Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

“This is the woman I was telling you about,” the governor said to the senator. “Not just a brilliant legal mind but no shortage of common sense. Book smart and street smart.”

Juliana took the senator’s hand and introduced herself. She was so distracted, thinking about Matías and what she could possibly do now, that she had to ask him to repeat himself even though she could hear him just fine. She had a hard time concentrating on the conversation.

“In Commonwealth v. Scofield ,” the senator was saying. “Am I right?”

Both Martha and the governor laughed, so Juliana did too, a beat late.

There was a pause, as the governor waited for her to reply. Scrambling for something to say, she said, “Sure.”

Another pause, and then the governor, who was apparently a bit disappointed in her performance, gestured at the wineglass in her hand. “I think you’ve either had one too many of those, or one too few.” Everybody laughed uncomfortably, and Juliana joined them. Duncan was looking at her strangely. Normally, Juliana knew her lines; she could charm on cruise control. But tonight she was drying, as stage actors say. The lines weren’t coming.

She excused herself a few minutes later, having waited as long as she could bear, and whispered to Duncan that she was going to find the girls’ room. She left the ballroom, ran down the carpeted steps as fast as she could in her heels to the lobby, and hurried past the concierge and out onto Dartmouth Street.

The sky was dark, but the streetlights cast the sidewalk and the slick pavement in a sickly greenish tone. She walked down the street, turned left onto Stuart Street, and then a moment later she was startled by a voice right behind her.

“Good evening, Judge.”

It was Philip Hersh, but it took her a moment to recognize him. He was wearing a Boston Red Sox warm-up jacket over a Red Sox T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. No glasses. He was no longer a talk show host from the seventies; now he was, convincingly, a townie.

She breathed out.

“Found him,” Hersh said.

They sat at a table in Dunkin’ Donuts away from the window.

“Where is he?”

“In an extended-stay corporate hotel,” Hersh said.

“Where?”

“Allston.”

“How’d you find him?”

“Combed databases for social links, credit card use, that sort of thing. I did what I did and it worked, let’s put it that way.”

“I’m impressed.”

“He doesn’t seem to leave his hotel room. It’s strange.”

“But you know he’s there?”

He nodded.

“He’s a lawyer in Chicago, and he really is from Argentina. Went to St. George’s school in Buenos Aires, undergrad at Tufts, law degree from Northwestern. And he has a twin sister in Miami who’s hooked on opiates. OxyContin, that sort of thing. About a month ago, she was arrested, charged with forging drug scripts for OxyContin. Which is a felony offense. Would have meant prison time.”

“ Would have...?”

“Right. Here’s what’s interesting. Two days ago, all charges against the sister were dropped. Without prejudice.”

“Without prejudice,” she repeated.

“Yes.” That meant the charges could be reinstated at any time. “So what does this tell you?”

“That she’s on the hook. Maybe he’s being coerced. By some powerful forces.”

Juliana looked at Hersh for a long moment. His mournful eyes, lines deeply carved around them. Finally she said, “What’s his address?”

He gave it to her. “But I don’t want you going there — in fact, I strongly advise you not to see him alone.”

“Why?”

“The man may be dangerous.”

“It sounds to me more like he’s desperate.”

“Desperate people can be dangerous. That’s exactly my point.”

Juliana took her phone out of her purse and stood up. “I hope you’re wrong.”

On the way — she hailed a cab in front of the Dunkin’ Donuts — she texted Duncan: very sorry, got caught up in a thing. will see you at home.

Duncan didn’t immediately text back, which was good, because it probably meant he was in conversation with someone. He wasn’t a particularly shy man. As a law professor, he had plenty to talk about with lawyers and judges, but tonight’s crowd was heavy on financial types. He would no doubt be pissed off that she’d left him there that way, but she’d deal with that later too.

The cab wound through the downtown streets and through the Back Bay, then a few blocks past Boston University to the Home Stay Inn, an all-suite hotel mainly for businesspeople. It was a four-story brick building, handsome in a sort of bland corporate way, located in a desolate neighborhood near gas stations and auto dealerships. She entered the lobby and took the elevator to the third floor and found room 322. She heard her heart beating loud and fast, felt it hammering in her ears.

There was noise inside the room, she immediately realized. Music. No, not just music, but television — music, an announcer, applause — a show of some sort, muffled but loud behind the door.

She reached up her fist to knock on the door but found a doorbell. She pressed it a few times.

Nothing happened. Just the muffled sounds of the TV.

She was oddly unafraid. She was angry, that was the main thing. What this man had done; how he’d used her, manipulated her.

She could hear his words. I don’t know you, but I feel as if I do .

And I saw a sense of a light inside you .

She asked herself why she was even there.

But she already knew the answer. Knew that she needed to confront this bastard, force the truth out of him. Shame him into telling her what was going on, what he was up to, why he did what he’d done.

She rang the doorbell again, a few times.

A minute went by. The TV went quiet. She heard movement inside the room. Then nothing. She rang again. Finally she pounded. “Open the door.”

Nothing.

She pounded harder. “Open the goddamn door!”

She raised her fist to pound again, and the door came open.

For a moment she thought she’d rung the wrong doorbell. An unshaven man in a soiled white T-shirt stood in the shadows. It took her a few seconds to recognize Matías.

He stared at her blankly for a moment; then recognition set in. “Why are you here?” he said.

“You goddamned son of a bitch,” she said. The blood jumped in her veins.

“This is a mistake. You shouldn’t be here.”

“You twisted bastard. I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work.”

Matías sighed. “Do what they tell you to do and all will be fine.”

She was surprised at the way he looked, so much sloppier and more unkempt than the polished, well-dressed man that night in Chicago. Worn down, it seemed.

She took a deep breath. What was the point in venting at the man? Instead, she could try to get him to talk. Before she became a judge, she was a highly regarded litigator. Before that, an acclaimed prosecutor. She knew how to work a witness. She used to do it for a living.

“We need to talk,” she said. “We can either do it out here or in there; it’s up to you.”

After a beat, he stepped back and held open the door. She entered the generic-looking living room of a one-bedroom suite. Nearly every surface — couch, chair, coffee table — was covered with take-out cartons or soda cans or beer bottles. A large TV was on but muted. There was an odor hanging in the air, a sour fermented smell with a sharp note of perspiration.

This is not normal , she thought. The man was not a slob; he had to be operating under stress. Her phone made a text-alert sound, but she ignored it. She looked at him and could see the tension in his face. Why hadn’t she seen it before? This was a vulnerability, and she’d go right at it.