Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

She said, “Our son’s flunking math, and we’re flunking parenthood.”

After a long silence, they both started talking at the same time. “You know,” Duncan said as she said, “Can I say something?” and then “Go ahead.”

Finally Duncan collected himself. “I’m not ready for you to come home yet,” he said. “We built something together — it’s not me and it’s not you, it’s something else, and maybe we have a responsibility to it. Now, I’m not the perfect husband, I know that. This isn’t all on you.”

“Thanks,” she said. “But it kinda is.”

He hesitated. “Yeah, it kinda is,” he said, and he smiled. A pause. “So we’ll talk to him?”

“Whatever good that does. He keeps telling me soccer is ‘fine,’ and he doesn’t elaborate, but that’s sort of typical of the way he is these days, with me anyway.”

A few minutes later, her phone rang. It was Martie Connolly. “I just got a heads-up,” she said. “The two police detectives are on their way. When do you think you’ll be back?”

Her stomach knotted. “Give me half an hour,” she said.

Jake showed up a while later, his heavy backpack looped over his right shoulder, his big headphones around his neck.

“How was soccer?” Juliana and Duncan said in unison, unintentionally.

Jake looked from one to the other, realizing something was up. “I didn’t go to soccer,” he admitted.

Gently, Juliana said, “What’d you do, Jake?”

“I worked in the library.”

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t persist, because she was fairly certain he was lying.

They were all getting much too good at that.

“We need to talk,” Juliana said.

She tried Lyft, but the app said there were no drivers available and she didn’t want to be late for the interview with the detectives. So she requested a Wheelz black car, and the app said the driver, whose name was Mohammed, would be arriving in seven minutes. Gradually the time counted down to one minute and then “arriving now,” and a moment later a black BMW 7 Series limousine pulled up to the curb. It glinted in the watery light of dusk. She said good-bye to her husband and son and got into the back of the car.

She greeted Mohammed. The BMW smelled new. She sat back and tried to relax, checking her e-mail on her phone. The sedan pulled into the rush-hour traffic on Beacon Street.

Jake had been understandably defensive. He said his math teacher was “overreacting” and that he promised he’d do better in math. No, he didn’t want a tutor. He apologized for “kinda lying” about going to soccer practice, but he was doing homework in the library and working on a “project” that he didn’t want to talk about.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t been particularly engaged during their talk with him. She’d been far too distracted. She kept mulling over what the state trooper had said. A couple things have come up .

That could be any number of things. He had sounded reasonable and accommodating, but that was the pose of a guy with a winning hand. It made her nervous.

“Judge Brody, it’s time,” the driver said.

She looked up. Surely she had misheard him. For an instant she wondered how the hell he knew she was a judge. As far as he knew, her name was Juliana, no last name. That was the most information Wheelz gave the driver, the passenger’s first name and a number, the average score other drivers had given her.

Then she recognized the man’s face, and an electric charge crackled down her spine. Greaves.

“Pull over,” she said. “Now.”

“I’m afraid we have something to discuss.”

“I have nothing to say to you. Pull over.”

“My employers are running out of patience. You’ve already hit your deadline. Tell me why we should give you any more time.”

“I have nothing to say to you.” She grabbed at the door handle and tried to yank it open, without success. She tried again. It was locked from the inside.

“You think you’re calling the shots, but you’re not.”

“Are you ?” She inhaled sharply. Her heart was racing.

“I’m a messenger. Nothing more.”

“I know who you are. You’re Donald James Greaves, dishonorably discharged from the Marines twelve years ago for assaulting your commanding officer. Employed by Fidelis Integrated Security for eight years. You’ve lived in Jacksonville, North Carolina, and Memphis. You’re certified, level two, in Russian kettlebells, you take Lipitor for high cholesterol, and I know who you took to your high school senior prom.”

Greaves was silent for several seconds.

“So pull the goddamned car over and let me out now.”

“We’re almost finished, Judge. Plus, we’ll be arriving at your destination in a few minutes.”

“We’re finished.”

“I think you need me to explain your situation. As clearly as possible. You have not been cooperative, and my employers are not happy about this. So the requirements have escalated. Listen to me closely, please. The defense will be filing a motion for summary judgment. You will respond in the usual way. You’ll schedule an oral argument, you will take the motion under advisement, and then you will issue a written decision granting that motion, thereby ending the case. This will all happen quickly: once the defense files the motion, you will have no more than a week to grant it.”

“And if I deny the motion?”

“First up would be a scandal that totally incinerates your career.”

“Maybe I can live with that.”

“Oh, but that’s the thing. You can’t . After a very public disgrace like that? No one’s going to question your decision.”

“My decision.”

“You’ll have it easy. It’s your husband and your children — they’re going to have to live with it. You — who knows how it happens. Is it an overdose of pills? A leap out the window of a tall building? Suicide by motor vehicle, like your brother? Do you want to write it, or shall I?”

“What the hell are you talking about? Write what?”

“Your suicide note.” He was silent for a beat. “You have some pondering to do.”

The two detectives gawked at the view as they entered Martie’s condo. They all shook hands. Juliana smiled at them politely while her mind raced through her horrifying exchange with Greaves. Detective Markowski, the state trooper, was wearing a mismatched suit: a blue jacket and lighter blue pants. Detective Krieger, the Boston policeman, was the nattier dresser, in a sharp gray suit with a purple tie, looking like a network anchorman.

Lucy, the Jack Russell terrier, growled at them, sitting alert. As if she sensed their hostility.

Martie showed them to her living room and offered them coffee, which Krieger declined but Markowski accepted gratefully. While Martie went to her kitchen to prepare the coffee, the two cops made awkward small talk with Juliana. They understood they couldn’t ask Juliana anything of substance until her attorney returned with the coffee.

Once Detective Markowski had his coffee, cream with two Splendas, Martie sat at a high-backed chair and folded her arms. She had a large presence, even though she was petite. When she walked into a room, you noticed her.

“It’s good to meet you,” she said. “I’m Martha Connolly. You probably don’t remember that I was chief justice of the Supreme Judicial Court back in the day.”

“Of course we do, Your Honor,” said Markowski.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” added Krieger.

“Now, Judge Brody is not only my client today, but she’s an old, dear friend. She’s one of the finest judges I know, and not just in Massachusetts. She is a woman of impeccable character. But you know what they say, a lawyer who represents herself has a fool for a client, and Judge Brody is no fool.” Both detectives were watching her closely. “In light of her stature as a public figure and the sensitivity of this matter, I’m here to be sure that the integrity of this process is maintained and that her rights are fully protected.”