“I’m confused.”
“Well,” Chief Karls said, “since you obviously cannot understand anything remotely subtle, let me state it this way, and it is not to be repeated: I am announcing that you are assigned to the criminal division, effective immediately. But you know and I know, that is not possible. When you return to the courthouse, you will handle a few nominal criminal calendars, but you will continue your current caseload until we find a permanent replacement.”
“So the move isn’t really effective immediately. You’re just saying that?”
Chief Karls’s face was a stone. “It depends on your definition of immediate. If you have questions, meet with Nancy. You two will figure it out.”
It was clear that the conversation was over, and I was now on vacation just like Helen Vox.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
When I got back to my chambers, Karen was talking to one of the tech guys and pointing at her computer screen. I’m sure I’d learned the tech guy’s name at some point, but I couldn’t remember. “Hello, Judge,” Karen said. “We’re talking about all that data you wanted about Judge Meyer’s old cases.”
The tech guy looked at me. “Big ask.” Then he looked at the computer screen. “What do you need it for, anyway?”
Since I didn’t want to tell him I was conducting my own murder investigation, I continued the lie that I had told Karen. “I’m writing a law review article. This is part of the research.”
The tech guy nodded, as if it was perfectly normal, and then went back to fiddling with Karen’s spreadsheet. I started to walk away but decided I better tell Karen what had happened before she heard the gossip.
“I don’t mean to interrupt, Karen, but if I could talk to you for a moment, I’d appreciate it.”
“I just got out of a meeting with Chief Karls and the whole executive team,” I said. “They’re taking us out of child protection and putting us into criminal. It’s more of a public relations move.” I shrugged. “Not really sure what I think about it, actually.”
Karen didn’t say anything. I could tell the information took her by surprise, and she took a moment to comprehend that her job duties were going to change. Social workers would be replaced by probation officers. Foster care would be replaced by jail. “When?”
“They say it’s immediate.” I shook my head. “But that isn’t possible. The truth is that I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing until they identify a replacement. If anybody asks, they’re just going to say that I’m finishing up cases and that they were trying to minimize the disruption to families. It’s just spin.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Well,” I said, “they say I’m on vacation for a few days. So talk to assignment and see what they want to do with my calendars. My guess is that they just want to keep me hidden, but I can do orders and handle administrative stuff. Officially, however, I’m not here.”
“And the spreadsheet?”
“I still want it done as soon as possible.” Even after discovering that Harry and Marsh and even Helen were likely doing something improper, I wasn’t convinced that any of them would kill each other over it. Their histories and friendships were too deep, and, if Harry’s murder wasn’t connected to Marsh or Helen, then the kids in those photographs seemed to be one of the few loose ends.
I found myself alone in a bar even though the sun was still shining and it was well before three in the afternoon. The Trappist was a cozy pub off Broadway that specialized in imported wheat beers with a ridiculous alcohol content.
I texted Nikki to meet me after her shift later that night. I spared her the details of my day, but I was pretty sure that she had seen the video of the boy on the freeway.
She texted me back. Stay there. Stay safe.
I will, I thought as I put the phone away. I had no intention of going anywhere. My plan was simply to get drunk as quickly as possible and eat as much half-price bar food as possible during happy hour.
Unfortunately, the soccer game on a large television in the corner finished before Nikki’s shift was over. Bayern Munich had beaten Real Madrid 3–2, which the commentators found surprising. I, however, informed everyone around me that it should not have been surprising at all. I vaguely remember shouting in a slurred voice, “Bayern’s been the top team in the German Bundesliga for more than a decade, you idiots.”
Nobody appreciated my insight.
After six hours in the bar, I was done. The fact that the next event being broadcast after the soccer game was a stock car race live from Crawfordsville, Indiana, did not excite me, so I started searching my briefcase for my car keys.
As I drove home, I felt myself getting more and more irritated. I hated being brought before the full executive team and having Chief Karls spin my transfer to placate the media and the governor. More than that, however, I hated the loss of control. My judicial assignment was simply a piece. I’d trusted Helen Vox, and I’d been slow to recognize that she wasn’t telling me the whole truth.
I thought about her sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed, crying. I comforted her, when she should’ve been confronted. Then we spent the evening together—going to dinner and playing pool—talking about Harry, but she never mentioned a multimillion-dollar bank account or Florida corporation. Instead, she alluded to Harry remembering her in his will.
She was a fake.
Instead of ending up at home, I found myself across town at Helen’s condo on Harrison Street. It was a four-story building, nice but nothing elaborate. I pushed the call button. It rang a few times, but nobody answered.
I pushed again, but the result wasn’t any different. Helen wasn’t home. I swore at her under my breath. In my mind, I had imagined a powerful confrontation. Despite my intoxication, I’d be strong and cunning. I’d ultimately extract the truth.
In hindsight, this self-delusion should have been recognized and resulted in me calling a cab. I instead wandered to my car, struggled to find the right key to unlock the door, and eventually got back behind the wheel.
As I turned the engine on, I saw a black Chevy Tahoe double-park near the front of Helen’s building. The driver put the hazard lights on and then got out and ran around the front to the passenger side door.
He opened it and extended his hand, and a woman got out. It wasn’t hard to identify her. She was thin with striking white hair. I knew, even from a distance and with a half dozen beers in my system, it was Helen Vox.
I watched the man walk her to the door. Helen removed her key from her purse, and the man pulled her toward him. They kissed, held each other close, then kissed again. There was a familiarity in the way that they said goodbye.
Helen Vox went into her building, and the man turned and walked back to the Tahoe. He stopped at the door, looked around, and got inside.
I laughed as the Chevy Tahoe drove away.
I couldn’t believe what I’d seen, and I wondered how long Helen Vox and Marshall Terry had been romantically involved.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I pulled away from the curb and started toward my house. I thought I was doing great. The windows were open. The radio was off, and my hands were at ten and two. Every stop sign got a full and complete stop. Every lane change was signaled. Every traffic light was obeyed.
That was my recollection, anyway, but a police officer soon told me something different. I was two miles from Helen’s condo when the lights flashed, blue and red. I’m not going to lie. I wanted to press the gas and flee. Marshaling every ounce of self-control that I had, I pulled the car over to the curb.
The squad car came up behind me, but the officer didn’t get out.
As I waited, my heart pounded. He was probably running my license plate and vehicle registration, calling everything in to dispatch.
I contemplated whether or not I should hire a lawyer, and whether Nikki and I even had the money to hire a lawyer. I also imagined Benji Metina waiting for me as I left the jail. I thought about my mug shot on the front page o
f the San Francisco Chronicle. I was sure there would be a snarky headline, but at the moment I couldn’t think of one.
It felt like I was in my car for an hour, but it was only a few minutes. The squad car’s door opened. A patrol cop got out and swaggered toward me. The whole time his hand wasn’t far from his gun.
“Can I get your license and insurance?”
I nodded, reached for my wallet, and retrieved the documents. As I passed them through the window, I saw my hand tremble.
“Know why I pulled you over, sir?”
In a soft voice, I told the truth. “I do not.”
“OK.” The patrol officer scanned the inside of my car, looking for open containers of alcohol or anything else that would justify my immediate arrest. Then he said, “Your headlights are not on.”
I looked down at the dashboard, and it was true. I had forgotten to turn on my headlights.
“You were also driving about ten miles under the speed limit back there, and, at the intersection, you stopped about fifteen feet short of the crosswalk.”
“Is that illegal?”
“Can be.” The officer paused. “Have you had anything to drink tonight, sir?”
It was a standard question. The specific phrasing was taught at the police academy. The officer didn’t ask whether I was drunk or driving under the influence, which would be immediately denied by the driver. The question, instead, was an objective one, and there was no good answer. If I refused to respond, I’d be deemed evasive and suspicious, providing the police officer with legal basis to continue his investigation. If I denied drinking any alcohol, which could easily be proven incorrect, then I’d be deemed a liar. If I told the truth, I was nearly certain to be placed under arrest for driving under the influence.
“A couple beers,” I said, minimizing and being unoriginal.
The officer took a step back, still holding my driver’s license and insurance. “Wait here for a moment.” He turned and walked back to his squad car. I thought about calling Nikki but figured I’d only make her nervous. I also didn’t want to be reaching for anything or having anything in my hand that the cop might think was a weapon.
Cars continued to flow past me. The drag from each one jiggled the Range Rover. Eventually the patrol cop returned. He handed me back my driver’s license and insurance. “I’d like you to please step out of the car.”
I performed a series of field sobriety tests. Like a veteran drunk, I knew every one of them. I followed the cop’s finger from left to right, as he performed the horizontal gaze nystagmus test. This is when a police officer watches the driver’s pupil for smooth pursuit while tracking the movement of the finger as well as an involuntary shaking of the pupil when it is at maximum deviation. Maximum deviation is just a fancy way of saying when the finger is all the way over to one side.
I also did the walk-and-turn and the one-leg stand. I don’t know whether I passed or not, but when these tests were done, the cop asked if I would blow into his portable breath test device. This was the moment of truth. I knew that, under the law, I really didn’t have a choice. If I refused, the cop would still arrest me and take me to the station for testing on the BAC Datamaster. The station’s machine was more sophisticated and arguably more accurate than the portable breath test, and the machine at the station would be the test that would be used for my criminal prosecution.
“Sure.”
The cop nodded. He held up the little black box. “I need you to take a big breath and blow into this straw until you hear the beep.”
I leaned in, put my lips around the plastic straw, and blew into the little black box.
He encouraged me. “Keep blowing. Keep blowing. Keep blowing.” When three high-pitched beeps were emitted from the box, the cop patted me on the back. “Good.”
He stepped away, and for a moment I thought he was going to let me go, but I was wrong.
“Can you come with me, Judge?”
When he called me judge, adrenaline shot through me. He knew who I was.
I sat alone in the squad car, wondering why I hadn’t been transported down to the police station. Enough time had now passed that the reality of my situation was undeniable. My legal career was over, and I began thinking about a life in Utah as a gym teacher. I could teach gym. I’d probably even like it, a little exercise every day and summers off. There were hospitals in Utah, too. Nikki could easily find a job. We could afford a nice house, decent schools.
Another squad car arrived. It was a taller cop, a little older. By their looks and gestures, they were obviously talking about me, but I couldn’t hear them.
I waited as another ten minutes passed. I had to go to the bathroom, but I wasn’t going to say anything or try to get their attention.
Nothing happened until a third car arrived. It was an unmarked Ford Crown Victoria, gray. The other cops walked up to the driver, words were exchanged, and then the patrol cop turned and walked toward me.
When he got to the squad, the patrol cop opened the door. “I apologize for the delay, Judge.” He stepped aside. “We’ve got some staffing issues tonight that me and the night watch commander are trying to sort through.” It was a peculiar statement, spoken in a tone more for the benefit of the squad’s video recording device than for me. “Can you step out of the car?”
I did as I was told.
After sitting for so long, I almost lost my balance. The patrol cop led me over to the unmarked Crown Vic without conversation and opened the back door. I got inside.
When the door shut, the large man in the front seat turned and smiled. “Good evening, Judge Thompson.” It was Detective Jarkowski. “I’m going to be transporting you downtown.”
“I didn’t know you investigated DUIs, Detective.”
Jarkowski laughed. “Only when I get lucky.”
Unlike a squad car, Jarkowski’s Crown Vic was different. It didn’t have a dashboard camera or any recording devices, which was probably why we weren’t having this conversation in the squad. “What’s going to happen downtown?”
“Well”—he rubbed his big nose, carefully choosing his words—“it’s up to you, really. I’m taking you to the station no matter what, but, once we arrive, it’s on you. I can have you immediately booked and arrested for DUI. Depending on your alcohol levels, you’ll either be held in jail for the night or released to a sober friend or family member.” He paused for a moment, and I kept quiet. “Or there is a possibility that you can be released without charge if you spend some time talking with me.” He repeated his last words for emphasis. “Like really talking with me.”
I picked up on the word possibility.
“If I heard you right,” I said, “I think you’re telling me that I could do whatever you want or answer whatever questions you had and you still may charge me with a DUI.”
“It’s a possibility,” he said. “You could get charged with a DUI or maybe something more serious. It’d be up to the prosecutors. Believe it or not, I’ve had other people in this spot and they tell me they’re going to cooperate and then they don’t. So you’d be taking a chance, which, if I were you, I’d jump at this chance, Judge. You don’t want to be in the news again.”
I thought about Jarkowski’s suggestion of being charged with something more serious, and I wondered if he knew about the photographs and the journals or Harry’s will and Red Rock ABC-5555. It wouldn’t be hard to satisfy probable cause to charge me with obstructing legal process for withholding that information from him.
An aggressive prosecutor could even charge me with murder, aiding and abetting after the fact, which was a fancy way of saying that I didn’t help a person actually commit murder but I helped a person get away with murder by withholding important information from law enforcement.
I wasn’t sure if there was enough evidence for a jury to find me guilty of either of those more serious charges, but I sure didn’t want to find out.
“You’re right.” The back seat of Jarkowski’s Crown Vic felt like it was
getting smaller. I was trapped, and I had to work hard not to panic. A ruined legal career was nothing compared to fifteen years in prison. The lump in my throat made it difficult to continue, but I swallowed hard and told Jarkowski he had a deal. “I don’t want to be in the news again.”
He smiled and turned the key. The Crown Vic’s engine roared to life. “But you can’t hold back on me, Judge.” Jarkowski put the car into gear. “Full disclosure. You need to be candid and frank. Because I know what you’ve been doing and who you’ve been talking to over the past few days. So this ain’t a bluff.”
“I’ll be candid and frank,” I said. “As long as you let me use the bathroom first.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I looked up at the corner of the interrogation room. A small camera recorded everything that was going on. Jarkowski was also probably sitting in another room watching the video feed. I knew what he was doing to me. He was icing the suspect, making sure that I understood that he was in control. I wasn’t going to be set free unless he agreed. I needed to make him happy.
Almost an hour later, Jarkowski came into the room. He had a notepad and pen, as well as a folder. He sat down across from me and took a black digital recorder out of his pocket. He turned on the recorder. A small light went red.
Jarkowski identified himself, the date, and the time for the record, then removed a sheet of paper from his folder. “Judge Thompson, I know you’ve heard this before in your courtroom and that you know your rights, but I think it’s always appropriate to follow standard procedures.” Jarkowski looked down at the paper in front of him.
“Do you understand you have the right to remain silent and that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law?”
“I do.”
Jarkowski nodded, then handed me the pen. “Then if you could initial next to that statement on this piece of paper, indicating that you understand the right and you do not have any questions about that right.”
Good Intentions Page 14