Steve Martini - The Judge

“That’s fine, if Tony has an alibi,” I say. “Does he?”

“I haven’t asked him,” she says.

“Maybe you should,” I tell her.

“You’re not thinking of putting him on the stand?”

“Why not?”

“You’re not going to get anything.”

“I see. His warm heart doesn’t prevent him from lying.”

By her look I can tell that this does not sit well, the thought that to get at the substance of the note, I may have to lay a foundation, an evidentiary highway that passes directly over Lenore’s body.

“Let’s hope it’s not necessary,” she says.

For the moment I cannot tell if there is something of a threat in this. I choose not to treat it as such.

We turn to more pleasant subjects. She tells me how she is filling her days. She has picked up two new clients in the last week, referrals from friends.

Then out of the blue she tells me she’s going to return whatever fee she’s been paid in Acosta’s case, the small draw she took up front.

“Don’t worry about it. You earned it.”

“I am not going to worry about it. I am going to pay it back. As soon as I sort things out, I’ll cut a check.”

This seems a matter of pride, so I don’t argue the point.

“Whatever makes you happy.”

There are footsteps in the hall behind me. I turn and look. It’s cable man.

“Can I use your bathroom?” he says.

“Sure. It’s halfway down the hall. On your left.”

“Thanks.”

He’s wearing a web belt and a bag for tools on his hip. I don’t get up and he finds his way, closing the door behind him.

“What’s he doing?” says Lenore.

“Probably number one or number two. I’ll ask him when he comes out.”

She gives me an exasperated look.

I laugh. “You asked.”

“I mean with your set?” she says.

“Beats me. Something to boost the signal.”

In three seconds I hear the toilet flush.

“Number one,” I tell her.

“Forget that I asked.”

And then something that is unmistakable to anyone who has ever lifted it off-the clink of heavy porcelain.

I give Lenore a quizzical look.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know.”

The guy comes out of the bathroom, and doesn’t look this way. Instead he heads into the living room.

I get up from the chair.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Just a second.” I head down the hall, into the bathroom, step inside, and look around. Everything is as it should be.

I head out of the bathroom, down the hall toward the living room, talking before I get there.

“I didn’t know your cable came through my toilet.”

When I turn the corner into the room I realize I’m talking to myself. The guy is gone. The roll of new coaxial is on top of my set, unopened, the cable disconnected from the back of the set. He’s gone, perhaps to get more tools or parts.

I walk to the door and realize that it’s closed, locked. Maybe he forgot and locked himself out. I open the door, then the screen. No sign of him. I walk out to the front of the house. He’s gone. There’s no vehicle.

By now Lenore is curious. She joins me on the front lawn.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

I head back into the house, down the hall to the bathroom. She’s right on my heels. Inside I lift the lid off the toilet, and I see it. Sheathed in a sealed clear plastic bag the size of a small brick is a package, the substance inside unmistakable to anyone who has ever seen a bust on video or handled the stuff in court. I am looking at maybe two hundred thousand dollars, half a kilo of cocaine.

The look on Lenore’s face tells me she needs no explanation.

“I’ll get Sarah out the back door,” she says.

As she runs for the stairs I hear the shriek of tires as cars come to a stop on the street in front of my house. I lay the lid of the toilet on the floor and run for the front door. I bolt it, then realize this is a futile exercise.

Four months ago I bought one of those brass devices that slips in a metal hole at the base of the door, designed so that the door will swing open a few inches to absorb the force of a blow without breaking. In a panic I cast about looking for this. Then I see it, behind a curtain by the windows. I drop this into its hole, and sprint for the bathroom.

I can now hear footsteps racing along the walkway at the other side of the house, and voices: “Move. Move. Move.”

Then the squeak of my front screen door being opened. An instant later I hear the first shot of the metal battering ram as it hits the front door. The small piece of leaded glass, the tiny window that Sarah and I made in a craft class together last year, comes flying in shattered pieces down the hall past the opening to the bathroom.

I can hear voices cursing at the front door. The brass security bolt has earned its keep. Another shot with the ram and I hear the sound of splintering wood.

I close and lock the bathroom door.

“Daddy.” I can hear Sarah on the stairs outside with Lenore. For a moment I consider opening it and letting them in. But they are better off out there, away from what I am now holding in my hand, the bag of deadly white powder, twenty years of hard time if I am caught.

I consider the toilet for a brief instant, then realize I don’t have time. It would take several flushes, and even if I could, there would be sufficient residue in the bag to nail me.

I look at the small window on the wall next to me. I slide its translucent pane up. This looks out on the fence, which I can nearly reach with my hand. The eaves of the neighbor’s roof another three feet beyond that.

I grab the towel from the rack and wipe the surface of the plastic back gingerly. If they find the bag, at least my prints will not be on it. Then, holding the bag in the towel, I put my arm out the window, low on the wall, as if I am about to pitch a long shot in a game of horseshoes.

It is not a heroic posture in which to be caught. By the time the shot comes from the battering ram I am seated on the commode with my pants down around my ankles, the towel back on the rack, and the window closed.

I am showered with splinters of wood as the door to the bathroom does not come off cleanly. Two cops, both bulls, one of them wearing a baseball cap backward, the other with his face hooded, both try to put their shoulders through the opening of the door after the thin center panel gives way. One of them reaches a hand through and turns the lock from the inside. This actually traps the other one in the hole of the door as it swings open, so that by the time they reach me, they are both charged with a full load of adrenaline, and flushed with anger.

They grab me by both arms and slam me against the wall by the window. That this does not break the glass amazes me. There is a sharp burning pain at my forehead as it hits the molding around the window. I feel a trickle of blood from my scalp, and the cold metal of a pistol barrel press hard against the back of my neck.

My feet are pulled out so that if the wall were not there I would fall on my face, hand pulled behind me, the side of my face pressed against the wallboard.

“Does he have a gun?” One of the voices behind me.

Where I would keep this with my pants around my ankles, and a shirt they have nearly torn from my upper body, is a mystery.

“Nothing. He’s clean.”

I feel cuffs being slapped on my wrists behind me, locked so tight that they close off the circulation to both hands. One of them pulls my pants up so that I hold them from behind, open in the front.

By now I can hear Sarah, who is hysterical, screaming somewhere off near the kitchen. She is calling my name.

“It’s okay, Sarah.”