Judgment

by Joseph Finder

  “You aren’t really going to debate the Wheelz case with me, are you?”

  “It’s the criminalization of, what did we used to call it? Nookie?”

  “Kent, come on. We’re not going there.”

  He crossed his legs and tented his hands atop his knee. “The reason I wanted to see you, Juliana, was to give you some advice. Consider it advice from a friend.”

  She nodded, awaiting whatever came next.

  “I think we both know what we’re talking about,” he said.

  “I’m not sure I do, Kent.”

  They looked each other in the eyes. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

  “In the course of investigating a possible homicide,” he said, “the Boston Police found evidence indicating that you may have had a relationship with the deceased. An attorney who argued a case before you.”

  “Are we talking about a pair of sunglasses, for God’s sake?”

  He shrugged. His eyes were dead. “My investigator now has the deceased’s mobile phone records. Wouldn’t it be interesting if they found a call between you and Mr., uh, Sanchez.”

  Her stomach did a twist. Did she ever call the guy on his cell phone? She didn’t think so.

  Then she remembered—a call she’d received from him. You are not to recuse yourself. That would be a serious mistake.

  Yes, he’d called her, to threaten her. That call established a link between them.

  “And what on earth does this have to do with investigating a homicide?” she said. She thought about how she could explain the call from Matías. She could say the guy called her, and she told him this was an ex parte communication, and she got off the phone right away. That was all.

  Maybe.

  “Juliana, let’s put our cards on the table. If we can establish that you had an intimate relationship with Matías Sanchez, an attorney who appeared before you, and you did not disclose this or recuse yourself . . . well.” He shrugged broadly. “I’m going to recommend that the matter be brought before the CJC.”

  The Commission on Judicial Conduct. Which investigated judges. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  “And I’m going to recommend your removal from the bench. I’m sorry, but I don’t see a choice.”

  She felt the blood rush to her face. She felt both trapped and angry. “I think what you’re talking about,” she said, “is that a pair of sunglasses with my fingerprints on them was found in the deceased lawyer’s hotel room. Fine. How my sunglasses ended up in his room, I have no idea. It’s peculiar. Did he find them? Did he take them? Who knows. But how that indicates that I had a relationship with him—is that the best you have? Seriously? That’s pathetic. Kent, don’t embarrass yourself.”

  There was no longer any need to pretend they liked each other.

  “Trooper Markowski is one of our best. If there’s something to be found, he’ll find it. He always does.”

  “Hold on, is he investigating a crime of some sort?”

  “As you well know, you’re a person of interest.”

  “Kent, we know each other. I know you. If your Trooper Markowski had found something in the deceased’s phone records, you’d have told me already.”

  “Trooper Markowski has requested the phone logs. He’ll get them tomorrow.”

  “Then you should have waited before asking me out for a drink.”

  “I’m offering you an opportunity. To resign from the bench with dignity, on your own terms.”

  “On my own terms,” she said, shaking her head.

  “You can avoid all the ugliness, all the publicity, by choosing to resign from the bench.” He spoke quietly, somberly. “Oh, and the disbarment that will inevitably follow. I think a resignation, for personal reasons, would be better for all concerned.”

  They locked eyes.

  He said, “Am I making myself clear?”

  “You are,” she said.

  “And I mean resign now, tomorrow morning, and not at the end of the year.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m sure we can work out something that doesn’t damage your reputation.” He was not negotiating. He believed he had her trapped, that he was in control of the situation.

  But he was bluffing. He was also going on instinct. He’d guessed that something had happened between her and Matías Sanchez.

  But he doesn’t know for sure.

  Tomorrow, the phone records would come in, and Trooper Markowski would let his boss know a call had indeed been made between Judge Juliana Brody and the deceased.

  And the attorney general would file notice with the CJC. Would circumstantial evidence be enough to get her thrown off the bench?

  Maybe.

  “Kent,” she said, “the funniest thing. Your kind ‘advice to a friend’ is reawakening my own fond memories of working for you. I’m remembering all sorts of things.”

  He cocked his head.

  “I think we both know what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “The Ray Marshak case.”

  “I remember it well too, Juliana.”

  “And since you brought up the topic, we found your phone number in Marshak’s phone records. Quite a few times. When you know you shouldn’t have been in contact with him. But I didn’t see any reason to tell you. Nor anyone else, of course—at the time. Anyway.”

  He blinked, then pursed his lips. She could see the realization dawn in his eyes, beady though they were. The fear that contorted his face. “Are you threatening me?” he said.

  “I don’t know. Do you feel threatened?”

  In a very low voice he called her a very bad word.

  She gave him a large, gladiatorial smile, as if she was enjoying this. “So I am making myself clear, then?”

  The waitress arrived with their drinks. Juliana lifted hers from the tray and raised it in mock salute. “I’m going to take mine to go, Kent. So glad we had this little chat.”

  59

  On the way home from the club, she kept her eye out for the dark blue Ford Mustang, but she didn’t see it this time. No one seemed to be following her.

  Hersh had left her a text message asking her to call him if and when she saw the Mustang again, “or any other car that looks like it’s following.”

  By the time she got home, he’d sent her another text message: I want to sweep your office in the morning—OK?

  “Sweep,” she assumed, meant look for bugs, surveillance devices. The idea of someone planting a listening device in her lobby creeped her out, made her nervous again. She texted back: Sure.

  The building’s maintenance staff had keys to her lobby. It wasn’t exactly high-security, ordinarily. There was no reason for it to be.

  But then there had been the fake janitor. Maybe she could use some security.

  * * *

  —

  In the morning, Hersh was waiting for her in front of the courthouse. He was holding a bulky aluminum briefcase.

  “You been here awhile?”

  “Half an hour, maybe. Thought you’d be in earlier.”

  “Sorry. Late night.”

  “I know. This briefcase is going to bum out the security guards. I’m going to need you to pull strings.”

  They got in line.

  “What’s in it?” she asked.

  “TSCM equipment.”

  She didn’t know what “TSCM equipment” was, but she didn’t want to ask. Something to do with sweeping her lobby, that was all she needed to know.

  When they entered the building, she took one of the guards aside. He was a pudgy African-American guy named Lamar. “Morning, Judge,” he said.

  “Morning, Lamar. This gentleman here is doing some security work in the courthouse.”

  “He’s still going to have to put that case thr
ough the scanner.”

  Hersh got through security without a problem. She led him to her lobby. He watched as she keyed the lock. When they were inside, he said, “I could pick that lock inside of a minute and a half.”

  “I know. It’s not exactly high-security around here.”

  “This is going to take me several hours. Is that too long a disruption?”

  “Not if you do it while I’m in court.”

  “Okay. Listen, don’t use my name after we enter your chambers—”

  “‘Lobby.’”

  “Lobby, right. I don’t want them to know I’m there.”

  “Let who know?”

  “Whoever the hell is following you. Where were you when you made the plan to meet the attorney general last night?”

  “In my office. On my landline.”

  He nodded. “Then I know where to start.”

  After they’d entered her lobby, he inspected the bookshelves while she checked her e-mail.

  “You a big Trollope fan?”

  “Trollope? I like him well enough, why?”

  He reached over to the shelf in the bookcase where she kept the many crimson volumes of Massachusetts Practice. He plucked a leather-bound copy of Barchester Towers. Then, looking directly at her and not at the book, he opened it, revealing the hidden compartment. It was a hollow book, a book-safe, in which she kept a small stack of cash and a pair of pricey pearl earrings Duncan had given her on her fortieth birthday. Sometimes she went out in the evenings right after work and needed to style up.

  “You should give Barchester Towers a try.”

  “Very good,” she said, grinning. He was good. Then again, the leather binding was uncreased, and the novel was out of place among all the legal volumes, right next to the Massachusetts Guide to Evidence. So it was more than a lucky guess. He closed the book and put it back on the shelf.

  “I should have been a burglar,” he said. “Woulda been good at it.”

  * * *

  —

  After the morning’s court session, Juliana returned to her lobby to find Hersh sitting at her desk holding up a sign on a clipboard. DON’T TALK TO ME.

  She nodded.

  He pulled the top sheet from the clipboard, revealing another sign: I’M GOING TO SHOW YOU SOME STUFF. WE CAN TALK OUT IN THE HALLWAY.

  Then he stood up and walked to the other side of her desk, where he knelt. She came around to look. He pointed at something small and off-white plugged into the back of her computer where her keyboard plugged in.

  He nodded at her.

  She felt her stomach jolt. She didn’t know what it was, but she could guess. Some eavesdropping thing.

  She nodded back: I see it.

  Then he reached onto the desk for her landline phone console, turned it around, and lifted its case, exposing the guts of the phone. He pointed his pen at a small black plastic device, about two inches long and a half an inch wide, that was wired in place. He nodded; she nodded back. He took out a screwdriver and screwed the case back on to the phone.

  He began packing up equipment—a long black wand with a little screen at the end, something else that resembled what she imagined a Geiger counter to look like—and went into the hallway. She took off her robe, hung it up, and then followed him out into the hallway and then to the bank of elevators.

  “Step outside the courthouse for a bit of fresh air?” Hersh said.

  “I’ll take you to lunch.”

  “Deal.”

  They didn’t talk again until they were outside the courthouse. She said, “The Killarney?” That was the Irish restaurant at Two Center Plaza, right nearby.

  “Sure.”

  The Killarney was dimly lit; what little light there was was absorbed by all the dark wood. They were seated at a booth. Hersh ordered a Guinness, and she ordered a Diet Coke.

  “Okay,” Hersh said when the waitress had left. “The thing I showed you on your keyboard is called a key logger,” he said. “It captures every keystroke you type.”

  She nodded. “How long do you think it’s been there?”

  “I have no idea. That device on your phone line broadcasts a signal using your Wi-Fi.”

  “And that thing inside my desk phone?”

  “A transmitter. They also did some internal rewiring for room audio monitoring. Meaning they could hear whatever you said in the office, or on your landline, and read whatever you typed.”

  “Do you know who put them there? Can you tell from the devices where they’re from?”

  “Well, it’s not the FBI. I can rule them out.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Every surveillance device used by law enforcement is required to have a serial number marked on it, either engraved or on a sticker.”

  “No markings on the devices you saw?”

  “Right. So I think we’re talking spies.”

  “But which spies? Russian? Is that . . . paranoid of me to ask?”

  “I’m not comfortable hazarding a guess. The absence of any identifying marks tells me it’s very likely some government espionage agency.”

  “Why did you leave them there?”

  “Because I think you have more options if you’re one up on them. We may find the opportunity to use it.”

  “Use what?”

  “You can say things on the phone, or type out phony e-mails, that mislead the bad guys.”

  “You’re serious about this?”

  “Dead serious.”

  “Isn’t that what’s called disinformation?”

  “Right. If you want me to remove them, I’ll gladly remove them. The bugs, I mean.”

  She shook her head. The waitress came with their drinks, her Diet Coke in a tumbler and his Guinness in a pint glass.

  “I’m starting to feel really scared,” she said.

  “Starting?” he said. “I guess somebody really cares what you say in chambers.”

  “I have till noon on Tuesday to grant the motion for summary judgment,” she said. “Which, if I say yes, would mean that the lawsuit’s over and the bad guys win.”

  “The bad guys.”

  “Wheelz.”

  Hersh arched his eyebrows in surprise.

  “I’m allowed to have opinions,” she said. “I just don’t express them.”

  “I’m honored to hear your opinions.”

  “And you don’t think it makes a difference how I decide.”

  He looked somber, didn’t reply.

  There was a long pause. “Philip, your wife. It’s none of my business, of course, but—what happened?”

  He was quiet for a few long seconds, and she immediately regretted asking him.

  “It’s not a happy story.”

  She said nothing. Waited for him to speak.

  He was silent a little longer. Then he said, “I was working a case involving the Albanian mob.”

  She nodded.

  “I started getting threats. Turns out I was actually a step ahead of the FBI’s own investigation. I was getting messages, you know—You’ll be sorry, you’re making a mistake—and naturally I took all precautions. My wife, you know, I told her that just until this thing cools off some, I want you to go to your sister’s in Hyannis.”

  “And?”

  “And she did.”

  He fell silent. She could hear her own heartbeat, felt it in her throat, her ears. “They grabbed her on her way out of town.”

  She looked at him. He was just narrating his story, telling it matter-of-factly, as if he was talking about cyber security or something. “So, they found her body on a construction site outside of town.”

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered. She reached across the table and took his hand. Tears came to her eyes.

  “Yeah, they’d poured gasoline over her and s
et her on fire.” He was looking off to the side, into the middle distance, remembering. “I thought I’d never get that smell out of my nose. So much burnt flesh.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Juliana felt a well of sadness.

  “The pathologist said she’d—” There was a catch in his voice. And tears in his eyes as well. He put his hand up like a policeman stopping traffic.

  She wanted to comfort the man; she gripped his forearm, but he sat back, rigid, his right hand still up in the air, palm out. A single tear rolled down his face.

  A minute of silence passed. She felt helpless. Time had stood still. A car horn sounded outside.

  “We say ‘safe as houses.’ But, you know, you can latch every window and bolt every door, and then the whole damned thing catches fire and burns up with you inside. Or an earthquake strikes and the ground beneath opens like the portal to hell. Or a flash flood sweeps the thing from its foundations and drowns everyone. So, yeah, like I said. You take every precaution to prevent disaster. But disaster is a cunning beast.”

  “Dear God,” she said. She was silent for a long moment. “So what are you saying? There’s no point to doing anything?”

  “Oh, no,” he said. He looked at her almost tenderly. “You do something. You do everything. You do everything you can. But don’t assume that everything is going to be enough.”

  60

  That night she told Duncan she was going to Washington for the day on Monday, and why.

  He listened closely. “You’re going to cancel court?”

  “For one day. I’m not happy about it.”

  “Guy can’t see you over the weekend?”

  “Monday’s the soonest.”

  He nodded, but he seemed increasingly troubled.

  “What is it?” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I worry about this. It bothers me, and I know it bothers you too.”