The Judge

by Steve Martini

  “Do I have to issue a court order?” says Radovich.

  Kline is not even offering moral support to the chief on this. As far as he is concerned, Hansen is on his own.

  The chief raises an issue as to the court’s jurisdiction, something he no doubt has been briefed on by the city attorney’s office. The raid on my house is not a matter properly brought before Radovich.

  Kline winces when Hansen attempts to take this tack. Radovich goes ballistic. He actually comes up out of his chair and leans on the center of his desk, less than a foot from Hansen’s face. The two men are nose to nose.

  “You jerking my chain?” he asks the chief.

  “No.”

  “Then have your man in here tomorrow morning. We’ll discuss the fine points of my jurisdiction some other time.”

  He then turns to Kline. “These are your people. I want your guarantee.”

  The prosecutor talks to the chief briefly in one ear, they confer, then Kline guarantees the appearance.

  “I also want your word,” says Radovich, “that there will be no further replays of this.”

  This it seems does not require a conference.

  “Not from us,” says Hansen.

  “I don’t want to play word games, either,” says the judge. “That means you don’t go handing this thing off to some other agency to play midnight marauders under another warrant. Do I make myself clear?”

  The two men nod in unison like some part of a drill team.

  “Good,” says Radovich. “Now let’s get out of here and try this case.”

  We are nearly down the hall leading from the judge’s chambers, the jail guard with one hand on my client’s arm, when Acosta leans back into my ear and whispers, “That was not so bad. I think in fact it may work for our benefit with the judge in the end.”

  Acosta is not feeling the pain in every part of my body at this moment the way I am.

  It has been a fitful night; only four hours of sleep. I put Sarah down just before nine, showered, read some documents in preparation for tomorrow morning’s session in Acosta’s trial, and was in bed by eleven. I set the alarm with low-volume music for three in the morning, but was awake before it went off.

  I rise and put on an old pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of running shoes with thick rubber soles. It has been drizzling outside for more than an hour, so I slip a dark nylon Windbreaker with a hood over my head.

  On the way down to the stairs I check on Sarah. She is asleep, with most of the blankets kicked to the bottom of her bed. She sleeps with a small doll’s comforter pulled up over the upper part of her body to her shoulders, leaving her little legs covered with goose bumps. I cover her and she stirs just a little before falling back into a deep slumber, little mewing snores.

  I head down the stairs, through the hall, into the kitchen, where I can see the remnants of the raid three days ago. There are missing drawers that were smashed on the floor and a cabinet door that was pulled from its hinges. The shelves inside the yawning hole of the cabinet are empty, as the dishes were pulled down onto the tile countertop and broken. Those that survived were swept onto the floor and crushed underfoot. There is a major dent in the enamel of my refrigerator door where I am told one of the cops laid into it with a cast-iron skillet. After photographing the damage, I swept up the mess with help from friends, including Lenore, who was in pain the entire time but refused to leave. She is certain that Kline is behind all of this. She is single-minded in her enmity toward the man. My own suspicions lie elsewhere. Some confirmation of this I have acquired over the past two nights.

  Lenore saw the white powder and has asked me several times what I did with it. I have not told her.

  I head out the back door into the yard, and around to the side of the house, the narrow passage that dead-ends at a fence separating this from my front lawn. It is dark, but I do not use a flashlight. A bright beam could attract a neighbor, or worse.

  The dirt path along the side of the house is open, with only some ivy growing on the fence that separates my yard from the neighbor’s. Overhead are the eaves of my house. If I move flush against the siding, I am sheltered from the spray of fine rain that is coming down.

  About halfway along the path I see the small window. One of its panes is now broken, covered instead by a piece of black plastic that I have tacked up from the inside of the bathroom.

  I try to visualize the layout of my neighbor’s home. Unlike my own, it is a single-story ranch-style, a gentle pitch to the roof.

  On the other side of the fence I can see the eaves of my neighbor’s garage, just a few feet away.

  As quietly as I can I boost myself onto the top railing of the fence, then rise slowly on my feet, standing on the railing. I balance like a tightrope walker for an instant before I lean, catching the edge of their roof with my hands. I lean forward, muscling my weight with my arms, and swing one leg up. I shimmy my body until I am lying prone at the edge of the roof. As I do this, one foot drags on the edge of the rain gutter, making a noise like hard rubber dragging across a washboard.

  The shake shingles are slick with rain. The lower part of my body is already soaked. My jeans are now sodden, three pounds heavier than when I put them on. I lie silent for several seconds, waiting to see if lights will come on below in my neighbor’s house. The sheet-metal gutters and downspouts are dripping their metallic cadence; this seems to have covered the noise of my foot scraping the edge.

  On my stomach I crawl toward the back side of the roof. It is a hip roof that rises from three directions toward a peak in the center. From there the garage roof runs a ridge until it joins the main part of the house itself and then cuts in valleys and angles in two directions, front and back. The valleys are all lined with metal flashing. Tonight they are running like rivers.

  It is the reason I could not wait. I could not be certain that in the constant rain the bag would hold up. It would not take long for a curious neighbor to question the white flow, like a stream of bat guano, running through the downspouts of his house and out onto the lawn, every gardener’s miracle cure. They would be wondering why it is that they are driven to stand in the same place and rake the dust all day.

  Around the back side of the roof I move into a half crouch and up toward the pitch, until I can see just over the top. From here, the street below is illuminated by the yellow glow of a vapor light on the pole several doors down.

  In the opposite direction, under the branches of a young elm, I can see the curious dark van that appeared for the first time two nights ago. It has two round bubble windows, a vestige from the seventies, one on each side. It has been parked there, always in the same place when I get home at night, and still there when I leave for work in the morning.

  Subtle they are not. If they cannot nail me for dealing, they want their drugs back.

  It is the reason that I suspect Kline is not involved. Given the tail chewing he has already taken from Radovich, he would not dare to be this bold, to place my house under surveillance. Still, it is a measure of the lack of control that the authorities, both he and the chief, have over this faction of their own force.

  I have taken the license number of the van and asked Harry to check DMV. I have also snapped pictures of the vehicle with a telephoto lens from the end of the block.

  In the morning when I leave for work I put a light film of baby powder on the floor inside each door, front and rear, as well as in strategic places in the hallway in case they use a window. I check these for footprints each night when I return. So far, if my sign-reading skills are any good, they have stayed out. I think they have concluded it is not in the house. I have made certain that Sarah is never there if I am out. She is either with me, or with friends elsewhere. In all of this, she is my biggest concern.

  There is no movement from the van. Still I remain low on the roof, alway
s to the rear of the house. I work my way laterally, across my neighbor’s backyard, and then up a valley on the roof. I am beginning to think I could not possibly have thrown it this far when I see it wedged in a metal crevice around a skylight. The shine of clear plastic and the white radiance of the powder inside glimmers like a heavy cloud resting on the roof. The bag appears to be sealed, unbroken, and for a moment I think that perhaps it is safer here than back in my house.

  I am about to make my way back down the roof toward the side yard when I hear the sound of a car door, not being slammed, but rather carefully closed. I inch my way to the ridge and peer over. Two guys are coming this way, crossing the street from the dark van. In the muted glow of the vapor light, at this distance, I can make out no features.

  I duck below the ridge and lie completely still, prone on the roof. I scan for avenues of escape. It is a ten-foot drop, perhaps more, to a concrete patio in my neighbor’s yard. Part of this is covered by an aluminum patio roof that, if I had to guess, would not support my weight. Even if I could make the jump, they would certainly hear me when I hit the ground.

  “I’m telling you I saw something.”

  The words are whispered, but still audible in the still night air. It comes from in front of my house, where Sarah is sleeping.

  “There’s nobody up there.”

  “Not the lawyer’s place,” says the other voice. “Next door. Over there.”

  They continue to whisper and the voices come closer.

  I edge up the roof on my stomach. The rain is now coming harder. Near the skylight, where one edge nearly reaches the ridge of the roof, I peer around one corner for a look.

  One of them has something strange wrapped around his forehead, two large protrusions like antennas jetting several inches out from his head.

  “I know I saw something,” he says.

  “Probably a cat,” says the other.

  “No. Too big.”

  He adjusts the item on his head, and brings it down, until the protrusions are over his eyes, and suddenly it hits me—the guy is wearing night-vision goggles.

  I jerk my head below the ridge so quickly I nearly get whiplash. The motion causes me to slide nearly a foot on the wet roof.

  “What was that?”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Shhh.”

  I am wondering whether the device on his eyes can possibly pick up the rising waves of my body heat over the ridge, images like a green ghost against the cold wet roof.

  “I don’t see anything.” It’s the other guy’s voice. “Come on. Let’s get back in the car. It’s wet out here.”

  “I told you we shoulda searched up there the other day.”

  “We didn’t have time. I’m going back to the van. My ass is soaked. You coming?”

  “In a minute.”

  “Suit yourself. If some pain-in-the-ass citizen calls in a prowler, it’s your ass in the flames.”

  “Why don’t you check and see if he’s asleep in bed?”

  “Who?”

  “The lawyer. See if you can see anything through his bedroom window.”

  “You check. I’m going back to the van.”

  I can hear soggy footfalls on my neighbor’s front lawn as one of them departs. Several seconds go by and I wonder if perhaps they have both left. Then I hear a car door slam, only one.

  Suddenly there is movement high in the limbs of a bush, near the area of the fence where my front yard merges with the neighbor’s. I hear feet, the distinct sound of climbing against the wooden fence, then silence. An instant later, footfalls in the dirt. Someone has scaled the fence and is now on the path along the side of my house near the broken bathroom window.

  I am stretched out on the roof with no easy avenue of escape. Behind me, off to the right of the patio roof, is a brick chimney. This would provide some cover from the rear yard, if the intruder were to go in that direction. But from a right angle, if his eyes were drawn to the roof he would easily see the bag and its white contents.

  I rise to my knees and quietly work my way around the skylight, toward the valley. I grab the bag. It squishes in my hand, the texture and consistency of powdered sugar.

  Soundlessly, I dodge down the roof toward the chimney, and crouch low in the V that is formed where it joins the edge of the roof rising toward the front of the house. There I brace myself in the shadows, knowing that this is a futile exercise if the man below has night vision. I am holding twenty years of hard time in my hand. Not even Radovich could save me.

  It was a stupid move. I should have left it, but I knew I could not. Sooner or later someone would discover it and remember the futile raid on the house next door.

  I hear him moving now near the back of my house. I push the bag and its contents into the groove formed where the chimney meets the edge of the roof on top of the metal flashing in order to free up my hands.

  I can see nothing in my yard. It is pitch black. Here the glow of the vapor light is blocked by trees on the front street and the rise of roofs. I am wondering if at this moment he is staring back at me, peering through goggles from some shadowy hole in my own yard.

  Then footsteps and the creak of a hinge. He is entering the back door of my house. My mind is filled with a single thought: Sarah asleep in her bed.

  I manage to climb down a section of the wrought-iron supports for the patio roof, cocaine in one hand, and move quickly to the fence. I look over and he is gone, but the back door to my house is half-open. I had left it closed when I came out.

  As quietly as I can, I am over the fence. I tear my Windbreaker and rip my arm on a nail, but my adrenaline is pumping so furiously I feel nothing.

  I look about for something handy. We keep a small woodpile, mostly kindling, and a few logs for cold winter evenings near the side of the garage. I grope about until I find what I am looking for: a piece of well-seasoned oak, about two feet long and with the diameter of a baseball bat. I stash the bag of cocaine under several pieces of wood.

  Armed, I head for the back door. I edge through this without touching it. He has night vision; I have the familiarity of my own house. I can see there is no one in the laundry room, so I hug the wall to the door, the opening to the kitchen, and sneak a quick look. There is no one there.

  Then I hear it, the drag of a shoe on carpet. He is in the hallway, somewhere beyond the door leading out of the kitchen. I consider the possibilities. I could yell, hoping the noise would startle him, drive him out my front door. But I am concerned what might happen if he panics. He is no doubt armed. I don’t want bullets passing through ceilings or walls with Sarah sleeping in her room upstairs.

  I close the distance between us, passing soundlessly over the kitchen floor, until I am pressed against the wall near the refrigerator, looking down the hall, seeing a shadow moving at the far end. He is approaching the foot of the stairs. From the silhouette, the shape of his head, the night goggles are in place.

  He puts one foot on the bottom step, and I know there is no way I can allow him to start up, with Sarah there alone. I reach for the light switch on the wall and flip it. The lights in the hallway come on, and with a cry like a banshee I race down the hall. The glare of light through the goggles in his eyes must be blinding, because he actually takes a long step backward and stumbles off the first step. He tries to pull the goggles from his eyes as he turns, and is only partially successful. He has one hand on a pistol halfway out of the black nylon holster under his coat. My piece of oak meets solid bone, a backhand across his forehead. This is well-timed and has all the physics of a bat meeting a fastball in the strike zone.

  He sinks like a sack of sand, his legs gone to rubber. There is blood all over my carpet, some of it spattered in an arc on the wall behind him. For a moment I look down at his still body on the floor, wondering if I have killed him.
Then he groans, dazed. He reaches lazily for the pistol and I take it from him.

  There, sprawled on my hall floor, is cable man, his eyes open but glazed, pupils rolling alternately up under the lids. I grab him by the shirt collar and drag him to the front room, where I flop him over on his stomach like a beached whale.

  On top of my television set is the length of coaxial cable that he left three days ago, still coiled in its wrapper. I grab this and hog-tie him, hands and ankles, tight until he bends like a bow. He groans with discomfort as I do this.

  “Like you said”—I am in his ear—“all you’re gonna be seeing for a while is a lot of snow.”

  CHAPTER 20

  WE ARE NOW FOUR DAYS INTO THE STATE’S CASE, AND Kline’s presentation of the evidence, if not electrifying, is methodical. He leaves no stone unturned, and misses no opportunity to score points, regardless how slight.

  Outside of court, he has managed to deflect Radovich’s expectable rage over the second intrusion by the cops into my home. Chief Hansen has been pushed up front as the point man to take this one on the chops personally. He has now suspended all of the officers involved in the initial raid. I have learned that cable man is a cop named Howard Hoag attached to Vice. He was one of the officers present the day that Zack Wiley was killed. After I cold-cocked him in my hallway I called 911. Hoag was arrested on several misdemeanor counts, including criminal trespass. He was released the next morning on his own recognizance. His buddy in the van did not wait around to see what happened, but drove off when the first squad car arrived at my house with lights flashing.

  Kline has put this entire episode behind him and chooses to move on with the trial as if nothing has happened. It is a good act, but he knows that the conduct of Hoag and his compatriots confirms the central tenet of our defense: that there is a contingent of bad cops out of control in this city.

  Kline has spent three and a half days with the two lead investigators on the stand. They testified as to both the scene in the alley where the body was found as well as the evidence in Hall’s apartment. They told of seeing hair and fibers on the blanket in which the body was wrapped, and instructed forensic technicians to collect these. One of them testified about finding similar evidence, hairs at Acosta’s house and collecting carpet fibers from the trunk of his car. It is all predictable and straightforward.