Judgment

by Joseph Finder

  Duncan nodded, shrugged.

  She went on, “It’s like finding a fifth of vodka in his room. He shouldn’t be drinking booze either. The point is, he’s not allowed to use marijuana. First, because he’s still got a developing brain and it’s not good for him. Second, because we just don’t know if it’s safe, given his history. And third, I’m a judge, and I—I’m not going to let my son use weed as long as he’s living in our house.”

  “As long as it’s not interfering with his schoolwork and he’s not getting high during school hours, it doesn’t bother me.”

  “Well, it bothers me. And I think it is interfering with his schoolwork. Look at his grades. If he’s got anxiety, he should . . . I don’t know, do a sport. Row. Get back on the crew team.” She could feel herself falling back into the old patterns. They’d dealt with it in couples therapy. She sometimes tended to be . . . judgy. That was the word Duncan and Jake used. Which was perfectly appropriate for a judge, she thought. Whereas Duncan tended to be hands-off, easygoing, permissive. “How did you leave things with him?”

  “I said I had to talk to you.”

  “Okay,” Juliana said. “Because we obviously have a problem.”

  * * *

  —

  Duncan carried his wineglass to the bedroom—he’d opened a new bottle and poured himself some more. He appeared to be a little tipsy. He laughed louder than usual. He was telling a story about his dean, a man he took keen pleasure in mocking. She listened, making grunts of agreement, laughing at the right places, not hearing what he was saying, thinking all the while of Matías and his threats, her mind racing. Meanwhile she got undressed, and so did he.

  She was lost, thinking about Matías, and must have missed a cue, because he said, standing naked with his arms folded across his chest, “Earth to Jules?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “Long day.”

  He came up from behind her and put his arms around her. He kissed the back of her neck, the hollow at the clavicle.

  “You know,” he said softly, “I was looking at you earlier when we were talking, and I couldn’t stop thinking what a beautiful woman you are.” She could feel his hot breath tickling her neck. He caressed her shoulders, his hands then moving down slowly along her arms and then brushing, gently but purposefully, against the sides of her breasts. She flushed, tasted something sour coming up from her stomach.

  Then she gave him a kiss, quick and brisk. Turning him down, but gently. She thought of the trap she’d walked into and felt sick. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “I need to get to sleep.”

  9

  Being a judge was a kind of performance art, Juliana had often reflected. Every word you said was being recorded, so you had to be absolutely fair and make sure to sound that way. You had to act and talk with dignity. You had to look and sound engaged.

  You wore a costume: a black silk robe—actually 100 percent polyester and made by a company that provided caps and gowns to graduating seniors in high school and college. No one could see what you were wearing underneath the robe. At least she didn’t have to wear a white wig, as they still do in France and the UK. When she had first started as a judge, she walked out into the courtroom a number of times without her robe, forgot to put it on. On some level she disdained the formalities. But eventually she decided there was a purpose to the robe. It showed respect for the legal process. That was important.

  Above all, you had to live your life with probity. Juliana never broke the speed limit. She never broke the law. And that requirement extended to her family as well. She couldn’t have a son arrested for marijuana possession, and at his age he could be arrested. He had to get rid of the pot. Yes, he would resent it, and yes, he’d be oppositional, but tough luck. Judges’ kids had to be better behaved than other kids. That was the deal.

  You also weren’t supposed to let your mind wander during a hearing, but it was happening this morning anyway. She found herself listening to the defense attorney in a medical malpractice case, trying to focus, when she decided there was just no way around it: I have to recuse myself in the Wheelz case.

  Otherwise, she was trapped. If she stayed on, she had to rule in favor of Wheelz or else that blackmail video would go public. But she couldn’t permit herself to be blackmailed. She wasn’t going to be anyone’s puppet. She couldn’t live with herself that way.

  Recusal—that was the solution. It was the only way. She had to get out.

  * * *

  —

  Superior Court judges in Massachusetts rotate every six months between criminal and civil cases; they also move to other counties in the state. Her last rotation had been spent way out in Lowell, thirty miles away, working in the run-down Lowell Courthouse, in its Greek-temple magnificence, the great front steps cheaply patched with concrete, the limestone stained with rust from a century of auto exhaust.

  Now she was presiding in the historic, only slightly less run-down Suffolk County Courthouse in Boston. Because judges move so often, they have no permanent office. You don’t really decorate your office, because you leave it every six months.

  Juliana’s lobby was sparsely decorated with a few plants that didn’t require much sunlight and a framed certificate from the Attorney General of the United States appointing her an Assistant United States Attorney for the District of Massachusetts. On the wall was also a colorful hand-painted sign, a gift from the previous occupant who’d left it there, that read PEACE in large letters and underneath:

  It does not mean to be in a place where

  there is no noise, trouble, or hard work.

  It means to be in the midst of those things

  and still be calm in your heart.

  On her desk were two computer monitors, a gold Tiffany clock, a jar of hand cream, a phone, a printer, a couple of neat stacks of papers fastened with binder clips, and a collection of brass clips in the shape of miniature hands.

  Her father had kept one on his desk, which she used to play with when she was a kid; after he died, she took it for herself, knowing that he would have wanted her to have it. She then went on eBay and found another couple of brass hands, from an antique store in the UK, to keep Dad’s hand company.

  Her father, George, had been an admired, if unloved, English teacher at a renowned private school for Boston’s 1 percent, where she’d gone too. George Brody’s students at the Carlyle School in Boston were the offspring of some of the richest people in America. Whereas at home, Juliana and her brother and their parents ate Salisbury steak, purchased on special at the Star Market. With coupons.

  She was raised in frugality and still lived that way. Usually she brought lunch from home, a sandwich. Once in a while she’d send her clerk downstairs to grab a chicken Caesar salad or a tuna sandwich from one of the places near the courthouse, or bánh mì from the pho truck. She’d eat at her desk while writing an opinion or revising her jury instructions, almost always working through lunch. That was when she was able to get some reading done. There was always plenty to read.

  Her lobby was crowded with tall stacks of paper. Every day a packet of motions would come in, and her clerk would line them up for the week. Medical malpractice motions. A motion ordering a hospital to release a guy’s medical records. You’d think in the age of the Internet and the cloud that you wouldn’t need so much paper, but the piles kept growing.

  Today, instead of lunch, she took the elevator up to the thirteenth floor of the courthouse building. Up here it was hushed and still. There was a floral arrangement on the marble table at the center of the elevator lobby, a pretty spray of lilies and roses. This floor wasn’t open to the public. The Superior Court’s administrative offices were up here, including the office of the chief justice, a woman she knew only slightly.

  But the chief wasn’t in her office, so Juliana moved on to plan B and stopped by the office of the deputy court administrator, a few doors down the corrido
r. If she couldn’t talk with the chief, she could sound out her administrator.

  “Justice Brody,” Sam Giannopoulos said, looking up from his crowded desk. He was a small, gaunt bald man with heavy tortoiseshell glasses, around sixty. “What brings you up here?” Giannopoulos’s shoulders were stooped. He was an affable introvert, always pleasant to deal with, probably something of a clock-puncher. He was there to serve out his time until retirement.

  “A scheduling thing. I have a question about the calendar.” She sat down in the chair next to his desk.

  He gave a nervous smile. In front of him was a half-eaten sandwich, which he was slowly pushing away.

  “Okay. What’s the question?”

  “I’m considering recusing myself from Wheelz. And I’m wondering if it’s going to be a problem to assign it to another judge.”

  She expected little more than a shrug. Judges recused themselves fairly often. Another judge would be assigned. It happened.

  Instead, Giannopoulos looked wary and tense. His brows furrowed, and his mouth jutted open. “But is—is there a problem? Something I should know about?”

  She was surprised at his response. Giannopoulos took care of the court’s calendar, but he didn’t normally get involved in judges’ decisions on whether to step away from a case.

  “A possible conflict with a member of the defense team.” She didn’t want to say much more than that, and she’d already told him more than she was required to.

  But others would ask, other judges on the circuit. And what could she tell them? That she’d once had a drink with one of the lawyers on the case? How could she possibly justify her decision if she was pressed for details? It was something she’d have to figure out after she recused herself.

  She was surprised by his reply. “Everyone else has crowded schedules,” Giannopoulos said, taking off his glasses and polishing them with his tie. “This wouldn’t be easy for another judge to take over after—how many months?”

  “Two or three.”

  “Three months. Wow. That’s a lot of water under the bridge. I’m not— I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. You should think seriously about this.”

  “Which is exactly what I’ve done.” Something about his response seemed a little off. He was normally so deferential, so accommodating.

  Giannopoulos seemed to study his desktop for a moment. “For a number of reasons, I think it would be better if you made no changes to your schedule.”

  “I understand that,” she said. “But there are also strong reasons to recuse.” She said it as much for herself as for Giannopoulos’s benefit. She didn’t have to give a reason if she decided to withdraw from a case and pass it on to another judge. She could just do it.

  A long silence passed.

  Finally Giannopoulos spoke again, his voice hardening. “I think you’d be well advised to see this through,” he said. He quickly looked away, glancing down at his keyboard.

  Juliana felt ice freeze in her abdomen.

  See it through.

  Those were the words Matías had used.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Giannopoulos wouldn’t meet her eyes. He got up and closed his office door. Then he returned to his desk, his face now chalk-white. He folded his hands, interlacing the fingers. He cleared his throat nervously. “Just—just see it through. It’s better this way.”

  “Sam, what’s wrong—what happened to you?”

  He shook his head slowly. His phone rang, and he lunged for it, seemingly grateful for the interruption. “Will you please excuse me, Judge?”

  10

  In the elevator down to the ninth floor, she could feel her heart thudding in her ears. She was still numb from her encounter with Sam Giannopoulos. Her blood tingled.

  The man had spoken to her in a way he never had before. He was a member of the court administration; he had no right to tell her what to do. He wasn’t her boss. But now he seemed to be warning her: Just see it through. It’s better this way.

  She felt queasy, her stomach tight.

  Sam was frightened himself; that was clear. They’d gotten to him. They’d threatened him somehow.

  Whoever they were.

  Shakily, she returned to her lobby, and keyed open the door. Kaitlyn, her law clerk, had picked up lunch from the Middle Eastern place on Cambridge Street. Juliana was touched: she hadn’t asked for it. Kaitlyn was thoughtful that way.

  She glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes till the afternoon session started. She wasn’t hungry but knew she had to eat. She unwrapped the salad and forked some chicken into her mouth, chewing pensively. She barely tasted the food.

  She gave up trying to concentrate on the document that was on her monitor, her mind flitting from the videotape she’d seen at the Bostonia Club to Sam Giannopoulos’s blanched face.

  Her life was on the verge of being ruined. One wrong move, one mistake, and it was over. She was petrified and couldn’t think clearly.

  Suddenly her cell phone rang. Not many people had that number. Duncan, Jake, a few other people. The caller ID read PRIVATE CALLER. Apprehensively, she picked it up.

  “Listen to the man,” the caller said.

  “Who is—”

  “You are not to recuse yourself. That would be a serious mistake. Do it, and the video goes public, and thousands, maybe millions will watch it. Your life as you know it will be over.”

  She heard the accent and was pretty sure it was Matías.

  “Who is this?” she said, but the line had gone dead.

  A knock on the door. “Judge?”

  She looked up. Kaitlyn.

  “You okay?”

  Juliana didn’t reply.

  “You’re late for oral arguments,” Kaitlyn said. “Do you need me to postpone?”

  11

  When she arrived home that evening, thumbing her temples, trying to massage away the headache, Duncan was in the kitchen, making a spaghetti sauce, which was bubbling away in a big pot. The house smelled great: sautéed onion and garlic and olive oil and tomato. He was washing a frying pan.

  “Hey, hon,” he called. “I’m making Mom’s Bolognese.”

  “Smells great,” she managed. Actually, it did smell wonderful.

  “I’ll do that,” she said, reaching for the skillet. “You cooked.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got it. So how was your day?”

  Juliana looked away, pretended she hadn’t heard the question. She could hardly level with him, couldn’t exactly tell him about the meeting with Sam Giannopoulos, the threatening phone call she’d gotten on her cell. “Where’s Jakie?” she asked.

  “Where else?” He shrugged. “His room. You okay? You look—I don’t know, tired.”

  “Just a headache.”

  “Take any Advil or something?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t have any.”

  He put the pan in the drying rack, then opened a cabinet and pulled out a little bottle of pain pills. He opened it and handed it to her.

  She took it gratefully, smiled thanks.

  See it through.

  She could see Sam Giannopoulos’s chalk-white face, tight with fear. I think it would be better if you made no changes to your schedule. Then that unsettling call from Matías. Your life as you know it will be over.

  “Are you okay enough to talk to him tonight, or do you want to put it off till tomorrow?”

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “No, let’s do it tonight.” She wanted to take control of something in her life, at least. But she was finding it hard to concentrate, to think about anything other than the video and its awful consequences. She felt it like a physical weight, like she was wearing a backpack full of bricks. It slowed her down and hollowed her out.

  In a strange way, she was actually looking forward to tal
king with Jake, even about something as thorny as this. This was her family life, her home life. It was real life. Not that nightmarish other life.

  “So shall we go up?”

  “Sure. But—wait, though. First let’s make sure we’re on the same page, okay?” she said.

  He crossed his arms. “Honey, I’m not sure we are.”

  “Let’s set aside the law for a moment. Illegal or not, if smoking pot is causing him problems, I think we both agree we have to intervene.”

  “Sure. But he said it’s not. He does it to calm himself down. Takes the edge off.”

  She groaned.

  “Careful about the Judge Judy thing,” he said.

  “I know.” She laughed hollowly. It was an old gibe, sort of an inside joke between them, which normally she didn’t really mind. When she got too judgy, when she became like the famous TV judge who could be so outrageous and provocative and comically stern—all he had to do was say Judge Judy. Right away she’d get it, she’d back off some, modulate her tone.

  The truth was, Judge Judy was annoying and completely unrealistic. She hated that schtick, all those courtroom zingers, the way she abused witnesses. “You’re an idiot!” Though occasionally Juliana wished she could mouth off that way.

  She took his hand. “I promise I’ll do my best.”

  “All I ask.”

  They trudged up the stairs, side by side, and stood outside Jake’s bedroom. All the way out here she could hear the percussive notes from his headphones. Duncan thudded his fist on the door. No answer. He thumped again, yelled, “Jake?” and then opened the door.

  Jacob whirled around in his chair, took off his bulky headphones. He looked at his father and then his mother. A wary look appeared in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “We need to talk about the vaping,” Juliana said as they both entered.

  “You told her,” Jake said angrily. “Thanks a lot, Dad.”