The One-Eyed Judge

by Ponsor, Michael;

“And when you get something from a colleague, or a journal, or a professional society, do you always get the scissors out and start opening those packages within a minute? Is that your habit?”

  “Sometimes I’m busy.”

  “But this time you certainly weren’t busy. You started opening the package within a minute after it was in your hands, correct?”

  “Yes. I already said that.”

  “Please, Sid, for God’s sake. You opened it right away, even though you say you never ordered it, but were not surprised to receive it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sid, you do realize how dead you are by now, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Campanella could sit down right now, and the jury would convict you in fifteen minutes. Two more areas. When you heard the knock at the door, what was the first thing you did?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When you heard the knock on the front door, when Agent Patterson and his team arrived within a minute or two after the delivery, and began knocking, the very first thing you did, before you went to the door, was hide the DVD in a drawer, right? Isn’t that what you did?”

  “I wasn’t exactly hiding it.”

  Ames let her voice dip down into a tone of scorn. “Well, you put it in a drawer, right? And you closed the drawer. And when it was in the drawer, the DVD was out of sight. Can we agree on that?”

  “Yes, it was out of sight.”

  “If this was a DVD from a colleague or a journal or a professional society, would you bother sticking it away when you heard someone at the door?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want it out.”

  “You didn’t want it out, right. Because you knew exactly what it was, and you didn’t want anyone else, any visitor, seeing it. Isn’t that true?”

  Sid didn’t say anything, and Ames continued.

  “Okay, final topic. You enjoy looking at pornography, don’t you, Professor?”

  “God, Linda.”

  “Trust me, Sid, this question is coming, and you’ll be answering it in a room full of people, including a half-dozen reporters. Isn’t it true that you enjoy looking at pornography, Professor?”

  “Sometimes, yes. Adult pornography.”

  “Well, your computer hard drive had quite a bit of pornography on it, and it got there because you had been looking at it, right?”

  “Yes, at least some of it.”

  “Some of it, okay. And some of that pornography included young girls, correct?”

  “What do you mean, ‘young’?”

  “Teen stuff. Teen porn sites, advertising models who were quote unquote barely legal. Stuff like that.”

  “No one underage.”

  “Really? Then I show you a series of pictures they pulled off your hard drive of some fairly young girls, maybe eighteen or nineteen, but maybe fifteen or sixteen, and I say, ‘Recognize these?’ They’ve been downloaded onto your computer for more than a year.”

  “They all have breasts and pubic hair, Linda. They’re not …”

  “I’m Campanella, remember? And there are fourteen people, twelve jurors and two alternates, listening to every word you say. So, you do admit that these are young girls you actually did look at, right? No question about that.”

  “Right.”

  “And you enjoyed looking at them?”

  “Yes, I guess.”

  “You guess. Well, when you’re viewing pornography, you like looking at younger girls, isn’t that true?”

  “Christ, Linda …”

  “You’re telling me you’re up for this. You like to look at younger girls, right?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Okay, younger girls. So let me show you another picture.” Ames walked over to the bookcase again. “Where’s the good old Cohen biography? Here we go. Give me a sec.” She pulled a book out, checked the index, and found the page she wanted. “Okay. How old would you say this girl is?” She held the volume up to Sid, folded open to a page of photographs.

  “That’s one of Charles Dodgson’s photos of Evelyn Hatch taken around 1867.”

  “That wasn’t my question. My question was, how old would you say this girl is?”

  “About seven or eight.”

  “And then I say, let’s just put this up on the document camera. Then I display the photograph on the video monitors around the courtroom, so all the jurors can see it, blown up, and then I ask, she’s completely naked, right?”

  “That’s right. Dodgson—”

  “Just answer my question, please. She’s entirely naked, right?”

  “Right.”

  “No breasts or pubic hair on her, correct?”

  “Correct. Linda …”

  “Just a little more, Sid. And you can see her vagina, right?”

  “Well, it’s sort of in a shadow, and …”

  “Would you care to examine that area of the photograph a little closer, Professor? The document camera has a zoom device, so you and the jury can have a closer look. Her vagina is partially exposed, and you can see the fold of one of her labia, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Correct. Linda, this is horrible.”

  “Just a little more. And this little seven- or eight-year-old girl, who is lying completely naked with her vagina partially exposed, is positioned in what art fanciers call an odalisque pose, stretched all the way out with her head propped on her hand. Am I right about that?”

  “Yes, Dodgson sometimes posed his subjects like that.”

  “Odalisque. Am I pronouncing that word correctly, Professor Cranmer? This question pins you as someone the jurors will be sure to dislike.”

  “Can he really do this?”

  “If I object, it will just make it worse. So, am I pronouncing oda­lisque correctly?”

  “Yes, perfectly correctly, Mr. Campanella.”

  “Don’t spar with him, Sid. You can’t win. And the odalisque pose is designed to show off the subject’s body, right?”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “Okay, that’s fine. You don’t know. But you enjoyed looking at this photograph, didn’t you?”

  “Well, enjoyed? I don’t …”

  “You’ve looked at it often, right?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “How many times?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t estimate.”

  “More than you can estimate, can we agree on that?”

  “I guess.”

  “You’d seen it often enough that you knew right away who it was and when the picture was taken when I showed it to you a minute ago, right?”

  “I know, but I wouldn’t say I enjoyed looking at this photograph the same way I enjoyed looking at …”

  “Finish your sentence, Sid.”

  “The same way I enjoy looking at adult pornography.”

  “Ugh. You’ll never say that, because I’ll kill you if you do. Then Campanella might say, ‘Let’s try it a different way, Professor. Does this photograph of this little seven- or eight-year-old girl, Evelyn Hatch, disgust you, Professor?”

  “No, it doesn’t disgust me. It’s …”

  “Leave it, Sid. You’ll just make it worse. It will certainly disgust most of the jurors, I can promise you that. Okay, then Campanella will pull some contemporary photo off your computer of some child who looks like, or has the same pose as, the Hatch girl and he’ll ask you how old the contemporary girl is.”

  “I can’t answer, Linda. We don’t have a picture.”

  “Believe me, the child in the contemporary photo will be around the Hatch girl’s age, so you’ll say she’s seven or eight, too. And then he’ll say, and looking at this more recent photograph we took off your computer of a little girl we’ve identified as, let’s say, Sally from Rochester, just as naked, you d
on’t find this photograph disgusting either, do you? It doesn’t bother you, does it?”

  “Not exactly. It’s sort of … I don’t know what to say.”

  “Of course you don’t. There isn’t anything you can say.” She flung the Cohen biography down on the wingback. “And that is why you have to take the deal, Sid.”

  “But how can I get up in court and admit to something I’m not sure I did?”

  “Because you’ll die telling what you think is the truth, Sid—die alone and in prison—and you can live with just a little white lie.”

  30

  He liked to buy lottery tickets. Once, he’d won $1,000 on a scratch ticket, and he was sure it was a sign that his luck had turned. He’d spent the whole grand on tickets for the giant Mega-Millions drawing, positive that he was going to cash in. During the forty-eight hours before they pulled the numbers, he was so lost in fantasies about what he’d do with his big payoff that he could barely sleep. In the end, he hadn’t won. The loss made him so bullshit he needed a whole afternoon shooting squirrels to work off his frustration. But the happy hours he’d had to dream were still great.

  The gradual approach of the Columbus Day weekend had been like that. In fact, the pleasure he took in anticipation was, in a way, even more intense. He’d won this lottery before, and he knew just how sweet the payoff was going to be. He hummed to himself—actually hummed!—as he cleaned out the back of his Jeep. The old buggy had a little rust on her, but the cargo area was nice and big, and they were going to need it.

  He and his nephew had been texting all morning, and Buddy was going to meet him at the motel and bring the happy powder and the condoms. With all the cameras they had in the pharmacies these days, he didn’t like to be the one to pick up the necessaries. He wasn’t worried about the girl getting pregnant, but you never knew what these kids had been up to, and he certainly wasn’t taking any chances if he played second fiddle behind Buddy.

  His nephew had booked the reservation per his instructions, using a false name and a disposable phone—telling the clerk that he had trouble sleeping and needed a room around back, as far away from the other guests as possible. Buddy also had the job of putting down the cash for the room and picking up the key. It was something Buddy always enjoyed because it allowed him to play the sleuth and use one of his outfits.

  The plan was to wait until Li’l Sis texted them that she was on her way before giving her the room number. Once she got inside, they’d be sure she didn’t make too much noise, just enough for fun.

  It was going on eight p.m. and almost dark when he slid into the parking spot below Room 305, at the back of the Ho Jo’s. As he made his way up the outdoor stairs to the third floor, he counted only a handful of cars in the lot below. The traffic noise was muffled, and he could make out the chirr of a red-winged blackbird in the ragged field beyond the asphalt. Birds and little girls. He stood for a while on the third-floor balcony, listening. Dusk. It was perfect.

  When he got to the room, he found something he didn’t like: a folded scrap of paper taped to the door with a note in Buddy’s scrawl: “Meeting a Guy. Be Right Back. Rooms Open.”

  What the hell? Li’l Sis could be texting him any time now, letting him know she was close. This was Buddy to a T. He always put things off too long, and then if there was some hitch, they’d be up the creek. It didn’t matter, of course. He could stall Li’l Sis if he needed to. By this time, he could tell her anything, and she’d believe him.

  He pushed open the door and went inside. The room was nice and neat, with a big queen-size bed and the smell of some artificial perfume. Was it supposed to be roses? Behind the flower aroma was the scent of a cigarette. Buddy. A sign in the room clearly said no smoking. He must have stood in the doorway, thinking the smell wouldn’t enter the room, the stupid shit. There was a big mirror at the foot of the bed; he liked that.

  The canvas tool kit always went on the floor on the far side of the bed, where it couldn’t be seen from the door. He took out the tubes of Vaseline. Then he snipped off three swatches of duct tape—wrists, ankles, and mouth—and hung them on the far side of the nightstand within easy reach. In plain sight at the head of the bed, leaning against the pillows, he placed the large pink teddy bear with the i love you!! T-shirt. Pinkie Bear always got a smile.

  He walked into the bathroom, turned the water on good and hot, soaked a washcloth, and held it over his face to calm himself. His girls had all been different. Each one, after she figured out what was up, had been scared out of her little mind, of course—the blind, helpless terror in their eyes was the biggest turn-on—but each had had her own way of acting her part. One just froze, could hardly open her mouth or make a sound. Another, a smarter one, tried to talk her way out of it by negotiating. If I let you do this, then you’ll let me do that, her eyes all the time darting toward the door. Sure thing. His favorite one put up a fight, trying to yell, flinging her arms around, and kicking. Gave him a bloody lip. By the end, she wasn’t saying much.

  He breathed and examined himself in the mirror. The years were piling up. His face didn’t look like he was nineteen, but he’d fixed that. He’d told Li’l Sis he was really twenty-seven and looked a little older. He admitted that he’d lied to her and had sent her a fake picture, but he told her he’d only done it because he loved her so much, couldn’t stand to lose her, and after all, he reminded her, she had lied to him, too. It had taken a while, but she’d forgiven him, and now she loved him more than ever. When she saw him “irl,” she’d hesitate just long enough for them to get her into the room. After that, they’d keep her quiet, pretty much, and how old he looked wouldn’t matter anymore.

  The time crawled. He thought about watching TV but decided not to. He sat in the armchair, read a pamphlet about local businesses, drank a glass of water, dabbed up his shirt where he spilled, and paced the floor. He nearly jumped out of his shoes when his cell phone beeped. It was a text from Li’l Sis: “aunt finally left, finally, finally, finally!!! im coming dont hate me r u in the room? i cant wait!!! xxxxxxx ;)”

  He quickly texted back: “of course i luv u! its ok im in 305. Cant wait to give you tons of XXXX come quick!!!”

  Ten never-ending minutes later, there was a knock on the door. He peeked through the curtain and saw a tall shadow—Buddy, the dick, skidding in at the very last minute. One of these days, he was going to kick that kid’s rear end up around his eyelashes.

  But when he opened the door, it wasn’t Buddy. It was a black guy who obviously had the wrong room. He wasn’t scared, just pissed. He didn’t need any interruptions at the moment, especially not from some black asshole.

  “You got the wrong room, pal.”

  The man didn’t say anything, just limped forward, put out a big hand, and shoved him hard, backward into the room. Trying to get his balance, he tangled himself up in the chair and fell onto the carpet. He hurt his wrist catching himself. As he tried to get up, the black guy shoved him back down so hard his head popped on the floor. What the fuck? Was this a rip-off? Did Buddy set him up?

  The black guy was squatting over him now with a knee on his chest, holding out some kind of metal thing that caught the light. Other people were crowding into the room.

  “Hello there, 2Kool,” the guy was saying. “My name is Li’l Sis. Pleased to meet you in real life.” Hands were flipping him over, slamming him onto his stomach, and yanking his arms around his back. “Been looking forward to this.” The steel of the handcuffs was icy and bit into his wrists. His heart was slamming away. He couldn’t think. He could barely even breathe.

  A voice behind him with a Puerto Rican accent. “Hola! Trick or treat bag over here by the nightstand.” A disgusted snort. “And some tape, Mike. Nice and handy.”

  “Get a good shot of it.”

  “Should I smile?”

  The black guy was bending down now, close, an inch from his ear. His breath smelled l
ike steak. “Welcome to our world, punk. Your life is officially over.” The voice was deep, very angry. They were going to kill him.

  The Puerto Rican man off to the side broke in. “Want to stand him up, Mike?” He could see the tips of the guy’s high-tops. Black jeans.

  “Don’t bother,” the deep voice continued. “Just grab his legs there, Jimmy, and we’ll throw the son of a bitch off the balcony.” He felt hands slipping down under his shoulders, strong fingers hooking into his armpits. “We’ll say he was trying to escape.”

  A man with a Marine crew cut began to pick up him up by his feet. His heart kept banging away like a pile driver, and he heard a high-pitched moan. Was that him? A fart bubbled out of him as he rose into the air.

  “Jesus, Henry!” The crew-cut guy was struggling to keep his grip on him. “The fuck you have for dinner?”

  Another, shorter man helped out, grabbing his right leg, and the two of them hoisted his lower end together. His top end rose up smoothly, head jammed against the black guy’s stomach.

  “Upsy-daisy.”

  “You’re going to make an awful mess on the blacktop.”

  A new voice, higher, “Christ’s sake, don’t drop him on my van. I just had it detailed.”

  The two men holding his legs set his feet on their shoulders. They staggered as they moved forward. The black guy shifted him easily, strong fingers digging into him painfully, no problem with the weight.

  “Hey!” He barely recognized his own voice, begging, “Come on!”

  They cleared the doorway, stepped out onto the balcony, and began to swing up him up over the railing. Somebody said, “One … Two!”

  The black guy’s face, hovering over him, looked evil. They were going to kill him. He managed a scream, not as loud as he wanted.

  “H-Help!” He couldn’t breathe. His throat was clogged. He could barely move his lips.

  “What’s the matter, Henry?” Crew-cut, down by his legs, was looking at him with an expression he’d never seen before. A killer’s eyes. “Aren’t scared, are you?”

  “It’ll be over in a second. Quick splat, and you’re done.”