Jarkowski laughed, initially sincere, but the rest was forced. It was only a bridge. He had places he needed to go with me, and I wished he would get on with it.
The detective nodded toward the house. “Sorry about that young cop givin’ you the business earlier. He’s new.”
“I don’t mind.”
Detective Jarkowski nodded, pleased with my answer. “Everything checked out, by the way, with your law clerk and the diner,” he said. “But I do want to test your hands for gun residue—not ’cause I think you did it, more for trial.”
“Defense attorneys?”
“Exactly.” The detective pointed at me, pretending like I was a genius. “When we find the person who did this, I want to be able to show that I did my job. I eliminated you as a suspect, not because you’re a judge, but because your alibi was solid and your hands were clean.”
“Do you know when Harry died?”
“A couple hours ago, maybe three, but that’s not official.” Detective Jarkowski reached into the big pocket of his trench coat and removed a sealed white plastic envelope. Inside the Gunshot Residue Kit were four plastic bottles, white adhesive pads, and latex gloves. “Mind?”
I shrugged. “Not at all.”
Jarkowski put on the latex gloves. They barely fit over his large hands. “So you knew Judge Meyer well?”
“Very well.” I nodded as Jarkowski opened the bottle labeled LEFT PALM. “Harry liked to say that he knew me before I was born.”
Jarkowski took my left hand and manipulated it into position. “Any idea who did this?” He stuck the adhesive pad onto the palm and waited a few seconds, then pulled it off and put it in the bottle. When I didn’t respond to his question, Jarkowski prodded me. “I know this is tough, Judge, but cases get harder to close the longer an investigation goes. We need to move.”
“I know.” I held out my right hand. Jarkowski stuck an adhesive pad onto its palm, took it off, and put it in the bottle. Then he repeated the process, switching from the palms to the back of both hands. When Jarkowski was done, he put all the bottles into another envelope and sealed it, then initialed and dated the seal. The process established the first link in a chain of custody.
Detective Jarkowski returned the envelope to his pocket. “Again, my apologies for all this. Just wanna be thorough.”
“Understood.” I nodded, now watching the medics. They had finally emerged from the house with the stretcher. On top was Judge Meyer’s body in a black bag. “To answer your question,” I said, “I honestly have no idea who did this. Nobody in particular comes to mind.” I watched as the medics rolled the stretcher toward the ambulance in the driveway. “Harry was a Boy Scout—Eagle Scout, actually. Didn’t drink too much. Pretty boring life, but he did terminate a lot of parental rights. Who knows? Maybe one of them held a grudge . . .”
I thought more about it. Over his decades on the bench, Judge Meyer had probably terminated the parental rights of over a thousand people and placed over ten thousand children in foster care. “Actually,” I said, “I’m sure a lot of them held a grudge.”
Detective Jarkowski nodded as, in the distance, medics opened the ambulance’s back door. “You might be right.” We watched as they loaded the stretcher with Judge Meyer’s body into the back. “I guess we’ll find out.”
CHAPTER TWO
Before I even entered the courtroom, Karen Fields and another court clerk had everything lined up. The mothers were prepped and sitting in the waiting area. I say mothers, because it was rare to see a father. Sometimes they appeared, often wrongly thinking that a warrant would be issued for their arrest if they didn’t come to court, but most of the time it was mothers, alone.
Inside, the institutional players were all present and accounted for. Everybody sat in their assigned seats at a long wooden table in front of the bench. If they knew about the death of Judge Meyer, none of them said a word. It was business as usual.
The social worker and the child protection agency’s attorney, Sylvia Norgaard, sat on the right. Norgaard, as always, wore a perfectly fitted suit. She had married well, and her outfit likely cost more than the social worker made in a month. There was also the parent’s attorney, Sophia Delgado. Delgado was a large woman. Unlike Norgaard, she didn’t spend money on her clothes. Instead she invested a small fortune in her nails.
In the middle of Norgaard and Delgado was the CASA, Cherelle Williams. The acronym stood for Court-Appointed Special Advocate. The CASA, or guardian ad litem, was specifically appointed to advocate for the child’s best interests. To some a CASA may seem unnecessary, but in reality, the children the system was designed to protect were often lost amid the chaos surrounding their parents’ lives and the attorneys’ legal wrangling. The CASA was independent, there to be the eyes and ears of the court.
Karen Fields got up. “We’re ready to proceed, Judge.” She walked past the attorneys, then out the courtroom door. As the heavy oak door swung closed, we all heard her shout the family’s last name three times. Then she came back into the courtroom, walked to her seat, and sat down.
A few seconds passed. The door opened, and a mother came inside. Tanya Neal carried a huge down jacket that made her appear even smaller. It was tough to figure out her age. She’d lived a rough life.
Neal put her jacket on an empty chair and took her seat next to Delgado.
Tanya Neal was too thin. Heroin, I thought. Then I pulled Neal’s file up on a large computer monitor to my left. Court administration had installed one on every bench in the courthouse when we converted from paper to electronic files.
I clicked a few buttons, glanced at the screen, and confirmed that one of Tanya Neal’s issues was, in fact, heroin. Then I turned to her. “Good afternoon.” I offered a sympathetic smile, then asked the parties to introduce themselves for the record.
They each said their names, and Norgaard gave a brief synopsis of what Ms. Neal had been doing since her last court appearance. “Unfortunately, Your Honor, Tanya Neal was dismissed from her treatment program for nonattendance and missed four of her last six drug tests.” Norgaard looked down at her notes, then back up. “We’re going to file a petition to terminate Ms. Neal’s parental rights to her four children very soon.”
I turned to the social worker and asked if she had anything to add, which she never did, then to Cherelle Williams. The CASA echoed the concerns raised by Norgaard but spent most of her time talking about each of the children.
“The teenage girls, Neisha and Kayla, are struggling. They’re defiant in the foster home, running away and not attending school. The younger boys, Bobby and Damien, are OK. They want to go home, too. I’m trying to get them into sports or something, but the foster parents seem reluctant. For all of these kids, it’s the first time in their lives that there’s real structure. They’re used to living pretty much on their own, raising themselves, doing their own thing. Foster care has been tough.”
I clicked a button. A box appeared on my computer screen, and I typed a note in the electronic file. I looked away from the screen and back to Cherelle Williams. “Anything else?”
“The father.” Williams shook her head. “He’s out of prison now. He’s made contact with the older girls through Facebook. I’m concerned about that. Very concerned about that. He’s a dangerous man.”
Finally it was Delgado’s turn. She spoke while her client, Tanya Neal, sat silent. Delgado assured everyone that Ms. Neal would work harder. “She understands that the stakes are high, Judge. If she knows the whereabouts of the father or if the father contacts her or the children, Ms. Neal will let the social worker know immediately.”
Ms. Neal remained silent, listening to her attorney. The parents usually didn’t talk. Their lawyers were afraid of what they might say; some even instructed their clients to remain silent, like in a criminal case. It kept the hearings moving, which is why many judges liked it. I did not.
Judge Meyer taught me not to give in to the pressure of time. Harry taught me to address e
very parent directly, even if it made their lawyers uncomfortable. This was their child, no matter what brought them to court. The parents needed to be heard.
Harry told me it didn’t matter what was going on in my life or whether I was tired or sick. Good judges set all of that personal baggage aside and did the job. Learn to compartmentalize. That is the key to surviving. And that was what I was going to do, even though I had just lost a man I loved. Even though I just wanted to go home. I was going to do the job, just like Judge Meyer had taught me.
“Ms. Neal,” I said, keeping my voice soft. “I’m proud of you for coming to court today. You could’ve skipped it. You could’ve stopped coming and stopped trying, but the fact that you’re here shows that you care about your kids.”
“I do.” She trembled. “I want to see them.”
“Then you know what you need to do. You need to get back into treatment. You need to go to your drug tests, prove that you’re clean, and keep in contact with your social worker so that visitation can be arranged. But we can’t do visitation when you’re high.”
“I will,” she agreed, but it was clear she had doubt.
“You heard what the county is going to do. They’re filing a petition to terminate your parental rights. If things don’t change, then I’m not going to have much of a choice. Your kids can’t be in foster care forever.”
Ms. Neal nodded.
Sensing the end of the hearing, Norgaard stood and asked that I say the magic words that every judge must say in order to keep the money flowing from the federal government. Specifically, I had to find that the agency had made reasonable efforts to reunify the child with the child’s biological parents, I needed to continue temporary legal custody with the agency, and I needed to determine that placement in foster care was in the children’s best interests.
I parroted the magic words as required, and then Ms. Neal gathered her gigantic coat. She received paperwork for the next court date and walked out of the courtroom. Although I didn’t know it at the time, Tanya Neal was going to disappear, but the case wasn’t going to end.
About two-thirds of the way through the calendar, that reporter who’d called me earlier, Benji Metina, came into the courtroom. Hearings were open to the public, although the public rarely came. She sat in the back, watching me and taking notes as I worked through the remainder of the afternoon calendar. It was unnerving, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
As the only Native American reporter at the San Francisco Chronicle, Metina was often assigned to cover the casinos and anything that happened on the reservations that dotted Northern California. She also covered the family and juvenile court beat and, lately, wrote more and more investigative stories about local politicians, conflicts of interest, and government failures.
When the last family was called and the calendar was done, Karen gaveled the court to a close. I stood up and gathered my papers. I heard Metina call out my name as I walked toward the door that led to my chambers.
“Judge Thompson,” she said, “have a moment for a few questions?”
I didn’t stop. I pretended that I didn’t hear her.
The little red light on my phone blinked. I had messages, but I wasn’t going to take the time to listen. I had no intention of hanging around the courthouse. I was sure that by now everybody knew what had happened. They knew Judge Meyer was dead.
I hung up my robe, loosened my tie, and sat in the leather chair behind my desk. The “To Be Signed” basket was filled with a half dozen orders. I removed them, took a pen out of my drawer, and got to work.
When I was done a few minutes later, I took the signed documents out to Karen’s desk and placed them in the “To Be Filed” basket. Then I picked up my jacket and left.
I kept my head down and walked as if I were late for an important meeting. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a few clerks and an attorney open their mouths, about to say something, but they thought better of it. I somehow made it out of the courthouse without having to talk to anyone.
CHAPTER THREE
Our little rental house was in Laurel, a neighborhood sandwiched between two highways. The area had always been considered relatively safe by Oakland standards, but never fancy. Real estate agents had been touting it as up-and-coming for about forty years, but at some point people were going to realize that the neighborhood was never going to change. It was stubborn. The immigrants, hippies, and students weren’t going to leave.
I smelled chocolate chip banana bread in the oven as soon as I came inside. It was Nikki’s go-to food in good times and bad. Hearing the door close, Nikki, still in her hospital scrubs, came out to meet me.
Neither one of us said a word.
Ten inches shorter than me and not much over five feet, Nikki rolled to her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek. I hugged her tight. Then we sat down on our cheap futon. Like most of our belongings, it was a remnant from our student days. Nearly a quarter million dollars in student loan debt prevented an upgrade anytime soon.
I took her hand in mine and bowed my head, exhausted.
“I can’t believe you went back to work.” She leaned into me. “People would’ve understood.”
“Maybe.” There was no more adrenaline. “When I got done, I literally ran from the courthouse to the parking ramp. I don’t know why. I was crossing the street, and I could tell that the light was going to change, and so I started to run and, when I got to the other side, I kept running until I got to my car. The whole way. I never stopped.”
The image of Harry, dead in the foyer, flashed in my mind.
“I was convinced that somebody was watching me or chasing me or . . . I don’t know.” I shook my head. “Must’ve looked like a crazy man. Once I got started, I couldn’t stop.”
“It’s OK.” Nikki put her hand on my leg. “After what you saw, it’s OK.”
I closed my eyes and sank deeper into the couch. I was deflated and decided to change the subject. “That reporter was there this afternoon.”
“In your courtroom?”
I nodded. “In the back.” I shook my head in disbelief. “It can’t be good. She wanted to talk to me when I was done, wanted to ask some questions. I’m sure it’s going to be about Gregory Ports.”
“What’d you say?”
A smile crept over my face. “Nothing,” I said. “Pretended that I didn’t hear her, deaf.”
“Sounds like a good strategy.” She nodded. “But probably not sustainable.”
“If she ever confronts me on it, I’d like you to write me up a little medical diagnosis for selective hearing loss. If you could do that, it’d be wonderful.”
“Certainly.”
It felt good to be home, safe. Even though I had already told Nikki the story, I again told her what had happened, from the beginning. She never interrupted me with questions. She let me go, just listening, even when I went off on tangents. I think that I talked for thirty minutes, maybe longer.
When I was done, and she was sure that I was done, she kissed me on the cheek and told me, again, that everything would be OK. Then Nikki took a deep breath, having taken in all the information, and looked at me. “What are you going to do?”
I thought about the question, and I wasn’t sure how I should respond. “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I feel . . .”
When I couldn’t find the word, she found it for me. “Adrift.”
I nodded. “I didn’t seek out this job. Helping kids wasn’t why I went to law school, but Harry showed me. It’s important work, and I was learning how to do it. I just . . .” My mind drifted. “I wasn’t supposed to do it on my own. We were supposed to be a team.”
“But now it’s just you.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “But you’ve never been a quitter.”
“No,” I said. “I’ve never been a quitter.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” She smiled. “Because it’s true.” The oven timer went off. She patted my knee, stood up, and walked back to the kitchen. The
oven door squeaked as she opened it. Then Nikki removed her freshly baked loaf of banana bread and put it on the counter. She tested whether it was done by sticking a butter knife in the middle. When the knife came out clean, she set it aside and turned off the oven.
“Want some coffee with it?”
“Sure.” I pulled myself up off the couch and walked back to the kitchen. “I’ll make the coffee, but only if you put extra butter on my bread.”
“That’s a deal.”
CHAPTER FOUR
When I arrived at my chambers the next morning, Detective Jarkowski was waiting. Nobody else was in the office yet. He sat in a chair next to my law clerk’s desk and appeared to be reading one of my bicycling magazines. “Hope you don’t mind me making myself at home.” He gestured vaguely with one of his giant hands. “Some court reporter let me inside, said you’d be in shortly.”
Jarkowski closed the magazine and put it on the small end table. Then he tapped the cover, which featured a storklike couple in spandex. “Always interesting to learn what the skinny people are doing.” He then took a deep breath and extricated his large body from the chair. “Got a few minutes to talk?”
“Come on back.” I walked past him toward my office. “Got a bench meeting in about thirty minutes, so we should be good until then.” I unlocked the door separating my office from the reception area and sat at my desk. “Hope you have some news.”
Jarkowski shook his head and sat down across from me. “Not much at the moment. And that’s why I’m here.”
“OK.” I leaned back, unsure of where this was headed. “What can I do?”
“Just talk to me.” He offered a smile. It was meant to be encouraging, but it looked more like he was hungry and I was slathered in barbecue sauce. “Everybody says that you knew Judge Meyer the best. So I’m trying to figure out where to go. At the moment, I don’t have much, to be honest. You mentioned that there might be a disgruntled defendant or parent or something, but we need specifics. I need a name.”
Good Intentions Page 2