The One-Eyed Judge

by Ponsor, Michael;

  The residential side streets of Georgetown reminded Norcross of the Beacon Hill neighborhood of Boston, with overhanging trees, rumpled brick sidewalks, and elegant, historical façades. Both locales emphatically bespoke self-assured privilege. The difference between Boston and Washington, however, was that, underneath this comfortable entitlement, Georgetown projected subjacent muscle. Embassies and official residences appeared on every other block, with black SUVs parked in front. From time to time, Judge Norcross noticed a man in dark glasses standing back in the shadows, finger pressed to his ear, talking into a discreet microphone. The people who lived and worked inside these sedate buildings made things happen.

  Ray’s mansion was a three-story double town house. He’d bought two, side by side, and with the help of an interior designer, he had broken down the walls between them. Three good-size blue spruces dominated the garden in front. When they slowed to a stop, a man stepped out into the street, spoke quickly to the driver, and opened the wrought-iron security gate. Norcross’s cell phone broke into a hum just as they bumped up onto the cobblestone drive that led to a courtyard and carriage house in the back. He could hear a car horn in the background when he connected.

  “Hi. David?”

  “Claire?” More traffic noise. She had to be walking across campus.

  “I’m sorry I missed your calls.” She sounded distracted—or maybe irritated.

  “It’s okay. Listen …”

  “They tell me I’m in the news.”

  “What?”

  “You mentioned me in court, I guess.”

  “Oh, cripes! That made the papers?”

  “It’s okay. It’s just …”

  “That was really dumb. I …”

  “It’s okay, but, you know …”

  The dashboard phone in the car buzzed, and the agent in the passenger seat grabbed it.

  “Totally unnecessary,” Norcross continued. He would need to clear this up with Claire, but it would have to be another time. “Listen, the reason I called is I’m in Washington. I may not be back for a day or two.”

  “What?”

  The agent twisted around and held out the car phone, mouthing, “For you.”

  “Oh, jeez. I’ve only got a minute.” He held one finger up to the agent. “There was a plane crash this morning in Croatia, and it looks as though my—” Norcross broke off. Saying this, especially in front of the agents, made everything painfully real. “My brother, Ray, was badly injured. They think …” The agents were looking away, but they could hear, of course. What he was saying, who he was talking to, would probably end up in a report. “They think he … He may not make it. His wife was killed. The news will hit the Internet soon if it hasn’t already.”

  “Oh, David.”

  “Yes, it’s really awful.” He paused, trying to let his mind settle. “Anyway, I’m down here. I’m about to meet up with Ray’s kids and tell them what happened. They’re …”

  The agent spoke two words into the car phone then whispered to Norcross, “They need to talk to you.” His tone was apologetic but firm.

  “Darn it.” Norcross reached for the phone. “I’ve got another call here.”

  “David, I’m so sorry.”

  He wanted to say something brainless like, “Tell me you’ll still love me after I foul this up,” but of course that wasn’t possible. To his left, the face of a little girl—it must be Jordan—was bobbing in one of the house’s side windows that looked out onto the courtyard. She was older than he remembered her. Six? Seven? She was partly obscured by a frond of a house plant. It looked like she was chewing as she stared at him.

  “I’ll … I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay. Oh, David, I’m so …”

  “I know. It’s okay. I’ll call you later.”

  Norcross felt almost sick with frustration at having to shortchange Claire like this—another layer of cloud over everything—but he had no choice.

  The new phone call was from Myra, Ray’s chief of staff, with the news that Ray was still alive but critically injured and being rushed to an American air force base in Germany. Sheila’s remains would be flown back to the United States in the next two or three days. The office was making the arrangements.

  “Has anyone told Lindsay and Jordan what’s happened?” Norcross asked.

  “No, Judge. At least, no one here. We’ve been waiting for you.” Myra paused, and he heard the murmur of a voice in the background. “But there’s been a lot of buzz.”

  “Okay.”

  “Main thing I wanted to pass on is that, at first, some of the news organizations—CNN was one—incorrectly reported that both Ray and Sheila had been killed.” Myra sighed. “Not just Sheila.” This had to be terrible for her. She had been with Ray since he first ran for governor.

  “Okay.”

  “So it’s unclear if Lindsay and Jordan know anything, or if what they think they know is correct. Also, intelligence hasn’t ruled out sabotage, so you’ll be seeing some extra security.”

  “Right. They’re here.”

  “Sorry, I have to go, Judge. Got a call I have to take. We’re all so grateful. I mean it. Good luck!”

  The passenger-side agent had exited the car and was standing beside it, sweeping his eyes over the neighboring houses. Judge Norcross got out the back, dragging his overnight bag and the pizza awkwardly behind him.

  The driver buzzed down his window. “Need some help?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

  A brick walkway led past the bow window, where he’d seen Jordan, around to the front.

  Jordan had vanished. As Judge Norcross mounted the granite steps, the front door suddenly swung open, and a handsome woman in her mid-seventies stepped out. Behind her, he saw the live-in nanny, Rosa, standing in the foyer.

  “Traffic jam!” The older woman had a surprised but kindly smile. She held out a hand. “I’m Teresa.”

  Judge Norcross dropped the bag and shook. “David Norcross, Ray’s brother.”

  “Oh, you must be the judge! It’s very kind of you to come, David. I didn’t see the girls. They’re keeping to themselves, I guess. But I brought over a plate of sushi and salade niçoise. I know Jordan likes the California roll. I couldn’t think what else to do. Would you please tell them to call me if I can do anything?” Her eyes dropped onto his pizza, and she laughed, “They’ll probably appreciate that much more!”

  It was only as she stepped into a limo that Norcross realized that the woman he’d been talking to was the wife of the secretary of state.

  Rosa was waiting as Norcross stepped through the door.

  “Hello, Judge Norcross.” She spoke sadly and with a slight South American accent. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Please call me David.”

  A passage led from the foyer toward the formal living room, where pillars defined a generous threshold opening into a large, well-furnished area, perfect for cocktail parties. Small, pretty Jordan was peeping at Norcross from around one of the pillars. When she saw him notice her, she stepped hesitantly into the hallway. Her face, a mask of sorrow, instantly told him he wouldn’t have to be giving his nieces the news about their parents. They knew.

  “Hi, Jordy,” he said.

  “Hi, Uncle Dave.”

  Judge Norcross dropped his bag and set the pizza on one end of a marble table positioned along the wall. The table also held a handsome ceramic vase with drooping birds of paradise. Sheila must have put them there before she left. They needed water.

  Jordan kept her eyes on Norcross as he made his way toward her down the passage. When he reached her, he squatted down and put his arms around her. It wasn’t a great hug, but it was okay. Jordan didn’t squirm. Her hair smelled of baby shampoo. After he stood up, he placed his hand on top of her head. It was all he could think to do.

  “It�
�s great to see you,” he said.

  Jordan looked up at him. “My name is Jordan now, okay? Not Jordy.” Her tone wasn’t unfriendly, but it was clear she wanted him to know.

  Perhaps to make sure he realized she wasn’t being rude, she nodded back toward the marble table and said, “Thank you for bringing the pizza.” She turned toward the living room.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What kind?” Her back was to him. Sheila had trained her to be polite under stress, but her tone was mechanical.

  “Pepperoni and green pepper.”

  “Oh.” She looked back at him. “Just so you know, Lindsay’s veggie.” She crossed into the living room and added, almost to herself, “I don’t like green peppers, but I can pick them off.”

  Lindsay was coming down the stairs to the left as Norcross followed Jordan into the living room. The thick carpeting was a navy blue, vivid in the wash of sunshine pouring in from the tall windows facing the street. Sheila had frequently remarked on how much Lindsay looked like her uncle Dave. Norcross couldn’t see it, but it was true that Lindsay was unusually tall, had wiry hair like his, and offered the world a long, earnest face. Her features, hard to read at best, looked at him blankly from the foot of the stairs.

  “Hi, Lindsay,”

  “Hi.”

  “Why don’t we, uh, sit down.”

  Lindsay said, “We know.”

  A silence expanded in the room. Rosa had disappeared.

  “I see. Okay.” Norcross looked at the two girls. “Can we sit down?”

  Lindsay and Jordan silently moved to an enormous white sofa, with Jordan burrowing into Lindsay’s side. The little girl’s mouth was turned down into a frown so intense it looked like it hurt. Her lip was trembling, and Norcross could see that she was holding herself right on the edge of tears. Lindsay looked straight ahead. She stroked Jordan’s hair absently.

  Norcross sat in a white upholstered armchair facing the two girls. “When did you learn?” It was all he could think of.

  Lindsay looked up at the ceiling, either to calculate how long it had been or to absorb what a useless question this was. “An hour ago. Something like that. One of my friends called.”

  Judge Norcross leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Listen. I’m completely awful at this.” His eye, he realized, had been bothering him like crazy ever since they’d pulled into the driveway. He paused to rub at it before continuing. “I’m probably more awful than I even realize.” Jordan was breathing shakily now, close to going over the edge. Lindsay was facing at an angle, away from him, holding everything in. Maybe she really was like him.

  “Why are you here?” Lindsay turned to him abruptly. She covered her eyes, shook her head, and dropped her hands. “That came out wrong. It’s nice of you, Uncle Dave. Really. But we’re wondering.”

  “We don’t see you that much,” Jordan said.

  “Not since that time on Thanksgiving,” Lindsay added.

  “Right. I remember.”

  “You brought Marlene,” Jordan said.

  “Right.”

  The phone on the table next to the sofa rang jarringly, making all three of them jump. Norcross was concerned it might be from his office or from the security detail outside. Lindsay picked up, listened for a few seconds, and put the phone down without saying anything.

  “Who was it?” Norcross asked.

  Lindsay shrugged, her face frozen.

  “I sort of need to know. …” Norcross began.

  Lindsay turned her head to the side and looked down at the carpeting, her face taut.

  “It’s just that, it might be …”

  “It was for Mom, okay? It keeps happening. …”

  Jordan burrowed into Lindsay’s side more deeply. “That’s twice already.” She craned back to look at Lindsay. “People don’t know yet, right? She’s not coming back?”

  Lindsay pulled Jordan tighter into her side. “That’s right.”

  Norcross could barely keep himself from groaning. “Oh, Lord, I’m sorry! Lindsay, I’m so sorry.” It was too awful. A long silence followed, broken by sniffs from Jordan.

  Finally, Lindsay pushed her chin at Norcross. “So, not to be rude, Uncle Dave, but why are you here?”

  “People were worried. Myra called. She’s your dad’s …”

  “We know Myra.” A look of annoyance passed over Lindsay’s face, and once again, she shook it off. “We’ve known Myra a very long time.” A darker cloud, possibly anger, followed quickly over her face. “Myra should have called us. We shouldn’t have to—”

  “Are you going …” Jordan broke in, her voice raspy. “Are you going to take us away?”

  “Gosh, no. I … No, definitely not.”

  “Because we really don’t want to go anywhere, okay?” Lindsay gave her little sister another squeeze. “This is our home. We want to stay here.”

  “Home.” Jordan nodded.

  “No one’s talking about having you go anywhere. Tell the truth, this is all happening really fast for me, too. I guess people thought, because I’m your uncle—”

  “We appreciate it,” Lindsay interrupted. “We really do.”

  Norcross recognized Ray’s voice. How many times had he heard his brother say something like that—often those exact words—being nice, pushing people back to a manageable distance?

  “Thanks.” Norcross sighed. “I just want you to know how sorry I am about your mom. She was such a lovely person.” He rubbed his upper cheek. “She really was.” His voice started to shred. It wasn’t so much the thought of Sheila that was cracking him open as it was the tears running along Jordan’s nose. The look on the little girl’s face was excruciating.

  She sniffed and wiped her eyes, blinking at him. “Uh-huh.”

  “Your mom was. Your mom was a fantastic person. I’ll never forget her. And …”

  Lindsay pressed her hands over her ears, breathed, and then shook her head as though she was angry at herself.

  “And Dad, too,” Jordan said in a broken voice, continuing to wipe at her face.

  “Yes, and your dad. We’re hoping his injuries are not going to …”

  Lindsay’s head jerked toward Norcross, her eyes wide. “What? Dad’s … Dad’s dead, right? Like Mom. They’re both …” As she took in her uncle’s expression, she raised her fingers to her mouth. They were trembling.

  “No,” Norcross said quickly. He shook his head. “He was …”

  “We thought they were both dead.” Lindsay’s face flushed, and her eyes began to glisten.

  “No,” Norcross said. “That was incorrect. Some of the news …”

  “Dad’s not dead?” Jordan asked. She pulled her legs out from under her and sat up.

  “No, no. We got a call in the car on the way here, from your dad’s office. From Myra. He’s being taken to a hospital in Germany. He’s badly hurt, but right now, he’s alive.”

  It was a relief to feel a return of focus, to have some objective information to pass on.

  Lindsay put a hand on her chest. Her fingers continued to tremble and her breath was coming in shudders.

  “Dad’s not dead? When’s he coming home?” Jordan looked up at Lindsay. “What about Mom?”

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” Lindsay said in a choking voice. She stood up, looking around as though she wasn’t sure where she was. “I need to …” She walked quickly toward the far end of the room. In the doorway, she paused, her chest still rising and falling rapidly. She spoke in a hoarse, furious voice, “Jesus, why did it have to be her? Why did it have to be her and not him!” She turned, let out a sobbing cry, and disappeared into the hallway.

  13

  Western Massachusetts had no federal penal facility, so the U.S. government housed defendants who were detained pending trial at the Hampden County Jail and H
ouse of Correction in Ludlow. As his days of confinement stretched out, Sid Cranmer tried a strategy of keeping to himself and staying unnoticed. It wasn’t working.

  For one thing, the quarters were close. He shared an eight-by-ten-foot cell with a closemouthed white man, forty years his junior, who communicated mostly by scowling and pointing. The cell contained a bunk bed, with Sid allocated the less favorable lower deck, a small table and chair, and a totally exposed stainless-steel sink and toilet unit. At nine p.m. every night, the cell was locked and was not opened again until six a.m. Except for the times when a guard peeped through a six-by-four-inch window to check, what happened inside the cell would be unknown to anyone but Sid and his unfriendly “cellie.”

  The late spring was growing warmer, and with unreliable air-conditioning, the cell became suffocating at night. Still, Sid’s situation wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Due to overcrowding, he learned, many cells the same size had a cot squeezed in to permit triple bunking. Screaming and shouts frequently echoed down the cell block. Brawls were common. Most nights, Sid was too frightened to get much sleep.

  Mealtimes were a special challenge. To accommodate the crush, dinner started at four p.m. and unfolded in half-hour shifts up until eight p.m., with every table packed through each rotation. People quickly figured out who he was. On his very first day, a man sat down across the table from him and held out a grimy wad of papers that he said was a draft petition for habeas corpus. He asked if Sid would read the thing over and put it into good English. One look at the man’s face told Sid he’d better agree, but as he lay on his bunk later, he found the rambling, penciled paragraphs literally incomprehensible. The problem was compounded when his cellie, apparently accidentally, brushed the unnumbered pile onto the floor. It was impossible to reorder the pages in any way that approached sense. Sid couldn’t even make out what the man was charged with. Two days later, when the prisoner came up to him, Sid used the excuse that he was still working on the project. The guy did not look happy.

  In the food line, big men, and even smaller men about his size, cut in front of him, eyeballing him and daring him to complain. He didn’t say anything. At his first breakfast, he got a bowl of Cheerios dumped into his lap. The guy’s “Sorry, man” did not sound very sincere.