Night Justice

by Diane Capri

  His clothing suggested prosperity. Wealthy people either flaunted what they had or lived like social hermits. Hermits didn’t need pricey suits and handmade loafers.

  Still, the thought that no one cared if the man lived or died tugged at my heart, and I lost focus for a moment. I’d been lucky after mom died. Kate had treated me like her own. Her family had become my family. Even her new boy-toy husband, Leo, was starting to grow on me. I adored Augustus, and he liked Leo. Which had to count for something.

  As if I’d conjured him, Augustus knocked on my office door before peeking his head in. “Coroner’s on line one, Judge.”

  My heart stuck in my throat, I forced a smile. “Thank you.”

  Slowly, I walked back to my desk and slumped down in my seat, staring at that red flashing light on my phone like it was a nuclear warhead about to explode.

  If I had killed that man, I wasn’t sure how I’d live with the knowledge.

  I might very well be living with it behind bars, though.

  Only a remote chance of imprisonment, really.

  But not an impossible ending.

  Finally, I shut off the back and forth in my head, summoned my courage, and picked up the receiver. “Good afternoon, Martin. What do you have for me?”

  Martin Eberhard had become coroner a year ago, and he’d gone a long way in updating the office’s policies and procedures. He was efficient, no-nonsense, and detail-oriented—all excellent qualities in a medical examiner.

  “Afternoon, Willa.” He cleared his throat and then spoke in his familiar brisk tone. “I don’t usually inform judges of my findings, but Chief Hathaway asked me to call because you have personal involvement with the case.”

  I pictured him as he talked on the phone. Eberhard was in his late sixties, gray-haired and paunchy, sporting those black-rimmed glasses popular with geeks the world over.

  “Thank you, Martin. I appreciate your consideration.”

  “I’ll cut right to it, then,” he said briskly. “We won’t know for sure until the full confirmatory toxicology comes back in about six to eight weeks. But you’ll be pleased to hear that the man would have died due to a lethal dose of heroin laced with fentanyl in his system.”

  “So, hitting him with my car didn’t kill him? Officially?” I blinked at the desktop, my mind racing to process the information.

  “I can’t say that,” Eberhard replied. “What I can say is that he overdosed on toxic heroin. He would not have survived, whether you hit him or not.”

  I’d heard about toxic heroin. I’d also read articles in the local papers about a recent spike in death rates among area drug users, some of them homeless, because of it.

  “Willa, are you still there?” Eberhard prompted.

  “Yes,” I said and straightened in my seat. “Yes, I’m here. Sorry.”

  Then again, addictions were so easily hidden these days, everyone was susceptible. It had taken the opioid crisis reaching epic proportions and landing squarely on the doorstep of small towns and suburbia for lawmakers to finally notice the problem and start doing something about it. But it was a tough situation, and it was far from controlled.

  Eberhard said, “We simply can’t pinpoint the exact time of death. I doubt we ever will. At the moment, I’d say it’s more likely than not that he was dead before you hit him. Which means you’re not likely to be charged with homicide.”

  I remembered the flutter of a pulse I’d felt in his neck when I was administering CPR. Had he been alive? I’d wanted him to be alive. It was possible I’d imagined the flutter. I simply couldn’t say.

  I coughed to get his attention. “Martin, you know I administered CPR at the scene. I thought I felt a pulse in his neck. Are you saying you’re sure I was wrong?”

  He paused for what seemed like an eternity. “I’m prepared to testify that he would not have survived whether or not you struck him with your car. Let’s leave it at that.”

  I sighed and swiped my fingers through my short hair. Softly, I said, “As much as I want that to be true, I absolutely need to know for sure.”

  “I’ve given you my medical opinion. I can’t do any more than that. I wasn’t at the scene. I didn’t examine the man until he reached my morgue.” Eberhard’s tone was brusque.

  “How did he end up in the street if he was already dead?”

  “Several scenarios are possible. He might have self-administered the toxic heroin, seeking his next high, and then inadvertently wandered into the street in front of your car.”

  “Wouldn’t he have collapsed on the sidewalk? Or at least closer to the curb? He was in the middle of the travel lane when I hit him.” I was asking questions no medical examiner could possibly answer with certainty. But I needed to know.

  Eberhard did not reply. I had the sense that he’d turned his attention to something else.

  His explanation seemed odd to me, but then the whole incident was completely beyond the realm of normal. I returned to the conversation at hand before I lost his attention altogether.

  “Tell me more about this toxic heroin.”

  “Nasty stuff, I’m afraid.” He sounded distracted.

  “Yes, but how so?”

  “Toxic heroin combines heroin and fentanyl. Both have depressant effects on the body. Users feel exaggerated drowsiness, nausea, confusion, sedation, and—in extreme instances—suffer unconsciousness, respiratory distress, and death.” The sound of pages rustling echoed through the phone line as Eberhard flipped through them.

  “Sounds like toxic heroin should be deadly every time, then, shouldn’t it?”

  “It often is deadly,” Martin replied. “A few lucky users make it to the ER for an antidote. Naloxone. It can be effective if administered soon enough.”

  “Does the dosage of toxic heroin he took make any difference?”

  “Yes. And the elapsed time, too.” He cleared his throat. “Obviously your victim wasn’t one of the lucky ones.”

  “Right.” I tapped my fingers on the desk, trying to fit the details into the story in my head and coming up empty. In all the scenarios for why the man had stumbled out in front of me, drug addiction wasn’t one I’d considered. “Sounds like an awful way to die.”

  “It is. Unfortunately, the local drug dealers have found a way to turn that gruesome death to their advantage.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Eberhard said, “They use the potential for death to entice thrill-seekers. Toxic heroin’s bad reputation has become their best form of advertising. The dealers get a boost in sales after a string of fatal overdoses. I see the evidence here in my morgue.”

  I stared into the phone. “But that’s crazy.”

  “It is,” Eberhard agreed. “The lethalness attracts a certain kind of addict. They demand to try it for the thrills. Some don’t live to regret it.”

  “And you think this guy was one of those thrill-seekers? That he simply overdosed?” I still couldn’t believe it. He’d been bruised and battered from the accident, yes, but wearing clothes that would’ve paid rent on a tony Tampa apartment for months. Which meant he’d achieved some level of success in life. Why wouldn’t he have been smarter about the drugs he ingested?

  “I have no way of knowing, Willa.” Eberhard’s words were clipped now, perhaps annoyed because the answer was out of his realm of expertise. “What I can tell you, based on the amount of toxic heroin in his system, is that it’s highly unlikely he simply walked into the path of your vehicle.”

  “Why?”

  Eberhard explained as if talking to a very dense seven-year-old. “Because he wouldn’t have had the ability to do so. According to my timeline, he would have already been dead or very near death before you struck him. Which means he wouldn’t have been capable of walking at all.”

  “But if he didn’t walk into traffic, then…” My voice trailed off as realization struck. “You’re saying someone pushed him?”

  “Not necessarily. He might have simply fallen.”

  “
But a push seems more likely, given the distance he traveled to end up in front of my car, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. Although accident reconstruction isn’t my bailiwick. Or yours. That’s a question for Chief Hathaway.”

  “But why? And who would do such a thing?” I’d heard testimony about all sorts of murders over the years. This was a first for me.

  “I’m a medical examiner. Not a clairvoyant. I’ve said all I can about this until we get further lab reports, which aren’t likely to change things much. The headline, for your purposes, is that in my very well-qualified medical opinion, you didn’t kill the guy. If I was filling out the death certificate right now, which I’m not, I’d say the cause of death was a toxic heroin overdose. The manner of death remains undetermined but is most likely either accidental overdose or intentional suicide. The mechanism of death is related to the overdose, although I haven’t pinpointed the exact biological reason yet.” He paused, and when I asked no further questions, he added, “And if there’s nothing else, I’ve got to go.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Martin. It was very kind of you to call and let me know,” I said, but he’d already hung up.

  I sank back in my chair again, a bit of the tension between my shoulder blades easing. The case of the mysterious well-groomed man kept getting more and more complicated. But maybe I hadn’t killed him, and that was a thin reed I wanted to hang on to. The coroner had said I’d be pleased to hear the results. I wouldn’t say that “pleased” described my current mood. More like relieved.

  Whoever had given the dead man those drugs was his killer, even if he’d taken the drugs voluntarily.

  The drugs were administered well before I’d arrived on the scene.

  He’d have died alone in the cold rain if he hadn’t somehow landed in the street half a moment before I arrived.

  Which also meant that CJ would be sorely disappointed. Ben Hathaway wouldn’t charge me with vehicular homicide for the death.

  Which didn’t mean, of course, that CJ would stop the impeachment investigation. He’d chosen his path, and he would stick with it. He might still prevail.

  Florida law required a driver to have control of the vehicle at all times. I hadn’t. I’d been distracted. I was driving faster than I should have been for the weather conditions that night. I was unable to stop before I hit that man.

  None of my conduct was above reproach.

  Neither was it criminal.

  But the coroner’s opinion meant CJ would be stuck with complaining about disruption to the court caused by my unjudicial conduct. Which he’d been complaining about ever since I took the job. Same old, same old.

  My worst sin in CJ’s eyes was that I’d caused a spectacle and brought unwanted public criticism to the court. If there was one thing CJ hated, it was public criticism. He took it as a personal affront. He simply wanted me gone, had from the start. Now, I’d all but handed him a means to do it, albeit unintentionally.

  I shrugged. Nothing I could do about that. CJ was as uncontrollable as I was.

  For the moment, though, I still had a lot of empty time on my hands. The best way to use it was to focus on my own investigation into what had happened the night of the accident.

  Someone killed that man.

  An unsolved murder or unexplained death involving a high-ranking federal judge would feed the conspiracy mongers for years. Decades, even.

  My ability to do my job and even George’s business would be impacted.

  Speculation about me and my involvement in the poor man’s death would never end.

  Unless I ended the speculation myself by finding out who killed the man and why.

  Which was exactly what I planned to do.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Friday, November 11

  6:00 p.m.

  When I walked downstairs to meet George at the end of the day, I was feeling more optimistic. Until I stepped outside the courthouse and into the sunlit plaza in front. The vultures, protesters, and cameras swarmed like hungry mosquitos, forming a sea of humanity, all jostling and barking for attention.

  “Judge Carson, is it true that you’ve been suspended from your position on the bench?”

  “Judge Carson, do you have any comment about the impeachment proceedings filed against you today by Chief Judge Richardson?”

  “Judge Carson, how do you and your husband plan to handle all this negative publicity?”

  “Judge Carson, have you been in touch with the dead man’s family?”

  “Judge Carson, is this the first time you’ve ever killed a man?”

  I kept my head high and forward, sunglasses firmly in place, expression deliberately unreadable. The questions pelted me from all sides, but I pressed on. By the time I’d waded through the firestorm to reach George’s Bentley, I felt like I’d survived an epic battle.

  The questions about the deceased were especially unfair and harsh, but these vultures weren’t legitimate journalists, and they weren’t our friends. They didn’t care how we felt.

  Some were only interested in salacious headlines and getting the highest ratings on cable networks. The so-called citizen journalists were looking to sell advertising on blogs and websites by creating viral videos, using any means possible.

  Welcome to the twenty-first century. I scowled behind my oversized sunglasses and ducked into the sedan.

  George looked as grim as I felt when I finally slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind me.

  We were used to the occasional appearance on TV and even in local tabloids. The stories were usually positive, puff pieces that made everybody feel good.

  Around Tampa, we were considered a high-profile couple because of George’s five-star restaurant and his amazing chefs, not because of my job. Being a federal judge made me kind of a big deal among lawyers and other judges, and even in certain political circles. Outside of that, though, most people only knew me as George Carson’s wife.

  The dead man had changed all that, and not in a good way.

  “Bastards,” George said under his breath as he eased the Bentley out of the path of the crowd ahead and into traffic. “They’re like hyenas at a kill. Picking and tearing and scavenging for any crumb they can find. I’ll bet you anything those protesters out there are being paid to show up and make this scene.”

  I slumped in my seat. “Last week you were excited about your upcoming interview on Good Morning Tampa.”

  “Yeah? Well, this is not that.” He stared straight ahead, a small muscle ticcing near his tight jaw. “These idiots have completely shut down George’s Place. Guests couldn’t get past them today for lunch. I don’t even have a restaurant if diners can’t get to my food.”

  I crossed my arms and stared out the window. He wasn’t really ranting at me. George and I had a strong marriage, a good partnership. He was under as much stress as I was. His restaurant was essential to him and our livelihood. But none of that made his words hurt any less.

  Guilt—my new constant companion—swelled inside me again. Wonderful. Not only had this thing screwed up my career, now it was apparently ruining my husband’s life, too.

  We stopped at the light, and George clicked on his left turn signal. The route was the same one I’d taken Tuesday night. There was only one way on and off our island. We had to travel on Bayshore Boulevard to get there.

  He made the turn, and the big sedan growled easily along the roadway until we veered to the right and the Plant Key Bridge shimmered in the distance, illuminated by the setting sun.

  The island itself had been built back in the 1890s by the Army Corp of Engineers at the insistence of one Henry Plant, a local Tampa resident and real-estate mogul.

  Back then, Hillsborough Bay had been too shallow for navigation and devoid of any landmasses. Using his money and influence, Plant had persuaded the engineers to dredge up enough solid land for what would eventually become Plant Key, at the same time they were dredging the bay to allow more commercial freighters to pass through t
o the Port of Tampa.

  The result was our egg-shaped island. It was about a mile wide and two miles long and sat between the Davis Islands and Ballast Point in Hillsborough Bay. The narrow end faced Bayshore Boulevard on the north while the wider southern end faced the Gulf of Mexico.

  Plant Key Bridge was added near the end of construction and connected the island to Bayshore Boulevard just east of Gandy Boulevard.

  If good ol’ Henry Plant had tried to have his project built today, there would’ve been serious objections from several different marine-wildlife conservation groups. Both the island and the bridge carved out space smack in the middle of everybody’s favorite view as well. But such things weren’t a priority back then. And in Plant’s opinion, if he owned an island, then he needed a way to get over there, didn’t he?

  George sighed and reached across the console to lay a hand on my thigh. “I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault. It’s just frustrating.”

  I nodded miserably.

  He made a smooth turn onto the ramp leading up to the bridge. “How did your day go? Any word on the autopsy results?”

  I laced my fingers with his as I relayed the information the coroner had told me.

  “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yeah, but it’s not good enough. I need to know what happened. I spent the rest of the afternoon researching toxic heroin and searching through missing-person records in the law-enforcement databases. Nothing.”

  “I’m sorry.” George slowed as we crested the top of the ramp, and I spotted what looked like a roadblock ahead, lights and sirens flashing off the squad cars parked across the lane to block vehicles from crossing the bridge. George gave a disgruntled snort. “See what I mean? At this rate, dinner service will be empty, too. And we were fully booked for tonight.”

  These citizen journalists and protesters were turning out to be a bigger nightmare than the accident itself, which was saying something. We didn’t want or need all these negative stories floating out there online. Unlike yesterday’s newspaper that was used to wrap today’s fish, anything posted online would last forever. These vultures were doing permanent damage to George’s Place. Damage that might never be undone.