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Authors: Robert Ludlum
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follow me around to leave me alone!”
“You’re too impatient, young fella, and I can’t let you turn on our tribal brothers—”
“
Our
…? Mac, you’re certifiable, so let me lay one on you, brother
brave
. It’s a little matter of a
pro forma
judicial statute of which you may not be aware, but you damn well should be. Four months ago, when this whole whack-a-doo war dance started, you asked me if I’d passed my bar exam, and I told you that I was sure I had. Well, I’m still sure I passed the damn thing, but if you asked me to provide you with certification, I couldn’t do it. You see, I haven’t received formal notification from the Nebraska bar, and I may not for another two months, which is perfectly normal for the bar and perfectly impermissible where your legal powwow with the Supreme Court is concerned.”
“
What
…?” came the prolonged, disemboweling roar from behind the closed front flap of the tepee.
“That joint’s a busy place,
brother
, and except under extraordinary circumstances, which must be spelled out and approved, no unaccredited attorney may petition the Supreme Court, even as temporary counsel. I
told
you that. You’re dead by default even if you were awarded a positive decision, which is about as likely as this Indian brave learning to ride a goddamned horse!”
The harrowing scream from within the cone of painted ersatz animal skins was longer than before and infinitely more heartrending. “How could you
do
this?”
“
I
didn’t do it, Mac,
you
did! I told you to officially list your attorney-of-record, but you said you couldn’t because he was dead and you’d figure something out later, and in the meantime we’d use the
non nomen
precedent from 1826.”
“
You
dug that one up!” cried the faceless roar.
“Yes, I did, and you were grateful, and now I suggest you dig up your late attorney of research-and-record.”
“I can’t.” The roar suddenly became the whimper of a bewildered kitten.
“Why not?”
“He won’t talk to me.”
“I would hope to hell not! Christ, I don’t mean his corpse, I mean his papers, his findings, interrogatories—his
research
. They’re all acceptable.”
“He wouldn’t like that.” The kitten was now a piping mouse.
“He wouldn’t
know
!… Mac, listen to me. Sooner or later, one of those judges’ law clerks in D.C. will learn that I’m a kid barely out of law school with hardly six months of clerking myself, and he’ll blow a shrill whistle. Even if you had a prayer, the lord god of the Court, Chief Justice Reebock, would throw a lightning bolt into it for defrauding his holy institution. Worse, for making fools of them, if even one or two corkscrews were leaning in your favor, which, as I say, is totally impossible.
Forget
it, Mac! It’s
over
. Give me my clothes back
okay
, and let me get out of here—”
“Where would you go, son?” The unseen piping mouse was getting out of the vocal cellar and climbing back up to a crescendo. “I mean
where
, boy?”
“Maybe American Samoa with a forwarded certification from the Nebraska bar, who the hell knows?”
“I never thought I’d
say
this, son,” cried the faceless, once more shouting voice from the tepee, “because I really thought you had the right stuff, but I can see now that I can’t bring you up to snuff!”
“Thanks for the rhyme, Mac. Now, how about my clothes?”
“You
got
’em, you yellow-skinned coyote!” The fake animal skin flap opened and an assortment of Ivy League garments was hurled out of the dark space.
“That’s redskin, Mac. Not yellow-skinned, remember?” The young loinclothed brave lurched for the flying shorts, shirts, gray flannel trousers, and navy blue blazer. “Thank you, Mac, I really
thank
you.”
“Not yet, boy, but you
will
. A good officer never forgets the grunts, no matter how unworthy they might appear in the heat of battle.… You were a help, I’ll say that, in the GHQ strategy sessions. Leave your
“You’re too impatient, young fella, and I can’t let you turn on our tribal brothers—”
“
Our
…? Mac, you’re certifiable, so let me lay one on you, brother
brave
. It’s a little matter of a
pro forma
judicial statute of which you may not be aware, but you damn well should be. Four months ago, when this whole whack-a-doo war dance started, you asked me if I’d passed my bar exam, and I told you that I was sure I had. Well, I’m still sure I passed the damn thing, but if you asked me to provide you with certification, I couldn’t do it. You see, I haven’t received formal notification from the Nebraska bar, and I may not for another two months, which is perfectly normal for the bar and perfectly impermissible where your legal powwow with the Supreme Court is concerned.”
“
What
…?” came the prolonged, disemboweling roar from behind the closed front flap of the tepee.
“That joint’s a busy place,
brother
, and except under extraordinary circumstances, which must be spelled out and approved, no unaccredited attorney may petition the Supreme Court, even as temporary counsel. I
told
you that. You’re dead by default even if you were awarded a positive decision, which is about as likely as this Indian brave learning to ride a goddamned horse!”
The harrowing scream from within the cone of painted ersatz animal skins was longer than before and infinitely more heartrending. “How could you
do
this?”
“
I
didn’t do it, Mac,
you
did! I told you to officially list your attorney-of-record, but you said you couldn’t because he was dead and you’d figure something out later, and in the meantime we’d use the
non nomen
precedent from 1826.”
“
You
dug that one up!” cried the faceless roar.
“Yes, I did, and you were grateful, and now I suggest you dig up your late attorney of research-and-record.”
“I can’t.” The roar suddenly became the whimper of a bewildered kitten.
“Why not?”
“He won’t talk to me.”
“I would hope to hell not! Christ, I don’t mean his corpse, I mean his papers, his findings, interrogatories—his
research
. They’re all acceptable.”
“He wouldn’t like that.” The kitten was now a piping mouse.
“He wouldn’t
know
!… Mac, listen to me. Sooner or later, one of those judges’ law clerks in D.C. will learn that I’m a kid barely out of law school with hardly six months of clerking myself, and he’ll blow a shrill whistle. Even if you had a prayer, the lord god of the Court, Chief Justice Reebock, would throw a lightning bolt into it for defrauding his holy institution. Worse, for making fools of them, if even one or two corkscrews were leaning in your favor, which, as I say, is totally impossible.
Forget
it, Mac! It’s
over
. Give me my clothes back
okay
, and let me get out of here—”
“Where would you go, son?” The unseen piping mouse was getting out of the vocal cellar and climbing back up to a crescendo. “I mean
where
, boy?”
“Maybe American Samoa with a forwarded certification from the Nebraska bar, who the hell knows?”
“I never thought I’d
say
this, son,” cried the faceless, once more shouting voice from the tepee, “because I really thought you had the right stuff, but I can see now that I can’t bring you up to snuff!”
“Thanks for the rhyme, Mac. Now, how about my clothes?”
“You
got
’em, you yellow-skinned coyote!” The fake animal skin flap opened and an assortment of Ivy League garments was hurled out of the dark space.
“That’s redskin, Mac. Not yellow-skinned, remember?” The young loinclothed brave lurched for the flying shorts, shirts, gray flannel trousers, and navy blue blazer. “Thank you, Mac, I really
thank
you.”
“Not yet, boy, but you
will
. A good officer never forgets the grunts, no matter how unworthy they might appear in the heat of battle.… You were a help, I’ll say that, in the GHQ strategy sessions. Leave your
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