Lisa Scottoline - Running From The Law

“So you’re the one. I read about you,” he said, his tone convivial. His face was open and earnest, with large blue eyes and a smile that said, The policeman is your friend.

“How is the judge?”

“He’s fine. Fine. He’s back in his cell.”

“You have him in a cell?”

“Where else would we put him?”

My inexperience, showing like a bra strap. “Is he in handcuffs?”

“No, we usually use the cell or the handcuffs, but not both. Belt and suspenders, don’t you think?”

I thought I heard Hankie sniggering, but it could have been my imagination. “Judge Hamilton is a federal district judge. He doesn’t need to be in a cell.”

“He’s also under arrest for first-degree murder, Ms. Morrone. We can’t give him special treatment here.”

Not with the press watching, anyway. “Is he in a cell with other… detainees?”

“Nope. He’s by himself. Don’t have a lot of violent crime here, you know. Lower Merion Township acts as a buffer between us and the city.”

Thanks a lot, I lived in Lower Merion Township. “How many murders do you have here in, say, a year?”

“Not a one, usually. Only a couple murders in the last five years, if you don’t count that reporter I killed this morning.” He laughed and Hankie did, too.

“Justifiable homicide,” I said, and they both laughed again. “By the way, how did the press find out about the arrest?”

“They have scanners on all the departments. They know as soon as we do, there’s nothing we can do about it. We’re putting out a press release now. It says Judge Hamilton’s been charged with homicide in the stabbing death of Wayne resident Patricia Sullivan.”

“Have you recovered the murder weapon?” I felt silly saying it, like in Clue. Was it Professor Plum with the pipe in the conservatory?

“No, and we looked. That’s all she wrote, I should say, Hankie wrote. She’s good at English. She does all the press releases.” Dunstan seemed inclined to brag about Hankie for a spell, but I was in no mood to shoot the shit.

“Can I see Judge Hamilton?”

“Sure. Follow me.” He led me down another white hallway, then opened a teal door onto a small white room. At the far end of the room was a counter with a small brown refrigerator on it that said EVIDENCE ONLY, and a vacant desk with a new blue Selectric. Next to the desk was a skinny wooden bench with steel handcuffs locked to its legs. The handcuffs seemed jarringly out of place in this corporate setting, until I realized they weren’t. This was a jail, Fiske was imprisoned, and it wasn’t funny anymore.

“What evidence do the police have to support the murder charge against Judge Hamilton, Lieutenant?”

His smile faded. “Didn’t you get a copy of the criminal complaint, the affidavit of probable cause?”

“No.”

“I’ll get you another, the judge has his. But I can tell you we have a witness.”

“Who saw what?”

“She saw his black Jaguar in the driveway at the carriage house at about the time the murder occurred.”

“Judge Hamilton’s is not the only black Jaguar in Wayne, Lieutenant.”

“It’s the only one with a license plate that says GARDEN-2. She saw that, too.”

Oh, no. The vanity plate, of Kate’s choosing; her plate said GARDEN-1. “The witness is sure it said GARDEN-2?”

He nodded. “She also saw him get into the car and drive away, fast.”

“Did she identify Judge Hamilton?” I said, my heart sinking faster than I could professionally justify.

“Yes, from a photo array, and we asked the judge about it when we brought him in for questioning.”

“You questioned the judge without a lawyer?”

“He waived his rights, I was present when he did it. He said he didn’t need a lawyer, he had nothing to hide. We weren’t satisfied with his alibi or his answers to some of our questions, so we charged him. We feel confident we have the right man, Ms. Morrone.” He sounded genuinely regretful, and was almost becoming the first authority figure I ever liked.

“Who was this witness?”

“I can’t get into the details with you. I’ll bring you the affidavit just as soon as Hankie gets it copied up. Preliminary hearings take place within ten days.”

“When is the arraignment?”

“The district justice will be here within the hour.”

“Here? At the station?”

“We can hold arraignments here, especially with the press outside. I don’t want to fight them off, do you?”

“But where’s the courtroom?”

“There is none. We hold it right here.” Then he opened a door off the room and there were three jail cells side by side. Two of the cells were empty, but sitting on a skinny bed in the middle cell was the Honorable Fiske Harlan Hamilton.

Fiske looked up when he saw me, and I caught a tense expression, quickly masked. “Rita, how good of you to come.”

“Of course I’d come,” I said, taken aback at the incongruity of the scene. I’d seen Fiske most often in his library, now he was in a prison cell. I’d seen him in a judge’s black robes, now he wore a prisoner’s white paper jumpsuit. It seemed unreal.

“Judge Hamilton, you okay in there?” asked Lieutenant Dunstan.

“Fine, sir,” Fiske said. “Will Rita be able to come in with me?”

Lieutenant Dunstan hesitated. “We don’t normally allow that. It’s more a security matter. You understand, the procedures and all.”

“Understood, sir,” Fiske said. “Thank you very much.”

“I’ll come fetch you when the district justice gets here,” Dunstan said, and closed the door with a harsh clang.

We were alone. At a moment like this in the Morrone family, a display of Academy Award histrionics would have taken place, if not some respectable summer-stock hugging and weeping. But the Hamiltons were not the Morrones, there would be no Verdi in the background today. I stepped closer to the bars, but Fiske stood motionless behind an insignia for VAN DORN IRON WORKS. We regarded each other for a minute.

“Do you know The Mikado?” Fiske asked.

“Was Ann-Margret in it?”

“‘Here’s a pretty mess,’” he sang.

Singing? I searched his face. Close up, he looked grim, in need of cheering up. “I’m gonna bust you outta here, Mr. Big.”

“Yeah?” he said, playing along as well as good breeding allowed. “How?”

I held up my briefcase. “See dis? All you have to do is eat it. I baked a file inside.”

“What a plan.” He dropped the accent, so I did, too.

“You get what you pay for.”

“Does this mean I have a criminal lawyer?”

“No, you’re stuck with me.”

He brightened. “Are you staying on? Truly? I want to pay you, you know. I insist on it.”

“Forget it. I’m yours despite the fact that you called Mack on me.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No perhaps about it, Fiske.”

He paused. “Did he tell you to represent me? Is that why you changed your mind?”

“I’m here on one condition. We have to have an agreement, you and I. You have to tell me the truth from now on. With everything, every detail, no matter how small. The very next lie, I’m outta here and you get a lawyer who knows what she’s doing.” It sounded less threatening than I’d hoped.

“I agree.”

“Pinky swear?” I held up my pinky. “Hold up your finger. I make all my felons do it.”

“I swear to God, Rita.”

“That’ll have to do. Now what do I do at the arraignment? Act like I know what I’m doing?”

“Yes.”

“My specialty. Did you get this affidavit they’re talking about? What’s it say?”

He repeated what Dunstan had told me, about the witness ID, the black Jaguar, and the license plate. Then he mentioned the fingerprints.