The One-Eyed Judge

by Ponsor, Michael;

  “You didn’t.”

  “Sorry, Claire, but you’re not the judge. I am. I should have realized that Cranmer probably ditched the photographs. It’s so obvious now.” He gazed into the fire for a while, looking out of breath. “Come over here, would you?”

  Claire sat next to David, and he took her hand. He leaned back against the sofa cushions and didn’t say anything for a while. Claire could only wait. It might be good-bye. He’d had all those helpful, romantic dinners with Dr. O’Leary.

  Finally, he asked, “Did somebody tip you off ahead of time about the second search?”

  “God, no. Elizabeth Spencer was worried about Ryan, so she stole the pictures before the search happened. Then she didn’t know what to do with them, so she gave them to me. Even Sid doesn’t know I have them.”

  “I see. I was imagining during my walk out there”—he nodded toward the door—“that Professor Cranmer probably gave the pictures to you, and you’d taken them. I just couldn’t …”

  “I wouldn’t have done that.”

  “But you did take the handoff from Ms. Spencer.”

  “Well, that felt …”

  “I know. In your position—I mean, if I were her teacher—I might have been tempted to do the same thing.” He let out a joyless laugh. “I do remember, during the trial, thinking maybe the housecleaner had somehow come across them. What was his name again?”

  “Jonathan something.”

  “Kind of like Agatha Christie. In England, it’s the butler. In the United States, it’s the housecleaner.” Outside, the wind was picking up and the trees were creaking. David sighed. “Talk about a one-eyed judge.”

  “We’re all one-eyed judges, David.”

  “Maybe.” He looked at her, then turned back to the fire and spoke musingly. “Can’t say I feel all that bad about not having to bury Professor Cranmer.”

  Claire looked down, kneading David’s hand. “There’s a line from King Lear, where the king, who is even crazier than Sid, says something like, ‘I am more sinned against, than sinning.’ Sid is kind of like that maybe.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. He deserved something. But he certainly …” He paused to think. “He certainly didn’t deserve the beating he got.” David took a sudden, deep breath and held it, as though he were having a cramp, then let it out slowly. “And he didn’t deserve my getting cross with him for not pleading guilty to something he didn’t do.” He frowned. “I thought this was a routine case. It wasn’t.”

  “We can all do better jobs, David. Things happen.”

  “Well, it’s over now.”

  “Couldn’t the case come back if you’re reversed?”

  “I doubt I’ll get reversed. The government flubbed up badly. But now that the notice of appeal has been filed, I’ve recused myself.” He gestured at the photographs. “If the court of appeals sends the case back, another judge will handle it.” He started to say something, hesitated, and looked at her. “I was going to say, ‘Some judge better than me,’ but that would look like I was fishing, wanting you to tell me I did just fine.”

  “You’d catch a big fish, because that’s exactly what I’d say.”

  “I should have done better.” He tapped his chest. “That’s what’s in here.” His eyes, turned to Claire, were intense. “But, really, can we do this? Two people like us? Should we even be trying?”

  “David, listen.” Claire took David’s face in her hands and kissed him hard. “I really want to have a baby, okay?”

  “But …” David looked confused. “That isn’t what we’re talking about.” “Of course it is.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes, listen to me now, please. I really want a baby, but if I can’t convince you …”

  “Wait, wait. What I can’t figure out is how we can ever manage, the way you are, and the way I am, and the way things keep happening. Things like this.” He pointed at the two photographs at the coffee table.

  “And what I’m saying is if I can’t convince you to have a baby with me, I still want to be with you. I want to get married. That’s the hardest thing, isn’t it? It is for me.”

  “But won’t train wrecks like this just keep happening? I mean, what do you plan to do about all these pictures, for example?” He nodded at the pile on the floor.

  “I’m going to burn them.”

  “Oh my gosh, don’t do that!”

  Claire burst out laughing. “Jesus, David, you’re impossible! What do you want me to do with them?”

  David raised his hands in the air. “How do I know? Where have you been keeping them all this time?”

  “I’ve had them in a safe-deposit box.”

  “Well, put them back until we figure something out. Don’t burn them.” He looked at her, almost indignant. “You can’t burn them. It would be like the Taliban, or something, blowing up a Buddhist shrine because it’s a different religion. Civilized people don’t do that.”

  “Fine.” Claire got up and began collecting the pictures. She was tucking them into Sid’s accordion folder, her back to David, when he spoke again.

  “And I’m open to negotiation.”

  She turned and looked at him. “You are?”

  “Yes, I’m open to negotiation.”

  “About what?”

  “About anything.”

  Claire put the file on the coffee table and returned to the sofa. An enormous amount of kissing and pawing and heavy breathing followed. After a certain interval, they took a break. By this time, they were stretched out on the couch, warmed by the remnants of the fire.

  “I’ve just had an insight,” David said into Claire’s ear. “I think I may publish an article.”

  Claire cocked her head up. “Really. An article? And you’re having this flash while we’ve been … ?”

  “Uh-huh. Here’s my title: Law Is to Justice, as Sex Is to Love.”

  Claire considered this for a minute. “Is that true?”

  “It’s true-ish.”

  “What exactly does it mean?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Come on.”

  David thought for a while. “I suppose it means that, ideally, one should be an expression of the other. When the two things get separated too far, for too long, you’re going to have problems.”

  They lay on the sofa a few minutes longer before going upstairs. Sometime later, after they’d fallen asleep, the 50-percent possible thunderstorm broke and woke them up. The downpour drummed so heavily on the roof that it sounded as though it was raining blueberries.

  47

  The equinox arrived, and with it, Daylight Saving Time. As the spring eased in, patches of warmth in the breeze, the first sprinkling of daffodils, and the delicious smell of cow manure from the barns in Hadley signaled the final retreat of winter. In the woods, waxy shoots of skunk cabbage and fiddlehead ferns pushed their way up through the grimy undergrowth.

  On one of these afternoons, on the way back from his piano lesson, Ethan Ames decided to stop by Professor Cranmer’s. He knew he wasn’t supposed to do this—his mom had been very clear—but he and the professor had kept their “little secret” so far, and Ethan was in the habit of dropping by. He liked to see Mick and Keith, and they seemed to like seeing him, too. There was also the harpsichord, which he and the professor had been working on, and the possibility of cupcakes. He wouldn’t stay long.

  He banged nice and loud, using the metal door knocker the way he always did, but nothing happened. It was a full minute before he saw the face of the weird housecleaner guy, Jonathan, peering at him from a gap in the curtains. Ethan couldn’t tell how long Jonathan had been looking at him, and Jonathan ducked away as soon as he saw him.

  Ethan hesitated, looking around the yard. He ought to just go, but he didn’t want Jonathan to think he was playing some little kid’s game, knocking and
then running off. The day had gotten almost warm, and the two big forsythia bushes on either side of Professor Cranmer’s walkway were covered in yellow flowers.

  Ethan was just turning to go when the door sprang open, and Jonathan stood there, with a big smile. He’d never imagined Jonathan could smile like that.

  “Is Professor Cranmer here?” Ethan asked.

  “Sure.” The smile stayed. “Come on in, little buddy.”

  “I better get home.”

  The smile dropped away. “Then what’d you knock for?” The smile appeared again. “No, seriously, he’s right here.” Jonathan pointed behind him. “He’s upstairs. He wants to talk to you.” His voice went up, sounding friendly. “Come on in, buddy.”

  “Well …”

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Ethan.”

  “Sorry I called you ‘Buddy,’ Ethan. My uncle calls me Buddy all the time.” Jonathan frowned and then smiled. “I don’t really like it, to tell the truth.”

  “I … I probably ought to …” Ethan started to turn, but Jonathan reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

  “Oh God, don’t go now.” He emphasized the word now. “Sid will be really disappointed, and I taught Keith a new trick.” Jonathan pulled the door open wider. “It’s cool. Come on in—you’re here now anyway. A minute won’t hurt.”

  Ethan stepped into the house, and Jonathan quickly closed the door behind him, twisting the dead bolt.

  Ethan called out, “Professor Cranmer?”

  “He’s upstairs with Mick and Keith. Come on. I’ll take you up.”

  It smelled normal, sort of perfumey and maybe of brownies. Ethan loved brownies. They never had them at home.

  “Okay. Is that smell, like, brownies?”

  Jonathan stared at Ethan with his mouth open. After a few seconds, his face cleared, and he said, “Yeah, he has them upstairs on a plate. He’s put a big one with walnuts aside for you. Come on.”

  “I better go.” Ethan turned back toward the door.

  “Oh wow, no, Sid will be really sorry.” Jonathan nodded upstairs. “Just go on up. I have to finish some stuff.” Jonathan walked off toward the dining area. He looked over his shoulder and waved upstairs. “Go on. He wants to talk to you about the harpsichord.”

  “Okay.” At least he’d get away from this guy.

  Ethan ascended the stairs to the landing halfway up and called out again, “Professor Cranmer?”

  A fat silence was pressing down on him from up there, and he didn’t like it. Then he heard a meow and hurrying cat feet, and there was Mick, peering over the top step down at him. It was always hard to tell when a cat was happy, but he looked happy. Ethan hurried the rest of the way up and began rubbing Mick’s head. He called out again, “Professor Cranmer?” Was he waiting to jump out at him? He and his mom had sometimes played that game, until Ethan got too good at it, and his mom told him they had to stop. No more scary surprises.

  48

  While Ethan was playing with Sid’s cats, the Amherst Regional High School girls’ softball team was taking the field for its first outdoor practice. They’d been working indoors for weeks, but now a break in the weather had finally allowed them to get into the fresh air and smell the mud. When David mentioned that Lindsay had taken over as the team’s catcher, Claire, who was a baseball nut, pulled up the practice schedule and talked David into leaving work early to come watch. David arrived straight from court just as the practice was starting, still in his suit, tie, and khaki raincoat.

  Since his dismissal of United States v. Cranmer, life in court had eased up enough to allow an outing like this. Two trials calendared to follow Cranmer had settled, and the gap in his schedule had given Judge Norcross time to make progress on his never-ending pile of pending opinions. Not surprisingly, the U.S. attorney’s press release following the dismissal had been particularly frosty and promised a vigorous appeal. A “Pro and Con” article in Massachusetts Lawyer’s Weekly had predicted that the court of appeals would reverse his ruling, but an accompanying rebuttal from a prominent defense attorney praised Norcross’s action and opined forcefully that he deserved to, and would, be easily affirmed.

  Norcross agreed with the “deserved to” part, but was not entirely confident of the “would be.” The First Circuit could be stingy regarding the rights of criminal defendants. It irked Norcross that, while the appeal was pending, his defendant would be living life under the shadow of a possible reversal and retrial. If his ruling got tipped, Norcross would have given Professor Cranmer false hope and probably made everything worse.

  But this was all part of life in Wonderland, and he couldn’t do anything about it. Neither the “pro” nor the “con” article expressed any surprise that Norcross had recused himself after his ruling went up. The court of appeals regularly sent a case to a new judge after reversal, or the original judge might step aside voluntarily to make sure everything proceeded on a clean slate.

  The far uglier case of United States v. George Underwood still festered on Judge Norcross’s docket. A sealed motion to postpone the trial informed the judge that a plea bargain might be in the works. In its judge’s-eyes-only memorandum, the government disclosed that an accomplice might still be out there. They must be hoping that a reduced sentence would tempt Underwood to identify his copredator and get him off the street.

  David was tickled that his slightly looser schedule gave him the chance to join Claire for softball practice. He’d make up the time later in the week.

  From their perch on the rickety aluminum grandstand, Claire pointed out Lindsay squatting behind the plate, warming up one of the pitchers, a tall black girl. The afternoon was cool and overcast, with an aggressive breeze combing ripples on the infield puddles. The first time the pitcher let fly, the ball rifled at Lindsay so fast that David half expected her to fling herself out of the way. Instead, Lindsay casually lifted her glove and nipped the ball from the air as though it was only a big bug.

  Claire leaned over. “David, keep your mouth closed, please. You look presenile.”

  “I had no idea they threw that hard in girls’ softball.”

  The team was in uniform, wearing black pants and deep maroon jerseys with white lettering. They still hadn’t taken the field. Between pitches, the pitcher twiddled the ball in her hand, watching the catcher. Then, she’d rock back and underhand the ball in a blinding pinwheel motion, flinging her glove hand up in the air as she delivered. Lindsay seemed completely at home squatting behind the plate.

  After four or five warm-up pitches, Lindsay stood and pushed her face mask on top of her head. She had a kind of dignity in the way she held herself that emphasized her height. As she walked out to the mound, her chest protector and shin guards made her move stiffly, and her slightly awkward stride, easy and deliberate, gave her a magnificent, heroic quality.

  Lindsay approached the pitcher and put her hand on the girl’s shoulder, leaned into her so their heads were almost touching, and began talking to her animatedly, gesturing with her glove. She bobbed her knees and mimicked the pitcher’s delivery several times, obviously pointing something out. After a minute, the pitcher nodded, and Lindsay smacked her on the behind and trotted back to the plate. The coach shouted something, and the rest of the team ran out onto the field, whooping and waving their arms. One girl—the shortstop, it turned out—leaped high in the air right into the middle of a puddle between second and third base, making a huge splash that caused more laughter and hoots. Lindsay slid her face mask down, squatted, and smacked her fist into her mitt.

  As the first batter took a couple practice swings, Norcross noticed Mike Patterson climbing toward them up the metal bleachers. Patterson nodded and took his seat two rows down, close enough to suggest a connection, but still at a certain distance. The public reverberations of Cranmer and the pending Underwood prosecution called for restraint.

 
After a while, Patterson turned, pointed at Lindsay, and asked back over his shoulder. “Your girl there, Judge?”

  At the word judge, three of four heads twitched and glanced over at David. “My niece, Lindsay.”

  “Fine catcher. She’s teaching Margaret a lot.”

  Claire chimed in. “The pitcher’s your daughter?”

  “Sure is.”

  “She’s incredible,” David said. “The speed!”

  Patterson hesitated, maybe afraid it would sound like boasting, but it was clear he couldn’t help himself. “It’s her senior year. She’s an early admit to Stanford.”

  “Wow.” Claire was impressed.

  “Physics.” Patterson shook his head. “She wants to study physics. Can you believe that?”

  Just then, the leadoff batter, a leftie, connected with a line drive that barely cleared the first baseman’s leap. The bench hollered wildly, and the coach stepped into the field, clapping her hands, talking to the runner, and pointing.

  David only caught a few words—“Watch her now, watch her”—and the coach stepped back to the sidelines. She pointed at Lindsay. “Be ready now!”

  “This is going to be great,” Claire said.

  “What?”

  “See how Lindsay’s keeping an eye on the girl at first?”

  The new batter was right handed, and the first pitch was high and toward the first base side. It made a loud whop! as it hit the pocket of Lindsay’s glove. As the ball left Margaret’s hand, the runner had danced toward second, hands dangling. Lindsay cocked her arm and feinted toward first, and the runner scuttled back to the bag.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Mouth, David, mouth.” Claire pressed her shoulder into David and nodded down at Lindsay. “Okay, now watch how she sets up. See? Half a step toward first? I bet it’s a pitchout.”