![]() ![]() ![]() With the current crop of pundits, bureaucrats, and hired guns in charge, America was destined to repeat the cycles of intellectual torpor that toppled Rome and Greece and Mali and the Incas and every empire that stumbled into short-lived, debauched existence. To his mind, they were a gang of vapid and arrogant thugs all, who greedily snatched their information from one another like disappearing crumbs as society spiraled merrily toward hell. He felt equally dismissive of willful ignorance-his description of the modern press-and smug stupidity, his bon mot for politicians. Howard Wynn did not suffer boredom or mediocrity well. Extra space at his hip for the books he habitually tucked to his side, on the off chance the chosen tome for his nightly read bored him. But he enjoyed the chair for its unexpected utility. Unlike the robust former president, Justice Wynn was built along trimmer lines, a sleek sloop to the fearsome cargo ship of a man who preceded him on the bench. The wide seat resembled a settee more than a chair, but the latter Howard appreciated the capacious width. ![]() At nine o’clock on Sunday night, Supreme Court justice Howard Wynn shifted testily in his favorite leather chair, the high-backed Chesterfield purportedly commissioned by Chief Justice William Howard Taft. ![]()
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