The Final Judgment

by Richard North Patterson

  Turning, Caroline had taken the path to Nerheim’s mansion. It was dark and dank and half ruined. There were trucks outside; a rock singer from California had bought it, Caroline had learned, to restore it to its days of pleasure. But the tennis court was overgrown with weeds….

  Gazing at her mother’s headstone, Caroline heard footsteps behind her.

  She did not turn. “What is it?” she asked.

  “We need to talk, Caroline.”

  “Then you could have picked a better time. And place.”

  Her father was quiet for a moment. “For the twenty years you were away,” he answered, “I’ve come here. The memories, of whatever kind, belong to both of us.”

  Turning, Caroline walked a few steps, away from the grave, and faced him.

  The shock of Brett’s arrest was written on his face, and his black eyes had the intensity of fever. “I knew that you would stay, Caroline.”

  The instinct to escape, the deep imperative to leave this place and this man, returned to Caroline across two decades. She folded her arms. “Is that what you came to tell me?”

  The light in his eyes dulled. “Betty says that you’re going to Concord, to review the prosecution files. I want to go with you.”

  “No. Thank you.”

  He stiffened. “Brett is my granddaughter.”

  Caroline felt a rush of anger. “Is that what it always comes down to? What’s yours?”

  “Is this about me, Caroline? Or about you?” His voice mixed pride and desperation. “No one is better equipped to advise you. Are you forgetting—after Nuremberg, I had Jackson’s job, then twenty-five years on the bench. I know the law, the lawyers, the judges, all the things that no one ever writes down. If I weren’t your father, you’d be begging for my help.” He stopped himself, framed his last words with the softness of a plea. “There was a time, Caroline, when you wanted nothing more.”

  Caroline watched his face. “So that’s what this means to you,” she said coldly. “Through Brett, you’ll win at last. All that she needed to do was kill someone.”

  A patch of color stained his cheeks. “How can you say that?”

  “That she killed him?” Caroline shrugged. “True, I can’t be sure. But now that I’m her lawyer, whether or not she murdered this boy is of no particular interest to me. And your feelings about it interest me somewhat less.”

  Channing walked over to her. For a moment, it seemed that he would reach out to her. His hands were stiff and awkward at his sides.

  “Please,” he said in a rough voice. “I could die soon. I want to see her vindicated.”

  Caroline felt suddenly weary. “That won’t be easy, Father. You may have to live for a while.”

  He seemed to slump. “How is she?” he asked softly.

  “Under the circumstances? All right. She’s frightened, of course, and her moods change. But she seems to have a certain resilience.”

  Channing looked away. “Do you think she can hold up?”

  “Yes. For a time.”

  Channing turned to her. Quietly, he said, “I know that I’ve put a lot on you.”

  “You? I stayed for her.”

  He did not answer. “This judgeship,” he said at length. “Where does it stand?”

  The inquiry surprised her. For an instant, she felt her ground slipping from beneath her. “Really, I can’t think about it now….”

  “I can help, Caroline.” His voice gained strength. “Tim Braddock is on the Senate Judiciary Committee, in line for the chairmanship. I could call him….”

  Caroline shook her head. “That’s the last thing I need. Or want. Can you understand that?”

  Momentarily, her father looked more frail. “Yes,” he answered with dignity. “I can.”

  “That part of our life is over, Father.” Looking into his face, Caroline drew a breath and then finished: “But if you want to think Brett’s problem through with me—without emotion—I’m willing to put all that aside. At least for now.”

  He raised his head. “Thank you,” he said simply, and left her there.

  From the photograph, James Case stared up at her.

  The fatal slash through his throat was a dark line, and his head twisted at an angle impossible in life. His eyes looked dry, glassy. His face was flecked with blood; from his lips, slightly parted, came a red bubble.

  Caroline placed the photograph next to the others on the conference table.

  The crime lab technicians had been thorough. There were close to twenty color prints—the stations, Caroline thought, of James Case’s agony and death. His nude body sprawled on the blanket. His torso dappled in blood. His flaccid penis sheathed in a condom. The gash in his chest. A shot of his throat so close that Caroline could see his vocal cords.

  She could not help but think of Brett. “Your killer,” she said, “left no room for chance.”

  Behind her, Channing studied the photographs with a faint distaste. “Some people,” he murmured, “aren’t meant to live long lives. How could she have ever slept with him?”

  Silent, Caroline turned from him.

  They were in a sterile conference room at the state police headquarters in Concord, both reviewing files. Her father let a moment pass. Then, as if nothing had happened, Channing said, “Jackson has no answer for the idea the killer could have come on water. Or along it.”

  “And who would that have been? The killer, that is.”

  “Case’s supplier. Perhaps even a vagrant.”

  “I’ve checked the police reports. No homeless reported in the area—no robberies, either. As for James’s angry drug dealer, his break-in story looks bogus.” She paused, studying a picture of the dead boy’s torso. “No, we’re better off keeping bums and dealers a shadowy threat that the police did not take seriously. The more we investigate, the more we prove they shouldn’t have.”

  Channing stood, restless. “You need a suspect, Caroline.”

  Without answering, Caroline picked up an envelope and removed a sealed glassine bag. Her father’s eyes froze.

  Wordless, she passed the bag to him.

  He held it between his fingers, staring down at the bone-handled Cahill knife. Its hilt was still crusted in blood.

  Softly, Caroline asked, “Do you know where Betty was?”

  Channing looked up at her face. His face was cold. “At home,” he said. “With me.”

  Their eyes met, and then Caroline gave a slight nod at the bag. “Messy, isn’t it. But, as you say, Jackson will never trace the knife to Brett. Given that she’s innocent.”

  Without answering, her father turned and placed the knife back in its envelope.

  “So,” Caroline said softly. “We can turn our attention to other things.” She passed him the photograph of James’s torso. “What, for example, is wrong with this picture?”

  Distractedly, Channing took it from her and held it in front of his face. “Not much blood,” he said at length.

  Caroline nodded. “It’s too light—he should be blood-soaked from arterial spurt. Particularly if the killer cut his throat from behind James’s head, as you suggest, so that he or she didn’t absorb the spurt.”

  Channing studied the picture. “And if Brett were on top of him,” he asked, “as the police suggest?”

  “Then she’d be blood-soaked, which their own pictures and report show she wasn’t. And we can assume she was on top—they lifted her fingerprints from his throat and from the blood on his chest.” Caroline paused. “Jackson will disagree, of course. I’m going to need experts.”

  “A serologist?”

  “Possibly. Certainly a criminologist, a forensic pathologist, and a detective. Also—critically—someone who can testify to the effect of drugs and alcohol on memory.”

  Channing sat down. “How much will all this cost?”

  “If we go to trial? A hundred thousand. Perhaps more.”

  Channing stared at the table. “Caroline,” he said slowly. “Except for my pension, I’ve very little mo
ney.”

  It startled her; she remembered young Caroline Masters, who never wanted for anything. “How can that be?”

  He folded his hands in front of him. “It’s ‘been’ for a long time. I just never told you.” His voice was tired. “There was a time when I thought you might keep Masters Hill alive. Then you were gone—” Catching himself, he finished with an air of fatalism. “What investments I had grew worse, and Betty and Larry have no money of their own. Leaving us with our home, and what’s left of our good name.”

  The last, Caroline knew, was said without irony. In profile, her father’s jawline was set, his face prideful. He did not care to look at her.

  “Is that,” Caroline asked, “why you didn’t send Brett away to prep school? Or college?”

  His eyes narrowed. “We did what was best. At whatever cost.”

  Caroline studied him. Softly, she said, “Aptly put.”

  Channing stared straight ahead, silent. “If it comes to it,” Caroline said at length, “you can mortgage Masters Hill.”

  His eyes were still. “I already have. And the property values have fallen here….”

  It was as if she were tormenting him, Caroline realized.

  “All right,” she said. “I can raise some money from my place. But I’ll need twenty thousand now. From either you or Betty.”

  “For what?”

  “The probable cause hearing.” She paused. “I’ve demanded one from Jackson, and it’s in only ten days from now. Assuming I decide to go through with it, I’ll require some expert help.”

  Channing turned to her. “As the defense did in the O. J. Simpson case?”

  “Precisely, and for the same reasons. Like Simpson’s lawyers, I’ll never win—the court will find probable cause. But if the court lets me get away with it, I can examine Jackson’s witnesses before they’re prepared—like the pathologist and the crime lab people—and lock them into a story.”

  Channing considered her. “Or,” he said pointedly, “encourage Brett to consider a plea bargain when she sees the evidence against her.”

  Caroline felt herself stiffen. “Of course, I may not succeed in bludgeoning Brett into submission in time to save my judgeship—she’s somewhat willful.” Her voice was sardonic. “But there are other benefits. Such as winning the battle of pretrial publicity or—better yet—so drowning the public in the evidence against Brett that they no longer find it shocking. As you know, it’s somewhat easier to sell reasonable doubt to a jury that’s already bored with the worst.” She shrugged. “After all, if I have to practice law again, an unexpected victory could keep me in demand. It might even help me cover the expenses of Brett’s defense.”

  Channing flushed. “I won’t let you pressure her into a plea—”

  “You won’t ‘permit’? Then you might consider that a life sentence for Brett would run appreciably longer than a life sentence for you.” Caroline’s words grew softer. “Don’t ever tell me, Father, what you will or will not permit. Because I will do or say whatever I believe to be in Brett’s best interests. Including—though I’ve not quite decided—putting Jackson through this probable cause hearing.”

  Channing seemed to study her; for a strange moment, Caroline thought she saw the faintest smile cross his face. “I can raise twenty thousand,” he said quietly. “In three or four days.”

  Caroline did not answer. She waited briefly, to clear her head, and then put on her reading glasses.

  She had saved the statement of Megan Race for last.

  She read it once, for meaning, trying to detach her feelings from the words on the page. The second time, she took careful notes.

  When she had finished, Caroline slid it down the table. “Read this.”

  As if to imitate Caroline, Channing put on horn-rimmed reading glasses. It surprised her; she could not remember that he had ever needed them. He read in silence.

  When he was through, Channing put the papers down. His face was pale. “She’s lying.”

  “Why?”

  “She has to be.” He turned to her. “Without this girl, Jackson lacks a sufficient case. At least if your experts do their job.”

  “Just so.”

  Channing looked uneasy. Quietly, he asked, “She’s why you want a preliminary, isn’t she?”

  Caroline smiled a little. “Suppose Megan’s the obsessive one. Suppose she followed them, spied on them.” Watching his face, she added with a touch of irony, “Suppose, Father, that she even killed him.”

  Channing stared at the pages in front of him. “What if she was with friends that night—assuming that you’re remotely serious.” His voice fell. “Or, more realistically, that her reputation is good.”

  Caroline’s smile grew cold. “Then I’ll have to destroy her, won’t I? For all our sakes.”

  Two

  “I’ve got everything I need,” Jackson told her, “for murder one.”

  Caroline had found him at his fishing camp. He stood on the pier in a gray morning light, sunlight refracted through a thin layer of clouds. The lake was still.

  She put both hands in the pockets of her blue jeans. “Except proof that the knife was hers.”

  Jackson gave her a look of irony. “They don’t register knives, Caroline. I don’t have to know where it came from.”

  Caroline felt her nerves tighten. “You overcharged this one,” she persisted. “If you really think this looks like premeditation, then I’ve a wonderful insanity defense—Brett coolly planning to run naked through the woods, covered in blood, then make her escape still disguised as a hysterical naked woman. All after neatly disposing of the body by leaving it in plain view on her property.”

  Jackson gave her a look somewhere between compassion and curiosity. Then he sat on the pier, legs over the edge, and motioned for her to join him.

  Silent, Caroline sat next to him.

  “You’re feeling me out,” he said softly. “Specifically, you’re hoping for manslaughter. With Brett getting out before she turns thirty.”

  He was good, Caroline thought. Or perhaps, now, she was less good.

  “It never hurts,” she answered, “to define the real world.”

  Gazing at the lake, Jackson slowly shook his head. “In your world—San Francisco—real is maybe two hundred murders a year: the prosecution has to plea-bargain, or the system will just break down. But this is New Hampshire, where we have less than forty murders statewide, and the pressure on us is to try them.” He looked at her directly. “I won’t play games with you, Caroline. Under our guidelines, manslaughter is out. The best I can do is second-degree murder with a twenty-year minimum.”

  Caroline sat back, speechless for a moment. “That’s absolutely medieval,” she said. “She’d be inside until she was forty-two.”

  Jackson looked defensive. “It’s absolutely New Hampshire,” he shot back. “And James Case never reached twenty-four. You’re expecting me to sell him out.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?” Abruptly, Caroline turned on him. “Or are you overcompensating?”

  “By asking twenty years for a life?” A sudden anger, controlled yet intense, showed in his eyes. He forced himself to finish slowly, softly. “Just what, Caroline, am I compensating for?”

  Caroline went silent, regretting her words, unsure of what to say next. She watched his anger die, replaced by the sense that he had withdrawn from her.

  “All right.” He folded his hands in front of him, staring straight ahead. “If you’re referring to my prior relationship to Channing, the other lawyers in my section are no better off—he helped the two senior lawyers get the job and knows the two remaining through Republican politics.” His voice became almost casual, as if conveying a minor point of information. “As I said, I haven’t spent any real private time with Channing since shortly after you left. It was a little painful for us both.

  “Which brings me to you.”

  He turned to her with a look so cool she found it hurtful. “If I have a problem, it’s
trying a case with you on the other side. And it’s you who shouldn’t be here, presuming on whatever there was—or is—between us.”

  His last words, flat and passionless, hit Caroline like a slap. She forced herself to sound calm. “As it happens, Jackson, that was a very nice day for me. But it has nothing to do with why I came here. Which involves nothing more than seeking fairness for a client.”

  He crossed his arms. “I offered you a lie test.”

  “No. For all the reasons I gave before. And because she may well have been too confused by drugs to have any accurate memory.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “How about one simple question, then. Like ‘Did you kill James Case?’ What’s she going to say—‘I don’t remember’?” He shrugged at his own question, dismissing its absurdity. “Like it or not, we both know that Brett killed him and that the only question is degree. And you’re at once too close to this and too far away: a lawyer from California, who—with all your gifts—knows next to nothing about how things work here.”

  It stopped her for a moment; the comment came far too close to Caroline’s unstated fears. “I can learn, Jackson. With all my gifts…”

  “Why are you doing this?” he demanded. “I mean, you haven’t seen her for twenty years and plainly didn’t give a damn—”

  “That’s not for you to say.”

  “No?” He shook his head in wonder. “What are you trying to prove here, and to whom? I thought you’d left this place behind—”

  “Christ.” Caroline leaned back on her palms, staring at him, and finished in a low voice. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me. You don’t know enough.”

  His lips compressed. “Forgive me, Caroline, but there are a lot of very good defense lawyers in this state who don’t carry whatever baggage you’ve returned with and who don’t have a judgeship at stake.” He paused, tone softer now. “This is already a tragedy for Brett and for her family. I don’t want it to be a tragedy for you. Or—and this is my weakness—to be any part of that.”