The Simple Truth (58 page)

“Deal with it?”
Elizabeth said hysterically.
“My life just walked out that door in handcuffs.”

“Jordan Knight just walked out that door. Justice Elizabeth Knight is sitting right here next to me. The same Justice Knight who will be leading the Supreme Court into the next century.”

“Sara …”
The tears spilled down her face.

“It’s a lifetime appointment. And you have a lot of life left.”
Sara squeezed her hand.
“I’d like to help you with your work, your very important work. If you’ll have me back.”

Sara put her arms around the woman’s trembling shoulders.

“I don’t know if I can do this … survive this.”

“I’m certain that you can. And you won’t be doing it alone. I promise.”

Elizabeth clutched at the young woman’s shoulder.
“Will you stay with me tonight, Sara?”

“I’ll stay as long as you want.”

On the strength of his being the possessor of the Silver Star, Purple Heart and Distinguished Service Medal, Josh Harms was entitled to burial with modified honors — the highest an enlisted man could attain — at Arlington National Cemetery. However, the Army representative who had come to speak to Rufus about the arrangement seemed bent on talking him out of it.

“He got shot up, saved a bunch of the men in his company, won himself a box full of medals,”
Rufus said, eyeing the man’s uniform, the single row of colored metal on it.
“A lot mor’n you got.”

The man twisted his lips.
“His record was not the cleanest in the world either. He had a real problem with authority. From what I could gather, he didn’t like or respect one thing about the institution he was representing.”

“So you think burying him up there with all them generals and such would be disrespectful?”

“The cemetery is running out of space. I think it would be a nice gesture to reserve those spaces for soldiers who actually were proud to wear the uniform, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Even though he earned it?”
Rufus said.

“I’m not disputing that. But I can’t believe your brother would
want
to be buried there either.”

“I guess he’d spend all of eternity telling those dead brass exactly what he thinks of them.”

“Something like that,”
the man said dryly.
“So then we’re in agreement? You’ll arrange burial for him elsewhere?”

Rufus eyed the man.
“I made up my mind.”

Thus, on a cool, clear day in October, former Sergeant Joshua Harms, USA, was laid to rest at Arlington National Cemetery. From an angle, the ground was so covered with white crosses that it looked like an early snow had fallen. As the honor guard fired off its salute and the bugler launched into taps, the simple coffin was lowered into the ground. Rufus and one of Josh’s sons received the flag, folded tricornered, from a somber and respectful Army officer, while Fiske, Sara, McKenna and Chandler looked on.

Later, as Rufus prayed over his brother’s grave, he thought about all of the bodies buried here, most in the name of war. There were both men and women who had this as their final resting place, although, historically, it was the men who were the instigators and chief wagers of armed conflict. For those who traced their history though the Book of Genesis and beyond, as did Rufus, the bodies buried here could blame the existence of wars on the man called Cain and the mortal blow he struck his brother Abel.

As Rufus finished his prayer, his talk with his Lord and his brother, he rose and put an arm around the nephew he had never seen until today. His heart was sad, but his spirits were lifted. He knew that his brother had passed on to a better place. And for as long as Rufus lived, Josh Harms would never be forgotten. And when Rufus went to join his Lord he would also, once again, embrace his brother.

Two days later, Michael Fiske was buried at a private cemetery on the outskirts of Richmond. The well-attended funeral service included each justice of the United States Supreme Court. Ed Fiske, dressed in an old suit, his hair neatly combed, awkwardly stood next to his surviving son and received condolences from each of the jurists, together with many of Virginia’s political and social elite.

Harold Ramsey spent an extra minute giving comfort to the father and then turned to the son.

“I appreciate all that you did, John. And the sacrifice that your brother made.”

“The ultimate one,”
Fiske said in an unfriendly tone.

Ramsey nodded.
“I also respect your views. I hope that you can respect my views as well.”

Fiske shook the man’s hand.
“I guess that’s what makes the world go round.”

Looking at Ramsey made Fiske think of what lay ahead for Rufus. Fiske had encouraged him to sue everybody he could think of, including the Army and Jordan Knight. There was no statute of limitations on murder, and the ensuing cover-up orchestrated by Jordan and the others had broken numerous other laws.

Rufus had refused Fiske’s advice, however.
“All of ’em except for Knight are in a far worse place than any judge on this earth could send ’em to,”
he had said.
“That’s their true punishment. And Knight’s got to live with what he done. That’s enough for me. I got no reason to get mixed up with courts and judges no more. I just want to live as a free man, spend a lot of time with Josh’s children. Go see my momma’s grave. That’s all.”

Fiske had tried to get him to change his mind, until he realized that the man was right. Besides, Fiske thought, according to the precedents established by the Supreme Court, Rufus couldn’t sue the Army anyway. Not unless Elizabeth Knight could use the Barbara Chance case to give military personnel the same basic rights as the rest of the country’s citizens. To do that, she had to get past Ramsey. As he thought about it, though, Fiske concluded that if anyone could do it, Elizabeth Knight could. He’d like to be a fly on the wall of the Supreme Court in the coming years.

But there were two things Fiske — with the assistance of JAG attorney Phil Jansen — was going to accomplish for Rufus: an honorable discharge, and a full military pension and benefits. Rufus Harms wasn’t going to scrape for an existence, not after all he had been through.

As Fiske finished this thought, Sara walked up with Elizabeth Knight. Sara had returned to the Court as Knight’s clerk. The place was slowly returning to normal. Or as normal as it was going to get with Knight and Ramsey in the same building.

“I feel deeply responsible for all of this,”
Knight said.

She and the senator, Fiske knew, were divorcing. The government, the Army in particular, wanted to keep all of this quiet. Important strings in Washington were being pulled. That meant that Jordan Knight might not go to prison for all that he had done. Even with Elizabeth Knight’s consent, the legality of the electronic surveillance of the man had already been drawn into serious question by the senator’s very skillful lawyers. In a private meeting with McKenna, the FBI agent had told Fiske that the wiretap had been a risky strategy, since they did not have the consent of one of the parties being taped, but it was the only way McKenna could think of to implicate Jordan Knight. But without the recording, Chandler and McKenna really had nothing to take to court. The thought that Jordan would go unpunished made Fiske want to visit the man late at night with his 9mm. But the man had suffered, and would continue to do so. The wiretap had carried some leverage. Jordan had resigned his senate seat and, more devastatingly, lost the woman he cherished. He still had his New Mexico ranch, though. Let it be your seven-thousand-acre prison, Fiske thought.

“If there’s anything I can ever do for you …”
Elizabeth Knight said.

“You have the same offer from me,”
Fiske said.

Thirty minutes after the last mourners were gone, Fiske, his father and Sara watched as the chairs and green carpet were removed. The coffin was lowered, and the slab was laid over the vault. Then the dirt was shoveled on top. Fiske spoke with his father and Sara for a few minutes and told them he would meet them back at his father’s house. He watched them drive off. When he looked back over at the fresh hump of earth, he was startled. The cemetery workers were gone now, but on his knees next to the new grave, eyes closed, Bible clutched in one hand, was Rufus Harms.

Fiske walked over and put a hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Rufus, you okay? I didn’t even know you were still here.”

Rufus didn’t open his eyes, and he didn’t say anything. Fiske watched as his lips moved slightly. Finally, Rufus opened his eyes and looked up at him.

“What were you doing?”

“Praying.”

“Oh.”

“How about you?”

“How about me, what?”

“Have you prayed over your brother yet?”

“Rufus, I haven’t been to Mass since high school.”

Rufus gripped Fiske’s sleeve and pulled him down next to him.
“Then it’s time you started up again.”

His face suddenly pale, Fiske looked at the grave site.
“Come on, Rufus, this isn’t funny.”

“Nothing funny about saying good-bye. Talk to your brother, and then talk to your Lord.”

“I don’t remember any prayers.”

“Then don’t pray. Just talk, plain words.”

“What exactly am I supposed to say?”

Rufus had already closed his eyes and didn’t answer.

Fiske looked around to see if anyone was watching. Then he turned back, looked over at Rufus, awkwardly put his hands together and, embarrassed, finally let them dangle at his sides. At first he didn’t even close his eyes, but then they just seemed to do so on their own. He felt the moisture from the ground soak through his pants legs, but he didn’t move. He felt the comforting presence of Rufus next to him. He didn’t know if he could have remained here without it.

He focused on all that had happened. He thought of his mother and his father. The insurance money had given Gladys Fiske her first trip to the beauty parlor in years, and some new clothes to admire herself in. To her he was still Mike, but at least she remembered one of them. Ed Fiske would soon be driving a new Ford pickup, the loan on the house paid off. He and his father were planning a fishing trip for the next year, down in the Ozarks. A lot to be thankful for.

With a smile Fiske thought of Sara, gratefully, even with all the complexities that came with the woman. Fifty, sixty, maybe seventy years old? Why not give himself the benefit of the doubt? He had a life to live. Potentially a very satisfying one. Particularly when it included Sara. Then he tilted his head up and smelled the wet air, caught the scent of leaves burning somewhere. The air also carried to him an infant’s cry, followed by the silence of the dead around him. Growing more comfortable, he squatted back on his haunches, easing himself more firmly into the embrace of the ground, the cool touch of the dirt now welcome somehow.

Finally, with difficulty, he thought of his brother. He was so tired of grudges held. He now focused on reality. On the truth. On his baby brother, a person he would have done anything for. He recalled the pride he shared with his mother and father for the exceptional human being they had jointly raised. For the good man Mike Fiske had grown into, graceful faults and all, just like the rest of them. A brother who had shown, through his actions, that he respected John Fiske, cared about him. Loved him. Through the half dozen feet of dirt, past the bound flowers on top, inside the bronze coffin, he could clearly see his brother’s face, the dark suit he had been buried in, the hair parted on the side, the hands folded across the chest, the eyes closed. At rest. At peace. The limbs stilled much too early. The exceptional mind shut down far from its potential.

It did not take long for the tremors to start. The two-year void that John Fiske had artificially forced upon the pair was nothing compared to the one he was suddenly stricken with now. It was as though Billy Hawkins had just walked through the door and told him that Mike, the other half of his life growing up, was dead. Only he wouldn’t have to identify the body. He wouldn’t have to search for and falsely share grief with his father. He wouldn’t have to watch as his mother called him by another’s name. He would not have to risk his life to find his brother’s killers. But he would have to do something else. The one task left was the hardest of all.

He felt the burn in his chest, but it was not the underbelly of his scar come calling. This pain was not capable of killing him, but it was worse by legions than that inflicted on him by the two bullets. The things he had found out about his brother lately only highlighted how unfair Fiske had been in shutting him out. But if he had tried, Fiske would have realized all those things while Mike was still alive. Now his brother was dead. John Fiske was kneeling in front of his grave. Mike was not coming back. He had lost him. He had to say good-bye and he didn’t want to. He desperately wanted his brother back. He had so much he wanted to do with him, suddenly so much love he wanted to convey. He felt his heart would burst if he didn’t get it out.

“Oh God,”
he said with an outward breath. He couldn’t do this. He felt his body start to give on him. The tears suddenly poured with such force he thought his nose was bleeding. He started to go down, but a strong hand grasped him, easily held him up; Fiske’s body felt light, fragile, as though he had left part of it somewhere else. Through the blur of tears he looked at Rufus. The man had one hand under Fiske’s arm, thrusting him up. Yet his eyes were still closed, his head looking to the sky; the lips still rising and falling in the narrowest of ranges as he continued his prayers.

Right then John Fiske envied Rufus Harms, a man who had lost his own brother, a man who really had nothing. And yet in the most important way, Rufus Harms was the richest man on earth. How could anyone believe in anything that much? Without doubt, without debate, without an agenda, with all his substantial heart?