Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

Madden gave her an even look. “We’re simply complying with the plaintiff’s discovery request.”

Juliana thought: Oh, please . She said, “I recall you were extremely concerned about confidentiality when it came to any past legal settlements of sexual harassment cases.”

“Yes, Your Honor, but these aren’t business records. Also, the plaintiff clearly wasn’t so concerned about keeping her correspondence confidential, because she used a laptop that is the property of the Wheelz Corporation. She should have been under no illusions that what she put on this laptop would remain private to her.”

“So what are you planning to do with these documents?”

“We have no plans to do anything with them.”

“Judge, this is a brazen threat that the defense is holding over my client’s head to compel her to settle and not go to trial. Frankly, they’re trying to embarrass her. We want all of these personal text messages and photographs to be designated as confidential.”

“All right,” Juliana said. She saw no reason to postpone a decision. She didn’t need to take a week to think about it. This was easy. “I am granting the plaintiff’s motion for a protective order. I hereby order the defense not to use or disclose any of these documents and materials produced by the defendant, which are Bates labeled 5539 to 5884, to any parties outside this litigation. I can’t imagine this is a problem for you, is it, Mr. Madden?”

“No, Your Honor,” he replied meekly.

“And one more thing. If any of these private text messages see the light of day, I’m going to hold you and your client accountable for the violation of her privacy. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” he said.

Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at it. “Let’s take a recess,” she said.

When she emerged from the courtroom, she saw another WhatsApp text on her phone. She opened it. From Sasha again: Call me.

She tapped on the phone icon on the top right of her screen, then tapped Voice call. They were on an encrypted line now.

He picked right up. “Where is your office? I come over now,” he said.

“No.” She didn’t want to be seen with him, a hacker, someone sketchy and marginal, at the Suffolk County Courthouse. “I’ll come to you.”

“Call and text only on the WhatsApp,” he said. “Or Signal. Only.”

“Okay, but why?”

“Because we are dealing with some kinda bad guys. Some scary players.”

Her throat felt tight. She swallowed. “Scary how?”

“You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

“What do you mean, you think someone’s... bugging my phone?”

“At this level anything is possible.”

Hersh had told her that her iPhone was probably secure. Maybe Sasha knew more.

“This level...?”

“Um, do you have my payment?”

“I do.”

“Cash, yes?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not that I distrust you... Judge.”

Judge. So much for the Rosalind ruse. “You know who I am,” she said. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Rosalind Brody, formerly Winter, born in Billerica, Mass. The Social Security Administration says she died some years ago. And that she has one living descendant, a judge.”

“Well done,” she said, and she said good-bye and hung up.

Then her phone made a curious little electronic bleat, and a text came up in a different window. The text contained only a link, which she clicked on. She had to trust him; she had no choice.

The link took her to a Gmail home page that looked like her own. There was an inbox that showed a long stack of e-mails, one column showing the name of the sender, next to a subject line. All very familiar. But she didn’t recognize the names of the senders.

She was looking at Noah Miller’s inbox.

Your Ukrainian friend did it,” she said.

There was a long silence on the line. Then Philip Hersh said, “That was fast.”

“Are you still okay to help me go through the—”

“I’m going to send you a link and a password,” Hersh interrupted.

“Do you have an app called Signal or WhatsApp installed on your phone?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah,” said Hersh. “ You do?”

“Your Ukrainian friend recommended it.”

“He tends to be on the paranoid side. Occupational hazard. But in this instance, I actually think it may be wise.”

She remembered the phrase the hacker had used — “scary players” — and wondered whether that was nothing more than the manifestation of a paranoid mind-set. Or whether there was something to it. It filled her with dread.

And something else: she was in possession of someone’s stolen private e-mail correspondence. She had been party to an illegal act.

It was funny, she reflected: she waited for a Walk sign even when no cars were coming; she’d never cheat on her taxes; and back when she was in private practice, she never rounded up her billable hours. Yet she’d broken her marriage vows, and she’d just broken into someone’s e-mail, and she wasn’t so sure she was in the wrong.

She remembered once reading about a thought experiment: A man’s wife is dying. There’s one drug that can save her life, but it’s prohibitively expensive. The pharmacist won’t lower the price, and the man doesn’t have the money. What should the man do? Should he steal the drug?

To Juliana, the real question was, who wouldn’t ?

Sitting every day at that vast judicial bench, a big hunk of oak separating her and the defendants and plaintiffs who came to her courtroom, it was easy to imagine she belonged to a different tribe. But it was a reassuring lie. Because she knew that they were separated only by circumstance, by situation, by a cascade of decisions. The person wielding the gavel, the person in the dock — how hard, really, was it for them to trade places? Martha Connolly liked to quote somebody, Juliana didn’t know who: life is a garden of forking paths.

“I could use your help going through it,” she said to Hersh. “You’ll know what to look for.”

“Understood.”

When they hung up, she launched Signal and was about to send him the link, when there was a knock on her door.

“Come in,” she called out.

Kaitlyn was holding a thick manila folder. She handed it to Juliana. Inside was a bundle of papers. The top page was titled “Motion for Summary Judgment.”

If she granted the motion, that meant the case was over. She’d be saying there was no case, no cause of action, no material facts at issue. No trial.

Just as Donald Greaves had promised. She had one week, he’d said, to allow it. One week to do the right thing.

She had a message on her phone from Hersh.

“We need to talk,” he said. “Come by my office as soon as you can.”

She looked at her watch. If she left now...

She found Hersh in his office, hunched over his computer, a yellow pad next to the keyboard. He looked up, held up the yellow pad as she walked in.

“Noah Miller is in even deeper than I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“He has clients in the People’s Liberation Army in China. Chinese generals. Two Saudi princes, the minister of foreign affairs in Zimbabwe, the president of the Philippines... Jesus, it’s an all-star cast of global dictators.”

“I always thought the rumors were just rumors. What about Russians?”

He nodded. “I searched his e-mails for Wheelz and came up with a very interesting exchange.”

“Okay.”

“Let me print you out a set.” He turned back to his computer, tapped at a few keys, and then his laser printer hummed to life. As they fed out of the printer, he reached over and began handing them to her.