Judgment

by Joseph Finder

  “I’m as baffled as you are. More so. But thanks for the heads-up, Nina. Morrie doing okay?”

  “He’s great, thanks. He’s, like, ten times as energetic since the bypass.”

  She hit End and looked back at Hersh. “The AG’s office is requesting a search warrant. On me.”

  He nodded. “Did they get it?”

  “Not from this judge.”

  “Well, that’s good, anyway. So Marshak didn’t have any names?”

  “No. But he says focus on the lawyers. Find out which law firms are involved in the Wheelz deal.”

  Hersh nodded. “Ropes and Gray, and Miller and Payson, were the two firms I remember reading about.”

  “Miller and Payson—right, that’s Noah Miller’s firm.”

  “Noah Miller represents Harrogate Capital Partners.”

  She remembered Noah Miller coming up to her at the St. Jude’s fundraiser. The curly hair, the big bald spot, the rimless glasses, the staring eyes. He was the one who’d suggested she flush the Wheelz case from her docket, get rid of it, grant the defense’s motion to have it dismissed. Of course: he represented the investor, Harrogate Capital Partners. There had been something about the relentlessness with which he’d pursued the subject. Something about the fake casualness, the way his eyes hadn’t left hers. Yeah, she was pretty certain that hadn’t been random.

  She told Hersh about her conversation at the fundraiser, then wheeled her chair around to her computer and typed Miller’s name into Google. The first search result was his page on the Miller & Payson website. She found a flattering studio picture of Miller, smiling wisely. She scanned the anodyne bio and read aloud to Hersh: “White-collar criminal litigation and complex business litigation, a range of criminal and civil litigation matters, blah blah blah. Nothing useful here.”

  But she had a feeling about the guy.

  “Marshak said that lawyers have the worst IT security.”

  “Often true.”

  “Can you get into his e-mail?”

  He looked surprised and took a breath. But her phone rang again. Duncan. She said, “Excuse me,” answered, “Hey.”

  “There’s some cops here, searching the house!” He sounded panicked. “They handed me a warrant, and it looks legit.”

  “Boston Police?”

  “State Police. What’s this about, Jules? Is this about that goddamned lawyer—?”

  Just then she heard a loud pounding on her office door. “Hold on,” she said to Duncan. She got up and opened the door. “Shit. They’re here too.”

  Duncan said something, loud and rushed, but she wasn’t listening anymore. Four state troopers stood in the hallway. She recognized the one with the goatee and the swept-back hair, Markowski.

  “Judge Brody?” he said. “We’ve got a warrant to search your office. May we please enter?”

  “May I see the warrant first, please?”

  “Of course.” Detective Markowski handed her the thatch of papers. The search warrant, the application, the affidavit. The affidavit was a page long and sworn by State Police Detective Markowski. She skimmed it quickly. It mentioned the sunglasses found in the deceased’s hotel room, her stay at the same hotel in Chicago as the deceased, all that. Written in a careful, just-the-facts manner. She looked over the search warrant application and saw that it was signed by a famously hard-ass Suffolk Superior Court Judge named Warren Hogan. She’d met Hogan, though she wouldn’t call him a friend.

  Everything in the warrant seemed to be in order. She noticed the box was checked where you had to say whether you’d submitted this affidavit to another judge previously. Markowski, turned down by Judge Nina Ernst, had next approached a judge who was rarely known to say no to law enforcement.

  She put the iPhone back up to her ear and said, “I’m sorry. Let me call you back.” Then she said to Markowski, “Come on in. I have to get into court, but, Philip, can you stay here while they search?”

  Hersh looked at her. There was something new in his gloomy expression, maybe an I told you so. “I can stay for another half hour, but then I have another appointment.”

  “Whatever you can do,” she said.

  Markowski and the other one, Krieger, small and bald and worried, nodded at her as they entered. There was barely room for them in her lobby along with herself and Hersh.

  “Is this really necessary?” she said. “You said I’m a person of interest. Not a suspect.”

  Markowski pointed to her computer. “If you’re in the middle of any documents, you might want to save them now.”

  “You’re taking my computer? For God’s sake, why?”

  But she knew why. The attorney general was looking to tie her to the murder any way he could. She was furious, but she managed to stay silent. They’d find nothing on her computer. They were wasting their time and hers. She steadied her breathing, and looked at her watch. She was three minutes late for court, and she liked to start on time.

  41

  When court was out for lunch, Juliana returned to her lobby, took off her robe and hung it, and sat behind her desk. She could see the big dust-free rectangle in the middle of her desktop where her computer used to be. Her phone indicated a voice mail from Hersh. Without bothering to listen to it, she called him back.

  “They took some files from your file cabinet,” he said. “That and the computer, that’s all.”

  “Thanks for staying.”

  “That was totally unnecessary. Just a brutal show of force.”

  “I told you, the AG hates me, has for years.” She hesitated. “So I have a question for you, but I’m not sure we should be talking about it on the phone.”

  “It depends. Are you talking on your office landline or your mobile phone?”

  “Cell. My iPhone.”

  “I’m reasonably confident your iPhone is secure, and I know on my end I’m clean.”

  “Well, I’d rather be careful. I’ll come by your office when court’s out this afternoon. Will you be there?”

  “Call first, but I should be. Meanwhile, I think I found your ‘janissary.’”

  “Really?” She remembered what Ray Marshak had told her, about how the new owner of a company might plant his own soldiers, his guys, in the company. Janissaries, he’d said. “Excellent.”

  “I searched every executive hire made after the company was sold. And one of them caught my eye—the CFO, a guy named Eugene Brod.”

  “I remember him. He’s the guy in the chats I read who wouldn’t let Rachel Meyers see the paperwork on Mayfair Paragon.”

  “He’s Russian—his name originally was Yevgeny Brod; he worked in the Moscow office of PricewaterhouseCoopers, the accounting firm. A graduate of Moscow State Forest University.”

  “Interesting,” she said.

  “It makes sense for the owner to plant the CFO. He’s the keeper of all data and all knowledge. I may follow him home from work one day, see what I find.”

  “Terrific. Thank you.”

  She ended the call. She was hungry, and she also needed fresh air, so she took the elevator down and lined up at the pho truck in front of the courthouse. The line was long, but it was worth it. A guy got in line behind her, and then a woman. The pho truck had only recently started coming around, and it was a smash hit; it was like she and the other people in line shared a secret.

  She worried about what the attorney general might do. Sure, he was probably out to get her, but what could he actually find? Then the thought hit her: Is it possible I left my fingerprints somewhere in the hotel room?

  “Worth the wait?”

  The guy in line behind her, in a black leather jacket.

  She smiled. “Oh, for sure.”

  “So, long line for a reason.”

  “It goes fast.”

  “Got to be better than the crap they’re peddling inside, t
he café on the second floor.” He had a very slight accent. Middle Eastern? Russian? She wasn’t sure. She smiled politely, looked at her phone, trying to discourage further conversation.

  But the man wasn’t done. He had gray-flecked black hair, a neat part, a long, sharp nose. Black crewneck sweater that looked like cashmere, over a gray shirt. He wasn’t dressed like a lawyer. “I once got a chicken parm sandwich inside, had a hair in it. Last time I ever ate there.”

  “Yuck.” She kept looking at her phone, hoping he’d take a hint.

  “Always gotta be careful, all you judges. Minefield out there. Cross your eyes at the wrong person and the CJC opens an investigation, right?”

  Her bowels clenched. The Commission on Judicial Conduct went after errant judges.

  She looked directly at him, studying his features. Who the hell was this guy? He was in his forties and somehow gave off an air of prosperity and confidence. Brown eyes, heavy eyebrows. Strong-looking.

  “Do I know you?” she said.

  “You’re Judge Brody, right?” In a quieter voice he went on, “Sleep with the wrong lawyer, CJC’s going to come after you all hot and heavy, right? It’s crazy.”

  Blood rushed to her face. Suddenly it was as if the sound had cut out. All she could hear was the beating of her heart. She watched the man’s mouth move.

  “What do you want?” His hands were strong and callused, capable of anything.

  “Once they got their hooks in you, they don’t let go. I mean, it can be career-ending stuff.” He shook his head.

  Nobody in line, nobody around her, had the slightest idea anything was wrong. Even on this busy street corner, she realized, this crowded place, she was all alone. She noticed a man leaning against the courthouse, holding a wrapped sandwich. The man smiled at her and nodded. At her? Or at somebody else? Was he a stranger? An enemy? The line seemed to be blurring. She felt light-headed.

  The guy in the black leather jacket glanced at her casually, then looked at his watch. “My, look at the time,” he said. “Enjoy your lunch, Judge Brody. I hear the bánh mì sandwich is the thing to get.”

  And then he walked away.

  42

  Later that afternoon, Juliana knocked on the Hersh Investigations door, and it came right open. Philip Hersh nodded as she entered the tiny office. He had already cleared off the ladder-back visitor’s chair. She sat down. “Here’s what I didn’t want to ask you over the phone. Do you have a way to hack into Noah Miller’s e-mail?”

  He was silent for a couple of seconds. “Hack in?” He looked troubled. “Not really in my skill set. Also, I could lose my license. It’s illegal.”

  “But surely you have someone who can do it. Someone you work with.”

  He hesitated. “No, I don’t.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I don’t.”

  “But—”

  “Off the record, I can give you a name. But it’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “You can talk to the guy, see if he’ll do it. But you might not want to tell him who you are. A judge.”

  “You mean, I can’t trust him?”

  “It’s not in his interest to tell anybody about you. But I’d give him as little as you have to.”

  “Who’s your guy?”

  Hersh smiled wanly. “Ukrainian, I think. He’s just a computer PI who does pen testing and vulnerability assessments. I think he used to be a hacker, but he went legit. Mostly legit. He needs the money—I don’t think he has a lot of clients—which is why he’s willing to overlook his morals, and the law, for some cash. And if he won’t do it, I got other names.”

  “Why are there so many Ukrainian hackers?”

  “Because hacking is legal in Ukraine. There are whole buildings full of people who generate spam and send it out to make money.”

  “But you say he’s good.”

  “He knows what he’s doing. Again, just to be clear, this doesn’t go through me. You hire him, you deal with him, my hands are clean.”

  “Understood.”

  “I’m happy to look over whatever he finds.” Hersh scrawled a name—“Sasha”—and a phone number on a Post-it pad. He pulled the top note off the pad and handed it to her. “Long as I don’t know where it came from. Why do you want to hack into Noah Miller’s e-mail?”

  “I want my life back.”

  He nodded. “What do you hope to get?”

  “Who knows. Information is power.”

  She heard herself. Information is power. Who had she become, what kind of person? There she was, planning to hire someone to break the law for her. Which meant, of course, that she was breaking the law.

  She was doing something that she’d sent people away for doing.

  “In the meantime, I talked to a buddy of mine on the job who got a look at the medical examiner’s report on Sanchez’s death. The ME’s ruling it a homicide, based on the autopsy.”

  “Not surprised.”

  “The lack of contusions around the neck or petechial hemorrhages—it’s pretty clear evidence the guy was already dead when he was hanged. He was strangled. And then hanged.”

  She took in that sobering detail, nodded.

  “So that’s who you’re dealing with here, Judge. A guy’s been murdered. You have to make sure you’re not next.”

  She closed her eyes, exhaled. “Then I need protection.”

  “Correct. But not a gun.”

  “No. But I need . . . something.”

  He nodded, pulled open a desk drawer and took out something small and dark, about five inches long and an inch wide. He held it in his right hand, and with his thumb he pressed a metal button. A long blade shot out, gleaming and sharp. “You want protection, here’s protection.” He pulled out something on the knife’s handle, and the blade retracted.

  “Jesus. What is this, a switchblade?”

  “No. A tanto-point Microtech.” He handed it to her. “Be careful with this. You could really hurt yourself.”

  He showed her how to use the knife, giving her painstaking instructions.

  She said, “Thank you. As you’re always saying, prepare for the worst.”

  “Yeah, you take every precaution to prevent disaster but know you may fail.”

  She smiled. “The elevator shaft.”

  “Yeah, the elevator shaft.”

  “Mr. Sunshine, as usual. I’m assuming your wife is used to it.” She’d noticed his wedding ring, a fat gold band.

  His smile faded. “My wife’s gone. She died.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “She must have been young. What—happened?”

  “What happened is what happened.”

  She waited for a long moment. Then she said, “Okay.” She didn’t want to pry into his unhappiness. “Thank you,” she said, wagging the knife. “May I never have to use it.”

  43

  After she left Hersh’s office, she called the phone number he’d given her and got voice mail. It was a company called Boston Digital Forensics. The voice on the message was male and didn’t sound very professional. He had a strong foreign accent, presumably Ukrainian.

  Next she called Martie Connolly and told her she’d be coming “home,” to Martie’s apartment, on the late side. Tonight was parents’ night at Jake’s school. She and Duncan would arrive separately.

  Her phone trilled. She recognized the number as the one she’d called from the Post-it. “Hello?”

  “Yeah, I’m looking for—Rosalind?”

  “This is Rosalind. Is this Sasha?” She wasn’t going to use her real name with the guy if she didn’t have to.

  “Yes.”

  “I got your name from Philip Hersh. I need some computer assistance.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where’s your office? I’m not co
mfortable talking about this on the phone.”

  Sasha gave her an address on Newbury Street in the Back Bay.

  She didn’t have a lot of time—she had to be at Jake’s school at seven—but if she hustled, she’d be able to do this. She found a resident parking space on Comm. Ave., where she’d get a ticket if the parking police nabbed her, but she didn’t have time to look for a legal one.

  The office was in a building whose street-level floor was occupied by a coffee shop. She took a small elevator to the fifth floor and walked down a narrow corridor lined with small offices, past a massage therapist’s studio, an accountant, and a financial adviser. The office of Boston Digital Forensics was at the end of the hallway. She knocked on the door and pulled it open.

  A small man in his thirties—black hair, beard, hunched shoulders, thick glasses—was sitting at a receptionist’s desk right by the entrance, a cup of coffee in his hand. He stood up, shook her hand limply.

  “I’m Sasha.”

  “Rosalind.” She felt odd using her mother’s name.

  He pointed to a couple of couches perpendicular to each other against the walls of the reception area. He waited for her to sit, and then he sat on the other couch and opened a small laptop computer. She could smell the man’s sweat and whatever Indian food he’d just eaten. His fingers were poised over the keys.

  “So—”

  “Can I get name?”

  Hersh had told her to give as little as possible. She’d already told him her first name was Rosalind. She used her mother’s maiden name. Rosalind Winter. Sasha typed.

  “What is it you want?”

  “I need access to someone’s e-mail.”

  He nodded as if she’d asked him for an insurance quote.

  “Name?”

  “Noah Miller. He’s at a boutique firm called Miller and Payson.” She spelled Miller’s name.

  More typing. “Law firm.”

  “Right.”

  “Should not be a problem.” His fingers flew over the keyboard. He worked in silence for a minute, then peered closely at the screen. “Actually, is a problem.”