Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

“They took some files from your file cabinet,” he said. “That and the computer, that’s all.”

“Thanks for staying.”

“That was totally unnecessary. Just a brutal show of force.”

“I told you, the AG hates me, has for years.” She hesitated. “So I have a question for you, but I’m not sure we should be talking about it on the phone.”

“It depends. Are you talking on your office landline or your mobile phone?”

“Cell. My iPhone.”

“I’m reasonably confident your iPhone is secure, and I know on my end I’m clean.”

“Well, I’d rather be careful. I’ll come by your office when court’s out this afternoon. Will you be there?”

“Call first, but I should be. Meanwhile, I think I found your ‘janissary.’”

“Really?” She remembered what Ray Marshak had told her, about how the new owner of a company might plant his own soldiers, his guys, in the company. Janissaries, he’d said. “Excellent.”

“I searched every executive hire made after the company was sold. And one of them caught my eye — the CFO, a guy named Eugene Brod.”

“I remember him. He’s the guy in the chats I read who wouldn’t let Rachel Meyers see the paperwork on Mayfair Paragon.”

“He’s Russian — his name originally was Yevgeny Brod; he worked in the Moscow office of PricewaterhouseCoopers, the accounting firm. A graduate of Moscow State Forest University.”

“Interesting,” she said.

“It makes sense for the owner to plant the CFO. He’s the keeper of all data and all knowledge. I may follow him home from work one day, see what I find.”

“Terrific. Thank you.”

She ended the call. She was hungry, and she also needed fresh air, so she took the elevator down and lined up at the pho truck in front of the courthouse. The line was long, but it was worth it. A guy got in line behind her, and then a woman. The pho truck had only recently started coming around, and it was a smash hit; it was like she and the other people in line shared a secret.

She worried about what the attorney general might do. Sure, he was probably out to get her, but what could he actually find? Then the thought hit her: Is it possible I left my fingerprints somewhere in the hotel room?

“Worth the wait?”

The guy in line behind her, in a black leather jacket.

She smiled. “Oh, for sure.”

“So, long line for a reason.”

“It goes fast.”

“Got to be better than the crap they’re peddling inside, the café on the second floor.” He had a very slight accent. Middle Eastern? Russian? She wasn’t sure. She smiled politely, looked at her phone, trying to discourage further conversation.

But the man wasn’t done. He had gray-flecked black hair, a neat part, a long, sharp nose. Black crewneck sweater that looked like cashmere, over a gray shirt. He wasn’t dressed like a lawyer. “I once got a chicken parm sandwich inside, had a hair in it. Last time I ever ate there.”

“Yuck.” She kept looking at her phone, hoping he’d take a hint.

“Always gotta be careful, all you judges. Minefield out there. Cross your eyes at the wrong person and the CJC opens an investigation, right?”

Her bowels clenched. The Commission on Judicial Conduct went after errant judges.

She looked directly at him, studying his features. Who the hell was this guy? He was in his forties and somehow gave off an air of prosperity and confidence. Brown eyes, heavy eyebrows. Strong-looking.

“Do I know you?” she said.

“You’re Judge Brody, right?” In a quieter voice he went on, “Sleep with the wrong lawyer, CJC’s going to come after you all hot and heavy, right? It’s crazy.”

Blood rushed to her face. Suddenly it was as if the sound had cut out. All she could hear was the beating of her heart. She watched the man’s mouth move.

“What do you want?” His hands were strong and callused, capable of anything.

“Once they got their hooks in you, they don’t let go. I mean, it can be career-ending stuff.” He shook his head.

Nobody in line, nobody around her, had the slightest idea anything was wrong. Even on this busy street corner, she realized, this crowded place, she was all alone. She noticed a man leaning against the courthouse, holding a wrapped sandwich. The man smiled at her and nodded. At her? Or at somebody else? Was he a stranger? An enemy? The line seemed to be blurring. She felt light-headed.

The guy in the black leather jacket glanced at her casually, then looked at his watch. “My, look at the time,” he said. “Enjoy your lunch, Judge Brody. I hear the bánh mì sandwich is the thing to get.”

And then he walked away.

Later that afternoon, Juliana knocked on the Hersh Investigations door, and it came right open. Philip Hersh nodded as she entered the tiny office. He had already cleared off the ladder-back visitor’s chair. She sat down. “Here’s what I didn’t want to ask you over the phone. Do you have a way to hack into Noah Miller’s e-mail?”

He was silent for a couple of seconds. “Hack in?” He looked troubled. “Not really in my skill set. Also, I could lose my license. It’s illegal.”

“But surely you have someone who can do it. Someone you work with.”

He hesitated. “No, I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“ I don’t.”

“But—”

“Off the record, I can give you a name. But it’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Okay...”

“You can talk to the guy, see if he’ll do it. But you might not want to tell him who you are. A judge.”

“You mean, I can’t trust him?”

“It’s not in his interest to tell anybody about you. But I’d give him as little as you have to.”

“Who’s your guy?”

Hersh smiled wanly. “Ukrainian, I think. He’s just a computer PI who does pen testing and vulnerability assessments. I think he used to be a hacker, but he went legit. Mostly legit. He needs the money — I don’t think he has a lot of clients — which is why he’s willing to overlook his morals, and the law, for some cash. And if he won’t do it, I got other names.”

“Why are there so many Ukrainian hackers?”

“Because hacking is legal in Ukraine. There are whole buildings full of people who generate spam and send it out to make money.”

“But you say he’s good.”

“He knows what he’s doing. Again, just to be clear, this doesn’t go through me. You hire him, you deal with him, my hands are clean.”

“Understood.”

“I’m happy to look over whatever he finds.” Hersh scrawled a name — “Sasha” — and a phone number on a Post-it pad. He pulled the top note off the pad and handed it to her. “Long as I don’t know where it came from. Why do you want to hack into Noah Miller’s e-mail?”

“I want my life back.”

He nodded. “What do you hope to get?”

“Who knows. Information is power.”

She heard herself. Information is power . Who had she become, what kind of person? There she was, planning to hire someone to break the law for her. Which meant, of course, that she was breaking the law.

She was doing something that she’d sent people away for doing.

“In the meantime, I talked to a buddy of mine on the job who got a look at the medical examiner’s report on Sanchez’s death. The ME’s ruling it a homicide, based on the autopsy.”

“Not surprised.”

“The lack of contusions around the neck or petechial hemorrhages — it’s pretty clear evidence the guy was already dead when he was hanged. He was strangled. And then hanged.”

She took in that sobering detail, nodded.

“So that’s who you’re dealing with here, Judge. A guy’s been murdered. You have to make sure you’re not next.”