Tim Green: The Letter Of The Law

"I'll be right here. The trial's two weeks away. Is this going to move that off?"

"No," Bolinger said, pausing at the door. "That'll still happen."

Instead of driving directly back to the city, Bolinger pulled his car off to the shoulder, right next to where Sales's drive entered the main road. He sat there smoking for a while, then got out of his car and took the long, winding dirt road back through the brush to the cabin. Like a peeping Tom, he peered through a window. Sales wasn't doing anything unusual. He sat in front of the TV in a cloud of smoke, rising only to replenish his beer and another time for a fresh pack of cigarettes.

Now Bolinger's gut was uncertain on this one. His experience told him Sales had done it. Who else would have? But if Sales was guilty, he was putting on a pretty good show. If his story checked out and no physical evidence was discovered in the tunnel, Bolinger doubted this case would be solved, and that would bring down some heat. It wasn't that anyone cared about Lipton's taking three slugs. After what he did to Marcia Sales, there wasn't a cop alive who would mind much if he'd bought it. Bolinger had to admit that he'd felt a vague pang of disappointment when he learned that Lipton's life had been spared. But the chief and everyone else would be on the hot seat for the lapse in security, a man shot right underneath their noses. Personally, Bolinger was surprised something like it hadn't happened before. The tunnel was an incident waiting to happen.

Bolinger walked back down the dirt drive to his car. He would follow through with the investigation of Sales the way he would on any other case. He'd go by the numbers, and if there was any evidence linking Sales to the attack, then he'd have to act on it. And if there wasn't? Well, Bolinger certainly wasn't going to harass the man. God knew Donald Sales had been through enough already.

Casey's appointment with Judge Rawlins was for ten. It was nearly twelve. If she were working for a paying client, it would have been nearly a thousand dollars wasted. But because it was for Catalina Enos, Casey was eating it.

Finally, she was admitted through the towering dark doors into Rawlins's chambers. As she entered the room, she averted her eyes, momentarily blinded by a beam of sunlight emanating from the high, arched window. Her nose was filled with the smell of warm, musty books.

The judge, his back lit by the sun, cut a ghoulish figure. The harsh combination of too much sun and too much coloring had left his stringy hair an odd burnt orange, and the greasy shock that lay across his forehead gave his dark eyes a strange cast. His wizened face, mottled with liver spots, sat like a shrunken head amid the splendor of his flowing robes. The nails on his bony fingers were stained from years of smoke and bourbon.

Rawlins was smiling absurdly at Casey's frazzled state. His eyes, like the extensive gold dental work that filled the back of his mouth, sparkled with malicious delight.

"How can I help you, Ms. Jordan?" he drawled. His accent, like his political connections, was old Texas.

"You can commute Catalina Enos's sentence," she said flatly, taking a seat in the shadow of the wall even though none had been offered.

"Please, sit down," Rawlins said sarcastically. "Now why would I want to do that, Ms. Jordan?"

"Because if you do, you won't have to go through the embarrassment of having a mistrial declared at the appellate level," Casey said without bothering to hide her disdain. Rawlins was an age-old enemy and each of them knew where the other stood.

"I don't believe that's a concern of mine," he said complacently. "Oliver Wendell Holmes himself was turned over on appeal several times, and I don't believe it damaged his credibility very much."

Casey snorted at the mention of the great justice's name in the chambers of someone as tawdry as Van Rawlins.

"I believe Chief Justice Holmes was overturned in his younger days only on points of law," Casey said. "I believe it would have done him a great deal of discredit to be overturned for a procedural error."

"And what procedural error would we be talking about?" Rawlins asked, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, goading her.

"I had a legitimate reason for not being at the conclusion of that trial and you know it. The precedent is clear. A defendant cannot be put at a disadvantage if her lawyer missed part of the trial because of an ice storm."

"Oh, I think the substance of the trial was quite over by that time," Rawlins replied. "The closing argument wasn't much more than a wart on a toad's ass. Justice was served in my mind, Ms. Jordan. And if you were so damned concerned with your client, I think you would have made it a priority to be there.

"But then," Rawlins added with a nasty grin, "we all know how important your life is. You're a celebrity after all…"

The barb hit its mark. Inwardly Casey fumed, but still she maintained control.

"What I do is irrelevant here, Van-"

"I am a judge!" Rawlins bellowed, slapping his palm against his desk's leather blotter. With an imperious finger pointed her way, Rawlins boiled. "You will address me as such, young lady."

"Your Honor," she said firmly, "what I do is of no import. We're talking about a woman's life here, an innocent woman's life!"

"Ms. Jordan," Rawlins said quietly, "Catalina Enos was found guilty in a court of law. She is a convicted felon…"

"Judge Rawlins, I know how you feel about me," Casey said. She could feel her emotions mounting behind her hard-set visage and hoped she could go on without embarrassing herself. "But you know, you know that this will be overturned. I'll get another trial. It will take me a year of work. It'll cost me ten thousand dollars in copying and filing fees. I know that's what you want here. You want to punish me. But in the meantime, Catalina Enos will be in jail.

"Now please listen. I've been embarrassed by this whole thing. I've lost the case. It's been in the papers and on the news. You've done what you wanted to do. If you'll commute her sentence, and you have that latitude, then I won't appeal, you won't be overturned, and I will donate the money it would cost me in time to process this appeal-I figure about fifty thousand dollars-to any charity of your choice…"

Rawlins's face was stone. The brass pendulum of an old wall clock tick-tocked, but otherwise the chambers were quiet. Outside a police siren wailed three blocks away. Then a small smirk tugged at the corner of Rawlins's mouth.

"Are you trying to bribe me, Ms. Jordan?" he whispered.

Casey's face fell. It was a game to him. She was beaten.

"Not only will I not commute Ms. Enos's sentence," Rawlins continued, balancing a pair of reading glasses on the end of his nose and frowning at the record he had removed from his desk, "but I see that she has a prior felony…"

"Possession of a forged instrument, for God's sake," Casey moaned, knowing what was next.

"A felony nonetheless," Rawlins said perkily. "And so she will receive the maximum sentence. A shame for a girl so young, but like my momma always said, Ms. Jordan, you can't have a fricassee without killing a few chickens…"

Casey was up on her feet now. She was shaking all over. Rawlins knew from testimony at the trial that Catalina's abusive husband and his family had probably forced her into the bad-check business. As a judge, Rawlins knew that multiple-felony sentencing guidelines were intended for dangerous criminals. Catalina was hardly dangerous. To treat her as such was outrageous. "Goddamn you! Goddamn you to hell!" she cried, finally losing her control.

Rawlins was on his feet, too. "You're in contempt! Goddamn it, I'll have you arrested for contempt! Get back here, young lady! I'll lock you up, too!"