The Judge

by Randy Singer

  Finney was forever an enigma to Nikki—battle-tested and demanding in the courtroom, but an everyday Joe outside. He wore his hair longer than most men his age, so that it curled out a little at the ends, the only part not flattened into place by an old John Deere cap Finney insisted on wearing outside court. If you ran into Finney on the street, you might guess he was a NASCAR fan, but hardly a judge.

  “You okay?” Mitchell Taylor asked as the judge regained his composure and took a big gulp of water.

  “Fine, fine,” Finney said with a flick of the wrist. But Nikki knew that the coughing spells were increasing in both regularity and intensity. She wanted to strangle the judge for refusing to give up cigars. “Continue,” he said.

  Mitchell Taylor looked down at his notes and picked up at the precise spot where he had left off. Always prepared. Never flustered. A buttoned-down prosecutor who had recently transferred to Norfolk from Virginia Beach. He would have been near the top of Nikki’s hottie list but for the fact that he was happily married.

  “The facts for this hearing are essentially undisputed,” Mitchell said.

  He picked up an enlarged photograph mounted on poster board. “This is Antoine Carter,” he said, waving the life-size picture of a face caked in blood. “The coroner says he choked to death on his own blood.” Mitchell placed the photo facedown on his counsel table while Landers furiously scribbled notes. Stokes sneered at Mitchell, his lips curling slightly upward with a maddening nonchalance, as if he had a Get Out of Jail Free card.

  But Mitchell was a pro, too battle-hardened to give the defendant even the satisfaction of a glance. “Marks on the victim’s wrists and ankles, and around his chest and neck, led the coroner to conclude that he was bound hand and foot and forced to lie on his back, duct-taped to a table, while blood pooled in his throat and ultimately his lungs.”

  Now Mitchell unveiled another picture, one that made even Nikki divert her eyes, though she had pretty much seen it all. Finney didn’t flinch.

  “This is a close-up of the victim, Antoine Carter, with his mouth propped open,” Mitchell said. “As you can see, his tongue has been cut out.”

  The deputy sheriff assigned to the courtroom turned her head, and the court reporter went pale. Only Detective Jenkins, a homicide investigator who had accompanied Mitchell to court in case the judge needed testimony, appeared as unaffected as Finney. Nikki forgot all about where her hypothetical passengers might have been sitting on her hypothetical bus. Who would do such a thing?

  As if reading her mind, Mitchell grabbed a third blowup from his counsel table. Even as her stomach tightened, morbid curiosity forced Nikki to keep her eyes glued to the young prosecutor and what he might reveal next. “We believe this killing is gang related. This is a picture of Mr. Carter’s chest,” Mitchell said, his voice tense with anger. “As you can see, the initials BGD are carved into his skin. The blood that coagulated around these cuts indicates Mr. Carter was still alive when they did this.

  “BGD stands for the Black Gangster Disciples,” said Mitchell, who firmed his jaw and turned to the defendant. “It’s one of the strongest gangs operating in Norfolk right now, and we have reason to believe that the defendant, Terrel Stokes, is its leader.”

  At this Stokes grunted his disapproval, then narrowed his eyes and slowly shook his head at Mitchell, sending a chill up Nikki’s spine along with an unmistakable message: Mitchell would be next.

  Undeterred, Mitchell turned back toward Finney. “The victim was scheduled to testify against Stokes in the defendant’s upcoming drug trial. We had flipped Mr. Carter, promising him we would take his cooperation into account at sentencing. We have a full written confession about his involvement in a drug ring headed by Stokes, and we want to use the confession at trial, since the witness himself is no longer available. That’s why we filed this motion in limine.”

  D. J. Landers rose, arms spread wide. “And we object, Your Honor, because it’s classic hearsay and violates the defendant’s constitutional right to confront the witnesses.”

  “Looks like he already did that,” Finney said.

  “My client was in jail when Carter died,” Landers protested. “And the commonwealth doesn’t have one shred of evidence that my client was involved in his death. You can’t try a man for drug offenses based on written statements from dead witnesses.”

  “You can when the defendant orders their death,” Mitchell snapped, still standing like a Marine in front of his counsel table. “You waive your right to confront your witnesses when you kill them—”

  “If you kill them,” Landers interrupted. “Which, of course, didn’t happen here.” He turned to Mitchell. “You think my client killed your witness? File murder charges.”

  Mitchell didn’t respond, his stare saying what words could not. Nikki knew that Mitchell had been criticized for taking cases too personally. It’s what she liked about him—passion.

  “You won’t indict him for murder, because you don’t have any evidence,” Landers continued. His air of self-satisfaction curdled Nikki’s stomach. “So why don’t you spend your time looking for Antoine Carter’s killer instead of harassing my client with this baseless drug charge?”

  The muscles in Mitchell’s neck tightened. “We searched the apartments of other suspected gang members. We found letters Stokes wrote from jail, telling a gang member that Antoine Carter would be testifying for the government. A few days later, Carter’s dead. What more do we need?”

  “Those letters, written by my client, show that he didn’t believe Carter was a threat,” Landers explained, his voice even. “They show my client believed that Carter would never cooperate with the government.”

  “Right,” Mitchell scoffed. “The letters go out the week of April 4. The very next week—April 11, to be precise—Carter dies, losing his tongue in the process. What a lucky coincidence for the defendant.”

  Landers stiffened, fired back a retort, and the insults flew. For the next few minutes, Finney let the lawyers spar themselves out, his chin resting on his hand like a spectator at a chess match.

  Finally he banged his gavel. “Gentlemen, that’s enough.” They both looked up at him, two schoolboys who had been prematurely untangled from a fight, seething to get back at each other.

  “Let me see the letters,” Finney ordered.

  “I object,” Landers said, his tanned face flushing.

  “On what grounds?” Finney asked.

  “They contain impressions of my client about his own lawyer,” Landers said, crossing his arms and taking a half step away from his suddenly poisonous client. “Those allegations are untrue, and the letters themselves are privileged communications.”

  “Oh, come on,” Mitchell blurted, obviously sensing blood. “The letters are written by a prisoner and sent to a fellow gangbanger on the outside. How can they possibly be privileged?”

  “I’m just saying—”Landers started, but Finney cut him off with a wave.

  “Pass ’em up,” Finney said. “We’ll take a brief recess while I study them. And don’t worry, Mr. Landers. I’m not going to form any opinions about you based on what your client says in those letters. I’m perfectly capable of forming those judgments on my own.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Landers said, though Nikki was pretty sure the judge hadn’t meant it as a compliment.

  3

  In the judge’s chambers, a messy office that reeked of cigar smoke, Nikki finished her work on the LSAT questions while Finney studied the letters. He took off his reading glasses, rubbed his forehead, and picked up the half-smoked Phillies cigar from his ashtray. Nikki glanced up and frowned her displeasure. She knew he wouldn’t light up in front of her, but he still had a nasty habit of chewing on the cigar and spitting little bits and pieces into the trash can.

  He cleared some phlegm from his throat and thrust the letters toward her. “Take a look at these,” he said, “and let me know what you think.”

  “I think you ought to flush those ci
gars.”

  “About the letters,” Finney said.

  Nikki rose from the worn leather couch and started toward the desk.

  “And let me see your answers,” Finney added, pointing to the LSAT questions she had spread out on the coffee table in front of her. “If you get them all right, I’ll quit cold turkey.”

  “Like that’s going to happen,” she muttered.

  They traded documents, and Nikki settled back onto the couch, arranging the letters before her in chronological order. The first one, written in neat block letters from Stokes to a man nicknamed Juice, was dated April 4.

  Nikki chuckled to herself as she thought about Landers’s futile attempt to keep these letters from the court. No wonder. She loved the phrase “did me greasy”—it perfectly described the way Landers practiced law. She turned to the second letter, obviously written the next day.

  The defendant, acting like he’d never heard of the Black Gangster Disciples, obviously had a penchant for sarcasm, Nikki thought. Still, this letter seemed to indicate that Stokes wasn’t worried about Carter’s testimony, just like Landers claimed. Maybe that’s because Stokes knew the Disciples would take care of Carter before he ever made it to the stand.

  There was one more letter from Stokes.

  Nikki just shook her head at this one. Even in jail, Stokes was calling the shots, practically chuckling as his boys beat a new inmate within an inch of his life.

  The last letter was a return letter from the gangbanger named Juice, obviously intercepted by the deputies at the jail.

  Nikki finished reading the letters and looked up at Finney.

  “Well,” he said, the cigar dangling out the side of his mouth. He held her LSAT answers in his right hand. “Guess I’ll be able to enjoy these babies a little while longer.” He licked the end of his cigar and placed it in the ashtray, coughing as he did.

  “How bad?” Nikki asked.

  “One out of twelve. You would’ve done better if you had just put the same letter for every question.”

  Nikki grunted, swallowing a few choice words for the old geezer, and shrugged. “I did that last time. You said I wasn’t trying hard enough.”

  “It’s not easy getting less than 20 percent right,” Finney said. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and locked his hands behind his head. “What do you think?”

  Nikki stacked the letters and placed them back on the judge’s desk. “Guilty.”

  Finney raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s just like Mitchell said,” Nikki insisted, standing in front of the judge’s desk. “Stokes doesn’t have to order the killing of a witness in plain English. He just has to mention to his gangbangers that one of their own is ratting him out, and they take care of the rest. You’ve got to allow the written statement into evidence.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.” Nikki stood her ground and crossed her arms. She could see he wasn’t buying it, but she was ready to fight for this one.

  “So every time an inmate mentions a witness to someone outside the jail, and the witness later dies, we just flush the defendant’s right to confront the witness in court?”

  “Not every time, Judge. But here you’ve got proven gang connections and the timing—one week after the letter, the witness is dead. And the whole tongue thing.”

  Finney stood and started putting his robe back on. “You’ll make a good prosecutor, Nikki. But I’m not being paid to be a prosecutor. Sometimes a judge has to hold his nose and still make the right ruling, especially when a constitutional right is at stake.”

  “Judge,” Nikki protested, following him out of his office. “You can’t be serious. This guy had a gangbanger cut out the man’s tongue—”

  “All rise,” the deputy said as Finney entered the courtroom. Nikki trailed half a step behind, veering toward her seat next to the wall. But first she made one last plea.

  “His tongue, Judge. They cut out his tongue.”

  4

  In a move that surprised Nikki, Judge Finney said he would rule after he asked Detective Jenkins a few questions. He swore the witness in and took him through a series of background questions about the letters. Stokes seemed to be uninterested in the proceedings, glancing around the courtroom and occasionally sneering at the witness. Nikki couldn’t believe the judge was even thinking about putting this man back on the street.

  “Are you familiar with gang activity in and around the Norfolk area?” Finney asked.

  “Very familiar, Judge.”

  “What can you tell me about the Black Gangster Disciples?”

  Jenkins described the criminal activities of the Disciples in a no-nonsense tone that made him eminently believable. Under prompting from Finney, he testified about the dominating presence of the BGDs in the jails throughout the state, including the Norfolk City Jail. Many of their outside gang activities, according to the detective, were directed by leaders presently incarcerated.

  “Leaders like Mr. Stokes?” Finney asked.

  “Objection,” Landers called out.

  “Overruled.”

  “Yes,” the witness said. “Leaders like the defendant.”

  “Now, take a look at that third letter sent by Mr. Stokes,” Finney instructed.

  While Jenkins studied the handwritten note, the defendant glared at the witness.

  “What’s the date on top of that letter?”

  The detective hesitated. “It actually has two dates: April 6, 2006, and April 7, 2006.”

  “Does that strike you as unusual?” Finney asked. The judge’s tone caught Nikki’s attention.

  The detective stared at the letter for a moment. “I’m not sure what you mean, Judge.”

  Finney leaned back in his swivel chair, twirling his glasses. “Well, it seems to me that it’s an awful short letter to take two days to write. Maybe—what?—five total lines?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Detective, read that letter into the record. And tell me if it sounds like the kind of letter that was actually written over the course of two days.”

  “‘Hey, my man. Bring my old lady by and tell her to bring a crate . . . ,’” Jenkins read. As the detective worked his way through the letter, Finney caught Nikki’s eye and graced her with a wink.

  When Jenkins finished, he looked up at the judge. “Short letter,” he said. “Seems to me like it was all written at the same time.”

  “The same thing I thought when I first read it,” Finney said, looking at the defendant. “So I started asking myself, ‘What’s going on with the dates?’”

  At this, Stokes whispered something angrily to Landers. Landers shook his head without looking at his client. In response, Stokes whispered again, angrier than before, jabbing a finger at a legal pad.

  “So here’s what I want you to do,” Finney said. “Start with the first letter and assume that the date is more than just a date. In fact, assume that the date is an encryption key to help you decipher what these letters are really saying.”

  The detective studied the first letter and looked up at the judge, still confused.

  “For example,” Finney continued, “just for the fun of it. If the date is 4/4/2006, go to the fourth line of the message and the fourth word of that line and write it down. Then for the next letter, which I believe is dated 4/5/2006, go to the fourth line and write down the fifth word. Then for the last letter, dated 4/6/2006 and 4/7/2006, write down both the sixth and seventh words of the fourth line. Then use the same method on the reply letter. Does that make sense?”

  The detective nodded, already working on his task. Landers and Stokes argued in loud whispers, and Nikki could feel a motion for a change in legal counsel coming. Mitchell turned and glanced at Nikki, the glint of victory in his pupils. And Finney, the smartest judge Nikki had ever known, sat impassively watching the detective, as if nothing more were at stake than the answers to an LSAT question.

  “Okay,” the detective said, working hard to maintain his professional demean
or. “I think I’ve got it.”

  “What does it say?” Finney asked.

  “We object, Your Honor,” Landers said, though Nikki could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

  “On what grounds?”

  “Uh . . . this is total speculation. And highly prejudicial.”

  At this, Finney actually grinned. “How do you know it’s prejudicial, Counsel? The detective hasn’t even read it yet.”

  Stokes grabbed the arm of Landers, causing the lawyer to bend over so Stokes could unleash another tirade into his reddened ear. Landers shook it off and rose again to face Finney. “We have to assume it is, Your Honor, based on the tone of your questions.”

  “Overruled,” Finney snapped.

  Landers sat down.

  The detective looked to the judge for permission to proceed.

  “Go ahead,” Finney said.

  “Here’s what I get when I apply the methodology you suggested,” the proud detective said. “Stokes’s letters say: ‘Off Carter and confirm.’ The reply of Juice, one day after Carter’s murder, simply says: ‘Done.’”

  Finney stroked his chin and studied Stokes and Landers. After a painfully long wait, he spoke into the silence. “Another amazing coincidence, Mr. Landers?” He paused until the silence became uncomfortable. “I’m not only going to allow the confession of Antoine Carter to be submitted as evidence in the drug case, but I’m also going to suggest that Mr. Taylor seek that murder indictment you mentioned earlier.”

  Stokes suddenly bolted to his feet, shackles and all, causing the deputy to stand up and place a hand on her gun. “I want a new lawyer,” the defendant spit out. “One who’s not always stoned.”