“About what?” she said, coming to the door.
“About the murder of Emily Smith.”
“What does that have to do with me? Tommy was convicted. I was there.”
“Well, I wanted to thank you for supporting your husband.”
“A lot of good that did, huh?”
“And I wanted you to know there’s been a development,” he continued, eyeing the cigarette on the broken end table. “Could I come inside for a second?”
Becky stood behind the door, seemingly using it as a shield. “Do I have to?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Well, I’ve got the kids, and it’s just about time for their lunch.”
“I guess I’m a little surprised you don’t want to talk.”
“About what?”
“About your husband’s case.”
“You lost. What is there to talk about?” She waved him in, then sat and lit a cigarette.
“Want a beer?” Sam removed a six-pack of bottles from a paper bag.
“Why not?” she replied, opening the beer Sam handed her and drinking greedily.
“So, there’s been a development.”
“Yeah?” she said, wiping her mouth.
“Yeah. I hired a fingerprint expert and he matched up some of those unidentified prints in Emily’s house.”
“I know that. I heard him testify. Didn’t mean shit,” she said. “They couldn’t identify who they belonged to.”
“True, but I think it means something.”
“What?”
“I think it means Tommy didn’t do it.”
“So, what—you think that old judge did it?”
“No.” Sam put his beer down. “I think you did it.”
“Are you kidding me?” Becky laughed, which generated a prolonged coughing fit. “Seriously, why would I kill that little bitch?”
“Because she was bonking your husband.”
“Oh, hell, he was screwing anything he could get his hands on,” she said, taking a deep drag and letting the smoke out through her nose. “If I tried to kill everyone he was sleeping with, I’d be the only woman left in town.”
“I think those prints will match yours.”
“Yeah? So what if they do?” Becky said, putting the bottle down and leaning toward Sam. “What you think isn’t worth shit, because the trial is over! You lost the case and got my husband convicted, and now you come in here with some wild-ass scheme tryin’ to save what’s left of your reputation. Well, it ain’t gonna work on me. Now get your sorry ass out of my house!”
“Becky, it’s only a matter of time—”
She had moved around the table, getting close enough to him so that he could smell the smoke and booze on her breath. “If I did kill her—and I ain’t sayin’ I did—there ain’t shit you can do about it! That bitch was screwing my husband and she deserved whatever she got! Now, maybe you need to go see what you can do about keeping him from gettin’ the death penalty.”
“I’ll just take the ones we drank and leave the rest,” Sam said.
“Goddamned right you will,” she said. “Least you can do after getting my husband convicted and all.”
“So what now?” Rhonda asked Punch, who was attacking a plate of spaghetti. The kids were at practice and he was trying to choke down something before they went to pick them up.
“Up to Judge Daniels,” Punch said between mouthfuls.
“I know, but what do you think he’ll do?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it’ll be the right thing. He knows if he doesn’t, I’m going to the paper and to the Supreme Court.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?”
“I am. What else can I do?”
“I’m not sure. When will you know?”
“Tomorrow at eight a.m. He assured me he has a plan.”
“I wish he would get on with it,” Rhonda offered.
“Me, too. I don’t want to wish my life away, but . . .” Punch shrugged. “Hey, get your jacket—it’s still a little cool. We’ll grab the kids and maybe get some ice cream.”
As they left their house, Punch’s phone rang. “Don’t answer it!” Rhonda pleaded. “You promised the kids.”
“I know,” Punch said, hitting the button to answer. “But I gotta do this.”
“Who is so important as to make you break another promise to your children?”
“Sam Johnstone.”
“The lawyer.”
“Yeah.” Punch put a finger to his lips. “Just a second. Let me take this.” He stepped into the den and closed the door behind him.
“Detective Polson?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, Polson here,” Punch said, ignoring Rhonda’s look. “What is it?”
“This is Sam Johnstone.”
“I know. What’s up?”
“I spoke with my expert earlier.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I got an explanation for Becky’s prints not being in the system. She got arrested in New Orleans—”
“You told me that.”
“I did. But what I didn’t know was that it was 2005, right before the hurricane. According to my guy, a lot of evidence was lost in the flooding—”
“And that’s why nothing was in the system,” Punch concluded.
“Yes! It makes sense! Can you help me?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Punch said. “I really ought to get some guidance on this.”
“From who? Ann? I’m telling you that Becky killed her!” Hearing nothing on the other end of the line, Sam waited for a moment. “At the very least this will provide reasonable doubt. All I need is for you to match her prints with a known print.” Punch was quiet. “Detective?” Sam said. “Do the right thing, please. Look, I—I can’t live with another man’s life on my conscience. Five men died already because of me. I need your help. Tommy needs your help.”
“I’ve got a wife and family,” Punch said simply. “If Ann finds out . . . Let me think about it.”
“There’s no time!”
Sam listened to Punch breathing into the phone until at last Punch said, “I’ll need a print.”
“I got some—on a beer bottle.”
“How?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, I guess not,” Punch said, having made his decision. “Look, Sam, I’ve got something else you need to know.” He closed the door behind him. Moments later, he opened the door and emerged. Rhonda took one look at him and knew.
“The trial’s over!” she said. “‘Judge Daniels is going to do the right thing,’ you said.”
“I know,” Punch said. “But never too late to right a wrong—and I might have been way, way wrong.” He dialed the lab as he closed the door behind him.
55
“Sit down, Jon.” Daniels pointed to a large, overstuffed chair on the other side of a small end table. The table and chairs formed a kind of sitting area in Judge Daniels’s chambers. Howard was momentarily taken aback, for even in private, judges rarely referred to each other by their first name. Whether through custom, habit, or as a matter of mutual respect, most judges addressed each other formally even in otherwise informal settings.
“Thank you,” Howard said, taking a seat.
“Cigar?” Judge Daniels offered the humidor. When Howard shook his head, Daniels asked, “Drink?”
“Uh, no thanks. My afternoon opened up so I had a couple at the Longbranch. I was just on my way home. I’m good.”
“I wanted to talk with you,” Daniels began. “And I want you to know up front this isn’t a social call.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“You know that Olsen kid got convicted.”
“I heard.”
“You know that’s the wrong verdict, Jon.”
“Well, juries make mistakes.” Howard shrugged.
“Not this one. This one decided the way it should have, given the evidence.”
“Well, what do you mean, then?”
“I mean they didn’t have all the evidence,” Daniels said, tapping ash into a silver tray before puffing on the cigar and blowing a huge cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.
“I guess I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Howard began. “More importantly—”
“You know your fingerprints were in her house.”
“I know that. Everyone knows that. It came out at trial.”
“What’d you tell Margaret, by the way?”
“I told her Emily—Ms. Smith—had a death in the family.”
“She buy it?”
“Of course!”
“Red roses for a death in the family?”
Howard reddened. “Look, I’ve been there. I’m not denying that. But even if my fingerprints were there—”
“They got your DNA from her sheets.”
Howard was silent now, considering. The silence lengthened.
“What are you thinking now, Jon?” Daniels finally asked. “You got some lame explanation for how you left pecker-tracks on her sheets, too?”
“Judge, just because my fingerprints and DNA were there doesn’t mean anything. We had a relationship.”
“One you didn’t disclose.”
“Of course not. My wife—”
“You did the initial appearance!” Daniels exclaimed. “You signed the arrest warrant and heard the goddamned preliminary hearing!” His face was red and the infamous vein in the middle of his forehead was pulsing.
Howard was silent. His judicial career was over—of that he’d been certain since O’Hanlon told him the fingerprint was disclosed. He might have explained that away, but DNA was different. Daniels was bound by his oath of office to disclose what he knew, and no canon of judicial behavior was more revered than a jurist being uninvolved in the outcome of the proceedings. He’d be suspended pending an investigation within hours of Daniels making a call.
“Good God, man, I don’t know what the hell you were thinking!” Daniels said. “I don’t know what you were thinking when you were screwing her, and I certainly don’t know what you were thinking when you didn’t disclose it as soon as you were assigned the matter. You could have given the case to someone—anyone—else.”
“Judge, you know how she was,” Howard began. “I was . . . scared. Embarrassed. Afraid. Afraid for Margaret.”
“Maybe you should have thought of Margaret before you started banging Emily! Jesus, Jon. That’s the same sad-sack, criminal-thinking bullshit you and I hear from defendants every day! You were afraid you were going to get caught. That’s what you’re afraid of.”
The two men sat quietly, Howard looking at the floor and Daniels puffing furiously on his cigar and occasionally taking a swig from his glass.
“That DNA thing—that come out in trial?”
“No.”
“How did that happen?”
“Ann had the information but didn’t disclose it.”
“Holy shit! She’s gonna have her tit in a wringer,” Howard surmised. Then, apparently cognizant of the irony of pointing out Ann’s ethical lapse, he added, “I didn’t kill her, Press.”
“Jon, the best thing you can do right now is to shut the hell up.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Well, I’m considering the options. I suspect Johnstone’s going to find out right about now that the DNA wasn’t disclosed. He’s going to flip out. Probably renew his motion for a judgment of acquittal.”
“Well, maybe, but I’m not sure you could grant that. Under the rules, you can only enter that judgment if the evidence was such that no reasonable jury could find against Olsen,” Howard offered.
“No shit. And because of you, that wasn’t the case, now was it?” Daniels snapped. “I sat on that motion twice, and Sam’s client didn’t do himself any favors when he testified. There was plenty of evidence for the jurors.” He was looking out the window of his chambers. “Goddammit, Jon. I was hoping they’d acquit so you could quietly resign, and we could put this behind us.”
Howard got up and poured himself a drink from Daniels’s bottle, then sat back down and took a long pull from the glass.
“What I’ll do,” Daniels continued, “is order a new trial.”
“Sam would have to make a motion.”
“He will.”
“Why would he do that? He doesn’t have any idea—”
“He will momentarily.”
“How?”
“Punch Polson is going to tell him, that’s how. Polson’s convinced I’m covering for you.”
“I appreciate the fact you tried.”
“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for the system,” Daniels said. “People have got to believe in the system.”
Howard sat very still. “Who knows?” he finally said.
“Punch, you, me, Ann. Not sure how many in the prosecutor’s office or the PD.”
“Why didn’t Ann disclose to Sam?”
“She wanted to win this thing.” Daniels shook his head. “I think winning was so important to her, and she was so convinced of Tommy’s guilt, that she rationalized it away.”
“Bad decision,” Howard observed.
“Please tell me you’re not going to throw any yellow flags here,” Daniels said. “Anyway, this thing is coming apart.”
“She got the right guy, Press. I didn’t kill her. You gotta believe me.”
“I told you, shut up.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Well, career-wise, no. You’re screwed. And you should be,” Daniels said. He turned from the window, moved to his chair, and sat down. “But that might be the least of your problems.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Punch is probably crafting a search warrant right now. I sure as hell would be.” Daniels leaned forward in his chair. “And Jon, let me be honest with you: when I see the damned thing, I’ll sign it. I expect you’re gonna be interrogated tomorrow. You better get a lawyer.”
“Jesus! Press, can you give me a day? I got some things to wrap up. Margaret and I—”
“No.”
“Please, Press. We’ve been friends.”
“Jon, I’m meeting with counsel at eight o’clock on the dot tomorrow morning. After that, I’m gonna call the Wyoming Supreme Court and tell them what I know. I figure by noon, as the senior judge in the district, I’ll have an order from the Supreme Court telling me to have you escorted out while an investigation is undertaken.” Daniels finished his drink. “You’ll get paid, probably.”
“You’ve been considering this for a while, haven’t you?”
“Ever since I got the word that was your print,” Daniels said, offering the bottle to Howard. “I made up my mind when I found out that was your DNA.”
“Please, just let me—”
“I’ll give you tonight to clean out your desk, of course, but the whole thing might be easier if you just packed your shit right now.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Judge.”
Daniels sat quietly. “I know you are, Jon,” he allowed at last. “Things happened. But we’ve got to deal with it now.”
Howard stood. “This was the best job I ever had. Every day you’ve got the ability to make a positive change in someone’s life. Every day might be the day where you can see something click or give someone what they’ve never had—hope. I did the best I could every day, Judge. I just . . . I just couldn’t leave her alone. We had a one-nighter a while back and when we got back to town, well, I—Oh, hell.” He turned to leave, his huge shoulders hunched as if against a stiff breeze.
As Howard breached the door to his chambers, Daniels said, “Jon, you were a damned fine jurist for a lot of years. You made mistakes—hell, we all have. But it’s time to do what’s right.”
Without turning, Howard said, “Thanks, Judge, that means a lot,” then stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
Daniels poured himself the last of the bottle.
“Answer the phone!” Marci said.
Daniels got his bedside phone out of its cradle on the third ring. “Judge Daniels,” he croaked. He’d been dreaming about basketball, of all things. In his dreams he could dunk like LeBron.
“Judge, Punch Polson here.”
Daniels wasn’t surprised. “What is it?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“We got a body in the park. I’m gonna need a warrant.”
“Howard?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I had a hunch. He leave a note?”
“Yeah, but how’d you know it was him?”
“Call it judicial intuition. He admit?”
“To what?”
“Whattaya mean, ‘to what?’ To killing Emily.”
“No, but he sort of admitted being at her house and having sex with her that night.”
“That’s all?”
“Yup.”
“So, if he didn’t admit to killing her, why did he off himself?” Daniels asked.
“I didn’t say he did.”
“What? Are you telling me someone killed him, too?” Daniels was sitting up in bed now, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand.
“I’m not saying anything until I reach a conclusion. Right now, all I’m saying is we’ve got his body in the park, and it looks like a suicide.”
“But there’s a note, right?”
“There’s a note.”
“What’s it say?”
“Judge, I’m gonna hold onto that information. No offense—”
“Damn it, Detective! You call me in the middle of the night—”
“It’s my job,” Punch said.
Daniels took a deep breath. “I know. If he didn’t do it, you got any ideas?”
“I do.”
“A hunch?”
“Better.”
“I’d love to know.”
“I think by noon I’ll have confirmation.”
“How is Margaret?”
“On my way right now. Jensen says she’s distraught.”
“They were married thirty-nine years,” Daniels said, recalling that he and Marci were coming up on forty-two years of marriage. “Will you give her our best? Marci and I used to play pinochle with Jon and Margaret years ago.”
“Yes, Judge.”
“Thank you,” Daniels said, and hung up.
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