Misjudged

by James Chandler

  “What’s that, sir?” Jensen asked from directly behind Punch.

  “Jesus, Jensen! I didn’t know you were still here! You scared the hell out of me!”

  “Sorry. What’s odd, boss?”

  “Emily Smith. She had a lot of appointments with a couple of the judges prior to her death.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Daniels and Howard.”

  “Daniels seems like an ass.”

  “Well, he’s a judge.”

  “Yeah, but even for a judge,” Jensen said. He looked at Punch, clearly thinking. “You know, I’m just gonna say . . .”

  “What?”

  “It’s just gossip.”

  “Spit it out, man!”

  “A while back there was a rumor going around.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Rumor was that the lawyer and Judge Howard were a thing.”

  “You have got to be shitting me.”

  “Seriously!”

  “Jensen, why would a young, attractive woman have an affair with an old . . . well, judge?”

  “I ain’t sayin’ they had an affair. I’m just saying I heard they had a thing.”

  “I can’t see it,” Punch said. “On the other hand, why would she have that many meetings with judges? One, who would want to; and two, you can’t talk about a case without the other party’s lawyer there. What was she doing?”

  “I’m just telling you what I heard, boss. Take it for what it’s worth,” Jensen said. “I gotta go check on Baker. He called in on his way to the park for some sort of disturbance—typical Friday night stuff, but dispatch hasn’t heard from him in a while.”

  After Jensen left, Punch stared at the stack of papers in front of him, recalling the picture of a drunken Howard with several lawyers—including Emily—he’d seen in her home. “No way,” he said at last.

  34

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Sam said, entering the small living room. Becky Olsen closed the door behind Sam and gestured to an overstuffed chair. She walked over to the couch, moved some toys, and sat down, crossing her ankles and looking steadily at Sam. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Olsen, I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  “Becky.”

  “Okay, Becky,” Sam began. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’m going to get myself a beer, though. You sure you don’t want anything?”

  “Little early for me,” Sam lied.

  “Well, me too,” Becky said from the kitchen. But my mom’s got the kids today, so what the hell.” She returned from the kitchen with a bottle of beer, sat, and took a long pull from it. “Ask away.”

  “How did you meet Tommy?”

  “Oh, we went to high school together. He was three years older. Didn’t know each other much, but after I graduated, we ran into each other at a party and started going out. He was big and strong and I thought he was everything a girl could want.” She finished the beer and rose. “You sure you don’t want a beer?”

  “I’m sure. Was he?”

  “Was he what?” she asked from the kitchen. Sam heard the refrigerator door open and close.

  “Everything you wanted?”

  “I was popular then,” Becky said. “Cheerleader, even runner-up for homecoming queen.” She was looking in a mirror over the couch. “Of course, I weighed thirty pounds less.”

  “And Tommy?” Sam prodded.

  “Things were fine to begin with,” Becky said. “But then I got pregnant and we didn’t have money for medical bills. Tommy ran into a recruiter at a softball game, I think. He came home all excited and told me he was going to be a Marine and that would solve all our problems. And it did help. I mean, we had insurance and a steady check and all that. But I hated being a Marine wife. ’Cause that’s what you are when your husband’s in the Corps—a wife. A dependent.”

  Sam waited while she took a few gulps from the beer.

  “So, when he got orders to deploy, I told him I wanted to come home, so we came home and he got me set up here.” She finished the beer. “He was gone for more than a year, you know?”

  “I heard.”

  “And so it was just me and the kids. I was scared and lonely. No one understands what it’s like to be a wife in that situation. And then he came back, and he expected to be in charge of us just like we were in his squad or platoon or whatever. But we’re not troops,” she said, her voice trailing off.

  “He was angry,” she continued. “And he was drinking, and he’d get quiet and just sit in his chair and brood. Then all at once he’d yell for me and the kids to shut up and get out of here. The kids were scared, and I didn’t know what to do. There was no intimacy. . .”

  “Was he ever violent with you or the kids?”

  “Not the kids. Oh, he’d yell at them and tell them to be quiet or whatever, but he never laid a hand on them.” She lifted the bottle and shook it slightly. Satisfied it was empty, she got up and headed for the kitchen. Sam waited while she retrieved another beer.

  When she was seated again, he asked, “And with you?”

  “Not really. It was more of a constant tension. A constant fear. He scared me. He’d lose his temper over nothing and get up in my face yelling. He’d ball his fists, his eyes would get red, and he’d just . . . just lose it. That’s the only way to describe it.”

  “And he’d not been that way before?”

  “Not like that,” she said. “I mean, he was no angel when we were younger—I’d seen him drunk and in fights and stuff. But this was different. This was a loss of control.”

  “Becky, I need to ask you something,” Sam said, leaning forward in his chair. She took another slug from the beer, lit a cigarette, and looked at him expectantly. “Do you think he killed Emily?”

  “I—I don’t know,” she said. She stared at the floor for a moment before looking up at Sam. “I mean, the man I married? I don’t think so. But he was different when he got back, Sam. And that Emily . . . well, I’m just going to say she was an evil bitch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sleeping around with other people’s husbands, is what I mean.”

  “Do you know that for a fact, Becky?”

  “Of course. People talk.”

  “Do you know names?”

  “Oh, no. I’m not going there. This is a small town. Naming names is how you get yourself run outta here.”

  “Becky, it could be important,” Sam implored her. “It might make a difference in Tommy’s case.”

  “So, you think I oughta be helping him?”

  “He’s your children’s father,” Sam said. “Look, Becky, at some point things were good between you. Things happened, and now they’re not so good. But he’s still your children’s father.”

  “He screwed that lawyer,” Becky said.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I know.”

  “How?”

  “I just know.”

  “Well, forgetting that for a minute, I want you to consider something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want you to attend Tommy’s trial.”

  “Play the supportive wife? After I already packed up the kids and moved out?”

  “Well . . . yeah. I mean, it could make a difference.”

  “Jury sees little wifey sitting there, looking all supportive of her hubby, huh?” She blew a smoke ring to the ceiling.

  “Well . . . yeah. Might help.”

  “Even though he’d been screwing the victim.” She pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes.

  “Look, Becky, I know you’re hurting. I know—”

  “You don’t know shit.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Sam stood to leave. “Will you at least consider it?”

  “She screwed a judge, too,” Becky said, then burst into drunken laughter. “Can you imagine? Sweet little Emily Smith banging a
fat old judge.”

  Sam watched as she laid her head back on the couch and laughed, and he headed for the door as her laughter slowly turned shallow. She’d stubbed out the cigarette and begun to cry as he closed the door behind himself.

  “You ever hear anything about Emily sleeping around?” Sam asked Veronica. The small coffee shop was empty on this cold February morning. The young woman at the counter was microwaving him a piece of pie, as he’d missed breakfast. Veronica was looking good today, he thought. She’d obviously slept better than he had.

  “Of course,” Veronica said. “Everyone knew she was loose. Bit of a skank, if you ask me. I told you that.”

  Sam smiled. “But what do you really know?”

  “Well, I know where there’s smoke there’s fire.”

  “That it?”

  “I know that most of the men in this town were in one of two groups: those who were tryin’ to get in her pants, and those who maybe had already been there and were afraid.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “The first group’s easy. You’d see them on the make at any social event, any restaurant, even the recreation center. Guys making fools of themselves left and right.”

  “And the second?” Sam asked, accepting the pie from the young lady.

  “She acted like she had something over some of these guys, and they responded to her every beck and call. She had access to bankers, doctors, businessmen, and lawyers like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Well, she was attractive. Are you sure there was more to it than that?” Sam wiped crumbs from his mouth and smiled. “I’da got ala mode, but it’s a little early.”

  “Sam, men are tools. You know it; I know it. As women, we know how to get what we want.” She sipped her coffee. “But this was different. From what I hear, and from what I saw, she wasn’t asking favors; she was demanding them.”

  “You saw?”

  “What?”

  “You said, ‘you saw.’ What did you see?”

  “Well, just the way she dealt with people—with men, I mean. Can I have a bite?”

  “Of course.”

  Sam handed her his fork and watched as she carefully cut off a piece of his pie and moved it to her mouth with one hand while cupping her other below the fork. “Crumths,” she giggled.

  “Do you think she slept with Judge Howard?”

  Veronica sputtered, then covered her mouth. After a couple of coughs, she drank coffee and then swept imaginary crumbs from her breasts and lap. “Why would you think that?”

  “Just wondering.”

  Veronica looked at Sam for a long moment. He was a good man. He deserved the truth. But she didn’t really know, and she told him that.

  “You don’t know, or you won’t say?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, he would always see her, and he’s not that way with any other lawyer. But I don’t know what they would talk about when she was in his chambers. My desk is too far away to hear, and he closes the door.”

  “You don’t suppose they were—”

  “No, she was never there long enough for that,” she said, smiling.

  Sam smiled back. “So, all you know is she had access that maybe others don’t.”

  “Right.”

  “Maybe he’s in the first group?”

  “No, it’s not like that. There’s something . . . there. A history of some kind. I just know it. Call it a woman’s intuition.”

  “Right. Want another bite?” Sam offered.

  “No, I’ve got to get back. Judge’s got a sentencing here in a minute.”

  Howard and O’Hanlon were at the bar, holding down their usual spots at a corner table. O’Hanlon appeared to be telling a joke. Howard listened closely, and then laughed and signaled the waitress for another. Punch sat at the bar, nursing a club soda and lemon, watching the ballgame and occasionally looking at his watch. Rhonda was going to be pissed. Another Friday night, another meal missed with the boys. He’d make it up tomorrow, he decided. Pile them all in the car and take everyone to the movies. There was some remake of a comic book action flick the boys had been wanting to see, anyway. Rhonda would hate it, of course, but that was part of the deal when you were a mom with two boys. He smiled wryly and shook the ice cubes in his glass.

  “Another one, Officer?” the bartender asked, clearly irritated with Punch’s presence. In the last hour, Punch had seen at least three men enter the bar, lay eyes on him, and then leave. Probably probationers. He found it moderately amusing but understood why the bartender—who owned the place—might not.

  “Yeah, why not?” Punch decided, eyeing Howard and O’Hanlon. They looked to be winding it up.

  “That’ll be ten bucks.” The bartender slid the drink in Punch’s general direction.

  “For club soda?”

  “No, asshole. For ruining my Friday night take.”

  Punch stared at the barkeep for a moment, then peeled a ten-dollar bill off a small money clip. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks for nothing, Officer.”

  “Detective Polson, how are you?” Howard was obviously inebriated.

  “I’m well, Judge. How are things down at the courthouse?”

  “Crime is a growth industry, I’m afraid,” Howard said, shaking his huge head sadly. “But it keeps us in beer and peanuts, I guess.”

  “Indeed it does, sir.”

  “Well, Detective, please be safe. I’ve got to get home. I think Margaret has a chicken in the oven.”

  “Drive carefully, sir.”

  Howard made his way out the door while the bartender eyed the recently vacated table. Punch needed to act fast. Acting as if he were going to say something to O’Hanlon, he swung his arm wildly and knocked over his club soda. “Ah, shit!” he exclaimed. “Let me get something for that.” He hurried toward the men’s room, which was just on the other side of Howard’s table. Moments later, he emerged with a wad of paper towels. “Can I help?”

  “I already got it, goddammit,” the bartender said.

  “I’m sorry,” Punch said. “Look, I’ll just get on out of here, okay?”

  “Please do, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t come back.”

  In his car, Punch carefully transferred the beer glass he’d swiped into an evidence bag, closed it, and fumbled through his pockets for a pen. Protocol required that he label the bag with the date and time of collection, initial it, and get it to Pleasance. Anything short of that would interrupt the chain of custody, meaning it would be inadmissible in court. Finally locating his pen, Punch paused and considered his options while watching snowflakes build up on his windshield. “He’s a judge,” he said at last, and pocketed the pen.

  35

  On a rainy February morning, Punch was at his desk, eating a sandwich and reading the box scores from the spring training games, when his phone rang. “Polson.”

  “Punch, Cale here.”

  “About time. What the hell? It’s been days. I’m dying here!”

  “I’ve been busy. Damned budget cuts are kicking my ass. You want what I got, or what?”

  “Spit it out.”

  “So, there were two sets of unidentified prints in that gal’s house, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And this print you gave me? It matches one of those sets.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yeah, no shit. So whose print is it? You didn’t label the sample.”

  “I can’t tell you that, Cale.”

  “Can’t use it as evidence.”

  “I know that. Don’t insult me.” Punch’s heart was pounding. “The glass I gave you—the print you matched. Where in the house was its match?”

  “According to your crime scene guys, the print matched one they found on a vase full of dead flowers.”

  “Any others?”

  “I don’t think so. Like I said, lotta variables, lotta unusable prints.”

  “Can you tell me how long the prints had been there?”

  “No.
Find out when the flowers were sent, maybe. But whoever it was might’ve touched the vase later. I mean, who knows?”

  “Yeah, who knows . . . Cale,” Punch implored. “You have absolutely, positively, got to keep this under your hat.”

  Ann was pacing in her office. “Same guy? Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” Punch replied, stirring his coffee.

  “Holy shit! Where were his prints?”

  “On that vase with the dead roses.”

  “Oh, shit. What does that mean?”

  “Red roses? Ever been in love?”

  “Wise-ass, I mean what does it mean?”

  “We’ve got a set of prints from the victim, her mom, and her housekeeper, as well as our suspect and now Howard, and one other set that is still unidentified,” Punch mused.

  "Jesus! I think I might need to tell Rebecca. We might need a special prosecutor,” Ann said, sitting back down and making a note. “Honestly, he doesn’t strike me as the type. On the other hand, he’s certainly got the size and strength. I just don’t know about motive. What would a judge gain by killing a lawyer?”

  “Peace and quiet?”

  “Personally, I mean. Smartass.”

  “Do you know if they knew each other? Personally, I mean? The flowers and all . . .”

  “I don’t know, but I mean to find out,” Ann said, then looked at Punch. “Detective, you don’t seriously think the judge might have done it? Christ!”

  “I don't think anything yet. I just know I need to talk with him, and I need to ask him why his prints were there. But I’d rather volunteer for a prostate exam by a first-year medical student.”

  “Just wait. This doesn’t change your case against Tommy, does it? We can’t even use it. The chain of custody is broken and all.”

  “Well, not right now. But I reserve the right to call him a suspect when and if something develops.”

  “I’ve known him a while; he wouldn’t do anything like this.”

  “And if I were a defense attorney, when I found out his prints were on the scene, I’d be all over that. More importantly, I’d peel the investigator—in this case, me—like a banana. Howard signed the arrest warrant and presided over the preliminary hearing, for Christ’s sake. This is fucked up, if you’ll excuse my French.”