Night Justice

by Diane Capri

  A man. On the pavement. Partially under my car.

  I had hit a human being with four-thousand pounds of moving vehicle. The damage would be like battering a baby with a baseball bat.

  Time sped up then, and things blurred around me. I don’t really remember rushing forward or kneeling down, yet the wet pavement was cold and bit into my knees through my black suit.

  I felt his neck for a pulse, heart in my throat. My stomach was nothing but a churning black hole of doom. Years and years of legal jargon looped through my head in an endless torrent as I pressed my numb fingers to his carotid artery.

  I stifled a sob. Please don’t let him be dead. Please, please, please.

  Then I felt a very faint bump-bump under my fingertips. Was it his pulse or mine? I couldn’t tell.

  I checked his breathing, found nothing, and began CPR, working on automatic pilot.

  Sirens whined in the cold November night, drawing closer, closer.

  I kept at it. Obsessively checking his pulse between breaths and chest compressions, alternately afraid he’d die and terrified that I’d already killed him.

  He wasn’t moving. No normal rise and fall of breathing.

  The way he was angled—turned away from the streetlight which cast him in shadows—prevented me from getting a look at his face.

  What I could see was the suit he had on, which was tattered and torn, probably due to the impact. The deep-blue silk tie, now wet with rain, glistened beneath the streetlight’s glow.

  The thing running through my mind was constant repetition of the only prayer that mattered. Don’t let him be dead. Please don’t let him be dead.

  While I continued CPR, I noticed more about his clothing. Not only the pricey silk tie. Top-of-the-line Italian wool suit. Shiny, custom-made leather loafers, which now reflected the glare of Greta’s headlights.

  Almost nonsensically, my brain registered that this guy wasn’t a jogger or one of Tampa’s population of wandering homeless.

  But who was he? Where did he come from?

  And why had he jumped into my travel lane like that?

  I shuddered in the cold rain and kept up the CPR. I finished another round of breaths and compressions then felt for his pulse again. Another bump-bump. Then another. His pulse. Not mine. Still faint, still weak, but there.

  Wasn’t it?

  He was still alive. He was alive. Alive. Not dead.

  At least for now.

  Or maybe I was imagining the pulse because I wanted it to be there so much. Either way, I kept working.

  An ambulance finally screeched to a halt, and two paramedics rushed over to the scene. I moved to the sidelines to let them take over.

  Every muscle in my body was achy, twitching.

  Thoughts tumbled over themselves. Someone had called the police. Good.

  I should’ve called the police. I’m a United States District Court judge. I know when the cops need to be involved, and they definitely needed to be here.

  Yet, I hadn’t even called 911. Why not?

  You didn’t have time.

  Where’s your phone?

  Dizziness overtook me, and my knees threatened to buckle.

  Sit down. Before you fall down.

  I wandered over to a nearby streetlight and leaned against it for support. Somewhere down the block, the sounds of a lively party echoed into the night, the direct opposite of the horror happening in front of me.

  “Ma’am.” One of the paramedics came over to me as the other continued to work on the man. He took my arm and shook me slightly to get my attention. “Please, ma’am. Come with me to the ambulance so I can check you out.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tuesday, November 8

  10:45 p.m.

  I stumbled after him to his rig and sat on the back. He began to examine me, feeling my head, neck, and limbs. Red and blue lights flashed through the darkness, and the wail of sirens grew nearly deafening as responders arrived on scene.

  A fire truck had arrived as well. Probably to assist the EMTs. They often worked in tandem during health emergencies.

  My logical brain continued to chug along while my emotions were a total mess.

  “Do you have pain anywhere?” the EMT asked. “Can you tell me your name and age?”

  “N-no, I’m not hurt. My name’s Wilhelmina Carson, and I’m thirty-nine,” I mumbled through chattering teeth. Along with the shock, the chill in the air seeped deep into my bones and made me shiver.

  The EMT grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders before palpating my arms and legs for injury. I continued to stare at the man lying on the pavement as a fireman assisted the second EMT. They slipped a neck brace around the man’s neck, then together they carefully hoisted him onto a rolling gurney. They covered him with a blanket the same as the one I was desperately clutching in my hands.

  “Will he be okay?” I asked, though they likely wouldn’t know anything much at this point. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, hadn’t responded to any stimuli at all since I’d battered him with my car.

  Oh, God…

  Nausea roiled through me, and I swallowed hard to keep from dry heaving.

  “We’re doing everything we can for him, ma’am,” the paramedic said, seeing my distress.

  He was good at his job, kind and soothing and calm. I focused on him to steady my crazy, tilting reality. He looked to be in his early thirties, African American, tall and muscular. His name patch, stitched into his lab coat in flowing cursive font, was Johnson.

  “Is there someone I can call for you, ma’am? A friend or family member?” Johnson asked, shining a light into my eyes to test my pupils.

  “M-my h-husband. G-george C-carson.” The shaking was getting worse as the enormity of what had happened settled over me like a shroud. I’d hit a pedestrian with my car. If he died, I’d be a killer.

  I closed my eyes and ran through the events in my head, like watching a video.

  I hadn’t been driving recklessly, had I? Surely not. I was a fast driver, aggressive, but competent. My mind had wandered. I didn’t recall the moments before I saw him at the last second in the roadway.

  Think about it, Willa.

  I’d sped up. But Greta had been traveling well within the posted speed limit. Hadn’t she?

  The roads were wet but not overly slick.

  Yet, I’d been unable to stop when that man…had what?

  Fallen? No. Not fallen exactly.

  I shook my head slowly. He’d stumbled. Off balance. Like he’d been drinking, maybe.

  Bile rose again, burning my throat. I opened my eyes and glanced at the scene once more. Video. Were there traffic cameras close by? Would they find video of the incident?

  Johnson said, “Stay with me, ma’am. We’re almost done here, and then the police will want to talk with you.”

  Right. The police. I nodded, noticing more vehicles had arrived. Vans. White news vans with television logos on the sides.

  “What day is it?” Johnson asked, jarring me back to the present.

  I’d hit a man with my car, quite possibly killed him.

  Even if he wasn’t dead now, he might not survive much longer.

  What were the chances that he’d survive after being hit with a car traveling forty miles an hour? Not good.

  I shuddered. I’d experienced more than enough death, personally and professionally. My heart went out to his family. All too well, I knew the survivors’ overwhelming sense of loss, the gnawing fear.

  Even if I didn’t end up in prison, things would never, ever be the same.

  I shuddered again as the shock threatened to swamp me.

  “Ma’am?” Johnson prodded. “Did you hear me? What day is it?”

  I swallowed hard around the lump of dread in my throat. “Uh, Tuesday, November fifteenth.”

  “Good.” Johnson shined a bright penlight in each of my eyes again, then stepped back. For a moment, I saw only glowing dots from the glare on my retinas.

&nb
sp; My vision cleared, and another man moved into my line of sight—a uniformed police officer, his silver badge glittering in the flashing red and blue lights. Here we go. An overwhelming dread settled atop everything else.

  He stepped forward and gave a slight nod. “Ma’am, I’m Officer Briggs, Tampa PD. I’ll need your license and registration.”

  I told him where to find the documents and gave him permission to look. License in my wallet, registration in Greta’s glove box. He dug them out and took them back to his squad car to run me through the system.

  A few moments later, he came back and returned the documents to me. “Judge Carson, I need to ask you a few questions about what happened here.”

  I relayed the facts succinctly. The man darted out into traffic. He left me no time to stop. I administered CPR until help came.

  When I’d finished, Johnson and his partner were loading the man into a second ambulance. His head was still uncovered, an oxygen mask now strapped to his face. His crisp, white shirt had been pulled open. The wet blue tie sat cockeyed around his neck.

  The oxygen mask was a good sign, right? They wouldn’t give oxygen to a corpse.

  Briggs finished scribbling my words onto a small, square notepad, then gestured toward his squad car, which was parked diagonally beside Greta. “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to step over here with me so I can perform a field sobriety test and administer a breathalyzer and a couple of presumptive drug tests.”

  He didn’t ask for my permission. He wasn’t required to. I was well aware that I could refuse, and any half-witted lawyer would have. But I’d had nothing to drink, ingested no prescription meds, and I never took illegal drugs of any kind. Nor would they find anything of the sort in my car.

  I had nothing to hide. A search and presumptive tests that returned negative results would exonerate me in several respects. I was confident the results would be negative, and the sooner that was settled, the better.

  So I consented, nodding.

  My legs quivered as I slid down off the back of the rig, and for a moment, I worried they wouldn’t support me. A small knot of onlookers had gathered around the accident scene. The rain had suppressed the size of the crowd. Low murmurs filled the air. Gawkers took photos, and several others appeared to be videotaping using the scourge of modern America, the smartphone.

  Had anyone called George?

  “D-do you know who he is?” I asked, noticing the catch in my voice, probably caused by excess adrenaline. But it made me sound weak and vulnerable, and I didn’t like it. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Why did he dart into the street? For that matter, why was he outside at all on a night like this?”

  Briggs asked me to perform a few simple tasks, which I did. He pulled out his breathalyzer.

  “Please breathe into this, ma’am,” he replied, in lieu of answering my questions. He thrust a small, gray plastic box in front of my face.

  I did as he asked, watching the second paramedic rig.

  The fire-rescue team was now assisting the police with crowd control. A tow truck grumbled toward us on Bayshore Boulevard to haul my poor Greta away.

  The odd numbness in my body lingered, which was probably good, given the amount of adrenaline in my system. I peered in the direction of my home, hoping to see George. He was my rock. We’d been through so much together in our seventeen years of marriage. This would be yet another chasm to cross.

  Shouts echoed off the buildings surrounding the scene and drew my attention back to the crowd. Seemed odd so many people would flock to this area on a Tuesday night. Until I heard my name being whispered by the onlookers. Someone had recognized me.

  In the technology age, my identity was always just a click or two away on those damn smartphones. Nothing drew rubberneckers like a potential scandal.

  I turned back to Officer Briggs and asked again, “Have you discovered who the man is?”

  “Not yet, Judge Carson.” His attention was still focused on his notes and not me.

  “Okay.” I clutched the damp blanket tighter and stared through the darkness at the lights on Plant Key Bridge, hoping George would arrive soon. He’d be in the middle of dinner service now, his restaurant packed with diners. It might take him a bit to get away.

  The doors to the ambulance slammed shut, and I jumped. Through the back windows of the rig, I spotted Johnson, the paramedic who’d helped me earlier. Our gazes met. In his dark eyes, I saw resignation and a flicker of judgment before the ambulance drove off toward the nearest hospital, Tampa Southern.

  Officer Briggs had me repeat the breathalyzer again, pursuant to protocol. By then, the crime-scene techs had shown up to begin their work. They were still cordoning off the area when George arrived.

  “Willa, are you okay?” George rushed over to me and pulled me into a tight hug. I was tall for a woman, almost six feet. But he towered over me.

  People who knew my husband—and really, around Tampa anyway, who didn’t?—described him as handsome in a Tom Selleck at fortyish-minus-the-mustache sort of way.

  But there was more to George than good looks. He was also keenly intelligent, affable, fair-minded. And honorable to a fault. I’d never been happier to see anyone in my life.

  “I’m o-kay,” I said, my face muffled by the front of his yellow polo shirt. I held on to him like a lifeline. Involuntary tremors ran through me. I wanted to sit, and at the same time, I wanted to walk around to burn off the energy zinging through my system. I didn’t know what was best at that point. The whole experience was horribly surreal.

  George pulled back and frowned.

  “Let’s get you to the ER and have you checked out.” He glanced toward Officer Briggs. “Is that all right? Do you need her for anything else here?”

  “Not at the moment, sir.” Briggs straightened. “I’ll catch up with you two again at the hospital.”

  I didn’t need medical attention—I wasn’t the one who’d been slammed by a car—but I let George lead the way.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tuesday, November 8

  11:15 p.m.

  “I’m fine. Really. Just a bit shaken up,” I told Dr. Parker, the young ER resident who was examining me at the hospital. Was it my imagination or did these doctors keep getting younger and younger?

  He requested, and I supplied, consent to draw and test bodily fluids. He drew a couple of vials of blood. Swabbed my cheek for DNA. Requested and received a urine sample.

  When I came back from the toilet, I glanced at George, who was leaning against the wall in my trauma bay while talking quietly on his cell phone. He’d picked up his calls and waited until after the doc began questioning me to return this one. From the sourness of his expression, it was probably our insurance agent.

  I turned my attention back to Dr. Parker. “Any word on the victim?”

  He gave a brief shake of his head. “I’m not allowed to discuss other patients, ma’am.”

  Once the initial shock had worn off, a needling unease had settled over me. I was not normally on the wrong side of the law. Quite the opposite. Not only did I administer the law daily in my courtroom, but I was also a lawyer, and a damn good one. My friends and many members of my family were lawyers. Even now, years after I’d stopped practicing, folks asked me for legal advice at parties and social gatherings all the time.

  I usually demurred because judges aren’t supposed to give legal advice. Or take cases.

  But never had I been the one responsible for any injustice or harm to another person in my life. Certainly, I’d never battered anyone with a deadly vehicle, or anything else.

  This was all a first for me, and I couldn’t quite comprehend it. So far, no one had suggested arresting me, which was about the only good news.

  George hung up and headed over to the exam table, taking my icy hand in his warm one and forcing a smile that didn’t quite erase the anger in his eyes. “You okay?”

  I nodded. “Who were you talking to?”

  He looked away, and the
lines between his brows deepened. “Oz.”

  He meant Chief Judge Ozgood Richardson. The man we usually called CJ if we were discussing his professional role. Oz was what we called him at dinner parties when we couldn’t avoid being in the same room at a social event. Which was as rarely as I could manage without being downright rude.

  My heart stumbled. I’d expected to have to deal with CJ at some point about all this, but not so soon.

  Not that CJ was my primary concern at that moment. He wasn’t my boss, and he had no control over me, even if he pretended he didn’t know that.

  Federal judges couldn’t be fired. We were appointed for life, unless we were impeached for bad behavior. Problem was, according to CJ, the only kind of behavior I ever engaged in was bad. He’d been gathering black marks against me since my very first day. At least it felt that way to me, and he never bothered to deny it.

  I shook my head. Tonight’s events would be spread far and wide by social media vultures. Which would give CJ the ammunition he’d been hoping for, allowing him to bring formal charges against me. Which he would do in a hot New York minute. No doubt about it.

  “How did he find out so soon?” I croaked.

  “Willa, it’s all over the news.” George sighed. “Those crews at the scene were feeding live to the stations. They’re legitimate news agencies, so they won’t sensationalize this thing. But I’m guessing everyone in Tampa knows by this point.”

  “Swell,” I said sourly.

  Those needles I’d felt inside jabbed harder than the ones the young doc had used to draw blood. The legitimate news teams were okay. They’d report the facts and keep it fair and balanced. But the tabloids and amateurs looking to go viral online were bound to follow. Just a matter of time before they swarmed all over me like ravenous snakes on a dead rat. And not too much time, either.

  I forced words past my constricted vocal cords. “What did CJ say?”

  George exhaled slowly, a small muscle ticking near his tense jaw. “He’s…not happy.”