Supreme Justice Read Free Page A

watching mutely as Bennett and his neocon cronies subverted, and sometimes just flat-out ignored, the Constitution of the United States.
    Reeder did not hate Republicans. His father had been a Republican, and a conservative in the best sense of the word. He and his dad would argue themselves blue in the face, but it was always good-natured and he could see where his dad was coming from. Small government, states’ rights, balanced budget.
    But he knew deep in his DNA that his fair-minded pop would have hated these excuses for real Republicans.
    Even though policy dictated that Secret Service agents be apolitical, Reeder finally could not stomach it anymore, and he had quit. His wound, and the desk job, had simply provided a convenient cover. Still, his resignation had been step one in his becoming a pariah among most federal law enforcement personnel.
    Though a hero—and a hero who had saved the President of the United States at that—Reeder had broken the unwritten rule. He had unwisely shared his real reason for leaving with several fellow agents, including his immediate superior. The political basis for Reeder quitting spread like a cancer throughout the Service and eventually all of federal law enforcement.
    Finally, the Washington Post had written a story for which he had declined to comment—in the eyes of many, an admission of guilt . . .
    If there were a Hall of Fame for the Secret Service, Joe Reeder would forever be its Pete Rose—he had accomplished great things, but would spend eternity on the outside.
    The cell on his belt vibrated, and forced by some inner sense of courtesy, he turned away and withdrew a few steps from Kennedy’s grave before answering.
    “Reeder,” he said, keeping his voice low.
    “Peep. Glad I caught you.” The familiar voice belonged to Carl Bishop, a DC homicide detective Reeder had known for the better part of two decades.
    The nickname Peep had been bestowed on him by his fellow Secret Service agents for his storied ability to read people. The more Reeder discouraged its use, the more it had kept up, until the appellation stuck. Now it seemed everyone called him Peep except his eighteen-year-old daughter, Amy. And his ex-wife, Melanie, when she called him anything at all.
    “What’s up?” Reeder asked.
    “Seen the morning papers?”
    “Not yet. Besides, you know all I read is the sports.”
    Without preamble, Bishop said, “Henry Venter was shot and killed last night.”
    “Jesus. Where?”
    “Verdict Chophouse.”
    Reeder took a few more steps from Kennedy’s grave as he tried to process the detective’s news. He stopped before a Japanese flowering crabapple tree surrounded by an army of pink tulips and pale yellow daffodils. A more peaceful setting would be hard to imagine, but right now Reeder’s serenity was as shot to hell as his shoulder.
    “Venter murdered,” Reeder muttered. Then, strong: “Do we know why? Who?”
    “Hell,” Bishop said. “I forgot. You knew the man, didn’t you?”
    “I knew him.”
    “Oh, shit, Peep, I’m sorry to blindside you like that.”
    “Forget it, Bish. We weren’t pals.”
    For all his liberal leanings, Reeder considered himself a middle-of-the-road Democrat. The ultraconservative Venter, he considered a borderline fascist. Venter had voted to uphold laws that expanded the Patriot Act and gave law enforcement a no-knock policy so lenient that it allowed the government, from the local police on up, to enter any citizen’s dwelling at any time.
    Venter also voted to uphold laws that allowed religious relics on public grounds, sanctioned prayer in school, and advocated the teaching of creationism. He even authored the majority opinion when the Court upheld new legislation resurrecting the Sedition Act of 1798. Congress’s intention had been to make a law banning flag burning. What they ended up with was a law that made it legal to arrest anyone for speaking, writing, or publishing anything against the government of the