Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“It’s the one I least want to.”

“Because it will upset your own ideology?”

“No, Charles, I have no fear of that. When he first wrote it, it was fashionable in Paris to cry while reading it, and I don’t want to stain my desk.”

A few minutes past ten, and Charles stopped on the walk in front of the shop. A much nicer day than Tuesday with downy breezes and feathery clouds.

He opened the door and smiled at Alice behind the counter. Her return smile was not all it could have been and her eyes were a bit wider than even they usually were. They darted from Charles to another point in the room, and Charles’s eyes followed.

They were met by another pair of eyes, slitted beneath a brooding brow; the storms were inside the building.

“Mr. White,” Charles said. “It’s so good to see you.”

“I came to ask again. I want to know where you are in this.”

“Let’s go upstairs, why don’t we?”

Charles had to hurry to stay in front. In the office, he put Patrick White in Dorothy’s chair and himself in his own.

“Now,” he said, “Mr. White, I’m still trying to understand exactly what this is.”

“I told you Monday.”

“Yes, I know what you said. You believe John Borchard was behind the scandal that cost you your position. Then you said that he killed Derek Bastien.”

“That’s what he did.”

“But those are very serious accusations. I can’t just take your word for them.”

The reaction was calm enough, but still hostile. “It doesn’t matter to me what you think.”

“Surely, as a judge, you understand.”

“Former judge. And it doesn’t matter. I’m not here to find out what you think. I’m here to find out how you got yourself involved. And why.”

“I’m not sure why I should tell you anything,” Charles said. “I don’t know what you might do. I’m not even saying there would be anything of interest to you.”

With that, Mr. White left the room, though not physically. His face was blank, pointed generally in Charles’s direction. Charles waited. It wasn’t too long.

“So he’s gotten to you, too.”

“Mr. Borchard, you mean? I’ve only spoken with him a few times,” Charles said. “I mentioned that I’d met you. We didn’t discuss anything further.”

“That was enough. Now he’ll try.”

“Try what?”

“He knows I’m after him. First he’ll tell you not to talk to me. Then he’ll ask you what I know. Don’t tell him anything.”

“But that’s my point, Mr. White. What do you really know? Of the things you’ve said, what do you have real evidence of?”

“I have this.”

He leaned forward to take his wallet from his back pocket. He extracted a sheet of paper, folded small.

Charles took the paper and unfolded it.

Mr. White. Stop your efforts concerning the Sentencing Reform Act. University of Virginia Honor Court 1974.

“That was the first note,” Mr. White said.

“What is the Sentencing Reform Act?”

“That’s the proof it was Borchard. That was his project to strip every heartbeat of mercy out of the courts and replace them with his own hammer of stone.”

“But how do you know the note is from Mr. Borchard?”

“Who else would it be? It was his bill from the start. He lives to punish. He always has. His veins flow with vengeance.”

“What were you doing that he didn’t like?”

“I was going to stop it. Karen Liu knew it was wrong, but they made a deal. I showed her how terrible it was. She was changing her mind-she was so close-and then this came.”

“What happened?”

“I was ruined. And Karen Liu gave up. Borchard got to her! He was too strong. She had no choice. She let it through her committee and it went on and on, and now it’s law.”

“But what does the law do?”

Patrick White only shook his head. “It’s too late now. All I have left is bringing Borchard to justice.”

Charles handed the paper back. “You’re sure this was from John Borchard?”

“He was the one who forced it through Congress. He was like a fiend-pushing, threatening, bribing.” Then suddenly, he froze, off again to his other world.

“Mr. White?”

“How did you get involved in this?” The question was a sudden spotlight out of the dark.

“I would really rather not be.” The spotlight stayed directly on him. “Derek Bastien was a friend. That’s where it started. I don’t like where it’s gone.”

“Karen Liu told me you were asking about Derek Bastien. That’s how I knew you were suspicious of his death.” The ferocious intensity of his stare was nearly blinding.

“I wasn’t.”

“Then you can’t see.”

“What would I even be able to do, Mr. White? What do you want?”

“I want revenge on John Borchard.”

“I will not help you with that. I cannot, and I would not.”

“He’s killed once. He could do it again.”

“Who would he kill?”

“Anyone who knows too much.”

“I passed Patrick White in the showroom,” Dorothy said. Charles looked up from his reverie.

“A moment sooner and you would have found him in your chair.”

“What did he say this time?”

“Mostly the same. He accused John Borchard of being vengeful-rather ironic. Although he had a certain florid articulacy.”

“I hope he doesn’t make a habit of coming here,” Dorothy said.

“They aren’t pleasant visits.” He returned to his meditation. “But I have to understand him. And what happened to him. And how it happened.”

Dorothy began opening mail.

“It had to be Derek,” Charles said.

“Derek who told the Washington Post about Patrick White?”

“It had to be.”

Dorothy opened another few envelopes.

“And Patrick White says he went to Derek and told him about it.”

“But Derek would already have known?” she asked.

“What a game he was playing.”

Dorothy waited.

“And rather ruthless concerning John Borchard,” Charles said.

“How did that work?”

Charles returned his full attention. “I don’t know what Derek expected at first, but somehow Mr. White got the idea that John Borchard was the blackmailer. From then on, Derek apparently encouraged him in that. I wonder what John even knew.”

“That does sound rather ruthless.”

“But no more than the original attack on Patrick White. And now I wonder about Karen Liu.”

“Do you think she was part of it, too?”

“She seems likely to be an additional victim,” Charles said. “And Mr. White finally described more of what his original conflict with John Bor-chard was. It was some bill he was pushing through Congress, and which Mr. White didn’t like. It was called the Sentencing Reform Act.”

“What was it reforming?” Dorothy asked.

“Sentences. Perhaps they were simplifying English grammar. I wouldn’t mind legalizing run-ons and comma splices, they’re quite useful sometimes.”

“That would not be a reform. That would be a travesty.”

“That’s what Mr. White considered it to be. He said it would remove every drop of mercy from the heart of the courts. And in a similar vein, he said John Borchard’s blood flowed with vengeance.”

“Mr. Borchard seems to be rather ruthless himself,” Dorothy said. “We know he had some kind of problem back in Kansas.”

“He seems to have intimidated Karen Liu enough to get the bill through her committee,” Charles said. “So I wonder what form that intimidation took.”

“It must have been the copy of her checks.”

“That does seem likely, doesn’t it? And she has a very negative opinion of John Borchard. But it was Derek who had the paper, and we don’t know if John Borchard even knew that he did.” Charles glanced at his telephone. “I think I need to talk to her.”