The Washington Lawyer by Allan Topol Page B

walkway, he entered the west wing. In the entrance foyer were four armed guards. Again, his driver’s license was examined, his face checked against the photo. Then he was passed through a metal detector.
    â€œFollow me,” an escort said. Fourth door on the right, Martin remembered. The last of a series of small offices off the navy blue carpeted corridor. It astonished him that the White House Counsel had an office the size of an associate at Martin and Glass. Washington, Martin thought. Office size doesn’t matter. It’s all accessibility. Arthur’s office was only a few yards from the oval office. No one’s closer to the president. Next to Arthur’s office was another room. The president’s “other office,” Arthur called it. “Braddock’s hideaway to escape for private time.”
    Martin walked through an open door. “Hi, Mr. Martin,” Arthur’s longtime secretary, Helen, said with a smile. She pointed to the closed door across the room. “He should be with you in a couple minutes.”
    â€œHow’s your daughter like Cornell?”
    Helen groaned. “That’s the trouble, she likes it too much. All I hear about are the boys.” Helen paused to push back strands of long brown hair that had fallen over her eyes. “Sorry, I’m supposed to call them men. That and the parties. Not her classes or grades. Over Thanksgiving I intend to shape her up.”
    Martin thought about his daughters’ freshmen years. Karen at Yale was nose to the grindstone without a word from him or Francis. Lucy’s first year at Northwestern sounded like Helen’s daughter. Tri Delt was all they heard about. He’d been amused and sympathetic, he recalled. But Francis also lowered the boom during Thanksgiving break. “If she were a boy, you wouldn’t have cut her any slack,” Francis had said.
    Helen added sternly, “It’s a rough world now, and you get only one chance.”
    Moments later, she led him into Arthur’s office. Martin saw the White House Counsel sitting behind his desk looking his usual disheveled self. He was five foot six with a pear shape and thin gray hair ruffled and out of place from constantly running his hand through it. He had a tie loose around his neck. A couple of spots of food on his suit jacket. Gut protruding over the top of his pants with suspenders holding them up. It always amazed Martin that Arthur was such a good tennis player.
    The office had space only for an L-shaped desk and chair with a small table behind it for a computer as well as a coffee pot. There were two wooden chairs for guests.
    Martin didn’t expect an opening greeting. Arthur never bothered with those. He sat down in his desk chair and pointed Andrew to one of the others. The eyes of the perpetually wired New Yorker were darting around the room. Then they zeroed in on Martin.
    â€œLast Thursday, Chief Justice West came to see the president. The doctors give him a month to live. Two at most. He’s ready to step down as soon as we select a replacement.” Arthur paused. “It’s too bad, but that’s his situation.”
    Martin held his breath, eager to hear what was next.
    â€œThis’ll be Braddock’s first Supreme Court appointment. He wants to change the way the game’s played.” Arthur was shooting the words out in rapid fire. “He hates the idea that the nominee’s views on issues like abortion have become a litmus test. Braddock wants to go back to the way it used to be, before all this bullshit started. When the president found the best lawyer or jurist in the country. Somebody honorable with integrity and high moral standards—a Holmes, Brandeis, or Cardoza.”
    Arthur stopped, letting his words sink in. “Personally, I think he’s naive and idealizing the past. I’ve told him that, but he’s the boss.”
    â€œI’m all for it. I applaud the