Say Nothing

by Brad Parks

  Once back at the podium, Jacobs went for the big finale.

  “The US Attorneys Office assures me it is going to do everything within the law to appeal this egregious decision and get this drug dealer back behind bars, where he belongs,” Jacobs said. “But we cannot allow the judge who delivered this sentence to continue on the bench. I have attempted to go through proper channels with my complaint. But the chief judge of this circuit told me this ruling was a quote-unquote matter of conscience on the part of Judge Sampson, and he would not pursue the matter further.”

  At this point, Jacobs arched an eyebrow—can you believe that crap?—and whatever gratitude I felt toward Jeb Byers for coming to my defense was swamped by my loathing for the congressman.

  “I have no choice but to publicly call for Judge Sampson’s resignation. If he does not resign immediately, I will call on my friend and colleague Neal Keesee, the chairman of the House Judiciary Committee, to begin impeachment proceedings.”

  He lingered over that pronouncement for a moment, then finished: “Mr. Byrd and I will now take any questions you might have.”

  I clicked off the television, unable to tolerate any more of the Michael Jacobs Show. In a way, nothing he had said—and nothing he could do to me in the short term—truly worried me. It would take months for any investigation that might lead to impeachment to even begin.

  The more immediate problem was that there was now a horde of reporters digging into my business, wanting to know why Judge Scott Sampson rendered this strange sentence. True, it might save my job if they learned the truth.

  But it would be a death sentence for my daughter.

  * * *

  The first phone call asking for comment came in to Mrs. Smith’s desk twenty minutes later. I told her I would have none. More requests flooded in quickly thereafter.

  The press conference had obviously broken up. Outside my window, I could see several of the news crews had moved operations to the sidewalk outside the judges’ parking lot. I knew exactly the footage they were looking to capture: me coming out, looking terrified and guilty; reporters shouting loaded questions at me, as if they were actually interested in “my side” of the story.

  I wasn’t going to give them that satisfaction. I could wait them out. I’d hide in the courthouse all day and halfway through the night if I had to.

  What I couldn’t duck was a phone call from Jeb Byers, which arrived shortly thereafter. I barely had time to register the quickening in my pulse as the chief judge of the circuit’s voice entered my ear.

  He did not bother with a greeting, starting instead with: “I take it you are aware of the spectacle outside your courthouse just now?”

  “Yes, unfortunately.”

  “I wish I could say it surprises me, but it doesn’t. Keesee and I spoke on Monday and I told him that while your sentence was unusual, I didn’t think there was anything untoward about it. Keesee made it pretty clear to me he didn’t think Jacobs was going to drop the issue.”

  “I can see that,” I said, then added, “Thanks for your confidence in me, Jeb. I really appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome. I have to be honest, I’m not sure I understand the decision you made. But I’ll defend to the death your right to make it. I won’t stand for one of my judges being bullied, especially not by the likes of a second-rate lawmaker who is just trying to gin up a controversy for the evening news.”

  “Amen.”

  “But I have to tell you,” he said, putting in an ominous pause, “I think the media is going to ask some rather pointed questions.”

  He didn’t need to stoke my dread on that front. “I’m sure it will,” I said.

  “I think it would be wise to issue a statement. This thing is in the public and political sphere now. It doesn’t reflect well on the judiciary to let a claim of this nature go unanswered. I don’t like it when people accuse us of hiding behind our robes.”

  I was shaking my head, even though Jeb couldn’t see it over the phone. “With all due respect, Jeb, I don’t know if that’s the best idea. I sometimes dealt with the media while I worked for Senator Franklin. The press is sort of like a parasite: The more you feed it, the bigger and hungrier it gets. The only way you can make it lose interest and drop away is by starving it.”

  “I understand where you’re coming from, and ordinarily I might agree with you. But I think you need to come out swinging. My father taught me a long time ago the only thing a bully really understands is force. I think you have to issue a statement where you talk about Keith Bloom.”

  This was heading toward a disaster in a hurry. A statement about Keith Bloom would invite a level of scrutiny it couldn’t withstand. I could imagine a handful of enterprising reporters trying to interview a high school football coach who didn’t really exist. How long would it take them to realize they were chasing a figment of my imagination?

  I had to get Byers off this public relations strategy, and unfortunately there was only one way to do it: lie some more, essentially doubling down on what was already a losing bet.

  “Well, Jeb, I’m not sure I can do that . . . to Keith. He’s got a career and a family and a community he serves that doesn’t need to know about his past unless he chooses to tell them about it on his own terms.”

  Byers didn’t immediately respond, so I added, “It’s not his fight. It’s mine. It’s not fair of me to drag him into this.”

  “Are you still in touch with him?”

  “No. Not for years now.”

  “Well, what if you contacted him and told him what you were going to do?” Byers suggested. “Get his permission to use his story. I bet he talks about his youthful transgressions all the time with the young people he mentors now. He’d probably be proud to know his story inspired you and would want it to inspire others.”

  “I . . . I don’t know, Jeb. It feels like a terrible invasion of a man’s privacy. Knowing Keith”—I had to force the words out of my mouth—“he might feel compelled to help me out as a kind of quid pro quo for what happened when he was a teenager. But that still wouldn’t make it right.”

  “I have a friend who’s a reporter at the Times-Dispatch. He’s very good. Very fair. What if I slipped him the name Keith Bloom off the record and let him chase it?”

  The line fell silent as I tried to quell my rising panic. A reporter from the Times-Dispatch wasn’t the answer to my problem. It was the personification of my biggest fear.

  Byers was waiting for a response, and I came up with: “That feels like trying a case in the press. I’d rather just ride this thing out. If Congress wants to investigate me and appoint a special prosecutor, that’s fine. They won’t find anything. It’s not like I have a secret offshore account with a million dollars in it.”

  More silence. I felt like I was winning. And then Byers hit me with:

  “Are you sure you should continue hearing cases while this thing is cleared up?” he asked.

  As chief judge of the circuit, Byers chaired our circuit’s Judicial Council, which could issue an order that would immediately strip me of my entire docket. Yes, it would take a vote of the entire council, not just Byers. But he wielded an enormous amount of influence.

  The moment Palgraff was assigned to another judge . . .

  I tried not to let my voice betray the mad thumping coming from my chest. “I hear what you’re saying, but I worry it would be taken as an admission of guilt. It would be letting the bully have his way. You have my word I won’t allow any of this to be a distraction.”

  He chewed on this for a moment, then said, “Okay. We’ll see how things progress.”

  “I think that’s a good plan.”

  “Let’s keep in touch,” he said.

  “Absolutely. Thanks for everything, Jeb.”

  I hung up the phone, then buried my face in my hands.

  THIRTY-FOUR


  The story—of the congressman who rode a Harley trying to impeach the federal judge who had once been shot—had enough hooks to it that everyone wanted a piece of it.

  As the morning wore on, I watched in horror as Jacobs’ quotes and Byrd’s sound bites spread across cable news and the Internet, flying at the speed of scandal. Friends from college, law school, the Senate—people I hadn’t heard from in years—were e-mailing and texting, either with offers of moral support or because they had been contacted by a reporter and wanted to know how to respond. Senator Franklin called twice.

  I let everything go to voice mail. Even the calls from Alison. Especially the calls from Alison.

  And yet, clearly, avoiding her wasn’t going to work forever. On her fifth or sixth attempt, I finally picked up.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Oh my God, why haven’t you been answering?” she said in a high-pitched voice.

  “I’ve been a little busy,” I said, perhaps too brusquely.

  “I take it you saw that . . . that . . .”

  “Press conference?”

  “Yeah. I guess. If you want to call it that. Can that jerk really do that? Just stand up there and accuse you of . . . of . . .”

  “Being corrupt? Apparently he can. If you think about it, I sort of am. Just not for the reason he thinks.”

  “But is he really . . . I mean, can he get you impeached?”

  “Look, you just worry about Sam. I’ll worry about my job.”

  In the background, I heard our landline ring.

  “That’s probably another reporter,” she said. “They’ve been calling nonstop. I thought we were supposed to be unlisted.”

  “Reporters have ways of getting phone numbers.”

  “What about our address? Are they going to start coming to the house?”

  “I don’t think so. They’ll be able to get our PO box, but that’s it.”

  After The Incident and my appointment to the bench, I had taken measures, aided by a friendly helpmate at the Department of Homeland Security, to make sure our physical address did not enter the public record. I prayed I had succeeded. I didn’t know what the kidnappers would make of a line of news vans coming down our driveway.

  “What should I do if someone does come?” she asked.

  “Tell them they’re trespassing on private property and to get the hell out.”

  “Can you . . . can you come home? I’d feel better if you were here.”

  “I’m a little trapped here at the moment,” I said, casting my eyes in the direction of the window. “And that might backfire if some reporter was able to follow me home. Why don’t you go to your mom’s house? Or Karen’s? Pack a bag. Spend the night. Spend a few nights.”

  It would keep them safe from reporters. It would also spare me having to talk to her. And she wouldn’t be able to rendezvous with Paul Dresser as long as her family was around, would she? I couldn’t imagine Gina or Karen going along with something that insidious.

  “Yeah, I guess we . . . Hi, honey,” Alison said with sudden warmth in her tone. “I’m just talking with Daddy.”

  Sam had obviously walked into the room. I could hear him talking but couldn’t really make out his words. Only Alison’s.

  “No, honey, Momma is just fine.”

  He said something else indistinct.

  “You’re a sweet, sweet boy. Why don’t you go back downstairs and put on another program? I’ll get you a corn dog just as soon as Daddy and I are done talking.”

  She waited, presumably for him to leave the room, then came back in a whisper: “He said I looked upset and asked if I was okay.”

  “That boy loves his momma,” I said, and the thought of it choked me up. For however screwed up everything was, and for however much he hurt, Sam was still looking out for his mother.

  Alison continued speaking in a hush. “Scott, I’m freaking out here. What if one of these reporters learns about . . . about why you really made that ruling?”

  “They won’t. The only people who know that are the kidnappers, and I don’t think they’ll be holding any press conferences.”

  “But what if some reporter goes to school and learns we’ve pulled the kids out? Or what if one of my sisters gets cornered by someone with a microphone and decides to defend you?”

  “Oh God help us. You have to tell them not to talk. It is totally imperative that they—”

  “I know, I know. My point is, there are a thousand ways things could go wrong. It’s just . . . Everything is getting out of control.”

  You’re just now noticing? I wanted to blurt. But a flip comment like that wouldn’t help. Instead, I went for brutal honesty.

  “Look, I know I’m supposed to be offering you comfort and reassurance here, but I just don’t have any to give you, okay? You’re right. This is out of our control. It’s been that way all along. There’s noth—”

  I was about to say There’s nothing we can do, until this thought hit me: Was she just panicking now about the lack of control because she actually had been in control before this? Was there a risk of exposure now that hadn’t been there previously, something she and Paul hadn’t planned on? I finished my sentence by switching pronouns:

  “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Yeah, I . . . I know. Okay. I guess . . . I guess Sam and I will head to my mother’s. We’ll plan to stay the night. Maybe tomorrow night, too.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” I said. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay. Love you.”

  I took a deep breath, reminded myself I still had nothing more than a half-cocked theory about my wife’s involvement, and said, “Love you too.”

  * * *

  One by one, the news crews packed up and left. Some lasted only until a little after lunchtime. Others waited until I was supposed to have come out at the end of the workday. The last of them didn’t depart until the sun went down.

  I gave it another hour after that, and still I hurried out, braced for an assault of shouts and klieg lights.

  None came. On the drive home, I called Alison. She asked me to join her at her mother’s house, but I declined. I told her it was because I wanted to keep up a show of normalcy for the kidnappers.

  I talked with Sam for two minutes—which was about as long as I could get him to stay on the phone—then spent the rest of the trip, and the remainder of the evening, in lonely despondency.

  The next morning, I made a quick drive-by of the judges’ parking lot to see if there were reporters waiting there for me. But there were none. I hoped that meant I was old news for good.

  After entering the building, I told Joan Smith I had some files to read and didn’t want to be disturbed unless it was an emergency. I then lay down on the couch in my office, pulled out my phone, and told myself that spending a few minutes looking at pictures of Emma would be a comfort.

  This quickly led to my weeping in silence. My brain didn’t buy the trick I was trying to pull on it. Yes, the little girl in the pictures was happy, smiling, and safe. But the little girl in real life was scared, alone, and in mortal danger.

  And not doing anything about it was killing me.

  For as much as I continued to be tormented by images of Alison on the beach in Saint-Tropez with Paul Dresser, my more reasonable thoughts told me Roland Hemans was still the most logical suspect.

  Ultimately, ApotheGen was going to bring Prevalia to the marketplace—and Paul Dresser would still have a job there—whether the company had to pay off Denny Palgraff or not. If it won the case, it would make more money, yes. But it was still going to make some money, and its stock would still be worth something.

  Which was not true for Hemans and Palgraff. For them, this was all or nothing.

  I couldn’t make Palgraff as the culprit, especially now that I had met him. Palgraff’s arrogance
would be such that he believed he would win because he was right. What’s more, he would want the trial to take place: The long-withheld vindication of his genius, and the recognition for having discovered the PCSK9 inhibitor that changed the narrative of heart disease the world over, was every bit as important to him as the money it brought.

  Hemans wouldn’t care about any of that. He knew he was up against an armada of attorneys who were all but unbeatable—unless he could compromise the judge, in which case he could guarantee the payday of a lifetime.

  Tailing Hemans, as I had attempted before, could lead to disaster. He knew what I looked like now. Half of Hampton Roads now knew what I looked like, after Tuesday’s media blitz. I had to maintain a low profile. And, as Alison had pointed out, I wasn’t trained as a private investigator.

  But—and I don’t know why it took so long for this to come to me—I could hire one.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  His name was Herbert Thrift of Herbert Thrift & Associates.

  I picked him out of the Yellow Pages not because his ad claimed he had twenty-five years of experience with the Gloucester County Sheriff’s Office or because he promised reasonable rates. It was because the word “confidential” was the largest of the several adjectives he used to describe himself.

  His first available appointment was at noon on Thursday. His office was about ten minutes from the courthouse, on Northampton Boulevard, in a shabby colonial that was one of several in what otherwise appeared to be single-family homes.

  As I walked up his front steps, I got the sense there were still sleeping quarters upstairs. This was not only the home of Herbert Thrift & Associates; it was Herbert Thrift’s actual home.

  After being buzzed into the foyer, I heard a man’s voice call out from a room beyond, “I’m back here. Come on in.”

  I followed his instructions and was soon shaking hands with a thin, graying, bespectacled man in his fifties who, from the smell of his clothes, still lamented the indoor smoking ban.

  “Herb Thrift,” he said in a high, soft voice.