Threats, serious ones, against the justices had increased tenfold since 1990. The Supreme Court police had tripled in size. At least two FBI agents were assigned to guard each justice, and another fifty were kept busy investigating threats.

“They hate me, don’t they?” he said loudly, staring out the window.

“Yes, some of them do,” Kline answered with amusement.

Rosenberg liked to hear that. He smiled and inhaled deeply. Eighty percent of the death threats were aimed at him.

“See any of those signs?” he asked. He was nearly blind.

“Quite a few.”

“What do they say?”

“The usual. Death to Rosenberg. Retire Rosenberg. Cut Off the Oxygen.”

“They’ve been waving those same damned signs for years. Why don’t they get some new ones?”

The clerk did not answer. Abe should’ve retired years ago, but they would carry him out one day on a stretcher. His three law clerks did most of the research, but Rosenberg insisted on writing his own opinions. He did so with a heavy felt?tip marker and his words were scrawled across a white legal pad, much like a first?grader learning to write. Slow work, but with a lifetime appointment, who cared about time? The clerks proofed his opinions, and rarely found mistakes.

Rosenberg chuckled. “We oughta feed Runyan to the Indians.” The Chief Justice was John Runyan, a tough conservative appointed by a Republican and hated by the Indians and most other minorities. Seven of the nine had been appointed by Republican Presidents.

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