong with me?” Nathan replied, forcing a laugh. “Let’s see: My friend got fired yesterday; it was all your fault; my job’s on the line; and I don’t trust you or Eric. Other than that, I’m peachy.”
“Listen, you can—”
“No, you listen for once!” Nathan yelled as the wind whistled through the monument. “You have to get over this Golden Boy complex. For once in your perfect life, you screwed up. You blew it. You choked. You made a big mistake, and now you have to take responsibility for it. If you were the only one at risk, I’d say do whatever you want. But if you think I’m going to stand around, with my career on the line while you continue your futile hunt for Rick, you’re out of your head. Face facts, Ben—you’re outsmarted. You lost. Give up.”
“Shut the hell up!” Ben flew from the bench and grabbed Nathan by the front of his jacket.
Immediately, Eric pulled the two roommates apart. “Ben, relax a second. Calm down.”
As Eric attempted to keep Ben at bay, Ben yelled at Nathan, “If you’d shut your damn mouth for a second, you’d realize that I didn’t come here to plot against Rick. I came here to talk to my friends.”
Ober walked into the living room and placed a pile of books on the coffee table: four high school yearbooks and one overstuffed scrapbook. Picking up the ninth-grade yearbook first, Ober flipped to his roommates’ class portraits and smiled at the furry block that was Nathan’s hair. When he reached Ben’s picture, he laughed out loud. It had been at least four years since he’d last opened his yearbook and looked at the messy-haired, brace-faced, gawky nerd named Ben Addison. Turning to Eric’s picture, Ober remembered his desire to sleep over at Eric’s house, inspired primarily by the fact that Eric’s brother had the largest collection of pornographic playing cards in the neighborhood.
When he opened the tenth-grade yearbook, Ober again skipped to the class portraits. He remembered the year they got their driver’s licenses. Eric was not only the first to drive, he was also the first to crash—directly into Nathan’s mother’s car as she pulled out of her driveway. Thumbing through the eleventh-grade book, Ober remembered their first college party at Boston University. He laughed as he thought about Ben, who spent the whole night trying to convince the ladies he was “Ben Addison, Professor of Love.”
Opening his personal scrapbook, Ober was proud he had so thoroughly documented his friends’ achievements. He had the articles that appeared in The Boston Globe when Nathan was photographed with the secretary of state and when Ben received his Supreme Court clerkship. He had the first news story Eric wrote for the high school newspaper, as well as his first stories for Washington Life and the Washington Herald. He had the Herald’s first word jumble, as well as Eric’s article about a leak at the Supreme Court. He even had Ben and Lisa’s engagement announcement. Everyone’s famous, he thought, closing the book. They’re all superstars.
“Don’t act like you’re the victim here,” Nathan said, straightening the front of his jacket. “That’s the last thing you should—”
“I never said I was the victim,” Ben retorted, as Eric kept him away from Nathan. “I know I screwed up. I admit it—it’s my fault Ober lost his job. What else can I say?”
“There’s your problem,” Nathan said in a soft and slow voice. “You think you’re only responsible for Ober losing his job. But you have to realize that you’re responsible for much more than that. It’s your fault this whole thing started, Ben. And more important, it’s your fault it’s still going on.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Ben’s voice cracked. “It kills me that I—”
“Oh, so now you feel guilty?”
“I’ve felt guilty since the first day I met with Rick. What else do you want me to say? This thing’s been eating away at me for months.”
“It should be,” Nathan said. “And I hope—”
“We get the picture,” Eric interrupted. “Now can you let up a little?”
“No, I can’t,” Nathan said. “I want to make sure he knows how I feel about this.”
“I know how you feel—” Ben began.
“No, you don’t,” Nathan insisted, his voice growing louder. “If you did, we wouldn’t be fighting right now. Since the day we got those letters from Rick, you knew this might happen. At that moment, you should’ve had the decency to turn yourself in—if not for your own sake, then certainly for ours. The fact that you let it come to this tells me one thing . . .”
“That I’m an evil person with no redeeming qualities?” Ben asked.
“No,” Nathan said, regaining his composure. “That I want nothing more to do with you. Ever.” As Ben and Eric fell silent, Nathan continued, “This isn’t high school anymore. We can’t always be on your side. And don’t think this is about me being selfish. You let Ober take the beating for your mistake. That’s something I can never forgive you for. He’s your friend, and you owe him more than that.”
“I know,” Ben said despairingly. “And I’ll deal with him.”
“You better,” Nathan said. “This is bigger than some dumb slipup with CMI, or Grinnell, or—”
“Can you keep your voice down?” Ben interrupted.
“What’s wrong?” Nathan asked. “You’re still worried Rick is listening in on us? That he’s making tapes of our conversations?”
“Shut up,” Ben said.
Nathan ran to the edge of the monument. “HEY, RICK! ARE YOU LISTENING? I HOPE YOU CAN HEAR THIS. . . .”
“Shut the fuck up!” Ben screamed.
“. . . BECAUSE THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING! STAY THE HELL OUT OF MY LIFE! IF YOU KNEW BEN WAS SCARED OF GOING TO THE AUTHORITIES, YOU SHOULD ALSO KNOW THAT I’M NOT!”
“Nathan, stop it!” Eric yelled. “We get the point.”
Nathan turned back toward Ben and pointed a finger at him. “I’m not joking about what I said before. I don’t care what you do. I’m going to my boss Monday morning.”
“You do that,” Ben said, staring intently at the statue of President Jefferson.
“Don’t be mad at me,” Nathan said. “This one’s not my fault.” He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. “Eric, you ready to go?”
“I’m going back with Ben.”
“He doesn’t have a car,” Nathan pointed out.
“We’ll take a cab.”
“Suit yourself.” Nathan walked down the stairs and headed toward the parking lot.
As Nathan’s car pulled into the driveway, Ben and Eric’s taxi pulled up to the house. “That made a lot of sense,” Nathan said as the three roommates headed for the door.
Ignoring the comment, Ben opened the front door and stepped inside.
“You should tell Ober what’s going on,” Eric suggested.
“I know,” Ben said. “But I don’t want to say anything in the house.” He noticed the yearbooks on the coffee table. “What was he doing tonight?”
“Probably reminiscing about better times,” Nathan said.
“I wasn’t asking you,” Ben said. Atop a pile of yearbooks, Ben saw a single sheet of white paper and picked it up.
“Dear Ben, Nathan, and Eric,” he read to himself. “I’m so sorry. I can’t possibly explain my actions to you, but I didn’t know what else to do. You’ll probably think this is another stupid Ober idea, but please understand that there’s no other way I’d be happy. For as long as I can remember, you have carried me forward, and I have held you back. Tell my mother she can go to hell, and tell Rick that I hope he drops dead. Also, tell my boss that I wasn’t trying to advance my career—I really want her to know that. If I can ask you one last favor, please take it easy on each other. I will miss you more than you’ll ever know. You’re my best friends and I love you. Ober.”
“Oh, my God,” Ben said, running toward the stairs. “OBER!!” he screamed.
Instinctively, Nathan and Eric followed.
“OBER, ARE YOU IN THERE?” Ben screamed, pounding on the locked door to Ober’s room. Ben turned to Eric and Nathan. “I think I found a suicide note!”
“OBER! OPEN UP!” Nathan screamed, pounding on the door.
“Break it down,” Ben said frantically.
“Move out of the way.” Nathan took a couple of steps back, then threw all his weight against the door.
“Again!” Ben said.
Once again, Nathan rammed his body into the door.
“KICK IT!” Eric shouted. “HURRY!”
Nathan rammed his foot into the door, and the door frame buckled. He rammed it again, and the door flew open. They all ran inside.
Ober was dangling against the closet door, a belt taut around his neck. “Omigod!” Eric said. “Omigod! Omigod!”
“Help me get him down,” Ben said as he and Nathan grabbed Ober’s legs and struggled to support his body. “Eric, open the door.”
Eric was hysterically crying. With his hands shaking and the tears rolling down his face, he didn’t even hear Nathan’s request. All he could see was Ober. “He’s dead!”
“OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!” Nathan screamed.
Eric pulled open the closet door, and Ober’s body slumped forward and fell to the floor. Instantly, Nathan rolled Ober on his back and started CPR.
“Hurry!” Ben said as Nathan pinched Ober’s nose. Taking a deep breath, Nathan tried to breathe life back into his friend.
“Look at his eyes!” Eric said, unnerved by the blank stare on Ober’s face. “He’s dead.”
Nathan shut Ober’s eyes and looked at Ben. “Get Eric the hell out of here.”
“Eric, go downstairs,” Ben said. “Call an ambulance.”
As Eric ran out of the room, Nathan pumped Ober’s chest and then listened for a heartbeat.
“There’s no pulse!” Ben said, holding Ober’s wrist.
“He’s all white,” Nathan said, looking at Ober’s pallid complexion.
“Keep trying,” Ben demanded. “Do it again!”
Futilely filling Ober’s lungs with air, Nathan continued to administer CPR.
“DON’T STOP!” Ben screamed, reading the disheartened look on Nathan’s face. “DO IT AGAIN!”
Once again, Nathan tried to bring back his friend. He pumped against Ober’s chest with his full strength, and did everything he could to elicit any sign of life. He listened closely for a heartbeat, but eventually pulled away. “Forget it. It’s over.”
“Let me try,” Ben said, pushing Nathan aside.
“Ben, it’s over.”
“Help me take him downstairs!” Ben demanded, lifting Ober’s feet. “Maybe the ambulance can revive him. They have that shock machine—”
“It won’t do any good,” Nathan said, sitting on the floor and leaning against Ober’s bed. “He’s gone.”
As the paramedics rolled the stretcher out of the house, Ben gave the suicide note and the leather belt to the policemen assigned to the scene. After interviewing the three roommates, one of the officers gave Ben his card. “I’d like to talk to you more about this.”
“We’ll come down tomorrow,” Ben said. He felt emotionally drained. Shutting his eyes, hoping to somehow shut out reality, Ben attempted to quell the throbbing pain at the back of his neck.
“I’m really sorry about your friend,” the other officer said.
“Thanks,” Ben said, walking the two officers to the door. When the police car and the ambulance pulled away from the house, Ben shut the door. Collapsing on the floor, he rolled on his back and tried his best to think clearly. A minute later, he turned toward Nathan, who was sitting at the glass table in the dining room. “Where’s Eric?” Ben asked.
Nathan peered through the glass, staring at his feet. “He’s in his room talking to his mom.”
“Is he okay?”
“Under the circumstances,” Nathan said. “When he gets off the phone, you should call Ober’s parents.”
“I have to call?” Ben asked. “I can’t do that.”
“Oh, yes, you can.” Nathan got out of his seat and headed for the stairs.
“Why me?” Ben asked, following his roommate.
“You’re the one responsible,” Nathan said curtly.
“Don’t you dare say that,” Ben warned.
Nathan turned from the stairs and looked at Ben in disbelief. “You’re not responsible?” he asked, approaching Ben. “Whose fault is it, then?” Nathan stood face-to-face with Ben in the living room. “Is it Ober’s fault? No, it can’t be Ober’s fault. Maybe it’s Rick’s fault. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe it’s Senator Stevens’s fault.”
“It’s nobody’s fault,” Ben interrupted.
“So no one’s to blame?” Nathan asked. “This is something that just happened out of the blue?”
“Obviously, it didn’t just happen. And if it weren’t for me, Ober would probably still be alive. But that doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“No, you just put the belt around his neck.”
An angry silence filled the room. “You can really be a bastard, y’know that?”
“I just want to make sure that you—”
“That I what?” Ben interrupted, his eyes filled with tears. “That I blame myself? That I think it’s my fault? Don’t worry—I do. I hold myself one hundred percent responsible. I’m the one that put this whole thing in motion, and it’ll haunt me for the rest of my life. Until the day I die, there won’t be a single day that I don’t feel guilty about this.”
“You should feel guilty.”
“Don’t tell me how I should feel,” Ben said, his voice shaking. “Ober was my best friend! I would’ve done anything to save him.”
“You could’ve saved him,” Nathan said. “All you had to do was open your mouth.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ben lashed out. “How can you be so callous? I was going to the authorities! That’s what tonight was all about! I didn’t know Ober’d kill himself! I didn’t know he was suicidal!”
“And I don’t know what you expect me to say. Do you think that just because you admit it’s your fault, I’ll absolve you of your sins? It doesn’t work like that. You killed him. Now you have to deal with it.”
Enraged, Ben punched Nathan in the stomach. “I DIDN’T KILL HIM!”
Bent over in pain, Nathan struggled to catch his breath.
“I DIDN’T KILL HIM,” Ben repeated. “HE KILLED HIMSELF!”
Still heaving, Nathan ran toward Ben, tackling him and sending them both crashing into the coffee table. The homemade table splintered in two, the yearbooks and the scrapbook sliding onto Nathan and Ben.
Sitting on top of Ben, Nathan grabbed him by the shirt. “Why did you let this happen?” he screamed.
Ben pushed Nathan back and staggered to his feet. “I never wanted this to happen!”
“Then why didn’t you—”
“I wish I could’ve done a million things!” Ben yelled.
“You didn’t have to do a million things,” Nathan said. “All you had to do was one.”
“I swear, I was going to turn myself in tomorrow!”
“Who cares what you were going to do?” Nathan screamed, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Ober died tonight! He’s gone, Ben! We’ll never see him again! Because of you, he’s dead! Ober is dead!”
“Nathan, I—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Nathan said, storming toward the stairs. “Enough of your damn excuses. No matter what you say, I know you killed him. And I hope that thought haunts you forever.”
“I told you already,” Richard Claremont told Rick. “I never touched him. I spent the whole night watching the other three at the Jefferson Memorial.”
“If you’re lying, the police will find you,” Rick warned. “They dusted the entire place for fingerprints.”
“I’m not lying! I didn’t know he killed himself until I got back here.” Taking off his coat, Claremont asked, “And since when are you so concerned about what happens to these guys?”
“I’m not concerned when one of them loses his job, but I am concerned when one of them winds up dead.”
“I don’t know why you’re so shaken by this,” Claremont said, sitting on the plush hotel sofa. “You put them in an impossible scenario—you should’ve expected one of them to snap.”
“I never meant for this to happen!” Rick shouted.
“But you should’ve known—”
“Don’t tell me what I should’ve known,” Rick interrupted. “You can’t anticipate something like this.”
“But—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Rick said. “Drop it.”
“Consider it dropped,” Claremont said. “Now, what are we going to do about the decision?”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” Rick pulled a miniature bottle of white wine from the hotel refrigerator. “I’m afraid Ben’s no longer running in the maze.”
“You don’t think he’s going to meet us tomorrow?”
“Not a chance,” Rick said, opening the wine. “He’ll be talking to the authorities by noon.”
“But if he—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Rick reassured his colleague. “He’ll never get there.”
Wrapped in a haze of anguish and remorse, Ben walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He undressed and stepped into the hot stream of water, anxious to wash away the past few hours. With his arms outstretched in front of him, he leaned against the front wall of the shower, letting the water glide over his body. For a full three minutes, he stood there, motionless. Slowly and without warning, a quiet fit of weeping overcame him. “I’m sorry, Ober,” he sobbed, as his crying became hysterical. “I’m so sorry.” As the water rushed over him, he imagined carrying Ober’s coffin, and remembered carrying his brother’s. He imagined Ober’s mother’s face when she heard her son was dead, and remembered his own mother’s wails. He imagined the future without Ober, and knew how much he’d miss his brother.
