Justice Hunter

by Harper Dimmerman

Hunter opened the door. Sheila, looking mournful and particularly stunning in a black silk blouse and antique diamond chandelier earrings, was seated at her desk. Dusty, off-white vertical blinds concealed the office’s only window, located directly behind her. Mancini? There he was, leaning against an antique table set against an interior wall with one hand in his suit pant pocket. A standard-issue bronze lamp illuminated a small offering of magazines. Mancini was striking a pose, like one of those maturing male models in GQ. In fact, Hunter was pretty sure Sheila kept fashion magazines on the table, which only led him to think Mancini was copying a look he came across while fumbling through its pages. Anything to rekindle things with his former flame.

  “Hunter?” acknowledged Sheila, obviously guilty of something. Then she shot him a look that said: “I’ll explain later, and why the fuck didn’t you call first!”

  “Hi. I didn’t realize…”

  “That’s fine,” she replied, keeping her judicial composure and waving off a discombobulated Mary at the door, who must’ve been right on Hunter’s heels. The door shut with a penitent click, leaving Hunter to enjoy the benefits of their bizarre love triangle. Sheila, casting a morose stare, turned toward Mancini, coolly awaiting her best effort at a plausible explanation. “Al, you know Mr. Gray, right?” she asked. “I believe he’s an associate with your firm,” she said, feigning that she was making that connection for the first time.

  Mancini’s smile was polite yet infused with a bit of arrogance and amusement. “Of course,” he acknowledged. “Hunter’s a rising star at the firm,” he added sarcastically before he turned his sinister gaze to Hunter. “Hello, Hunter.”

  “Mr. Mancini.” Just fucking great.

  “What a coincidence.”

  “I know,” stalled Hunter, grasping for a persuasive excuse to be there.

  “Actually,” interrupted Sheila. “I invited Mr. Gray here to discuss an upcoming CLE I’ve asked him to be part of.” CLE stood for continuing legal education.

  “That’s right.” Hunter was all over that. Mancini eyed up Hunter skeptically. He obviously wasn’t buying it. But in his mind, and clearly Sheila’s as well, that was better than nothing. And frankly, their relationship really wasn’t any of Mancini’s business. Hunter just had to get out of this without ruffling too many of Mancini’s feathers. The last thing he needed was an enemy in Mancini. Assuming, of course, that was something he could still manage to avoid. Hunter sensed the rage intensifying within Mancini. Mancini distracted himself by leafing through the headlines in the leading daily legal newspaper, The Legal Intelligencer.

  “I see. I must say I’m impressed, Sheila. Forging ahead despite the tragic loss,” said Mancini somberly. “I guess that’s one of those qualities that invariably breeds success.”

  “Whatever you say, Al,” she replied, unamused by his commentary upon her supposed callousness.

  “And I can certainly come back,” volunteered Hunter.

  “No. Stay,” ordered Mancini. “I think we’ve dwelt upon Judge Russo’s murder for long enough. We were just starting to get nostalgic when you barged in,” he added with a mischievous grin. Translation: “I used to bang your girl.”

  “Nostalgic?”

  “We narcissists will do and say just about anything to keep reality at bay. And of course we can focus on more trivial things anytime. Perhaps your intrusion was timelier than I suspected.” In passing, he boasted, “The judge would’ve had no occasion to mention it, of course, but we used to be much closer in our younger days.” Translation: “I used to bang your girl before she became your sloppy seconds.”

  “Speak for yourself, Al,” chided Sheila.

  “Just referring to our friendship, of course, Your Honor,” he clarified disingenuously.

  “Right,” whipped Sheila, arching a dark eyebrow dubiously. There was an awkward silence.

  “Well,” said Mancini, placing the paper on the table. “I’ll leave you two alone. Leave you to enlightening the illustrious members of our bar.” Wink, wink, nod, nod. Hunter breathed a sigh of relief. He would deal with Mancini’s jealousy later—much later.

  Sheila, still maintaining a poker face, replied, “Thanks for your unyielding understanding, Al. No rest for the weary, as they say.”

  “That’s never been your style, Sheila. I get it.” Mancini had regained his composure, yet again exemplifying his mercurial personality. “Sorry again for your loss, Sheila. Seriously.”

  Mancini approached Hunter solemnly and extended a hand, manicured yet rugged and strong. “See you back at the homestead. Swing by before you leave for the day. Just want to be sure you’re ready for trial on Thursday. Without distraction. Just when we thought one issue was behind us, another one crops up and throws the whole legal community out of kilter.” It took a second for Hunter to make sense of what Mancini meant by the issue that was behind them. But he realized he was referring to the Mafia’s “interest” in the outcome of the case. Mancini’s theory was that Vito’s son owed a relatively hefty gambling debt and the father was their insurance policy, if you will, confirmed by their little road trip the day before.

  Hunter shook firmly. “Sounds good.” I’ll be there. But your theory is off the mark, boss.

  “Oh,” he added as an afterthought. “We withdrew the Mediacast case this morning. We’re re-filing next month out of respect for Judge Russo’s sudden passing. Guess we’ll never know how he was going to rule after all. Frankly, I was starting to get a bit nervous.”

  Hunter was speechless. The reality that he may have escaped the Mediacast fiasco relatively unscathed hadn’t hit him yet.

  Mancini nodded farewell and then walked away. He looked over his shoulder before he got to the door. “Your Honor.” Sheila listened. “Have Hunter fill you in on his work on the Vito’s case. It’ll help take your mind off things.” Hunter felt his blood start to boil again. “Without revealing anything privileged, of course. Because that would be unethical.” As unethical as a lawyer dating a judge, Hunter thought.

  “Oh.” Sheila pretended to care, ignoring the insinuation.

  “It speaks volumes about his character that we’ve selected him to work on the case,” he said paternalistically. “Not only are the legal issues fairly complex—implicating the First Amendment, etcetera—but trust me when I tell you that this case could have national repercussions as far as race relations in this country go.”

  “Impressive,” complimented Sheila half-heartedly as she anxiously pushed around a few files on her desk. “I’ll be sure to inquire.” Now it was Sheila’s turn for a barb or two. “But Mancini. Don’t take this the wrong way,” she offered, just when she’d seemed to have tuned him out, “but I’ve never known you to be a humanitarian. Why the sudden change of heart?” she inquired judiciously.

  “Maturity, I guess,” he replied.

  “Interesting.” Sheila digested the response before Mancini warned her to be especially vigilant and reiterated the request for Hunter to take her mind off of Russo’s murder. Although Russo’s death very well could’ve been an aberration, there was also a possibility a judge killer was on the loose, lurking in the shadowy corridors of city hall, waiting to exact revenge of one kind or another. Sheila, in typical Sheila fashion, fearlessly dismissed Mancini’s admonition, rebuffing the implied offer of protection from her bitter ex. Hunter wondered if what he was about to tell her, based upon his instincts, would give her a very good reason to be concerned.

  THIRTY-NINE

  “I told you to call first, not just show up at my office,” chided Sheila as she backed away from a large mahogany bookcase, where a compact Sony television broadcast live media coverage of Russo’s death. One of the rows was reserved for shiny silver frames containing photographs of Sheila posing adoringly with her two children. Hunter was concerned for their safety. “This was not a good idea,” she added, glaring in his direction. Her shoulder-length hair and antique chandelier earrings swayed gracefully, despite her seething anger. “And I have a lot on m
y mind right now.”

  “Let me guess. I’m already on America’s Most Wanted.” At this point, Hunter’s life was spiraling out of control. It’s only a matter of time before I’m arrested, indicted, or bumped off. He couldn’t help but try to infuse the situation with a bit of levity, anything to cope with the surreal turn of events. If he got lucky, his meds helped him to feel out of body, which clearly wasn’t the case now.

  “Very clever,” she snapped, clearly not amused. She was wound as tight as a division-one marching drum.

  “And what happened to that cool, calm demeanor I was starting to fall for?” he asked, taking another stab at lightening the mood.

  “Hunter! Do you have any idea how bad this is going to look?” she asked disgustedly, slightly detached. Hunter figured she was visualizing the career carnage in her mind’s eye, an earth-rattling implosion of a Philadelphia landmark like the dilapidated family court building on Vine Street. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt, especially knowing the new meaning her career had taken on after the divorce. It was her work and children that had assuredly saved her during those darkest of hours.

  “And since when did you start caring so much about your public persona?”

  “That would be when my boyfriend became a murder suspect.” Sheila was now in front of the office’s large window, peeling back the verticals, assessing the media frenzy at street level. “Jesus Christ!” she grunted in disbelief. The glare of the afternoon sun penetrated the room like a photographer’s flashbulb. Sheila’s French-manicured hands released the plastic in defeat, the way a bank robber would when the bandit realizes that the jig is up and the building is surrounded by sharpshooters.

  “Aren’t you going to ask Hunter about the Vito’s case?” quipped Hunter, still hoping to pierce the tension in the rapidly expanding stress balloon continuing to divide them.

  “Enough!” she barked, looking frazzled in a way he’d never seen before. With Mancini gone, she could finally let her guard down, he supposed. “Tell me what the hell’s going on, Hunter.”

  “Why don’t you tell me, Your Honor?” he replied calmly, standing his ground and mildly mocking her by alluding to the Mancini interaction just moments earlier. The timing of her meeting with Mancini, so quickly after the death of Russo, had to have some significance. The timing certainly was no accident. Plus, she was edgy and defensive, two clear indicators she was concealing something.

  “Everything was going swimmingly until you decided to accept this case,” she observed. “This inane Vito’s case. Had something to prove to Al and the other partners in the firm. Just couldn’t resist pounding your chest, could you?”

  “Hey,” snapped Hunter. “I believe in the goddamn case,” he said, defensively, glaring in her direction. “Otherwise, I would’ve never taken it.” But I am realizing it was really a dangerous mix of blind ambition, ego, and idealism. He was too far in now. No turning back. “And I sure as hell don’t need your approval. Save that for your kids and the courtroom, goddammit.”

  “If that’s what you need to tell yourself to justify having done it, go ahead, be my guest,” she dared. Tough love.

  “I never thought I’d be explaining the hazards of the occupation to you of all people.”

  “Trust me, I don’t need a lecture from you or anyone else on that topic. But this is far from a typical case, Hunter. And you sure as hell know it, so don’t feign ignorance with me.” She shook her head adamantly, taking another quick peek at the media circus. The sound of the commotion below was clearly audible, seeping through the walls like a noxious gas.

  “You make it sound as if I could’ve anticipated any of this.”

  “I tried to warn you early on. I don’t trust Al, and you should’ve never either. This was a fucking Pandora’s box just waiting to happen, and you knew it.” She paused. “Plus, where the hell were you yesterday?” Sheila had called twice, but he’d been entirely consumed by the case, making up for lost time when he returned from Atlantic City.

  “Doing some field work.”

  “You and your second chair, huh?” she asked mockingly. So that’s what this is all about! She’s jealous of Stephanie Diaz.

  “Oh, I get it. This is about my imaginary yet torrid affair with the colleague I just met.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “Then what, Sheila? Because this juvenile insecurity isn’t very becoming.”

  “Go to hell,” she yelled.

  Sheila turned toward the window for another peek, in desperate need of a break between rounds. She was losing, and she knew it. “Anyway, are you sure you really want to know much more than that?” No response. As his journey into the eye of the Mafia storm became progressively more precarious, he had resolved early on to keep her out of it, if more for her safety than anything else. He figured what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.

  “Maybe I should get going,” he said soberly, easily donning a solid poker face. Although his instinct was to warn her about Mancini, he’d clearly erred in going there in the first place. His judgment had been clouded by his impromptu interrogation by Detective Risotto. “This whole thing was probably a mistake on both of our parts.” And that includes our “thing.” “You don’t need to get mixed up in any of this,” he added apologetically as he started for the door.

  At the threshold, Hunter suddenly heard Sheila. “Wait. It’s too late for that. I’m already way too invested.” Hunter quickly processed her invitation to stay, debating whether to keep going. Against his better judgment, he turned on the heel of his scuffed work shoe. “Plus the cops and media are swarming all over this place. It’s a fucking feeding frenzy out there,” she argued, falling into the high-backed leather desk chair. “And don’t think for a minute they don’t know you’re up here,” she advocated. Hunter, still without an understanding of the exact purpose of Mancini’s visit to her chambers, decided to hear her out.

  And after making nice, they focused on the issues at hand.

  Hunter, now seated in front of Sheila’s desk, took it right back to Mancini. “CLE?” he asked. That’s the best you could come up with?

  “What?” She turned defensively. “I didn’t think it was too shabby considering it was on the fly.”

  “Assuming Mancini’s that gullible.” A deliberate pause. “He knows about us, Sheila.”

  “I know,” she confessed.

  “Then why the need for the deception?”

  “I still don’t think it’s any of his goddamn business,” she replied defensively. “That’s why. Even if that means the three of us just pussyfoot around the truth.”

  “Agreed. But think about it. Really. What’s the real harm in his knowing, anyway? Letting the cat out of the bag?” Hunter asked, downplaying it, hoping to put her at ease a bit. “So I will never be partnership material at Whitman.” Deep down, though, he knew they could both be in deep shit, susceptible to an ethics investigation. “And what’s Mancini going to do? Whatever it is, he would’ve done it already,” reasoned Hunter.

  “Not necessarily,” she warned.

  “He hasn’t because he’s got nothing to gain from outing us. As jilted or egotistical as the man may be, or even if he’s got it in for me, that’s far too transparent for him.”

  “And so is your rationale.”

  “Why? You share mutual acquaintances, right? People who knew you were together before you left private practice?”

  “I mean we were discreet. But I suppose.”

  “Right. And you know he’s way too arrogant to run the risk of being perceived as a scorned lover. Even assuming he is jealous, I don’t think he’d go there.”

  “You obviously don’t know Al.”

  “Maybe not.” She has a point. Yesterday’s criminal side caught me entirely off-guard.

  “Don’t think he’s gotten to where he is by being obvious. He’s not the best litigator. I can assure you of that. But he’s a master manipulator.” Which explains how he bedded you. “So if there
was one person capable of mocking the green-eyed monster himself, that would be Al.”

  Hunter typically enjoyed Sheila’s literary references. She had majored in English at Penn as an undergrad. Yet now he was in anticlimax hell, truly regretting having gone there in the first place. Maybe by overstaying his welcome, he was subconsciously testing the limits of their “thing,” whatever it was. And much to his chagrin, her true colors were shining through. “So what? Let him take his best shot.”

  “Not the time for unfounded optimism, Hunter,” she snapped. “I think you’re in desperate need of a reality check. Don’t underestimate him.”

  “All right,” he replied, grinning and bearing it. “Point taken.”

  “For my sake if not anything else. Everything’s different now that I’m a judge,” she reminded herself. “The stakes are higher. And I really want this,” she said as she leaned down and reached toward the desk’s bottom drawer. She set a half-empty bottle of Gray Goose vodka atop the shiny mahogany surface.

  “Sheila.”

  “What, Hunter! Don’t tell me to take it easy,” she lashed out as she poured a shot into a sleek, bone-white mug. She swigged it down and then reloaded.

  “Drink, then?” she asked, scanning the desk for another mug, this one labeled with the Justinian Society logo. The Justinians were judges and lawyers, all of Italian ancestry. Sheila had been a faithful member for years, as had Mancini.

  “All right,” he agreed, although he knew it was the last thing in the world he should be doing. Yet he was caving more easily than usual these days, especially when it came to masochistic temptation.

  “Look,” she said sympathetically, “we can get through this insanity together.” She paused. “In fact, we have to get through this.” The painful yet inevitable realization had been made now that the anger and frustration were out of her system.

  Hunter downed the shot, considering her offer and momentarily relishing the much-needed relief as the edge began to fade ever so slightly. “And exactly what would that be? The sideways glances and ethics inquiries? Or the murder investigation into Russo’s death?”