by Matthew Iden
The second floor of the Moultrie building was labyrinthine, but Elliott moved confidently through the crowd, heading for the family court in the east wing. Large monitors displayed the docket agenda, the courtroom name and number, and the presiding judge.
Elliott grunted. “It used to be printed on paper.”
“There,” Amy said, pointing. “Judge Susan Cranston.”
“JD court,” Elliott said. “We’re in luck.”
“What do you mean?”
“Child endangerment hearings are usually closed, but judges in the domestic relations courts, like Cranston, also do delinquency hearings which are open to the public about half the time. If she was doing custody or endangerment cases today, we wouldn’t get in the courtroom.”
They followed a shuffling mass of people through the great oak doors. The room beyond was long, with a low coffered ceiling and wooden benches in two rows on either side of a center aisle. A low-napped carpet with an inoffensive but distracting pattern covered the floor, a mess of colored vertical lines that led the eyes directly to a raised dais. Two TV monitors, one to a side, hung from the ceiling. Each had a split screen, with one camera’s focus on the judge’s seat and the other the docket list. They stood, hesitating, in the aisle.
Elliott looked over at Amy. “Bride or groom?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She seemed shrunken, pulled in on herself, her mouth drawn in a straight line.
“I guess we’re with whichever side gives us a good look at the judge.”
Amy picked the end of a bench on the left, with a clear view down the aisle of both the judge’s seat and the witness stand. They sat in silence, watching the others in the courtroom file in. Each small cluster of people picked seats close to the aisle or, as those seats were taken, equidistant from the next group of people, until there were no more empty spaces. A low, nervous murmur filled the room, swelling as minutes passed, then checked sharply as the bailiff called the court to order, followed by a quick recitation of the do’s and don’ts. Without ceremony, the judge walked in through a side door and took her seat on the dais.
Susan Cranston was of early middle age, her blonde hair cut in a fashionable, low-maintenance bob. She wore a neutral, passive expression, but her eyes were her most arresting feature: brown pits in a thin face, unnerving whether on-screen or from forty feet away.
Elliott felt an odd movement to his left and looked over. Next to him, Amy was trembling. Her hands were clasped so tightly that the tendons on the back of the fingers were bright white lines along her knuckles. Her eyes, however, were locked on the screen, drilling into the picture. He reached over and put a hand over hers. His hand shook with the force of the tremors in hers.
“She took her,” Amy whispered. “She took my little girl.”
“Amy.” Elliott squeezed her hands until she tore her eyes away from the screen and looked at him. “We don’t know that. Not yet.”
“I don’t care if she isn’t the one who has her now,” she said. “She took her first.”
Elliott had nothing to say. He kept his hand on hers, tight, while they watched the court go about its business. The bread-and-butter cases were over in minutes, resembling nothing like popular TV legal dramas. The few cases that didn’t come to a decision were often postponed until a critical piece of information could be provided; then they were shoved out of the way for the next case in a never-ending procession of legal matters.
Elliott ignored the cases, concentrating instead on those people who were fixtures in the court: the bailiff, the attorneys, the judge. As he did so, he felt the first stirrings of doubt. He was sure of his theory that someone in the court system was responsible for the kidnapping, but half of the people here were women, which made them all potential suspects, but more importantly they represented the tip of the iceberg. While they sat, listening to the testimonies of everyday heartbreak, all around them were courtrooms with their own bailiffs, attorneys, and judges. Their lead was Cranston, but any number of staff could be the woman they were looking for.
Half an hour passed, then an hour. Finally, he nudged Amy and jerked his head toward the door. He led the way down the aisle and out of the room. No one watched them go.
“What are we doing?” Amy asked, searching his face as the doors closed on the drone of justice behind them.
“We’re not getting anywhere. Cranston might be a crazy kidnapper by night, but she’s in her judge’s persona right now. We won’t learn any more here than we already know.”
Amy clutched a fistful of his suit coat. “We can’t leave now. Elliott, please—”
He gently disengaged her hand. “I didn’t say we were leaving. Cranston is just one part of the puzzle, but that doesn’t mean we have to confront her directly.”
“What are you thinking?”
He turned and started walking down the hall, motioning her to follow him. “Every judge has an administrative clerk and a law clerk. Maybe they can tell us something.”
After a half dozen lefts and rights, they found Cranston’s chambers tucked away in a corner of the building, seemingly a mile away from the courtrooms. Elliott led the way into the small reception area. Behind a waist-high counter, a young man in a tie and button-down dress shirt, looking barely out of high school, worked at a computer at a standing desk. He glanced their way, clicked something with his mouse, then stood and walked over to the counter. “Help you?”
He gave the young man a confident smile and held out his hand. “Elliott Nash.”
Despite the awkward height of the counter, the young man reached across and shook. “Noah Green.”
“Let me guess, interning for Judge Cranston?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s an honor, but you’ve never worked this hard in your life?”
“Something like that,” Noah said with a hesitant smile. “How can I help you, Mr. Nash?”
“I’m a forensic psychologist working on a consultancy with my associate, here”—he inclined his head toward Amy—“and Detective Dave Cargill of the MPD’s Youth and Family Services on a series of cases involving foster children who have been abused after placement. We’re doing some preliminary background work to follow the chain of custody, so to speak, of those kids.”
“Okay.”
“We’ve already interviewed the staff at the Child and Family Services Agency. We’re now at the point where the kids go through the hearings, trying to—no offense—find out if it falls apart earlier in the process.”
“I can’t give you access to custody or foster information,” Noah said doubtfully.
“Oh, we already have the case records from CFSA,” Amy cut in breezily. Elliott turned to her, quirking an eyebrow. “We’re moving on to the litigation side now and just wanted to confirm which judge presided over which case. Afterward, we’ll schedule follow-up interviews with each judge—at their convenience, of course—and start tracing how the children progress through the system.”
“Okay,” Noah said, chewing it over, then shrugged. “How can I help?”
“We thought we’d start with Judge Cranston and see which hearings she presided over,” Amy said, smiling. “Would that be possible? I have the names of the kids in question.”
“Let me log on first.” Noah went back to the computer in the corner and began typing. “Okay, what were those names?”
“I’ve got six cases to start with. Can you look those up, see where we’re at, then we can move on from there?”
“Sure.”
Amy gestured at Elliott, who held up a paper like he was reading the names, but actually recited them from memory. “Tammy Waters, Lacey Scowcroft, Daniel Neumann, Eva Collier, Aaron Goldstein, and Jay Kelly.”
“All righty.” Noah stared at the screen, eyes flicking up and down. “The Honorable Susan Cranston presiding.”
Elliott’s stomach roiled like a snake was wriggling in his belly.
“Okay, here we go,” Noah said. “Waters, Scowcroft, and Neumann, yes
. Collier, yes. Goldstein, yes. And Kelly . . .”
Elliott held his breath. Beside him, he could hear Amy do the same.
“Nope,” Noah said, looking up. “Not one of Cranston’s. Pardon me, Judge Cranston’s.”
“What?”
“Not one of hers, Mr. Nash. Sorry.” He clicked around a few more times. “Kelly comma Jay, right? That was Judge Edelman’s.”
Elliott blinked. “Edelman?”
“That’s what it says.”
“But how does that fit?” he asked rhetorically, then realized Noah was looking at him expectantly. “Would you be able to check on that case, as well?”
“Sorry, no. I only have access to Judge Cranston’s cases.” He snapped his fingers. “But you know what? Kim could tell you.”
“Who?”
“Kim Reston. The administrative clerk. Judges share clerks a lot to keep costs down. She’s the clerk for three of the judges here: Cranston, Edelman, and Curry.” Noah’s eyes darted past them. “In fact, here she is now.”
Elliott and Amy turned to see the woman they’d encountered earlier on the steps. Her dark brown eyes—stones in the wells of their sockets—widened in surprise, then flicked to Noah and back again. “Can I help you?”
Elliott introduced himself. “We’re working with the MPD, Ms. Reston, investigating the cases of several children who’ve gone through this court.”
“Is there some particular reason you’re doing that?”
“Some of the children appear to have been the subjects of abuse once they reached the foster system,” Elliott said. “We’re creating timelines and following the cases through the system, trying to find where it breaks down. Obviously, CFSA and the mayor’s office would like to cut down on that number.”
“Naturally,” she said, then tilted her head. “Do you work here at the courts, Mr. Nash? I feel like I know you from somewhere.”
Elliott smiled back at her. “Years ago, I served as a consultant to the police department and used to come to the Moultrie building quite a bit.”
“But not anymore?”
“I do fieldwork now,” he said. “Mostly on the streets.”
“I see.” Reston turned her head and stared at Amy for nearly a full ten seconds. “And have we met? You look quite familiar, as well.”
Amy smiled. “Only in the stairwell this morning. We passed each other on the steps.”
Reston nodded slowly. “That must be it.”
“Regarding those cases, Ms. Reston,” Elliott said, clearing his throat.
“Yes?”
“Noah, here, was kind enough to confirm that most of the cases we’re looking into were reviewed by Judge Cranston. But the outlier is Jay Kelly, the young man who was just discovered in Trinidad. We believe his case was seen by Judge Edelman. And since Noah told us you are the administrative clerk for both judges, we were hoping you could confirm if that’s correct.”
“What were the names of the children?”
Elliott rattled off the names of the other kids. She seemed to think about something, then nodded once. “Let me check the records.”
Noah cleared his throat as she headed for the office door. “Sorry, Kim?”
She turned, her smile pressed tightly on her face. “Yes, Noah?”
He held out a slip of paper. “Your brother called and said he won’t be able to meet you for lunch today.”
“Thank you, Noah,” she said, grabbing the note. She jammed it in a pocket without looking at it, turned as if to head back out of the office, seemed to think better of it, then lifted the hinged section of the counter and passed through a door.
40
Sister
It was her. It really was her.
She passed through the judge’s chambers in a dream state, unable to believe that just beyond the door, in the room she’d just left, was the mother of the little girl she’d saved nearly a year ago.
Her lip curled. She’d barely glanced at the woman at the hearing more than a year ago, but she’d read the file obsessively. It had told her all she needed to know. Amy Scowcroft: an addict, hooked on painkillers, blacking out on a routine basis. She’d been high at her own daughter’s hearing, for goodness’ sake. As soon as the girl went to foster care, she’d made sure that Amy Scowcroft would never be able to torment her daughter again.
But now, all her charitable acts were about to come crashing down around her. Seeing Amy Scowcroft and this man Nash asking questions, rattling off the names of her last six brothers and sisters, one after the other . . . it had completely unnerved her.
How had they known all the names? Where had they gotten the information to get this far? How had they known to come to her? Surely, the two of them were lying about this so-called investigation they were on. Nash looked vaguely familiar, the memory of him tantalizingly out of reach, but the idea that Amy Scowcroft was on the MPD payroll, helping with an investigation, was laughable. The two of them had made it all up. But good guesses hadn’t pointed them to Cranston’s office. They would’ve needed some source of information to piece it all together.
She gasped as the answer came to her.
Brother.
He had every piece of information they needed to find her. But, she thought in confusion, why wasn’t he here, then? If he knew, actually knew, she was behind the disappearances of all those children, he would’ve shown up himself. She harbored no delusions: her brother had dedicated his life to the police force and would’ve sadly, reluctantly—but certainly—put the handcuffs on her, no matter how hard she might try to explain herself.
Unless he was already on his way.
What if he’d cancelled their lunch, then sent Nash and Scowcroft to “investigate” as some kind of delaying tactic, to throw her off balance, while he collected the warrants and papers for her arrest?
Or—and she gasped in pain at the thought—they were getting a task force to raid the house while she was being distracted. She could see it now: the police and a cadre of social workers, kicking down the door, “freeing” the children only to send them back to their biological or, worse, their foster families, thinking they were perpetrating justice when in reality they were committing the poor things to lives of misery.
She couldn’t let that happen.
Sister twisted her hands together as she walked through the back office. Despite all her worrying, her second-guessing, it seemed impossible that her life—and her life’s work—was about to disappear. But better for her to end it, on her terms, than let her charges be sent back to their hellish existence by some blundering government system. It was up to her to save them one last time.
Tears coursed down her cheeks, but she didn’t feel them. She was untethered from herself, hovering outside her own body, watching dispassionately as she walked through the judge’s portal and into the courtroom. Accustomed to the occasional comings and goings of clerks, the bailiff and the judge didn’t even spare her a glance. Until, that is, she passed in front of the bench, across the intervening space, and toward the bar. The shrew began shouting at her, then, but the words made no sense; they were just sounds that held no meaning for her.
Eventually the yelling stopped, though she was aware that the entire courtroom—from the attorneys at their tables, to the defendants in their seats, to the crowd in the gallery—watched in stunned silence as she floated past. With only a little bit of effort, she pushed through one of the double doors to the hallway beyond.
And with that, the spell was broken. The import of what she’d done and was about to do fell on her like the sky had collapsed. Wailing softly to herself, she fled the courthouse, running to save what was left of her family.
41
Elliott
After a few awkward moments passed, Elliott said, “You looked like you wanted to say something a second ago.”
“Oh,” Noah said, smiling wanly. “It’s nothing. It’s just that Kim’s office is there.” He gestured to a small door to one side of the office. He hiked his th
umb toward the more ornate door Reston had gone through. “That goes to the judge’s chambers. There’s a computer back there, too, of course, but I would’ve thought she’d just use her own.”
“Ms. Reston seemed . . . distracted.”
Noah looked over his shoulder. “She gets like that.”
“Like what?” Elliott asked.
“Oh, you know. A little trippy, a little out there. Like she’s taking a call from outer space,” he said, then hastened to add, “I mean, she’s a great worker. I’ve learned a lot just being here. This office is a finely oiled machine thanks to her.”
“But she’s got . . . issues?”
“Well, I know she’s scared to death of the elevator, which is probably why you saw her using the stairs.”
“Claustrophobic?”
“I guess. I heard she went through some kind of freaky trauma as a kid, a murder or something. I don’t know the details. All I know is she survived, but still lives in the same house.” Noah shuddered. “She claims she can’t afford anything better, but I’d rather live under a bridge.”
“You’d be surprised,” Elliott murmured, then frowned, thinking. “Noah, you said you don’t have access to the case information for the other judges, right?”
“I can see judgments, if that’s what you mean.”
“Right.”
“What about access to the personal information of the defendants and plaintiffs? Names, phone numbers, addresses, that kind of thing.”
“Not if it wasn’t one of Judge Cranston’s cases.”
“Who does?”
“Have access? Well, the judge, of course. And the law clerk for that judge.”
“And the law clerks only work for particular judges? They’re not shared like the admin clerks?”
“Right.”
“But the administrative clerks do have access to all that information?” Next to him, Amy gasped. “For all the judges they work for, right?”
Noah smiled uncertainly, confused by the intensity of Elliott’s questions. “Oh, sure. They have to type and file all the records pertaining to the cases, so they see all that information for all the judges they’re assigned to.”