Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

Her brain was whirring at top speed as she spoke. How had they connected her to Sanchez? Was it just the Wheelz case? She knew they wouldn’t be talking to her, a Superior Court judge, without first having done all their homework.

“We just want to know what type of relationship you had with the decedent.”

“Relationship?”

And then for an instant she froze. She realized suddenly she was at a point of no return. She could either tell the truth, or she could lie. Whatever she decided to do, the choice was irrevocable. Lying to a law enforcement officer was, for her, for an officer of the court, nearly unthinkable. She’d never done it.

“As you said, he’s a defense attorney in a case I’m presiding over. He appeared in my courtroom for the first time about a week ago, just once, and never appeared again.”

“Yes, Your Honor, but did you have a relationship with him outside the courtroom?”

“Trooper Markowski, what are all these questions about?”

“Detective Krieger?” the man with the swept-back hair said, turning to his colleague, a small, worried-looking man with advanced male-pattern baldness.

Krieger, the Boston Police homicide investigator, spoke for the first time. “Yes, ma’am, we found a pair of glasses, sunglasses, in the decedent’s hotel room. I ran the latents myself and found your prints on them.”

Detective Krieger paused, giving her a furtive look.

“Sunglasses?” She looked back at him, met his eyes, furrowed her brow. For a moment, she was stymied as how to respond. She mentally tested out several replies before saying, “How bizarre.”

“Are you missing a pair of sunglasses?”

“I am.”

“Were they stolen?”

“Stolen? Not that I know of. I’m sure I just misplaced them.”

And there it was: she’d just lied to law enforcement. But...

“When did you notice they were... misplaced?”

“A couple of days ago.”

“What kind of sunglasses were they?”

“Oliver Peoples, tortoiseshell.”

Krieger nodded. She’d given the right answer. But what the hell else was she supposed to say?

“How much did you pay for them?”

“Around three hundred dollars or so.”

“Wow.”

“Prescription.”

“Did you file a police report?”

“On sunglasses? No, of course not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I figured they’d turn up eventually.”

“And so they did,” said Detective Krieger pleasantly. “Were you in the decedent’s hotel room at any time?”

Had they pulled the surveillance video from the hotel’s cameras? If they had, they’d have seen her on the tape, entering the hotel — maybe entering his room, if there were cameras in the hallways.

She felt a single bead of sweat roll down the back of her neck. Was her perspiration visible? She hoped not.

She shook her head.

“That’s ‘no’?”

“No.”

“Were you in his hotel?”

“No. I don’t even know which hotel he was staying in.”

“Well, do you have any idea how your sunglasses might have ended up in his hotel room?”

“No.”

“No?” he repeated skeptically.

“I wish I knew. Last I knew I had them with me in the courtroom.”

A long, full silence followed. Krieger looked at her for five or six seconds, a puzzled expression on his face. It felt like an eternity. “Where did you last wear them?”

“I’m not sure. Probably on my way to work, a couple of days ago.”

“How do you get to work? Do you take the T? Do you drive?”

“What is the big mystery?” she said. “I probably left them in the courtroom, and someone, this lawyer, must have picked them up to give to me.”

“Really?” said Markowski with a smile.

She had lied to them, and then that lie had generated more lies, little ones, but lies all the same. That big shellacked bench that separated her from the criminal defendants who came before her? That was the biggest lie of all.

She wished, desperately, that she could come clean about the sunglasses. They fell out of my purse because I freaked out upon discovering this guy dead, and the reason I was there...

“Is this really necessary, all these questions? I have a lot of work to get to.”

“I’m sorry for taking up your time,” said Krieger. “But I’m afraid we have a lot more questions for you.”

Duncan had texted her asking if she’d pick up Jake after school, since Duncan had his afternoon class. She was happy to do it and left right after court was adjourned. Jake didn’t seem so happy about it. He gave her a brief surprised look when he saw her pull up and got into the car with a surly expression.

“Where’s Dad?”

She couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. Considered making some sarcastic remark — Sorry, you’re stuck with me — but decided against it. “He’s meeting with students. Have you been getting my texts?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”

“How was soccer practice?”

He shrugged.

“Okay?”

“Fine.”

Okay, so he didn’t want to talk about soccer. “What do you think Mr. Wertheim wants?”

“What do you mean?”

“He wants to meet with your father and me.”

“Asshole.”

“Mr. Wertheim?”

“He’s a terrible teacher.”

“What do you think he wants?”

Another shrug. “How do I know?”

“How are you doing in precalc?”

“I don’t know.”

Of course he knew; he just didn’t want to say, which told her all she needed to know. He’d begun bending the fingers of his left hand backward as far as they’d go, a long-standing nervous habit. During chemo he did it all the time. He bent his fingers so far back they nearly broke. It must have hurt a lot. Maybe the pain was a needed distraction.

“What’s going on, sweetie?”

“Nothing’s going on. What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me. You don’t have to pick me up, you know. I could Uber. I know how busy you are.”

“But I like picking you up.”

He continued bending his fingers back, looked out the side window. They fell into silence for a minute or two. Finally she said, “You talked to Dad.”

“He told me.”

“We’re just taking some time apart.”

“You guys getting a divorce, is that what’s really going on?”

“No, sweetie.”

“This family is nothing but silences.”

“How so?”

“You think I can’t tell? You guys don’t hold hands the way you used to. Or kiss.”

Was it that obvious? Did he really notice that much, barricaded in his room with his giant recording-studio-quality headphones on?

“Is that true?”

He looked away.

“We can talk about anything you want to talk about,” she said.

But he said nothing. He kept bending back his fingers, staring straight ahead. His face was set in an adolescent scowl, but his eyes were a child’s.

She remembered one Saturday afternoon when he was ten, memorizing a poem for a school competition, helped by Duncan. Jake was marching up and down the stairs, declaiming, “O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done.”

And Duncan marching with him, saying, “Big gesture, big gesture — no, bigger !”

“The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won!” Jake called out.

“Yes!” Duncan said. “Outside!”

Jake and his father went out into the backyard, and Juliana followed, just watching, enchanted.

“O Captain! My Captain!” Jake said. He marched on the lawn, his arms swinging wildly. “Our fearful trip is done!”

Duncan marched alongside him, his arms swinging in sync. “Your body has to know it better than your mind does, you see? So you make it rhythmic to yourself by running while you shout it out — Here Captain! Dear father! This arm beneath your head! ”