The Court by William J. Coughlin Read Free Book Online Page A

opinion, or opinions, as the case may be.” Clark again became serious. “They figure it will be another eight months or so before the Court speaks on the case. So you still got a job, Garcia, at least for that long.”
    â€œThat’s a great comfort.”
    â€œAnyway,” Clark continued, “maybe you won’t get canned. Maybe the Supreme Court will insist they retain a quota of spicks. With a name like Garcia, you could get lucky.”
    â€œMy mother was Polish,” Garcia said, grinning. “So I’d probably be out of luck on that account.”
    Clark chuckled. “Shit, maybe they’ll only fire your Polish half. You’ll only work half shifts, but that’s better than nothing.”
    â€œThanks for that wonderful ray of hope,” Garcia said as he stood up. He left a tip for the waitress. “I have to go. My old lady thinks I’m out humping the hookers so I have to go home and demonstrate my fidelity.”
    â€œGarcia, don’t worry if she’s cutting you down,” Clark grinned. “Hell, I know some guys she’s cut out completely.”
    It was an old joke, but they all laughed.
    Patrolman Charles Garcia drove home carefully. He knew two whiskeys would not impair his ability to drive. Still, he was tired and it always paid to be cautious. The traffic was light but he took his time. He was in no hurry to get home. Lately his home had become a very tense place. He knew the insecurity of his job situation was the main reason for all the tension between himself and his wife. The fights had become more frequent and more heated.
    He had nothing laid away. Something always came up to drain his savings. He had invested seven years in the police force, with most non-duty nights spent at the city college earning a degree in law enforcement. And now the whole thing was about to go down the sluice. He was a cop, he had no other marketable skills. All he possessed was a wife, two children, a mortgage, and a car loan.
    He noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. He knew he had to control the fear or it would soon control him.
    He felt he was no different from any of the other officers on the police force, white or black. None of them had had it easy, at least none that he knew. Now he stood in jeopardy—his future and the future of his family depending on what nine lawyers in Washington would do. There were no policemen on that court. From what he had read, few of the justices had had much of a struggle in life. The aristocratic yards of Yale and Harvard were hardly the proper places to gain a feel for the pressures an ordinary man endured.
    As he pulled into his driveway he thought of the old black man who had been crushed in the machinery of the garbage truck. Maybe that was how it always worked out. You were fated to be crushed by unthinking, un-feeling machinery; reduced from the dignity of being a man to nothing more than castaway garbage.
    He felt sick. Garcia decided it must have been the whiskey. He shouldn’t have taken it on an empty stomach.
    *   *   *
    It was a strange place for a meeting. He felt a bit conspicuous just standing in front of the Smithsonian Air and Space building. Everyone else was moving about; school classes on field trips, weary parents dragging protesting small children, and squadrons of tour groups. It was the most popular exhibit hall of all the Smithsonian buildings and always busy.
    A group of well-dressed, athletic-looking tourists marched behind an authoritative blonde woman who carried aloft a small triangular flag tied to a long thin stick. The flag served as a visual guide for the group. No matter how chaotic the press of the crowd, her flag was always there to be seen. Decked out with the usual video cameras and equipment, the group moved at a determined pace. As they passed, he caught some snatches of spoken German. Mentally he conjured up a picture of steel helmets. These Teutonic