by Diane Capri
I bit my lip and nodded.
“Right. That means you’ve kind of stepped in it here.” He considered that for a while. He’s a fabulous strategist. I was hoping he’d come up with a brilliant solution. Instead, he said, “Hate to say it, but it sounds like a no-win scenario to me. It always has. This Evan Hayden case is nothing but an excuse. Oz would have found another reason to impeach you. He’s been gunning for you from the beginning.”
Although his words echoed my own thoughts, I didn’t take it well.
George squeezed my hand and tried again. “What I mean is, you have a choice to make here. Give up and give in, or continue to fight. That accident was traumatic to you and to us. No matter how you slice it. Because of Hayden’s death, even though you didn’t kill him, you feel like you owe it to Hayden and his family to find out the truth, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“But even if you manage to do that, you can’t erase the tragedy. Things changed that night. You can’t go back for a do-over, unfortunately.” He paused and sipped and hummed a minute. “All you can do is move forward and decide how you want to live from this point on.”
“I know,” I said, still staring out at the horizon. He’d said nothing I didn’t already know, hadn’t already felt, a thousand times over. “It’s just hard.”
“It is. I wish I could fix it for you.” George rose, taking the last sip of his single malt scotch as he did so. “I haven’t eaten yet tonight. How about you come downstairs and we’ll see what the chef’s got left. Might take your mind off things for a bit.”
Surprisingly, I was actually hungry. I looked down at my sweats. “Can you send me something up instead?”
“Sure thing, Mighty Mouse,” he teased as he bent and kissed me again. “How about some gourmet cheese?”
I made gnawing motions with my mouth, and he grinned. Then I threw one of the pillows from my chair at his retreating back, missing by a mile.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Wednesday, November 23
9:00 a.m.
Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. I walked into my chambers determined to get things done. I was tired of living under a black cloud of stress because of Hayden’s unsolved murder and CJ’s nonsense. I intended to get to the bottom of something today if it killed me.
Which it actually might.
Augustus was already at his desk, looking dapper as usual in a crisp black suit and lavender shirt that all but glowed against his dark skin. Instead of his normal smile, he gave me a concerned look. “Judge, wait. You might want to—”
But I was through waiting. I’d been waiting too long already. To have my cases returned to me. To get on with my life and career as best I could.
“No time, Augustus,” I said, opening the door to my office. “Too much to get done today.”
My steps halted as I nearly collided with two dour-faced suits who could only have been from some investigative committee somewhere. I’d seen that same resigned, barely resuscitated look on too many jurists before. My heart sank along with my hopes for the day. It seemed CJ and his proceedings had finally caught up with me.
Shoulders squared, I made my way around my desk, a polite smile plastered in place. Beneath my charcoal pantsuit and daffodil-yellow silk shirt, cold sweat prickled on my skin.
If I managed to get through this without suffering the metaphorical death of my career, it would be a miracle, considering we still had no proof that someone had deliberately shoved Evan Hayden in front of my car so fast that nothing I could have done would have mattered. Without that evidence, it seemed like normal people would always believe I could have—and should have—stopped before I hit him. Hell, even I thought so, and I’d been there.
Still, I wasn’t a quitter. Never had been. I wasn’t about to start now.
With as much grace as I could muster, I took my seat behind my desk and blinked up at my uninvited guests. “Judge Wilhelmina Carson. How may I assist you today?”
“You can start by answering some questions for us, Judge Carson,” the short, stout woman with gray hair and pale skin said. She looked about sixty but was probably much younger. Hard government work had a tendency to prematurely age people. Just look at the presidents. Most went in as relatively virile men and came out wizened and haggard.
She took a seat in one of the chairs in front of my desk and set her somewhat tattered brown leather briefcase at her feet. Her male counterpart—silver hair, thin build, gaunt face—took the seat beside her.
“First, let me make proper introductions,” the woman said. “My name is Miriam Gardner, and this is Frederick Burton. We’ve been appointed to conduct a preliminary investigation into the charges of misconduct filed against you.”
“And what exactly are the charges? I haven’t been told. And by whom were these claims made? No one has deigned to tell me that, either.” I said, sitting back. My instinct was to cross my arms defensively, but that would only allow them to see my tension, and I didn’t want that. Instead, I forced my muscles to relax and rested my hands lightly on the arms of my chair. “I should have the right to know.”
Ms. Gardner gave me a flat look over the top of her black-rimmed glasses. “At this point, this is a preliminary investigation only. If Mr. Burton and I determine that the matter is sufficiently serious to warrant a hearing, then you will be provided with copies of all the information obtained during our investigation, including the name of the complainant.”
It was probably CJ who’d filed this complaint. He’d all but told me as much that day in his office. I glanced at the teetering stack of pink message notes in my inbox. Of course, it was CJ. He was at the top of the list of people who wanted me gone.
But he wasn’t the only one. Prescott Roberts and a few of his cronies weren’t too happy with me, either. They were affected by the Stingy Dudes case. Roberts himself had made it clear that he’d expected me to dismiss all claims. Of course, I hadn’t. He wasn’t happy.
Any individual or group with knowledge of possible judicial misconduct or wrongdoing could file a complaint.
So, there was a remote chance it had been someone else. Still, I couldn’t help feeling this thing was personal, not professional. CJ had been waiting a long time for an opportunity to replace me, and now he finally had a good shot.
Hell, maybe CJ was the one who killed Hayden and shoved him in front of my car, just so he could get rid of me. The very idea of the little man struggling to do such a thing would have been humorous if the situation weren’t so serious.
Augustus appeared in the still-open door to my office, his gaze sympathetic beneath his raised brows. He was asking me if I wanted coffee. He had to know there was no way I was going through this nightmare without caffeine. Besides, maybe refreshments would help me with my tightlipped interrogators.
I gave him a curt nod, and he left, closing the door.
“Should I hire a lawyer?” I asked, only half-joking.
“You’re always welcome to have a lawyer present at any time, of course. A lawyer would not be allowed to interfere at this point, however.” Mr. Burton’s droning monotone picked up the conversational thread. “The committee’s investigations are confidential. If and when that changes, you’ll be among the first to know. My advice, Judge Carson, is don’t borrow trouble. If we have a problem here, we’ll all have plenty of time to hash out the facts.”
Augustus came in carrying a tray of coffee and miniature blueberry scones from the bakery around the corner. I had no idea how he’d known to go to the bakery this morning or bring the scones at just the right moment, but here he was.
He’s Prescott Roberts’s nephew, flashed in my brain, but I set it aside. If he’d been tipped off by his uncle as to this visit, that could explain why he had these treats ready.
But he’d looked as genuinely distressed as I felt when I’d walked in on the Black Suit Brigade, so I chose to believe he was as surprised as I was.
Once he’d played gracious host, poured coffee, and served u
p the scones, Augustus left the room. I settled back in my seat and girded my loins, metaphorically anyway. I resisted the urge to say, “Bring it on.”
All I had to offer was the truth, and that would have to be enough. I took a deep breath and dove in. “Shall we start, then?”
“Please give us your recollection of the events of the evening of November eighth,” Gardner said, setting aside her cup and plate to pull out a digital recorder from her briefcase. She placed the thing on my desk and clicked the button to start it. Its red light gleamed up at me like an evil eye.
As I relayed the factual details that were already contained in the police file, neither of my interrogators gave me any visible body language cues as to their feelings on the matter. No expressions. Not so much as a twitch.
I tried to deploy the same stoicism. I couldn’t do it. The mental images of Hayden’s body lying in the street and the dull, bone-crunching thud of his body hitting my car swirled in my head and heightened my senses. Still, I managed to finish without flinching or fumbling.
“Had you been drinking that night?” Burton asked.
“No. The police file contains my toxicology.”
“You have a pretty close relationship with the local chief of police, don’t you, Judge Carson?” Gardner again. Her gray eyes glinted like sharp steel.
“I try to maintain professional working relationships with all law-enforcement agencies, yes. It makes things much easier.”
“Easier how?”
I straightened, my pulse quickening with anger. Just what exactly was she trying to imply? “If you’re suggesting that I’ve received any kind of special consideration during the Tampa Police Department’s investigation of this case, you’re mistaken.”
Gardner glanced over at Burton, who pulled out his phone and brought up several pictures. He passed the device over the desk to me with a bland look. “These were taken two nights ago at a restaurant. That establishment is owned by your husband, is it not?”
I stared at the photos of the five of us at dinner, drinking expensive wine and eating gourmet food. My chest squeezed with tension, seeing where this was heading. “Yes. What are you implying?”
“Strange, don’t you think? That the police chief would be dining with the main suspect in a vehicular-homicide case. The only suspect, really. I’d say that’s not standard operating procedure for his department, Judge Carson.”
Heat prickled up from beneath the collar of my jacket while I struggled to keep my cool. “You’ve been misinformed, Ms. Gardner. I’m not a suspect at all. The information has not been released to the public, but Mr. Hayden died of a lethal dose of highly toxic heroin. According to the autopsy reports, he was already dead, or very close to it, at the time he lunged into the road. There was no way I could have stopped in time or avoided hitting him. But I didn’t kill him.”
“The officer investigating at the scene determined you were going at least five miles an hour over the posted speed limit in that area,” Barton said. “Reckless driving is defined in this state as operating a vehicle with willful or wanton disregard for the safety of persons or property.”
“You, too, have been misinformed. Check the records from my car’s black box. I was driving the speed limit. No more.”
“You hit a man, and he died, Judge Carson. Whether there were other contributing factors to his death makes no difference to our investigation. You’ve breached the public trust and undermined the public faith in the judiciary.” She paused.
“Is that so?” My tone rose in anger before I choked it down to a normal level. “This was an accident, pure and simple. Unavoidable. No fault or malice on my part. If you think you can convict me based on what you have here, have at it.”
Gardener exhaled slowly, as if I were getting on her last nerve. Which was only fair, since she’d long since burned through mine. “If only it were that simple, Judge Carson. You see, in serious matters such as these, we are required to not only take into account the complaint at hand, but to also look at the judge’s career as a whole. And, unfortunately, I’m sorry to say this is not the first time you, or someone close to you, has run afoul of the law, is it? You tend to make a public spectacle of yourself all too frequently.”
She didn’t sound sorry at all. And I couldn’t possibly respond to that without slapping that smug smirk off her face.
Barton stepped in to recite a list of my most egregious indiscretions—George’s false arrest for murder at the top of a long list of highly public situations that made me look like a thrill seeker and publicity hound akin only to one of the Kardashians.
Taken separately, each of these cases could be explained away, justified as the right thing to do under those particular circumstances.
But taken as a whole, as much as I hated to admit it, I could see how my unorthodox approach to these activities while sitting on the bench might be construed as…questionable.
By the time Gardner and Barton were done, my situation seemed hopeless. It was clear to me now that they had already made up their minds against me before they’d even walked in the door. Truthfully, given what they knew and how they’d acquired their knowledge, the conclusions they’d reached weren’t very surprising at all.
They showed themselves out of my office with a curt reminder that they’d get back to me as soon as possible, in no event more than seventy-two hours, and nary a look back at Augustus or me.
“That seemed brutal,” Augustus said when he came into my office to clean up the remnants of our coffee and scones. “I tried to warn you before you walked in, but you didn’t give me a chance.”
“It’s okay.” I groaned and rubbed my eyes.
The whole experience had been just as painful as I’d imagined it would be. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps I had been living in a protected bubble too long, thinking my independence and my lifetime appointment made me invincible. Perhaps I should just throw in the towel and go quietly into that good night, as CJ wanted me to do.
My temples throbbed, and my stomach knotted.
“You look a little green, if you don’t mind my saying.” Augustus finished collecting the dishes onto his tray, then headed back for the door. “How about if I hold your calls and you have a bit of peace and quiet until you’re feeling better?”
I nodded mutely, waiting until the door closed behind him before dropping my head on my desk, eyes closed. Seventy-two hours. That’s how much time I had left to save my career. The only way I might be able to do that was to uncover Evan Hayden’s real killer, the person who’d administered that toxic heroin and shoved him in front of a moving car. And even that might not help much. They seemed less focused on whether I’d killed Hayden. To them, Hayden’s death was the last straw in a giant pile I’d been accumulating for a good long while.
Determination galvanized, I sat up and dialed Ben’s number to see if he had anything new on the case.
I might have been down, but I hadn’t lost this fight yet.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Wednesday, November 23
11:45 p.m.
George and I were having a nightcap later that night. It was a quarter to midnight and the last round of patrons for the evening were wrapping up. I’d just finished relaying the day’s events. My head throbbed from the stress.
“So, what are you going to do, then?” George asked after taking another swig of his scotch. “You don’t have the proof you need, do you?”
“Not yet.” I rolled my stiff neck and shoulders. Ben had given me exactly zero new information. Only a vague I’m-still-looking-into-a-few-things, which frankly didn’t help me at all. Maybe by the time I was thrown off the bench, the case would be solved.
“I don’t know. The fighter in me tells me to go on, to keep pushing forward, no matter how dire this all seems at the moment.” Even I could hear the weariness in my voice.
“What about the rest of you?” George gave me one of his narrowed stares.
“The rest of me says to let it go. Let
things play out. Pick up the pieces afterward.”
“Hmm.” He snorted. “My bet’s on the first option.”
“You know me too well.” I grinned and leaned over to clink glasses with him. Being married as long as we had seemed to take the edge off everything, the good and the bad. Right now, I was more than grateful for such ordinary blessings.
George kissed me quickly, then glanced over toward the entrance of the restaurant, one brow raised. “Little late for dinner.”
“Huh?” I tracked his gaze to a young woman who’d just entered. She was in her late-twenties, shoulder-length blond hair, conservative navy dress. I recognized her instantly, and my heart stumbled.
“George, that’s Kelly Webb. She worked with Hayden at Foster & Barnes. The day I went to talk to them, Kelly took my card and said she’d be in touch if she remembered anything.”
I pushed to my feet and hurried to the entrance to catch her before she turned tail and ran off. “Kelly?”
“Judge Carson,” she said, her brown eyes wary. “I’m sorry to be here so late, but…”
“No, no. It’s no problem at all.” I ushered her back to the table where George and I were sitting and introduced them.
George offered her a drink, which she declined, then went to get her a glass of water from the bar.
Once we were alone, my curiosity got the better of me. “Why did you come here tonight, Kelly?”
“I think I might have seen something, the night Evan died.” She kept her hands tightly clenched in her lap and her gaze lowered. “I didn’t mention it to the police when they questioned me because, honestly, I wasn’t sure it was important.”
“But now you think it is important?”
She nodded. “I’m worried that I made a mistake. I thought you might be able to help me. Maybe tell me what I should do.”
“I’ll certainly try.”
She didn’t say anything else for a few moments, and I sensed she needed a bit of coaxing. “Is it about who might have given Evan Hayden the drugs?”