Joel Goldman - Final judgment

Galaxy had purchased the Dream from the estate of Ed Fiori, the grantor of the gangland favor Mason had used to force Judge Carter to free Blues. Mason had always suspected that Fiori had secretly recorded his request for Fiori’s help. Whether it was audio or video Mason didn’t know, but he knew it didn’t matter.

After Fiori’s death, Mason had worried that the casino’s new owners would stumble across the tape, hoarding it until they needed a return favor, explaining to Mason the laws of inheritance that governed secret sins. When no bent-nose pit boss with a Jersey accent knocked at his door over the next couple of years, Mason’s fears had begun to recede.

Sometimes, he indulged in the fantasy that he’d gotten away with it, just as many criminals got away with their crimes. Other times, he reminded himself that he had had no choice, would do it again if he had to, and would deal with the consequences when the time came, increasingly hopeful that it never would.

But it had and the fact that the messenger was Vanessa Carter bound the moment in the irony that so often shrouded trouble and justice. The ripple in his pulse spent itself as he forced his hands to loosen their grips on the arms of his chair. He was a lawyer and lawyers made their living untying shrunken knots. Get at it, he told himself, nodding at Judge Carter, unable to think of her without the honorific.

“Tell me about it,” he said.

“I was hired as an arbitrator in a sexual harassment case. The plaintiff is a woman named Carol Hill. She worked as a blackjack dealer at the Galaxy Casino and claimed that one of the supervisors harassed her. The hearing was last week. I took the case under advisement and told them I would have a ruling in thirty days. Yesterday a man called me. He didn’t give me his name and I think he used something electronic to disguise his voice. He said that if I didn’t rule in Galaxy’s favor, I was finished.”

“How could he make that happen?”

She glared at Mason like he was a simpleton. He returned her stare, forcing her to lay it out. She drew a breath and squared her shoulders.

“He said he had a tape recording of me agreeing to do a favor for Ed Fiori when I was still on the bench. I told him he was a liar. He played the tape for me over the phone.”

Mason caught the first cracks in her judicial demeanor as her voice quivered and her eyes blinked. She swallowed hard, a momentary spasm tightening the muscles in her neck. He gave her a minute to regroup.

“He wasn’t lying,” Mason said.

“No, he wasn’t lying,” she said, her voice solid again, her eyes steady and clear. “On the tape, Fiori tells me to release Wilson Bluestone on bail or my son’s gambling debts would be collected the hard way. I asked Fiori why he cared what happened to Bluestone and he said that he didn’t but Lou Mason did.”

Mason sat completely still, absorbing Judge Carter’s explanation. The shoe was dangling, but it hadn’t dropped. The law was built on fine distinctions. Shades of intent, percentages of fault and knowledge, real or imputed, can save a life or cost a fortune. Enough of the truth can carry the day even if it isn’t the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

The blackmail tape was of a conversation between Judge Carter and Ed Fiori, not between Mason and Fiori. Mason’s name was used, but, without the tape of Mason’s conversation with Fiori, it was a secondhand indictment. He made himself breathe.

“Blackmailing you doesn’t make any sense. If Galaxy is that worried about the case, they would just settle it.”

“They tried. The plaintiff and her lawyer want blood, not money.”

“Why come to me? Why not just go to the police?”

“Because, Counselor,” she began, drawing out the words like Mason had attention deficit disorder, “we both know that the tape is legitimate. If I go to the police, I compromise myself. I’ve done that once and I won’t do it again.”

Mason ignored her reminder of his complicity. If he didn’t say it out loud, maybe he could keep ducking it.

“We both know that any legal action I could take would have the same result. What do you expect me to do?”

“I expect you to take care of it and I don’t care how you do it. You put me in this box.”

“You could have said no when Fiori called you.”

“You don’t have kids, do you?” she asked. Mason shook his head. “How about someone you love?”

Mason nodded.

“Do you love her enough to die for her?” she asked. Mason nodded again. “Then don’t ask such fool questions.”

“I’m only a lawyer. I can’t get an injunction against the blackmailer, even assuming I can find him. You should hire somebody else.”

Judge Carter rose, gathering her coat from Mason’s sofa, not taking her eyes off him.

“If I have to hire someone else that will be one more person who will know what happened. I don’t think you’d like that. Besides, I’m not hiring you. I’m telling you. Ask your friend Mr. Bluestone to help. He’s as much a part of this as you are. Between the two of you, I’m certain you’ll think of something.”

Judge Carter was blackmailing him and there was nothing he could do about it. What had been her problem when she walked in the door had swiftly morphed from a shared burden to his problem. He came around from his side of the desk.

“I’ll need your file on the arbitration.”

Judge Carter opened her purse and handed Mason a flash drive. “The attorneys scanned everything onto this drive. It’s all there-exhibits, testimony, everything.” She didn’t shake his hand, thank him, or wish him luck.

He stood in the center of his office, watching as she walked briskly down the hall without a backward glance, past Blues’s empty office and down the back stair that led to the parking lot at the rear of the building. He palmed the flash drive, knowing at last what it was like to hold his life in his hands.

Mason spent the day reading the arbitration file. Carol Hill signed an agreement when she was hired to submit any claims against Galaxy Gaming to binding arbitration. That was okay with her. She needed the job and couldn’t imagine having to file a claim anyway.

The process was private, quick, and cheap when compared to the courts. Employers liked it because there was no jury that might have either the good sense or bad judgment to sock them with a bell-ringing verdict.

Her case was a garden-variety story of sexual harassment. Charles Rockley, her supervisor, had hit on her until it hurt. When he wouldn’t stop and her complaints to management were ignored, she sued.

Rockley started with compliments about her appearance, for which she thanked him just to be polite, even though his remarks made her nervous. He was her boss and she didn’t want to offend him. It wasn’t long before he escalated to suggestions that she wear tighter, low-cut tops to show off her shape to the customers. She demurred, reminding him that the casino provided modest uniforms for dealers, buttoned to the chin, saving the cleavage outfits for the cocktail waitresses. Rockley had laughed, explaining that he was just imagining how she would look for him.

Next he began asking her out. Just drinks after her shift, he told her. Then it was how about a late dinner, maybe a weekend getaway if she was interested. Each time she declined, explaining that she wasn’t interested and, besides, her husband wouldn’t like it.

Rockley kept at her, finally summoning her to his office one night after she finished dealing, telling her it was time for her to meet the meat. She was afraid she’d lose her job and gave in to him. Afterwards, consumed by guilt, she told him never again. He gave her a bad performance review and put her on probation.