Say Nothing

by Brad Parks

  “I’m glad you finally told me,” he said when I finished. “I knew something was up, obviously. There were probably ten times I was close to handing in my resignation. But I just . . . I knew there must have been something really bad going on.”

  “Well, thank you for staying. Sam and Emma thank you too.”

  “You’re welcome. But, look, we can get all mushy with each other later. For now, you said you needed help. What can I do?”

  A few strokes of the keyboard later we were looking at a split screen of two views of the hallway outside my chambers. I had him start the footage at 11:40 A.M., when I had recessed us. We watched in fast-forward.

  With my chambers being behind the courtroom—and around the corner from the hallway where everyone congregated—there wasn’t much for the camera to see. It captured me on my way out to Karen’s place; and then Mrs. Smith, Jean Ann, and the law clerks on their way out to lunch. There was one woman—a clerk in one of the other courtrooms—who passed by but did not stop.

  Then, at 12:32, there came a solitary figure up the hallway. We were watching at 8× fast-forward, so it all happened too fast to see any detail the first time. But what had transpired was unequivocal: A man in a suit had walked up to my door, leaned over, slid a yellow-brown rectangle underneath, and then slithered away.

  “There’s the envelope!” Jeremy shouted. “That’s the guy!”

  “Go back,” I said. “Go back.”

  “Okay, hang on.”

  He clicked the mouse until he got the split screens back to the moment before the man made his approach. Then he played it back.

  The moment the man appeared at 1× speed, I knew. I just still couldn’t believe it. The man who slipped the envelope under my door had flaming red hair.

  “That son of a bitch,” I said.

  “What?” Jeremy asked.

  “That’s my brother-in-law Mark Lowe.”

  * * *

  Without another word, I dashed out of Jeremy’s office. The next thing those cameras outside my chambers recorded was me throwing open the door and steaming up the hallway. I don’t know why I thought Mark might still be out there—why hang around the scene of the crime?—but I still felt compelled to check.

  He wasn’t there. I gazed through the small window into the back of my courtroom. He wasn’t there either. It was just six rows of benches filled with people who were starting to get restless and some antsy lawyers seated in front of them.

  It was now 1:19. I was stretching the extent to which I could keep stalling this hearing. For all I knew, Mark had dropped off that envelope, then fled. He could be in North Carolina by now.

  And I still had a hearing to finish. Even if it was a masquerade, both sides had to rest before I could issue Mark’s ruling.

  Mark’s ruling. Mark’s ruling? The very phrase sounded strange in my head. Mark wasn’t the guy who made the rulings. He was the guy who followed them. He was the quietest voice in the room, the one you seldom heard at all during our boisterous family gatherings. He was the one who didn’t assert himself enough at work, or home, or anywhere else. He was the pale-skinned ginger, the Lowe Man.

  Had Justina and the Turkish brothers really been following his orders? It was hard to process. And I didn’t have time to even attempt to create a scenario where it made sense. But I did need to find him. I wheeled around and returned to my chambers.

  “Give me one more minute,” I hollered to Mrs. Smith, the CSO, and anyone else who cared.

  Going into my office, I grabbed my robe and shrugged it on, not bothering with my mirror check. Instead, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Alison:

  Don’t know what exactly is going on, but Mark is involved. Must go back into hearing now. I will recess us in one hour. Meet me outside the courthouse.

  Before hitting the send button, I paused to decide whether I should add three more words. I took a deep breath; then my fingers made the decision for me, tapping out:

  Bring the gun.

  SIXTY-NINE

  With the tardy and apologetic judge resettled on the bench, the plaintiff’s case resumed its wheezing progress.

  Roland Hemans was executing his duties. And Clarence Worth was pounding him for it, objecting the nanosecond Hemans slipped, drilling to the heart of every matter with his questioning, not letting a single opportunity to score points pass him by.

  My mind kept wandering. Primarily, I was trying to figure out what evil had seeped into my brother-in-law’s veins. It was one thing to endanger his niece and nephew, who weren’t really blood kin to him—if that mattered in some kind of Darwinian calculation. But Mark had also imperiled his own wife, sending Alexi and Boris, two demi-humans lacking any conscience, into his own home.

  What kind of man would do that? Put the mother of his four—four!—children squarely in the path of a pair of human hurricanes?

  Meanwhile, my eye was wandering too. Andy Whipple was in the back row. It suddenly occurred to me that Mark had probably been the person Whipple had been gesturing to earlier this morning. Of course he was. That was going to be Mark’s alibi if I bumped into him: He was just here, innocently serving as his boss’s runner.

  I kept sneaking glances at Whipple to see if he was making hand gestures, because it would mean Mark was back at his post outside. But the celebrity hedge fund manager did not stir.

  Barnaby Roberts had also returned to the same seat, directly behind his lawyers. He just couldn’t seem to stay in it. Every time Worth drilled Hemans—a regular occurrence that afternoon—Roberts shifted with the restlessness of an overstimulated schoolboy.

  Blake Franklin was still in the room as well, offering his silent support.

  But the most compelling figure, in the strangest way, was actually Steve Politi. HedgeofReason’s faithful correspondent was sitting in a kind of stupor, his head lolled to one side. His notebook, into which he should have been furiously scribbling, was resting, unopened, on his thigh. If he had a pen, I didn’t see it.

  He looked, more than anything, beaten. He had been the confident prophet of ApotheGen’s demise since the beginning. He had gone on national television to tout his stories. His hundreds of commenters and untold thousands of loyally clicking readers had undoubtedly done wonders for his website’s advertising revenues.

  And now? It was clear to anyone with an Internet connection he was Dewey-Defeats-Truman wrong. Poor Charlie Brown. Lucy had pulled the football away from him again.

  His reputation was in tatters. His website was a laughingstock. His livelihood was also in jeopardy. Blog traffic is notoriously fickle. Once those millions of unique visitors decided HedgeofReason could not be trusted, his revenues would be gone.

  All because his source—his great, unnamed source—had jerked him around. Was that source Mark? Certainly, Mark could have been the one who gave Politi my cell phone number. Had Mark been able to use his relationship with me to manipulate the coverage in HedgeofReason? Had Steve Politi been just one more person who underestimated the mendacity of Mark Lowe?

  I had an idea of how I might find out.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hemans,” I announced, when Hemans said he was done presenting his case and Worth was finished shredding it. “We’re going to take a break for fifteen minutes and then I’ll start hearing from the defense.”

  And then I looked directly at Steve Politi: “Why doesn’t everyone go outside, get some sunshine on their backs? It’s a nice day. And I’m guessing everyone is eager to check their messages. The reporters especially.”

  Politi remained slack-faced for the amount of time it took him to realize I was really talking to him. I held my gaze on him until I watched it dawn on him. Then he straightened and nodded slightly.

  I lifted myself from my seat as the law clerk called out, “All rise.”

  As soon as I was safely behind the closed door of my office, I pulled out m
y phone and texted Politi.

  Please come to my chambers, ASAP. I’ve got a deal for you.

  * * *

  Knowing I had much to accomplish in the next fifteen minutes, I didn’t even bother to take off my robe before leaving my chambers. I ignored the curious looks as I picked my way through the crowded hallway, then took the stairs down to the first level.

  Ben Gardner had returned to his post at the employee entrance.

  “How’s it going up there?” he asked.

  “Just taking a quick fifteen-minute break. I needed some air.”

  “There’s plenty of it just out that way,” he said, and pointed toward the door.

  I fake smiled. As soon as I was outside, I called Alison.

  “Where are you?” I asked as soon as she picked up. “I just walked outside.”

  “I see you. Turn to your right.”

  My head scanned ninety degrees before I found her, standing on the street corner outside the employee parking lot. We met halfway, at the edge of the parking lot.

  “What did you mean by your text? Mark is involved? Are you sure?”

  I told her about the surveillance footage and the envelope he had slipped under my door.

  “Oh my God, I just saw him,” she said when I was through.

  “You did? Where?”

  “He was outside the main entrance, talking on his phone. I was going to approach him but I still didn’t know what you meant by your text, so I held back.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “No. His car was at one of those one-hour meters right in front of the courthouse. When he was done with the call, he fed the meters, tossed the phone in the car, then went back in.”

  “So he’s inside the courthouse right now?”

  “As far as I know,” she said. “But if he really is involved, what are we going to do?”

  “That’s why I asked you to bring the gun. You do have it, right?”

  “Yeah,” she said, lifting her handbag to indicate it was inside. “But how’s that going to do us any good? We’re not going to be able to get it inside.”

  “Actually, I think we can. Can you disassemble it again? The metal detectors at the employee entrance are set pretty loosely. If I take half and you take half, I think we can sneak it in.”

  I could scarcely believe it was me saying the words—me, the ever-cautious judge, coolly planning the details of a felony. It was at least a year in prison if we got caught. Maybe more, given that I could scarcely claim ignorance of the law. But I was beyond fretting over consequences.

  So was Alison.

  “You still have that screwdriver set in your car?” she asked.

  “Sure do.”

  “Grab it for me.”

  As she got settled in the front seat of my Buick, I retrieved the tools from the back. Working with a speed and competence her late father would have been proud of, she reduced the gun to its component parts. She slid the barrel in her pocket. She took the spring and the empty magazine and stashed them in her purse, under the rationale that neither would look suspicious when separated from other gun parts and viewed in the X-ray machine.

  I took the pistol grip—much of which was plastic—and the bullets. Both would certainly look suspicious under X-ray, which was why I stuffed them in my pants, under my robe.

  “Okay,” I said. “Here goes nothing.”

  We walked toward the employee entrance arm in arm, just a respected federal judge and his lovely wife out for a stroll. I opened the door for her and plastered an eighteen-tooth grin on my face.

  “Hey, Ben,” I said. “You remember Alison.”

  “Mrs. Sampson, a pleasure to see you again,” he said.

  Without my having suggested it, Alison played her part perfectly. She planted a kiss on his cheek. “Mr. Gardner, I just wanted to thank you for the favor you did for us. I really do appreciate it.”

  Ben murmured a few aw-shucks as Alison placed her bag on the conveyer belt for the X-ray machine. She walked through the metal detector without a sound. I don’t think Ben so much as glanced at the ghostly image of her bag that appeared on the screen in front of him. He was too busy beaming at Alison.

  Then it was my turn. I was thankful metal detectors couldn’t discern when someone was holding his breath, because that’s what I was doing as I approached. I tried to make like this was just another routine time breezing through security. I was a judge with lots on his mind.

  The machine didn’t buy it.

  It beeped loudly.

  Ben’s head snapped toward it. His face pinched. This was probably the first time in three years he had heard that noise.

  It was a good thing Ben was no longer paying attention to Alison, because she was aghast. This was about to fall apart.

  Ben had already grabbed a yellow wand, the handheld metal detector marshals could use to pass up and down someone’s body. All it would take was one pass over my pocket and a Can you empty that, please? for this to end in disaster. I couldn’t exactly issue a ruling on ApotheGen from a holding cell at the Western Tidewater Regional Jail.

  Just on the other side of the machine, I stopped and made a show of my bewilderment. This had to be the acting performance of my life.

  I made a big, obvious eye roll. I lifted one side of my robe—the non-gun side—and pulled the brass keychain, still in its plastic bag, out of my pocket.

  “Oops,” I said. “Forgot about this.”

  I held the bag by the zippered end and let that chunk of metal dangle before Ben’s eyes. I grinned sheepishly behind it.

  Ben regripped the wand in his hand and raised it to pocket height.

  Then he used it to make a shooing motion. He smiled and said, “Just go.”

  * * *

  When I returned to my chambers, Steve Politi was waiting for me in the reception area.

  “Hi, Judge,” he said as I entered.

  He extended his right hand. I grabbed it firmly and gave it a shake.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Politi,” I said.

  He looked almost as tired as I felt.

  “He said you wanted to see him?” Mrs. Smith said, sounding like she didn’t believe it for a second.

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Smith. Mr. Politi, why don’t you have a seat in my office? I’ll be right in.”

  He accepted that suggestion without a word. I shunted Alison toward Jeremy Freeland’s office, tapping on his door.

  “Hey, Jeremy,” I said.

  “Oh, hello, Alison,” he said, as if he had somehow expected to see her.

  “She needs to be alone in your office for a little while. Would you mind taking a walk?”

  “I just remembered I have a few errands to run,” he said.

  “Thanks. And, look, I know I’m out of favors to ask you, but would you mind letting her borrow your cell phone? I might need to contact her quickly.”

  We could sneak a gun into the courthouse, but not her cell phone. Ludicrous.

  “Sure,” he said, pulling it out of his pocket and leaving it on his desk. Then he stood up. “Don’t let Thurgood beg any food out of you while I’m gone, no matter how much he whines. He’s getting chubby around the gills.”

  “Got it,” Alison said.

  As Jeremy cleared out of the room, Alison was already hoisting her bag up on his desk. I closed the door, removed the grip and bullets from my pocket, and deposited them in front of her.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  I planted a short kiss on her cheek, then left her to her work and returned to my office. Politi was seated at one of the chairs in front of my desk.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said.

  “I thought it might improve my day. It pretty much couldn’t get any worse.”

  “Is that so?” I said, playing along as if I didn’t know.


  “Have you seen my blog?”

  My response was to pull up HedgeofReason.com on my screen.

  To his credit, Politi was reporting the proceedings accurately and without bias. His post after the morning session reflected the terribly one-sided nature of what he and everyone else had witnessed. But he also cautioned readers to remember the case wasn’t over yet and that judges had been known to make unexpected rulings based on arcane points of law.

  Wall Street was already betting otherwise. That stampede of analysts pouring out of my courtroom earlier that morning had a lot more sway on the market than one lonely blogger, no matter what his readership was. The UPDATE! reported that ApotheGen stock had already surged nine dollars and seventy-four cents on heavy trading. Apparently, brokers just couldn’t get their hands on the stuff fast enough.

  There were 1,270 comments after the update.

  The first: “Politi you douchebag!!!!! I’m losing my shirt!!!”

  The second: “You better not come into work becuz im beyond the hedge of reason rite now and im gonna beat your face in.”

  And on it went. Hiding behind the safety of their keyboards, HedgeofReason’s readers were pouring vitriol onto the blogger who had so recently been the subject of their paeans.

  “Ouch,” I said.

  “The only reason I haven’t been fired is because I own the website,” he said. “But I’m thinking about firing myself anyway.”

  “Yeah, that’s a bad day.”

  “Thank you. Now, you said you had a deal for me? Please start talking, because otherwise you’re just standing between me and a long date with the hotel bar.”

  I leaned back and crossed my legs under my robe. “So this source of yours. He . . . she . . . really played you, huh?”

  “Did you just bring me in here to taunt me? There’s enough of that waiting for me online, thank you very much,” he said, lifting his body from his seat.

  “Wait, wait,” I said. “Just slow down. Hear me out. The point I was trying to make was: Your source screwed you, so why not screw him back?”