The One-Eyed Judge

by Ponsor, Michael;

  18

  Claire dipped a wooden spoon into her beef bourguignon and gave it a stir, listening for the sound of David’s car. She wasn’t certain what the concoction would taste like, but the aroma had her kitchen smelling like dinnertime in heaven. Marlene was dancing around her feet, whimpering for scraps and drooling on the floor.

  The weeks in Nova Scotia without David had been really hard. Once, during a FaceTime call, he’d bobbed onto the screen with a big clump of hair sticking out from the side of his head. The sight of him looking so awkward and sweet triggered a memory of the scent of his pajamas that was almost unbearable. Even more painful was having to watch, week after week, how his trips to Washington and the impossible task of comforting his nieces were wearing him down. Her attempts to convey support seemed to help sometimes, but too often they were frustrated by how bulbous and discolored the video camera made them both look. Most of the time, in the silence following a call, she’d find herself feeling useless and stupid.

  One thing the break did was give her some clarity about the Sid Cranmer situation. She’d tried to see Sid before she left for Nova Scotia, but visits were forbidden while he was in the ICU. Then, a week before she flew north, when he was finally home, he sent her an email, asking her to hold off coming around. His face, he said, was a fucking mess, and he couldn’t bear anyone looking at him except his intern. She was premed, so he figured seeing him would be educational for her.

  Claire was still very upset that her friend was getting screwed so unfairly, and fair or unfair, she was still pissed at David for not recusing himself from Sid’s case. His decision made her feel second fiddle to his judgy world, and she couldn’t help resenting that, even if he was going through a hard time.

  On the other hand, she was practical, and the bottom line was that, for better or worse, she loved David and wanted to make it work with him if at all possible. The two of them were obviously at a fragile moment, and the semicomic kerfuffle with Darren Mattoon hadn’t helped things. David was being silly about Darren, of course, but she couldn’t help enjoying his jealousy a little. Earlier that evening, she’d changed the sheets on her bed. She knew where she wanted things to go, but they’d been apart a long time, and they had issues. The evening would have to find its own track.

  The meal preparations, at least, had gone pretty well so far. The beef had been marinating all day, and during a tricky passage in the recipe, she’d practiced lighting the cognac without singeing her eyelashes. Now in its final stage, her masterpiece, which included an entire bottle of côtes du rhône, had been bubbling away for an hour. Claire couldn’t help feeling a little proud of herself. David would be touched—he’d better be, anyway—and she would have leftovers for her book group’s potluck the following evening. She had set the table and was tossing the salad when she heard David’s knock.

  “It’s open,” she called out.

  Four things then happened in rapid succession. First, Claire lifted the heavy Dutch oven off the burner, intending to shift it to the counter where the plates and bowls were waiting. Second, the front door thumped closed and David called out, “Hello?” Third, Marlene, who was going deaf, realized her beloved master had arrived and scrambled around Claire in a frenzy to greet him. Fourth, Claire, knocked off balance, dropped the big pot onto the kitchen floor with a crash. Some of the contents leaped up and scalded her ankles, but most of it burst out in all directions across the tile floor, splattering like a huge brown bug.

  “Oh, son of bitch!” Claire called out.

  Staring down at the lumpy puddle, she heard David hurrying across the dining room.

  In a matter of seconds, he stood gaping in the kitchen doorway, while Marlene, ignorant of the disaster she’d caused, nibbled at his fingers for attention.

  David looked down at the remains of their meal and then up at Claire. Something about his painfully empathic expression was irresistible. He knew exactly how she felt, and he wasn’t going to try to say anything clever. He didn’t think she was stupid or clumsy. He was her friend, and he loved her. How could she not love him back?

  “I made it for you especially.” She looked down at the glop on the floor, feeling foolish at how stricken her voice sounded. “Now it’s ruined.”

  David tossed his suit jacket on a chair, came over, and gave her a long hug. They stood for a while together in the pool of gravy, holding each other, wordless. Before long, they became aware of the sound of Marlene, down at their shoes, slurping away at the massive treat.

  In a way, it wasn’t a bad start to the evening.

  Dinner ended up being grilled cheese sandwiches, the undamaged salad, and the two bottles of zinfandel David had brought.

  As they sat down, David looked at Claire, “Aren’t we supposed to be drinking something blanc with grilled cheese?”

  “Ha ha. Let me pour.”

  David smiled and took his tie off, tossing it onto the far end of the table. He was wearing a pale-blue dress shirt that Claire was especially fond of, and it struck her, with a wave of sweetness, that he must have put it on to please her.

  They kept the conversation easy and general at first. David asked Claire about her classes, and she described a knee-buckler she’d picked up that fall called “Monster Novels,” where she had to flog the students through Brothers Karamazov, Moby Dick, Ulysses, and Infinite Jest, all in one semester. She deliberately omitted mentioning that the class had been Sid’s and that she’d inherited it following his suspension.

  “I’ve read all the others more than once, but I’m still only halfway through Infinite Jest,” Claire said, sipping her wine.

  “Other than English professors, who actually reads Infinite Jest?”

  “About a quarter of the people who claim to,” Claire said. “But tell me about Lindsay and Jordan.”

  “We Skyped with Ray and one of his doctors in Germany last weekend, trying to get the girls ready for when he returns.” David tossed a piece of crust to Marlene, who’d been staring up at him, panting. “Which I hope will be soon. Go lie down.” He pointed to the corner.

  “You’re encouraging bad habits.”

  “Yeah, well.” David sighed. “Typical me.”

  “How did the call go?”

  “The child psychiatrist told me it would be a good idea, but it didn’t go very well, actually. Ray’s looking better, but—this really shocked me—he started to cry when he was talking to the girls.” David chewed a bite of his grilled cheese and swallowed. “Not just sniffling, either—sobs. I’ve never seen that before. Ray didn’t even cry when he was nine and broke both his wrists falling off the combine. It really upset Jordan. I was up half the night with her.” He rubbed at the area under his eye. “It got to me, too, to tell the truth. Jord and I kind of comforted each other.”

  Claire reached out and touched David’s hand. “Honestly, David? I don’t know how you do this. You’re amazing.” He clasped her hand in return, intertwining their fingers. They meshed perfectly.

  David shook his head. “I don’t feel amazing. I feel like a total dope.”

  “You shouldn’t. You know that, don’t you? There’s just no easy way to do this. No one could handle this better. Really.”

  David picked up Claire’s hand and kissed the knuckle at the base of her middle finger. It was a courtly gesture so unlike David that she had to smile.

  “I missed you like crazy,” David said. “Talking to you made all the difference.”

  “Now it’s my turn to say I felt like a dope.” Claire smiled. “Most of the time there was not a single helpful thing I could think of to say.”

  “It’s just hard. Turns out there’s no right way to do this.”

  Marlene, impatient for another crust, whimpered and shifted her feet back and forth, clicking on the hardwood floor. David made a face and looked down at her. “Shut up, Marlene, please. We’re trying to be romantic here.�
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  Claire laughed, let go of David’s hand, and stood up.

  “You’re not doing too badly, big guy. Let’s go out on the porch. Should I get us coffee?”

  “I’ll stick with a little more of this.” David refilled his wineglass and lifted the bottle to Claire, raising his eyebrows to ask if she’d join him.

  “Please. In fact, bring the bottle.”

  The daylight was easing away, and when Claire flipped on the ceiling globe, it created an amber nest on her screened porch. Unlike David, she had neighbors close by, and faint voices were floating out of the shadows through the hemlocks at the side of her house. David settled into the recliner. Claire sat on the sofa facing him, pulling her legs up. She’d hoped David would join her on the sofa—things seemed to be going well—but he was leaning forward stiffly with his hands on his knees.

  “It’s probably not very smart of me to bring this up, but it’s on my mind, and I wanted to get it out of the way.”

  “It’s okay. If it’s about Sid, we can wait if you want.”

  “Well, I just want to say one quick thing, and then we can, as somebody used to say, move to the entertainment part of our evening.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Right, so here it is. Professor Cranmer’s attorney is a woman named Linda Ames. She’s the real McCoy. I’ve been watching her, and I’m confident your friend is getting the best possible representation.” He huffed out a breath and nodded to himself. “She’s doing everything for him that can be done. That’s”—he paused and looked her—“that’s pretty much all I wanted to say, if it’s any consolation.”

  “It is. I appreciate that. Thanks.”

  David looked relieved, blew out another breath, and began, “Now that we’ve—”

  “Can I just ask you something about this sort of case?” Claire couldn’t resist. “Not about Sid, just about this kind of case?”

  “I guess.” David leaned back and put his hands on the armrests. The movement doubled the distance between them. On the other side of the evergreens, the voices got louder. The party was breaking up. There was the sound of a door opening and someone calling out, “Don’t let the bugs in!”

  “How often do juries find people in these cases not guilty?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve never had one go to trial. Everyone’s always pleaded out.”

  “I see. And what sort of sentences do they generally get?”

  David cleared his throat, took a sip of wine, and set the glass on the end table, as though he wanted to be sure not to knock it over. He sighed, gathering himself.

  “The minimum for receipt of child pornography is five years, but usually the sentences are longer than that.”

  “Can a person get—what’s it called? Probation? Parole?”

  “There’s no parole in the federal system, and probation is not permitted for this crime.” He looked to the side, weighing his words, then turned back to her. “The lowest sentence he could get—I mean, that a defendant like Professor Cranmer could get—would be five years, minus fifty-four days a year for what’s called ‘good time,’ if he has a decent institutional record.”

  “My God.”

  “I have to tell you—I mean, you probably ought to know, Claire—the government in Professor Cranmer’s case will be looking for a sentence of over fifteen years.”

  He’d mentioned Sid explicitly now, so Claire felt free to follow up.

  “Do you think …” She hesitated. “Do you think he’ll be found guilty?”

  “My guess is, like most of these defendants, he’ll end up pleading guilty.”

  “But Sid’s innocent, David.”

  “Well …”

  “Doesn’t that matter?” She was pushing, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. “He could die in prison.”

  David glanced back over his shoulder at the noise next door, frowned, and turned to Claire. “Of course it matters.” He raised his voice and spoke quickly. “Do you really think I don’t care? It matters a lot, in general and to me personally.” He put his hand on top of his head and scratched, reining himself in. His tone turned softer. “But my job, Claire, is to give both sides a fair trial. I know this sounds starchy, but my job is to give the government its chance to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that your friend has committed this crime. If they can’t do it, he goes free. If they do, or if he admits to the crime, then I try to figure out what a fair sentence is.” David shook his head. “I shouldn’t have …”

  “It’s okay. Let’s drop it.”

  “It was my fault. I shouldn’t …”

  “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have either.”

  A burst of voices broke out next door. People were walking down the front lawn apparently, and an older woman was calling to them from the stoop. Something about Montana, or maybe bananas, and everyone laughed.

  “I’m sorry.” David nodded at the spot next to her and said abruptly, “Can I come over there?”

  “You’ve been waiting for permission? I was hoping we’d start out here.”

  “Well, it’s been a while. I didn’t …”

  “Please.” Claire shifted around. “Make yourself at home.”

  As David stood, he twitched and looked toward the kitchen. Something had happened. “Oh, cripes, it’s my cell. I left it in my jacket.”

  “Really?” Claire cocked her ear and caught a barely audible buzz in the distance. “Just leave it.” She patted the sofa next to her.

  “I can’t. Sorry. I’ll just be a second.”

  He wasn’t a second. Fifteen minutes later, she could still hear his deep voice two rooms away. Claire finished her wine, listening to the night sounds. Two cars drove off next door, and the voices inside the house grew fainter and eventually died out. As the lights over there went off, the area around the porch got darker and felt more enclosed. A quietness settled into Claire that drifted into sadness, like a cloud slowly changing shape. Eventually, she got up, went into the dining room, and began clearing the dishes off the table.

  David was still in the kitchen.

  “It’s okay,” he was saying. “We can talk about it when you—” The person on the other end interrupted him. “Ray, we don’t—” Another interruption. “Ray, what the heck time is it over there? You’re supposed to be—”

  When Claire entered the kitchen carrying the plates and salad bowls, David glanced over at her and grimaced. She tried to look sympathetic. After another five minutes, as she was bending over the pans, the gooey Dutch oven slipped out of her fingers and banged down into the stainless steel sink. It hadn’t been on purpose, but she didn’t regret it.

  David said, “Yes.” There was another pause. “I’m at a friend’s house.” David closed his eyes and looked impatient. “She dropped a pan. We’re finishing up dinner, okay?” Claire made an “I’m sorry” face, and David shook his head and waved his hand at her not to worry.

  “Okay,” David continued. “I have to go now, Ray. We’ll talk about it this weekend.” He paused. “I’m going now, Ray. I’m going, okay? Good-bye.” Ray’s voice was coming out of the phone, louder. Claire could almost make out some words. “Right. Good-bye, Ray. Talk to you this weekend. Okay? Bye.”

  David, looking weary, walked to where his jacket hung over the chair and slipped the cell phone into an inside pocket.

  “I’m really sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t—”

  “It’s okay.” Claire rinsed the plate in her hands, set it in the dishwasher, and turned away to pick up another one.

  “He’s all over the place. Wants to come home but doesn’t know if he can manage. Hates the acting guy who’s taken his job at Commerce.” David closed his eyes and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Now he’s cranked up about crying in front of the girls. Sometimes he’s just a …” He shook his head, looking angry. “He’s always been this way.”
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br />   Claire put another plate into the dishwasher. She felt herself moving with special care, which probably meant she was feeling hurt. He was a good guy. He was doing his best, probably better than she’d do in his position. She ought to be sympathetic.

  “What’s the best thing to do here, do you think? Is there any way I can help? Sounds like you’re pretty …”

  “I don’t know.” David’s cell phone began to buzz again. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” When he pulled the phone out of his jacket and looked at the caller, he shook his head despairingly. “Oh, Lord.” He stared at the phone for a while and put it back in his jacket. “This time I’m letting it take a message. Should have done that last time.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Lindsay. My guess is she’s gotten into another beef with the Stephensons, the family she’s staying with. They’ve been pretty strict about her curfews since she came home smelling of beer and knocked over a lamp. She thinks I’m the court of appeals.” He had his hands on the sides of his head and swiveled to look at Claire. “It’s awful. She’s sixteen. She promises them anything, then does whatever she wants and hopes she won’t get caught.”

  The phone eventually stopped, but after a short pause, it began buzzing again. David started toward the dining room to help clear the rest of the dishes.

  “Just leave them, David. It’s okay.”

  “I’m really sorry.” He looked up at the ceiling—a man searching for help from heaven and not finding it. “It’s a pressure cooker down there. Lindsay had a big fight with her mother the night before Sheila and Ray left for Europe. Called Sheila a bad name, Jordan said. Now Sheila’s dead, and Lindsay never got a chance to work it out. Lindsay’s so angry most of the time, you can barely get a word out of her. We talked about it once, and it helped for a little while, but she goes through times when everything, everything, makes her angry. I shouldn’t let this get to me, I know, especially tonight, but …”

  “Jesus, David, how can you not let it get to you?” Claire came over, put her arms around him, and spoke into his ear. “I’m so sorry you have to go through all this. I’m sorry for all of us.” He put both hands in the middle of her back, and they stood quietly, holding each other.