The scene of me yelling at Peter in the café, commanding him to confess—in front of a huge roomful of people—it replayed in my mind. His head tilt. “I have to go to bed,” I said.
And they let me go.
Chapter Fifty
At five-thirty—after a few hours of agitated sleep, I dragged myself out of bed and through my morning routines, which ended with double-duty hair spraying. I turned on the television, grabbed the schedule books Renee had brought, highlighters, pens, and a notepad—everything went onto the table near my bed. My laptop hummed, and I sat crisscross applesauce.
After several minutes of turning schedule-book pages, warm realization spread through me. I verified the Detectives had been sloppy in not retrieving these schedule books. I also understood why I was the strong suspect—other than the obvious corpse, my DNA, and fingerprints. My initials appeared throughout Donnettelli’s schedule book.
Monthly meetings between JNMK and JWED. Sometimes the meetings included CCHS. JNMK: Judge Nicoletta Marie Kikkra and JWED: Judge Warren Edward Donnettelli, but who was CCHS? Not many people had four initials. It couldn’t be that hard to figure out. And why was that person only at about a fourth of the meetings? And, I had to figure out how Donnettelli was able to bank almost two-million dollars.
It seemed there may be two-million reasons to want to point the trigger finger at me, but why? The beneficiary would be his wife. Wouldn’t Detectives investigate her first? Why me? That question nagged at me, two million times.
I opened the second schedule book. Same pattern. And it likely continued in the third schedule book, the one in police custody, the one logged in with all the other bogus evidence against me. The one I didn’t get to see. But the past predicted the present.
Law enforcement hadn’t shared this discovery. I wrote WHY on my notepad underneath WHO. Were Detectives trying to figure out who CCHS was before they shared the pages? Why hadn’t Detectives asked me about those letters? I deflated. The answer led to me.
After two more hours, my eyes bulged. I headed downstairs, schedule book in hand. Seated across from the Plasti-gals, I inhaled my first sip of coffee, and Dinkie-Do and Renee strode into the kitchen.
“Breakfast for all in a Dinkie-minute,” Dinkie-Do said.
When Renee joined me, I showed her the schedule book and asked if she knew what the initials meant.
She scanned the entries. “I wrote those in at Judge Donnettelli’s direction. I figured as Chief Judge, he was counseling you about something.”
“Did he say that?”
Renee shook her head. “Nope, I assumed from your initials.”
“Recognize CCHS?” I circled it.
“Figured those were from someone with the State Court Administrators Office or some mediator or counselor assigned to you two,” she said. “SCAO did things like that when Judges had issues. No secret you two didn’t get along.”
“Anything you remember about those meetings?”
“At first, I didn’t think anything about them. But later, when he returned in a bad mood, I wondered, especially when he began to return early.”
“What did that mean to you?”
“I remember thinking: these meetings are going to give him a heart attack.”
“Did you ask about them?” I knew it was a long shot. Staff rarely questioned Judges.
“When he did return, he often slammed himself inside his chambers. When he didn’t return, he’d call and tell us not to expect him till morning.”
“If he returned upset, would he calm down?” I felt myself on the edge of cross-examination mode but couldn’t stop myself.
Renee thought for a moment. Dinkie-Do placed a fresh mug of coffee, an empty plate, and silverware in front of each of us and returned to the stove.
“Eventually,” she said. “After he locked himself in his chambers with coffee, bagels, and a stack of newspapers, he’d take the bench in a decent mood. We figured caffeine and carbs worked, so we kept them around.” Renee sounded much calmer than the night before.
I was suddenly curious whether Donnettelli ever gambled. “Sports fan, was he?”
Her mouth puckered. “When I’d bring him his coffee and signing file, I’d set the mug in front of him, and sit with the file until he read the headlines first and then the stocks; sports page was last, if at all. Actually, I have that backward, unless he was the headline because of a big case, he read the stock pages and then headlines, local and state news, and finally sports. Finally, he’d stick out his hand, and I’d give him the pile of documents for his signature. I generally watched him sign, to answer questions or schedule anything he needed.”
“He made you sit and wait while he read the paper?”
“His routine. I respected it.” Renee took in a breath and released it loudly to make her point. “You Judges are all predictable, even if you think you’re not.”
I had to ask, “How much did you know about his personal business?”
Renee frowned. “He didn’t keep much away from me. I practically ran his life, well, you know what I mean, so he could be free of worries.”
The Donnettelli I knew ran his own show. Was she aware he was manipulating case decisions? I dove into my immediate issue with her.
“Renee, you told Detectives you’d forgotten your checkbook.”
“Yes,” she blushed. “Quick thinking.”
“The footage will show you carrying the schedule books. If they think you are lying, they might ask the Prosecutor for obstruction charges.” I sighed. I hated this discussion.
“My coat is a bit roomy. I tucked the books under my coat and walked out with my hands wrapped around my belly. And actually, that’s not accurate. I ran out. Couldn’t get away fast enough.”
Geez, Renee was pretty crafty. Apparently she was able to think two steps ahead. Was there anything else she’d planned ahead? I added that to my contemplative list.
At nearly nine, Sebastian arrived to take Renee to see the Detectives after breakfast. Over a second cup of coffee, Sebastian promised Renee that the minute she wanted to leave Police Headquarters, they’d disappear. Everyone blessed Dinkie-Do for his breakfast art while sharing kitchen clean-up duty. Dex planned to drive Dinkie-Do into the salon for his ten o’clock client.
When the doorbell clanged again, I opened the door to Hunter—bright-eyed and smiling.
“All sexed-up for a busy morning.” He winked.
“Grow up.” He looked damn good.
“I recognize that zoned-out look of yours from high-school physics class.” He almost touched noses with me, his favorite form of emphasis—ever—since we were kids.
I pressed my palms against his chest and pushed him back. “It’s my less-than-intrigued look. Why are you here?”
“Aside from protecting that tight end zone of yours, I’m here to block anyone from gaining home-field advantage.”
Touché. I spun to exit the foyer.
Hunter caught my wrist. “We need to chat with Donnettelli’s court reporter.”
He had a point. Half of Donnettelli’s office had been murdered. The other half may be targets. I feared for my staff, too. “I have a little show-and-tell before you two leave.”
In the kitchen, Renee was slipping on lipstick. Sebastian had keys in hand and sent me a meaningful half nod.
“Sit.” I pointed to the schedule-book pages I’d flagged. “Note the meetings and initials in the schedule book.”
Renee looked concerned but remained silent. She and Sebastian turned pages, looked in tandem, flipped pages, seemed to compare, flipped back.
Sebastian’s face creased into concerned lines. “Nic, have you checked your schedule against his?”
“I don’t have to. I never met with Donnettelli alone, ever. And he never asked to meet with me alone. Had he even hinted at a meeting, I would’ve refused to
meet without a witness and hit record on my cell.” If my own attorney asked about private meetings between me and that oaf, if Sebastian even thought it could have happened, what would others think? “Damnation, if there’s anything that indicates we agreed to meet and did meet, it’s a bold-spray lie.”
“At trial—” Sebastian began.
I cut him off. “No trial. No plea. Dismissal, with prejudice, so I’m free for life, not behind bars. You promised.” I turned to Hunter. “And you promised.” I gave credit to every syllable. “I didn’t murder anyone. The pretrial, where I’ll turn down any offer the Prosecutor makes, is scheduled for the day after Labor Day. And I’m damn scared. This mess needs to be dismissed immediately.” I couldn’t feel myself breathing.
“We’ve got fewer than four weeks to gum up their investigation. For dismissal by pretrial, we need to counter their evidence.” Sebastian key-pointed at me.
I steadied myself. “My lawyer brain is blaring: find the killer, or I’ll be convicted by Halloween.” I refused to be scolded.
Hunter hovered over the schedule book, flipping pages back and forth. “CCHS. Could the initials stand for Computerized Criminal History Search?”
Renee’s mouth dropped open. “Like for applications for guns or other clearances?”
“Lots of reasons. Did Donnettelli request them?” Hunter asked. “Did you?”
“Not that I recall.” Renee didn’t flinch.
A defense-witness answer. We needed one-on-one girl time for a reality check. Donnettelli’s office held secrets. And my gut said Renee had secrets of her own.
It was time to clear out my house. I owed my staff a sense of normalcy and my clients service with an unencumbered smile. I retreated to my sanctuary, turned up the music, filled my coffee cup, and danced while I readied myself. Fully charged Taser tucked in my updo and my softest boots on, I triple checked the locks, set the alarm, and headed to my car.
I hardly remember the drive to work, but I still felt the vibes of the tunes I sang. When I entered the salon workspace, I had to wonder if Dinkie-Do had heard my blaring tunes. He was dipping, nodding, and snapping while combing, clipping, shaving, and styling Dexter. I blinked quickly to see if the vision was real or if it would fade. “Are those highlights?”
“I told you no teenies and no tinies.” Dinkie-Do pirouetted and landed flat-footed and toe-tipped. His navy stone-washed jeans and triple tank top had me wondering, but I was certain his wardrobe had something to do with this morning’s shadow mixing-and-matching. These past four days, his colors had become brighter and bolder. I decided I didn’t need that much information.
“I get it. Latest boy-band look. I’ve just never seen it on Dex.” Somewhere there was a group of elder Breckenridges ordering a hit on me. I’m glad I kept my maiden name. Near the front door, Trisha waved her come-hither hand, so I asked Dex to meet Hunter and me at Sebastian’s office in an hour and headed back toward Trisha.
And Carlye (who’d strategically strapped her girls in an inoffensive pink nylon-lace tee) was clad in a black-and-white, leopard-print skirt with a silky pink sash at her waist and peppermint-pink heels. She promenaded to the rinsing bowl with her client, but mustered a loud, “Uh huh, I told you.” And completed it with a hip exclamation point.
Dinkie-Do shunned her with his backside.
Appearing by my side, Trisha whispered, “Judge, Sebastian better move into your house to protect his investment.” She understood me like only a good friend could.
I told her I’d be in Sebastian’s office the rest of the afternoon. I met Hunter in the parking lot and thanked him for putting extra inconspicuous cameras around the building. I wished I’d thought to ask if the back parking lot had any dead zones. That’s a damn stupid term: dead zones. Geez.
Chapter Fifty-One
In the conference room adjacent to Sebastian’s office, a bevy of beverages said, “Welcome to a tiresome-but-friendly-and-necessary working meeting.”
The trouble with meetings and men was lack of focus. Women fought it out. And it could be an ugly battle, but we got resolution and a make-over. Men just made ugly battles uglier.
Right now, I needed their focus on me. But being in a room with three men you’ve had sex and long-term relationships with was like asking a hungry snake to contribute to strategy, while not scarfing up the single chocolate-covered mouse at the table.
I sat at one end of the conference table, while the men shook hands and exchanged ESPN-like noises. Sebastian sat to my right, Hunter and Dexter to my left.
I knew these guys. I knew they were thinking past my eyes. I knew two of them were going to be disappointed. I yanked the envelope from my bag.
Sebastian declared the “chinwag” was about the research I’d done, and I proceeded to control my presentation. First, I showed a copy of the Register of Actions. Sebastian explained to Dexter that the register reflects everything that happens in a court files’ life like a public diary. Evidently, he was going to help me control my presentation.
“In the suit against Manville, the corporation took a huge financial hit—the way I’d decided. It could have put them out of business. When Donnettelli changed my ruling, the outcome of the ruling actually made Manville financially healthier than ever.
“And one of the banks on our Most Wanted list was a party to that action,” Sebastian said.
I named the twelve banks highlighted in the gifted newspapers—the banks I now had a stash of cash in. “It looks like I took a payoff to abandon the mesothelioma victims.”
The men sat back and leaned forward like crash-test dummies.
“Walk us through,” Dex said.
“The computer assigns me a case by random draw. Even before I know it’s assigned to me, on the QT the Chief Judge decides he wants it and immediately reassigns to himself—”
“How would Donnettelli know a case is assigned to you before you know?” Hunter rubbed his chin.
“Any clerk in the Clerk’s Office could monitor case assignments, as could the Court Administrator. I think one of them informed Donnettelli, and then he changed the assignment. The clerks can monitor Orders getting filed, too. That’s how Donnettelli was able to change my Order on the Manville asbestos case. He had an informant who notified him of everything I filed. I can’t imagine how many of my Orders he might have changed—or of any other Judge for that matter.” I paused. “Like Laurel. He told me she had signed some self-serving Orders.”
“Donnettelli wouldn’t go to all that trouble to cover up his own murder,” Hunter said. “Do you think Laurel is involved?”
“Only like me as an unwilling victim.” I hoped I was right.
Sebastian agreed. “There was originally some other end-goal, but someone—the co-conspirator maybe—kept the ‘score’ for himself, offed Donnettelli, and framed Nic. Highly efficient scoundrel.”
Sebastian flipped through my notes. “You’ve looked into anyone related to Manville?”
“I have. And the time has come. I can’t delay reporting this to the Securities and Exchange Commission.” I winced just saying the words.
“The SEC may arrest you,” Sebastian said. “It looks like you got paid off to rule in Manville’s favor.”
“It’s my duty,” I said.
“It’ll be harder to prepare your defense if you’re in lockup,” Sebastian said. “After my secretary makes us working copies, these documents will be in my safe.”
Dex squished up his forehead. With his new hair-do he looked like an out-of-control meteor. “What’s it going to take to keep Nic safe and out of custody? Guard lions? Add it to my tab.”
Here it came. Prisoner in a free world. Toss the Constitution. Checks and balances, be damned.
Hunter cleared his throat. “She gave me a glimpse of this the other night at her house—”
Like an aggravated Jedi, Dex scorched me with his l
aser-light blue eyes. “Just how many men are waltzing through my house?”
“My house,” I whispered. “I hear a house in Colorado calling you.”
He faced the other men, shoving my end of the table into the-ex-has-to-have-last-word sinkhole. Another hit-slap for him.
Without so much as an eye crinkle (no Advance Anti-Aging Cream for him) Hunter continued, “Think about how Judges’ cases can be turned into profit.”
Dex hovered over the table. When he smelled money, he took the lead. I followed his body language, and we huddled like the Detroit Lions at fourth and ten. At least the guys had stopped arguing about the SEC.
Dex whipped out his smart phone and used the calculator. “Just about any event with two sides can be turned into a profit-loss event, legal or illegal.”
True Dex. He loved the Hunt for the Wild Greenback.
Hunter looked damned serious. “My team compared Donnettelli’s financial picture of several years ago with his recent finances. He went from comfortable middle-income to lavish, upper-crust.”
“Blimey, in two or three years?” Sebastian asked.
I tucked my hands underneath my rear and gulped. “Yeah.” Humph. “And from the little I put together, let me guess: The oil on this financial canvas drips so close to my docketed cases, I could be wearing stripes till I’m laid out in velvet and lacquered oak.”
The men looked grim.
Not the response I’d hoped for.
With a flourish, Sebastian wrote the number twelve and circled it. “You have a mere fraction of the funds Donnettelli has.”
What better reason to the kill the guy? It looks as if he were holding out on me. I knew that was a problem. I’d heard enough murder trials to know it before I heard the word.
“Motive,” Sebastian said.
That’s the word. Damnation. Motive is listed under: plan, scheme, design, mean-to-mislead, and find-me-guilty.
Sebastian drew darker circles around the awful number.
“But I didn’t make a penny,” I said a few notes short of a wail.
All Rise Page 22