Judge Norcross had both his eyes. He just couldn’t see very well out of his left one, a result of an injury toward the end of Hudson, when a loopy pro se litigant had discharged a pistol in his face. In the months while the eye had been healing, he’d sported a leather patch on the bench, but now all that remained of the episode, physically, was a fine web of scarring, a slightly drooping left eyelid, and limited depth perception at night.
The area around the eye sometimes tingled or itched, and Claire noticed that David had fallen into the habit of rubbing at it, especially when he was tired or worried. Combined with his tendency to pull on his nose and sniff, and to scratch his ear, her boyfriend’s performance under stress sometimes reminded Claire, who was an avid baseball fan, of a third-base coach orchestrating a suicide squeeze.
Her friend’s offhand response to the garden party suggestion—“Sure, sounds like fun”—struck Claire as one more expression of David’s obliging cluelessness.
“I don’t know how much fun it will be,” Claire replied. “It’s mostly a lot of faculty standing around drinking lukewarm chardonnay while the president praises our hard work and gushes at the donors who’ve shown up. A few of my friends are eager to meet you, though.” She paused, watching David closely. “So I thought we might go.”
“I don’t have to go without a tie, do I?”
David stayed over at Claire’s house the evening before the party, something he and his dog, Marlene, did two or three times a week now. He seemed preoccupied during dinner, which worried Claire. Then, he was uncharacteristically distant after they went to bed—usually, they tucked themselves together like two puzzle pieces—and his restless tossing kept them from getting much sleep. Claire was concerned that David’s touch-me-not mood reflected his discomfort at the prospect of standing around with a lot of prying academics. Around two a.m., when she was sure he was awake, she rolled toward him and touched his arm.
“David?” she whispered.
“Hmmm?” He turned toward her in a puff of warmth, faintly scented with Old Spice.
“We can skip the garden party if you want. It’s not that big a deal.”
“Oh, gosh, no.” David lifted his head off the pillow. “It’s not the party.” He twisted around and, with some bouncing, managed to push himself up against the wall. “I’m kind of a public guy, you know. I don’t spook that easily. What …” He paused and wiped his hands over his face. “What I can’t seem to rinse out of my mind … Oh crud, hold on. Let me get the light.”
He reached over and switched on the reading lamp next to the bed, shoved the pillows up behind him, leaned back, and let out a sigh. “The postal inspectors …” He glanced down at her. “It’s so ugly I hate even mentioning it. The postal inspectors brought me another warrant application for child pornography yesterday. I had to review the material to be sure there was probable cause to authorize the seizure.”
Claire propped herself on an elbow, looking up at David. His weary, tousled expression was somehow very endearing.
“The pictures of those poor, skinny little kids …” He pressed his hands against his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. “They’re so …” He dropped his hands and searched for words. “So far beyond anything merely disgusting—doing those things to a helpless child, and making a video of it. It …” He shook his head. “It makes me ashamed to be human.”
“God, I’m sorry, David. Assholes.” A silence drew out. Finally, Claire said, “I’m trying, but I honestly can’t come up with a single consoling thing to say. It’s too sickening.”
“There’s nothing to say. People do terrible, vicious things, that’s all.”
“Would a back rub help?” Claire asked.
He looked at her and gave a relieved smile. “That would be fantastic.”
David swung his legs onto the floor, and Claire got behind him and began kneading the base of his neck and shoulders.
“The scenes hit your brain like boiling acid,” David said. “Wow. That helps.” He inhaled deeply. “Just looking leaves a scar. I keep seeing this one little girl. I can still hear her …” He trailed off.
“I can’t imagine.” Claire pressed her thumbs into his shoulder blades. “I don’t want to imagine.”
After another long silence, David’s shoulders began to relax. He turned and kissed Claire. “Thanks. You’re a true sweetheart. That’s a lot better.”
He switched off the light, and in a few minutes, he began breathing regularly. Claire, however, lay awake for a long time. David’s distress was painful to see, but it was also a troubling sign for their relationship. A few weeks before, they’d enjoyed a romantic, champagne-drenched evening at the Blue Heron, a swanky local restaurant in nearby Sunderland. Over dessert, David had slid a black felt box containing a beautiful diamond-and-sapphire ring across the table and asked Claire to marry him. It was so sweet—she’d actually blinked back tears, which was unusual for her—but she hadn’t given him her answer yet.
The problem was, she wanted children, and she wanted them soon. David did not seem to want children, certainly not soon and maybe not ever. His first wife, Faye, had died pregnant, and his life in court made him doubt that the world was a fit place for anyone, let alone a helpless toddler. Claire could see no point in a wedding if kids were off the table. On the other hand, she had to smile at herself: She might not like the idea of marriage without children, but she certainly liked that ring.
This child porn sewage definitely would not help things. Claire sometimes wondered fleetingly whether she should be with David at all. Maybe she should be trying for someone else who was ready for a family. Other men, including one in particular, a highly available colleague whom she’d had a couple lunches with, were making friendly noises.
But these thoughts never stayed long. David, in his earnest, semidorky way, was unbearably lovable. Things had reached the point where the notion of being without him literally made her sick. The kid issue was painful, she told herself, but it was one of those tough things a couple had to work through.
The darkness was thinning and the first birds were beginning to call before she finally dropped off.
The afternoon of the party turned out to be hot for May. As Claire pulled into the parking area near the Amherst College quad—she usually did the driving now—bubbles of tar popped under her tires. When they got parked, she looked over at David and saw him checking her out, his eyes going shiny with affection.
“Okay, showtime!” He punched her lightly on the shoulder. “Let’s go party.”
David’s act was so typical it brought a smile to Claire’s face. She knew that she was no longer in her twenties, or even early thirties, and she knew that her behind was slightly larger, and her upper arms slightly puffier, than was strictly ideal. Yet every time she got into a nice outfit for events like this and put on a little makeup, she’d catch him, no matter how wiped out or distracted he might be, giving her this look, as though today was his birthday and she was the ice-cream cake.
As they exited the car and began walking toward the crowd gathered on the lawn, Claire worked extra hard to maintain her poise. Was it her imagination, or were heads already turning toward them? She’d been at the college twelve years, and nearly everyone knew about her painful divorce. A lot of people would be pulling for her now, but it was not clear that their wagging and sniffing would make the next hour and a half any easier. The situation was made even more fraught by the fact that, according to rumor, Claire was in the running for the much coveted Senior Class Faculty Award, which would be announced at the party.
She hadn’t told David about this in case she didn’t get it, but she wanted him to be on hand if she won. Silly, she had to admit, but still.
As they passed through the sweltering parking lot, something caught David’s attention that pushed him close to profanity.
“Oh, boy!” Then louder, “Oh, darn it all!”
He was leaning over, squinting into the rear driver’s-side window of a large black BMW parked in the blazing sunlight.
“What’s the matter?”
He was cupping his hand against the glass. “Some … Some …” he sputtered. He stood and pointed. “Some jerk’s left his dog in there.” He shook the door handle; the car was locked. “Man!”
Claire peered inside and saw a golden retriever on the backseat, panting and shifting position to find some shade.
“They can’t have been gone long,” she said. “They’ll probably be right back.”
“I guess.” As they moved on, David kept glancing back over his shoulder. “Dogs trust us. I hate it when …” He shook his head, trailing off, his face dark.
A few minutes later, Claire was swept up in the flurry of introducing David to her intrigued friends, most of whom knew him through newspaper stories about his capital trial or from one of his other high-profile cases. A few people asked questions about his work, and Claire noticed how adroitly David steered around them, making jokes—usually about himself—and changing the subject. Claire realized that she was unfamiliar with this public side of him, a persona both amiable and inaccessible.
During one unfortunate interval, for the better part of five minutes, they found themselves glued to Dixwell Pratt, an old high-school classmate of David’s from Madison, Wisconsin, now an associate dean at the college, who introduced David as the Lord High Executioner many, many times, laughing in exactly the same way with each rendition, like an audio loop. They were rescued by Claire’s gorgeous, dark-haired friend Celine, from the French Department, who dragged David off to introduce him to a professor in legal studies while Claire escaped to refresh her wine.
As she was waiting to be served, a department colleague, Darren Mattoon, approached her, smiling. “Have mine,” he said, holding out his glass. “Our sophomore-slump bartender is taking forever.”
When Claire looked dubious, Darren’s grin broadened. “Don’t worry. It’s like me: fresh. I haven’t taken even a sip. See?” He held his glass up, full to the brim.
Darren Mattoon had been on the faculty for four years and was coming up for tenure. Claire’s letter setting out the department’s assessment of him would be a key factor in the ultimate decision. Since he was unabashedly ambitious, Claire knew that Darren’s courtesy was, at least in part, an attempt to grease her. On the other hand, to complicate matters, he was also handsome, smart, and single. Tall and broad shouldered, he had thick blond hair and an aquiline profile accented by trendy black, round-frame glasses—a surfer dude with a brain.
During two very amusing lunches, without being pushy or indelicate, he had been transmitting unmistakable sunbeams. He’d worked for several years selling real estate in Southern California—and, according to the gossip, making a pile of money—before going for his PhD. He was younger than David, roughly Claire’s age.
“You know,” Claire said, receiving his glass. “I think I’ll take you up on that.”
“Better move fast.” Darren raised his eyebrows and, still smiling, nodded across the crowd in David’s direction. Celine was lingering next to him, laughing.
“She’s a friend.” Claire sipped her wine. “I’m not too worried.”
“Friends are good.” Darren looked to the side, poked his glasses up his nose, and turned back to Claire. “Speaking of which, have you heard the news? The National Endowment has a traveling exhibition of one of Shakespeare’s First Folios—the real deal, published in 1623—and it’s coming to the college art museum next month. I know the lady who’s chaperoning it. Care to join me on a private viewing?”
“Wow, sign me up,” Claire said distractedly. Celine had put her hand on David’s shoulder, as if to steady herself. “I better mingle.”
“Good idea. We’ll talk later.”
When Claire approached, Celine moved off with the legal studies professor. As she passed, she elbowed Claire in the side and whispered, “I hate you!” She was, Claire knew, on the hunt for a husband and a baby, not necessarily in that order.
Eventually, Claire and David found some shade and stood together watching President Cabot as she offered her occasionally funny remarks. From time to time, they let their hands touch discreetly. To Claire’s irritation, she felt her tension over the imminent award announcement rising.
“I almost forgot!”—Cabot was smiling—“Now, it’s time to announce the winner of this year’s Senior Class Faculty Award. This recognition, which has been bestowed annually for nearly fifty years, goes to the college faculty member who is most respected by the graduating class as a teacher, mentor, and academician.”
Someone handed Cabot a small plaque along with an envelope, which she fiddled with, apparently having trouble getting it open. She let her hands drop and continued. “By tradition, the election is solely by vote of the seniors, and the seniors alone.” She rolled her eyes in mock frustration. “Even I don’t know who it is!” When she wrestled the envelope open and read the slip of paper, a smile lit up her face. “And this year it goes, most deservedly …”—she paused to let the anticipation swell—“to our dear colleague and friend, Professor Claire Lindemann!”
An enthusiastic burst of applause followed, punctuated by one or two whoops, and Claire was delighted to look up into David’s amazed, beaming face. His arm snaked around her, and he hugged her to his side, kissing her on top of the head.
By the time they’d finished fielding the stream of well-wishers—including, of course, Darren Mattoon, who was effusive—and drifted back to the parking lot, many of the cars had left, and Claire was ready, first, for a bathroom and then for a quiet hour to sit and read.
The ordeal seemed to have energized David. “That was fabulous!” he said, smiling at her. “I had no idea you were such a star! Fabulous! What in the world are you doing with a clod hopper like me?”
“I crave your bod, that’s all.”
“Who was that lantern-jawed Mattoon fellow?”
“Junior faculty. Nobody.”
“Let’s hurry home.”
They were approaching Claire’s car when David noticed the black BMW, still parked in the same place. He veered off in his gangling stride, head bobbing, like a giraffe on a mission.
“David?”
“Just checking,” he said over his shoulder. Then, as he bent down to the window, he added angrily, “Oh man!” He stood and glared at the car. “This is my fault. I should have done something before.”
What Claire saw when she joined David was not good. After ninety minutes in the broiling car, the dog’s eyes were closed, and its rapid, shuddering breaths made its ribs stand out. The poor animal’s rear haunches were on the floor, and its upper body and head were on the leather seat in a small triangle of shade. Its gray tongue lolled out.
“Shit!” Claire leaned down. “His heart is beating like crazy. You can see it under his leg.”
“It’s a she, not a he.” David looked grim, almost dangerous. “Like Marlene. Stay here, okay?”
Claire stood by the car while David marched quickly back up the hill, searching, she assumed, for whomever the Beemer belonged to. She had a passing concern that he might get angry or rude, but dismissed it. David could be direct, but he did not make scenes.
As she waited, Claire continued to peer anxiously into the car. The dog looked as though she might expire before David returned. The poor animal’s desperation, and Claire’s growing concern, contrasted with the peaceful scene around her. The air was still very warm, but the sun had dropped lower, and the diagonal light was going peach. Bordering the parking lot were swishing sugar maples, already deep green, and well-manicured paths containing an occasional jogger or strolling couple.
Gazing around, Claire’s eyes focused on her friend Sid Cranmer’s tidy white house, a block down a side street. A bunch of cars were clustered around it. One, a bl
ack monster SUV, was even squatting on his lawn, partly crushing his hydrangea. Sid had turned down President Cabot’s invitation to the party, and Claire’s phone call the night before to prod him to change his mind had only reached his answering machine. He’d been through a rough patch since his mother died, and even his recorded message sounded reedy.
Much as she liked Sid, Claire had found his absence from departmental meetings a relief. As chair, she had the task of presiding at these powwows, and Sid, when he went off on one of his toots, could be a massive pill.
The question was: What was he doing with all the visitors?
David’s appearance in the distance interrupted her speculation. He was coming down the incline, staggering a little and carrying something against his stomach. As he drew near, Claire could see that he had a big, cut-glass bowl, half full of melting ice and water. Some had slopped onto his pants, spilling a dark stain from his crotch to his knee.
“She’s worse, I think,” Claire said as he approached. “Where’d you get the …”
“Pinched it off a table.” David bent down and set the bowl next to the rear door of the BMW. “Stand there and screen me, okay?”
“She’s really … Whoa!” Claire exclaimed as David pulled a misshapen half brick out of his pocket. She swept her eyes over the parking lot, checking for witnesses.
“Just stand like this?” He took her shoulders to position her. “Right like that. Act nonchalant.” David hefted the brick, which was partly covered with mortar, and swung it a couple times experimentally. “Heck of time finding this,” he muttered.
“Da-vid?” Claire’s voice went up, drawing out the two syllables. “Is this legal?”
“Possibly.” He eyed the window. “Some precept I dimly remember about committing a small crime to forestall a larger one. Not sure if it applies.” He braced himself, leaning one hand on the door frame. “Anyway, here goes nothing.”
The One-Eyed Judge Page 2