The Justice Game

by Randy Singer

By the time they pulled up to the house, it was nearly noon. His dad’s car was in the driveway. The four conspirators walked up to the door, and Jason swallowed his fears and knocked. He would never forget the look on his dad’s face when he slowly opened the door.

  39

  Friday was the third consecutive day that Kelly ate lunch at her desk. That morning, she had also skipped breakfast after her swim at the LA Fitness club. She’d munched on a package of crackers mid-morning and now polished off some fruit, a sandwich, and a handful of carrot sticks while she reviewed corporate e-mails.

  So far this week, she had probably reviewed five thousand pages of documents that one of her corporate clients would be disclosing in response to a discovery request in a big products liability case. Kelly was one of several associates on the case, and it was her job to grind through the boxes of documents lining the floor of her office and decide which documents should be withheld under the attorney-client privilege. It was mind-numbing work, the legal equivalent of operating a toll booth—take a dollar; give fifty cents change; “Thank you very much.”

  It was ironic how the media talked about the advantages of Blake Crawford having a big D.C. firm and all its resources representing him. The truth was that Kelly felt she had to squeeze the Crawford case in after hours and on weekends, all the while keeping up her billable-hour quotas on other cases where she was low woman in the pecking order.

  She read quickly through three more e-mails and placed them in the non-privileged pile. The glamorous life of a big-firm lawyer.

  Her tedium was interrupted by occasional pings from her computer—the sign of new e-mail hitting. It used to be a welcome sign, but now she opened each e-mail with a little more trepidation. Since her victory at the Motion to Dismiss hearing, her e-mails had occasionally been sprinkled with hate mail from various gun nuts out there.

  She had printed out each of the offending e-mails and kept them in a little file for motivation. “First thing we do, let’s kill all the plaintiffs’ lawyers,” said one. “You can’t have my gun but you can have a few bullets,” said another. Others were more blunt and full of profanity. Reading them the first time gave Kelly the chills. Reading them the fourth or fifth time made her angry.

  The firm had taken the appropriate steps—reporting the e-mails to police, offering Kelly private security (which she refused), and taking her e-mail address off the firm Web site, though any moron could still figure it out. John Lloyd, the senior partner on the case review committee, had actually suggested changing lawyers on the case—which Kelly scoffed at—or that Kelly might want to consider buying a gun for protection. It was the first time in her career that she had asked a senior partner at her firm if he was crazy.

  The e-mail Kelly had just received had the name of the Crawford case in the subject line. It looked like it had been sent from another temporary address that would be impossible to trace. She steeled herself for the contents, feeling that familiar mixture of bravado and fear.

  As she began reading, she sensed immediately that this e-mail was different. By the third sentence, every ounce of Kelly’s bravado had disappeared. She felt like somebody had knocked the wind out of her, like her heart had literally stopped. The blood drained from her face, and for a moment she couldn’t move.

  Congratulations on landing the case of a lifetime. Warning: DO NOT SETTLE THIS CASE! Judge Shaver does not need the publicity. As long as you follow my instructions, your secret is safe with me. Otherwise, you’ll be able to read all about you and the judge on the Kryptonite blog. Repeat: this case must go to a jury verdict. The day you settle is the day Kryptonite breaks the story.

  She read the e-mail a second time, then a third. The Kryptonite blog was a gossip site that broke embarrassing stories about actors, politicians, and rock stars. It was the blog equivalent of National Enquirer, more reckless in its accusations than most blogs, but every once in a while it would actually get something right.

  Judge Shaver was the district court judge for whom Kelly had clerked nearly seven years ago. He had recently been nominated for a seat on the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals. He would have his grilling with the Senate judiciary committee if and when the senators found a way to break up the logjam of appointees in the pipeline. In the meantime, he was in limbo.

  The timing of the e-mail couldn’t have been worse.

  What floored Kelly was the fact that somebody else knew about her relationship with the judge. She had never discussed it with anyone. Not a single living soul. Not her father. Not her best friend. Not a psychiatrist or counselor. Nobody knew.

  Except this person named Luthor.

  Luthor. That was the name the writer used to sign off the e-mail. An allusion, Kelly knew, to Superman’s greatest nemesis.

  She printed the e-mail, folded it in thirds, placed it in a sealed envelope, and put it in the bottom of her briefcase. She deleted the original e-mail from her computer and emptied her computer trash. She realized that the original was still lurking on the firm’s server someplace, but she couldn’t help that.

  It would be hours before she could focus on the corporate e-mails again. The task suddenly seemed incredibly insignificant. Her world had just been turned upside down. A ghost from seven years ago had returned with a vengeance.

  She ran down the worst-case scenario in her mind. As a former clerk, she had been interviewed during the FBI’s background check on Judge Shaver. She vividly recalled the visit by the agents, the cordial conversation and probing questions they had asked. She had protected the judge and, in the process, placed her own head on the guillotine.

  “Is there anything that might make you question his judgment?” they had asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you aware of anything a person could use to blackmail or threaten Judge Shaver?”

  “No.”

  “Are you aware of any intimate relationships between Judge Shaver and anyone other than his wife?”

  Though she thought it was none of their business, Kelly had not hesitated. “No.”

  Now she could be looking at a national scandal, a Shakespearean tragedy, with Kelly in a leading role. The thought of it made her stomach churn with anxiety.

  So far, Luthor had demanded something that Kelly fully intended to do anyway—try the case to a verdict. But what would he want next?

  She called Judge Shaver, something she had not done since she took the job at B&W. His legal assistant answered the phone and perked up once Kelly said her name.

  “It’s great to hear from you! How long has it been?”

  “Seven years,” Kelly said.

  They chatted for a while, though Kelly hardly heard a word the lady said.

  “Is Judge Shaver in?” Kelly eventually asked.

  “No.” His assistant drew the word out, hating to disappoint Kelly. “He’s at a judicial conference in Phoenix until next Wednesday. But I’m sure he would love to hear from you. Do you want his cell phone?”

  “Sure.”

  As soon as Kelly hung up, before she lost her nerve, she dialed Judge Shaver’s cell. Again, there was an exchange of pleasantries.

  “I need to see you about something,” Kelly explained. “It’s fairly urgent.”

  Shaver asked if they could talk about it over the phone, but Kelly insisted on meeting in person. When he asked if it could wait until next Wednesday, she heard the tension in his voice.

  “I think so,” Kelly said.

  The judge didn’t respond immediately. “Should I catch the first flight home?”

  Kelly wanted to say yes. She needed to talk this over with him as soon as possible, needed to prepare him for the worst, develop a plan. But having the judge abruptly leave the conference would create its own set of problems. What if Luthor was following him? Maybe Luthor knew about the judicial conference. Maybe he wanted Kelly and Judge Shaver to drop everything and get together for an emergency meeting so he could capture it all on video.

  “It’ll keep until next Wednesday,”
Kelly said.

  “Okay,” Shaver responded, sounding uncertain. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  The judge checked his calendar and said he had a heavy morning docket next Wednesday but could meet at 11:30.

  Eleven thirty. The middle of the day, a time when others would be milling around the office. The judge was being careful. He didn’t want the two of them to be together alone.

  She wished they had both been this circumspect seven years ago.

  40

  At first, Jim Noble’s face lit up at the sight of his kids and Matt Corey standing on his doorstep. He looked like a child who had stepped into a surprise birthday party. His expression only made Jason feel worse.

  “Jules!” he exclaimed. Julie stepped forward and gave him a hug.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  He smiled at Jason. “Hey, buddy.”

  “Hey.”

  Dr. Prescott stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Paul Prescott. I work with the force on a number of matters.”

  The introduction froze Jason’s dad, his impromptu joy quickly turning to realization that something nefarious was going on. He ignored Prescott’s hand, looking from Jason to Matt. “What’s this about?” he asked. The momentary silence made his eyes narrow and his complexion darken—suspicion giving way to the first vestiges of anger.

  “Somebody want to fill me in?”

  “We want to talk with you for a few minutes about some personal matters,” Prescott said. “Can we step inside?”

  “Personal matters?”

  “Let’s do it inside.”

  Jason’s dad stood there for a few seconds, blocking the way of the much larger Prescott. Jim Noble might be down four inches and seventy-five pounds to the doctor, but there was no doubt where Jason’s money would lie if a fight broke out. His dad was one tough dude.

  “Please don’t make this any harder than it already is,” Prescott said, his voice calm.

  It took Julie to break the stalemate. When she asked her dad to cooperate, he stepped aside and let them in. “What’s going on, Jules?” he asked.

  “Can I tell you when we get inside?”

  He nodded and followed his daughter into the living room.

  The place looked even worse than it had at Christmas. In addition to empty glasses, unopened mail, and dirty clothes, the living room had various case files scattered around the floor. There was an old bowl of Doritos, an empty coffee mug, a few books, and a couple of magazines on the coffee table. Jason counted at least a dozen empty beer bottles strewn around the room. The four visitors each had a seat, Jason bringing in a chair from the kitchen table. They left the reclining chair empty.

  Prescott invited Jason’s dad to sit, but he refused. “What’s going on here?” he asked, looking from one person to the next.

  “It would really help if you had a seat,” Prescott insisted, his voice firmer this time. Jason knew it was the wrong approach. He studied his dad’s reaction. He had lived with the man for eighteen years and had learned to recognize the signs of an impending explosion—veins bulging in the neck and forehead, nose flaring, intense scowl.

  “Your kids and Matt care a lot about you,” Prescott said. “They’ve seen some things that concern them enough to come all the way here—in Julie’s case from California—and talk to you about them. They’re just asking that you hear them out.”

  Jason’s dad snorted, his temper taking control. “Don’t give me this psychobabble crap,” he said. He turned to Jason. “My son comes once a year at Christmas and then gets out of town as soon as he can. Even Julie thinks of every reason to stay away—”

  Matt was on his feet, taking a step toward his former partner. “Don’t,” he said calmly. “Don’t take this out on them.”

  “If you care so much, couldn’t you just pick up the phone and call me?” The old man’s eyes were filled with resentment, swinging from one person to the next. “You’ve got to gang up on me? get some psychologist in here to certify me as crazy?”

  “C’mon,” Matt said, holding up his hand to get his friend to stop. “We’ve been through a lot together. Don’t say stuff you’ll regret.”

  Jason jumped in as well. He forced himself to ignore his dad’s comments and speak past the pain. “You need help, Dad. We’ve come to help.”

  His father laughed him off. “You’ve come to help.” He turned to Matt Corey. “Isn’t that the same thing we tell our targets just before we nail them during interrogation? ‘We just want to help.’”

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Matt said.

  Jason’s father stared at him, but Matt didn’t blink.

  “You know I love you, man,” Matt said. “But I don’t know what happened to the Jim Noble I used to respect. That man would have never acted this way. That man wouldn’t have hurt the people he cared about most.”

  The comment seemed to penetrate Jason’s dad’s defenses like a tranquilizer dart. He said nothing but sat on the edge of his recliner, his eyes fixed on Prescott.

  Matt took a seat as well. “Thanks,” he said softly.

  Prescott took control of the meeting and explained how Jason, Julie, and Detective Corey had each become independently concerned about their father and friend. “Your drinking is affecting everything,” Prescott said. “Your work. Your relationship with your kids, and in Julie’s case, her willingness to let you have a relationship with your grandkids. These three folks all care about you very much and decided to do one of the toughest things in their lives—participate in this intervention.”

  For once, Jason couldn’t read the expression on his dad’s face. He listened intensely to Prescott, never once looking at Jason or Julie or Matt until Prescott came to the end of his spiel.

  Prescott explained that he had asked each of the participants to write a letter and thought perhaps Matt should go first.

  Matt Corey read his letter slowly and emphatically, with frequent glances at Jason’s dad to assess its impact. He spoke about his great respect for his former partner, of all that the older cop had taught him, about how he had wanted to model his own career after his partner’s. “In some ways, you’re closer to me than my own father,” he said.

  The letter pulled no punches in detailing the current state of James Noble’s job performance. His hours had become sporadic. A few partners had requested transfers because they couldn’t take his mercurial personality swings. His case closure rate was down, and now there were rumors about missing cocaine. “I know it’s not you,” Matt read. “But let’s be honest, you’ve got an addiction. It’s just that yours comes in a bottle.”

  Jason watched his dad’s face redden, but the man made no attempt to respond. Matt finished with a plea for Jim to get help and pledged his own support. In the silence that followed, the attention shifted to Jason.

  “I guess I’m next.”

  Jason’s heart pounded as he unfolded his letter. It took every ounce of willpower to look his dad in the eye as he prepared to read. He would have only one chance to do this, and he wanted to get it right. He had to keep reminding himself that the man sitting in this room was not really his father. The booze had stolen James Noble’s soul and left a demon in its wake. This might be Jason’s only hope for changing all that.

  Jason’s letter began by recounting some bright memories from his childhood, events that had been lost in the turmoil of the last few years. He glanced at his father as he read, apologizing for disappointing his dad in so many ways. Even during this part of the letter, words he had wept over as he wrote them, his father’s expression never changed. Julie’s cheeks, on the other hand, were wet with quiet tears.

  Jason detailed the changes he had noticed in his dad and how they had affected their relationship. He admitted that his own response had been avoidance and asked forgiveness for staying away. If his dad got help, Jason promised to be there and to work through this with him. But honestly, if his dad didn’t change, Jason just couldn’t bear to stick around and watc
h him self-destruct.

  “You always taught me that being a man meant you faced your problems and never quit,” Jason said. “Don’t give up on your family, Dad. We want you back. We love you too much to watch this happen and not do anything. I’m begging you, Dad—get some help.”

  Jason finished, his eyes stinging with tears, and looked up. His father stared back, still emotionless, looking as if he couldn’t believe his own son had turned against him.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Jason said. “But this is the only way we knew to help.”

  His father nodded grimly and turned to Julie. “I’m sure the old man’s let you down, too,” he said, the words dripping with sarcasm. “But I really can’t take much more of this right now. The stuff about my job performance is all bull.” He looked at Matt Corey with eyes flaring again. “You know what that place is like. And you know darn well that this crap against me is just political.”

  He turned back to Jason. “As for you—I’m sorry I’ve been such a complete and total failure as a father.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying—”

  “That is exactly what you’re saying,” the older man fired back. If the others hadn’t been there, Jason had no doubt that his dad would have physically attacked him. “And it’s easier to blame it on the booze than it is to talk about the real issues.”

  “Let’s talk about the real issues,” Prescott interjected, his voice still calm.

  Jim Noble leaned forward, forearms on his knees, hands clasped. He studied the floor for a moment and then looked up at Prescott. “Get out,” he said. “You’ve played your little game, and I get the picture. My drinking days are over. I needed a wake-up call, and I got it. Thank you very much. Now get out.”

  “You need help, Dad,” Julie said.

  “You can all leave,” Jason’s dad insisted. “And you can all leave now.”

  Prescott nodded, and the others followed his cue. They had talked about this. Jason’s dad had to know they would follow through. He had to know they would walk out of his life if he didn’t change.