All Rise

by Rosemarie Aquilina

  Sebastian cut in. “Jose, these blokes should’ve invited you without the cuffs.”

  “I would’ve freely come for my Judge.” Jose eyed the wad of bills and pushed them into the center of the table.

  “You are free to do what you want.” Sebastian put his hand over the money. “It appears you’ve just retained me to negotiate state and federal immunity.” He pulled a one-hundred-dollar bill from the roll and handed Jose the rest, waiting until Jose accepted the money. “You’ve paid my retainer, and you’ve earned this money for lost wages this evening. This is not a bribe.”

  “Si. All is good.” Jose blushed and shoved the money into his shirt pocket.

  His barely five-foot-tall stocky body seemed ten-feet-tall to me.

  Hunter tapped in a text, and then looked up at Sebastian, while he told Jose, “A dark-windowed vehicle is pulling into the garage. When you get in, lay down in the backseat to avoid being seen. You’ll be driven to Attorney Pearce’s office.”

  Sebastian gave a single nod.

  I stood and hugged Jose as hard as I could, kissed his cheek, and whispered thanks. “As long as I’m free, you have lifetime haircuts and coffee on the house. Your family, too.”

  Jose laughed. “You mean for as long as I have hair, Miss Judge.” He bowed his thinning hair in my direction and then followed Hunter toward the garage.

  Sebastian left, too.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  The next morning while Hunter and Sebastian checked out the law clerks’ finances, I visited Renee in lockup. She didn’t look any better than I had in jailhouse gray stripes.

  As soon as they brought her in, she blurted, “I’m sorry,” and sat across the table from me.

  I ignored the uniformed officers stationed around the room during the visitation hour and focused on her. “How are you?”

  “Scared.” She looked more frightened than that dark night she’d appeared at my door.

  “Renee, I have to ask. Did you kill Donnettelli?”

  Renee shook her head. “No.”

  “Did you kill Pete Dune?”

  Renee shook her head. “No.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me everything?” I held back any expression.

  “I was too scared. I wanted to trust you.” Renee blinked.

  “But—?”

  “I couldn’t. I didn’t. Not until later. I’m sorry.”

  “Who killed Donnettelli and Pete Dune?”

  Tears fell. Renee shook her head. She remained silent.

  “Do you know who hurt Judge Briggs or Noel?”

  Her head rested on her left shoulder and tears flooded. She shook her head. “If they know you’re here, I’ll be dead.”

  “Who are they?”

  She hung her head in silence.

  “Donnettelli’s colorful metal tins. Do you know who gave them to him?”

  Renee’s forehead creased. “He walked in with them. Said they were a thank-you gift.”

  “No worries, Renee.” I shot her my best reassuring face. We engaged in some small talk, and I promised to return. She promised to think about anything that might help. I left. Jailhouse anything made me want an immediate shower.

  I arrived home just before noon intending to jump directly into my shower. I also needed alone time to consider what Renee said and what she’d refused to say. I sensed she was being framed, like me. If she didn’t commit murder, who did? But before I made it to the third floor, my front doorbell rang. I trotted back down the steps to find a group of uninvited guests at my front door.

  Rosa stepped inside as if she were my next roommate. Behind her stood the two disappeared suits from that first week after Donnettelli’s murder.

  Too tired for rap or a new-roommate fight, I plunked myself on the stairs, four steps up, and stretched my legs down. I had no interest in inviting anyone in beyond the foyer.

  Rosa, in bad rap, finger snap, and foot tap began. “Serving a cup in the café to the man with a plan—”

  “Get on with it,” I said. The men nodded which I took for appreciation that I’d stopped her. But they seemed to be happy about this meeting.

  Rosa, with her I’ll-do-as-I-damn-well-please attitude, had no Judge-fear—an attitude I’d respected until this very moment. I started to stand, but she got around me and body blocked me from going upstairs.

  “Sorry. Time to listen.” She placed her hands on my shoulders and pushed down.

  My anger bubbled.

  “Sit.”

  Our roles had been reversed.

  “For your own good, listen,” she said. Rosa spoke so determinedly and without rap, I knew it was important.

  “Fifteen minutes.” I slipped my phone out of my pocket, set the timer, and glared. “Speak.”

  “When they didn’t see you at the salon or at the café—” She paused and gestured toward each of the men. “Edward and Steven approached me.”

  Edward and Steven reached out and shook my hand.

  “They’d read about you on the bench, flown in a few times, sat in on motion days and some notorious trials.”

  “What?” I wasn’t following. “Are you from the SEC?”

  The men looked confused.

  “No, they are not. You have to listen. You were being considered for a role as a television Judge.” Rosa stopped me. “After your arrest, this ain’t no jest, they decided movie.”

  “I’m confused.” With the return of the rap, it was no wonder.

  Edward interrupted. “Your cases tended to make national headlines. You could be more popular than Judge Judy.”

  “I want my quiet life back.” I frowned because somehow felony charges didn’t scare them.

  “We know you were charged after you retired from the bench.” Steven handed me his writer-producer card. “We researched, took notes, developed a script, a movie, a series—”

  “Still charged with murder,” I said.

  Edward held up what I thought was a contract, but it was so close to my face, I saw double. “We want exclusive rights to your news story, book on your life, and any related merchandise. All rights. Movie comes out first.”

  I pulled the paper down without reading it and discovered a partial script underneath. “There is still no solid answer, no happy ending—”

  Rosa latched onto my boots. “I knew you’d be mad.” She sat next to me on the stair.

  The three were going to hold a stair-in until I agreed.

  Then I saw it. If the killers thought they were about to be publicly exposed, they’d be forced to do something. I could force them out into the open.

  “I need my life back. I’ll sign with you; I retain copyright. Damn it, I’ll star in any clothed role, if you agree to help me smoke out the bad actors. You follow my lead—even if you disagree with it.”

  Edward and Steven eyed each other, whispered, and extended their hands, and we shook.

  I promised myself an anti-aging mask and a chinwag with my Sebastian.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  The media spray was as effective as the strongest wedding-day hairspray. By early morning, leaks to every national newspaper resulted in headline news. Of course, that included Ingham County, Michigan Sunday papers.

  My phone vibrated, and I answered.

  “Lover—”

  My throat clearing drowned out Dex’s voice and calmed my innards. “Good morning, Dexter. Despite Ingham County ignoring my innocence, Hollywood heard me, noticed me, and believes me.”

  “Increased notoriety isn’t safe—”

  “Take our sons back to Colorado. You’ve given me protection; you need to take them back and keep them safe. I’ve set a trap. Something I don’t need permission to do.”

  “We need you safe.”

  Me, too. “I’ve got this covered.”

  “Ba
iting thugs?” Dex conveyed definite undertones of concern and anger.

  “There’s a key piece to this puzzle still missing—and it’s the key that’ll get this damn tether off my leg. These thugs don’t want publicity. Hollywood researchers are all over this story. Something’s got to give.”

  “It had better not be your life.” Dexter’s voice deepened. “You were always a step ahead. I just didn’t always see it.”

  My insides felt like warm spring rains, and I softened my voice. “Take our sons home.”

  “We’ll return to celebrate.”

  “Nope. The second this tether’s off, I’m staying in your best Colorado suite.”

  “Done.” Dexter clicked off.

  It was barely seven when I cracked my front door open to snatch the morning newspaper. I leaned behind the closed door and unfolded it. Hollywood to Make Movie of Accused Judge.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Sebastian was not pleased with me. He came by the house, scooped me up, and took me off to our secret hideaway—a stately old hotel, which was big on luxury and discretion. It was just the rejuvenating treatment I needed.

  The next morning at work, news cameras, Hollywood Insider, Nancy Grace, and similar vehicles surrounded my building.

  I parked behind Hunter’s man—or maybe Dexter’s planted empty car—entered my building through the front door, acknowledged Trisha, and approached my chair. My hormone radar immediately identified Hunter’s backside, and I sauntered toward his electrifying cuteness.

  “Here for a crew cut, shave, or a scolding?”

  Hunter clutched my wrist. “Toots. Sebastian can’t be happy with this. You compromised your case, your safety. Dexter and your sons are camped out in a hotel near Metro. They refuse to get on a plane until they know you’re safe.”

  Hit-slap. “It’s my life, Winky-Dink, I’m in control.”

  “Protection in the middle of media chaos is problematic.” He sounded more serious than I’d ever heard him.

  I crossed the room to examine Dinkie-Do and Carlye oddly contorted and perched on step stools.

  “Bull’s-eye for the cameras,” Dinkie-Do said, proudly staring at his station. It could have been a tribute to Liberace via Christmas lighting decked out in shoes.

  Carlye stood and hip-bumped me. “Like I keep telling you. Have some fun with alla this.” She thrust up her chest grenades.

  I had a disco flashback and decided hot flashes might be more fun.

  Dinkie-Do snapped his fingers. “Free publicity. Clients will fly in.” He climbed higher to layer LED lights. I suspected Dinkie-Do’s glass was always more than half full, brimming over, and splashing onto the floor.

  Their station decor looked as trendy as a half-shaved female spiked scalp.

  All I wanted was a complete freedom rinse. “While you work, maintain your safety sense.”

  I turned toward my office, and Hunter followed me.

  Wasting no time, Hunter closed the door behind us and produced a big envelope. He held it up and slapped it on my desk.

  I opened it and thumbed through clipped papers. Circuit, Appellate, and Supreme Court Judges, with a list of bank stocks held by each. “How did you get this?”

  Hunter pulled in a chair next to me and sat. “When you were in law school, did you ever learn about asking the question too many?”

  Ah. “Sometimes a question was better left unasked.” Now I knew why Donnettelli had to die.

  Hunter exited. I phoned Sebastian and told him what I had, but I had to cut some hair, and then I needed real sleep and a fresh can of hairspray before we handed off the evidence to Detectives. I asked Sebastian to make an appointment with Detectives for 10 o’clock the next morning, told him I’d be home by 9, and I hoped to see him soon thereafter.

  Sebastian promised to make my night and be over as soon as possible.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  I hadn’t felt so optimistic in a long time. Still warmed from my bubble bath when the doorbell rang, I put the last clip in my fresh updo, tied my robe tight and slid downstairs. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t completely dressed before Sebastian arrived. I wondered why he didn’t use his house key. Playing coy wasn’t his style.

  I checked the monitor and set my phone to 9-1-1 for quick dialing. But one glance showed me it was a delivery from Labellefleur, the florist I’d used for years. I opened the door and received a huge vase filled with red roses and baby’s breath. There must be three dozen roses here. I properly showed my gratitude to the deliverer for making a late-evening delivery and then shut and locked the door.

  The tiny white card read: You were superb today, like every day. Love, Sebastian. That man. I buried my face in the soft petals and breathed in the lemony rose scent. That was new. These will go on my bedside table where both of us can enjoy them. Imagining the evening to come, I giggled all the way up to the third floor. I placed the flowers on the highest chest of drawers I had and then finished getting dressed, put just a little bit of makeup on, and re-secured a charged Taser in my updo. Home alone, I wasn’t taking any chances. I hoped I wouldn’t be alone for much longer.

  The phrase “grinning like a shot fox” kept running through my mind and made me long for Sebastian’s arrival. It was barely six. I felt like I’d worked overtime hauling giant shampoo bottles up the beanstalk. And, there was still Renee and Noel to figure out. Damn. It never stopped.

  Renee was safe for the moment in lockup. But something about Noel kept nagging at me. I yawned and headed inside my closet to choose my outfit and boots for tomorrow. I set my choices next to my oversized bag on the closet floor and then slogged to my bed for thinking time. I needed to analyze everything in logical order while I waited for Sebastian.

  After a few rounds of Connect the Evidence, my tired eyes needed a short break on my cool pillow. Jimmy Jack yawned and stretched bed-center, and I was about to join him.

  Sebastian would get here soon, and he’d snuggle with me, and the dots I was failing to connect would magically join up. I’d texted him but didn’t get a response.

  Tired, I clung to my phone certain he’d text me any minute. I yawned and pictured everything I knew about Noel on a timeline. I’d seen him at breakfast and then at the salon.

  I chuckled, and it sounded deep and funny to me, like it was coming from a raw place buried deep inside me. I was so tired. I pictured the day of the skunk perfume. I yawned. Noel had laughed so hard.

  My eyes felt like soggy sponges. He’d said we were fun. He’d said Donnettelli—his exact words were—Donnettelli wouldn’t listen. He’d said that was why he was shot . . . in . . . the . . . ear.

  Damn.

  It was Noel.

  The killer was Noel.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Suddenly awake. Why? Pain under my eye. The room was dark. I must have slept for hours.

  Cold metal dug into my cheekbone. I didn’t hear anything. I stiffened and blinked. A gun barrel.

  I stayed stone still and gripped the phone, still beside me under the sheet. I flicked it to silent, tried to hit resend, then slipped it into my front jean pocket.

  Just when I wondered if I’d actually connected to Sebastian, a man ripped the sheet away.

  I could see his silhouette, and he breathed like old fireplace bellows with the flu.

  “Who else is here?” a gruff voice demanded. He was the one with the gun, and he jammed the end of the barrel harder into my face.

  Up from my core, into my arms and face, fury surged. I wanted to rip away the gun and the bastard’s hand that held it.

  “I asked you a question, Judge, your honor ma’am.” His tone was mocking, but his voice was muffled, as if he were speaking through a too-tight surgeon’s mask.

  It was someone who resented my position. Someone I’d sentenced? This kind liked to be feared, so I trembled. “Everyone will
be home soon.” My voice sounded terrified, too. That would please them. “It’s me you want. Right?”

  In the bit of moonlight that filtered through the sheers, I made out that the one with the gruff voice had his head covered in a nylon stocking. I couldn’t identify him or the guy across the room he motioned to. I squinted—another Stocking Head.

  “You’re about to violate tether.” The Stocking Heads sinister-laughed, like Cartoon Network dropouts. “You’re about to abscond and become as famous as Hoffa.”

  Thank God for my tether. Someone would see me leave my house without permission. My eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, I searched the room. No electricity. They’d bypassed Hunter’s system. “How’d you get around the alarm?”

  In the shadows of my room the two stocking heads grunted. Stocking Head One shook his head. “Too easy,” he said. “I ducked under the garage door when you drove in, and I stayed behind your other car. When you went inside your house, I got up into the attic. When the garage door went up again, I limboed out. You think you’re so smart. A twelve-year-old could have done it.”

  Pinpoints his maturity level.

  Stocking Head Two clicked the inside of his cheek. “We beat your alarm, your cameras, and your high-priced, inept babysitters.”

  My shoulder jerked as if it weren’t attached to my body, and a wave of grief rose from my gut, and up behind my eyes like thick sickening fog—mind fog to keep me from focusing on impending death. I needed to sit up to get air, but I was afraid to move. I had to buy time. “But how’d you beat my alarm?”

  Stocking Head One answered but was late in remembering his deeper voice. “We stuck our own high-tech mini-cam on your keypad and punched the code in, same as you. Thanks for sharing.”

  The criminal mind always wanted to tell how smart it was.

  “And a little help from your friend didn’t hurt—”

  “Shut up.” Stocking Head Two didn’t like that.