Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

“What is it?” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“I worry about this. It bothers me, and I know it bothers you too.”

She nodded. “You mean, talking to the FBI, talking to people in Washington?”

“About a case you’re presiding over.”

“I know,” she agreed. “But I have no choice. I think this is the only way we’re all ever going to be safe. I have to keep digging.” Her head throbbed when she thought about the upcoming hours she’d have to spend poring over the discovery exhibits again. But she’d learned that the tiniest of crevices could sometimes provide a needed handhold.

Hersh’s voice played in her head like a tape loop. You’re okay until you make that decision, thumbs up or thumbs down. Because once you do — they don’t need you anymore .

“You’re right.”

“It doesn’t make any difference how I rule, what judgment I put out.”

He nodded, listened.

“Kent Yarnell wants to bring me up before the CJC,” she said.

“On what grounds?”

She shrugged. “He eventually backed off. But whether he does or not, I’ve made my decision. It’s clear I have no choice but to resign from the bench. When this is over, I’m stepping down.”

“Jules, no,” Duncan said. “That’s—”

“I have no business judging others. You know that—”

“Damn it, that’s crazy. You’re not going to throw away the life you’ve built for yourself, Jules.”

“It’s a career , Duncan. That’s all. I can find another line of work.”

“Bullshit. It’s never just been a career for you. It’s a goddamned calling . What you live, eat, and breathe. And you have a great future.”

“Had.” Her voice was flat. “That future is in flames. I don’t know why you can’t see that.”

Duncan just shook his head. “Stay focused on the now. Get through this, leave the long-term choices for the future. You hear me, Jules? It’s the only way.”

When her flight landed at Reagan National Airport in Washington, she made a point of observing her fellow passengers as they got off, and the people waiting for the next flight, and people walking near her. It was near crazy-making. It made her anxious. Plenty of people looked suspicious, if you were inclined to look at people that way. She also realized that looking people in the eyes often made them nervous. You generally avoid people’s eyes out in public.

Situational awareness, Hersh had instructed her. “Look for patterns. And anomalies. If they’re following you, they’ll probably use a team, to do handoffs and keep you unaware of the followers.”

In the cab on the way to Lafayette Square, to a steakhouse near the Treasury Department and the White House, she looked back a few times, but that seemed pointless. She wasn’t a spy or a detective; this wasn’t her expertise, checking for a tail. So was someone following her? She had no idea.

She entered the restaurant and immediately spotted her old friend Aaron Dunn. Dunn was around her age, early forties, but it seemed that the pressure of his job had aged him. He looked very late-middle-aged. He was bald, with a gray fringe around his ears, the kind of balding pattern that inspires many men to shave their heads. He had heavy-lidded eyes that made him look bored or supercilious, though he was seldom either.

“Judge Brody!” he said. “Hey, at the risk of sounding superficial, you look great.”

She smiled, gave him a hug. “Thank you so much for doing this.”

“No problem. He’s at the table.” He pointed. She looked over, saw a rotund guy with white hair, busy tapping something out on a phone. “His name is George Hastings. He’s the Director of the Office of Foreign Assets Control in the Treasury Department.”

“Okay, wow.”

“So he’s a guy with juice,” Dunn said quietly, leading her toward the table. “He never goes out for lunch, so this is a big deal for him.”

“I appreciate it.” She looked around. The restaurant was in a hotel located in the Old Post Office building. The decor in the restaurant was interesting: the old steel trusses and struts had been exposed and painted white.

She introduced herself to Hastings, who stood up, a large, bulky man in his sixties with a shock of white hair and a red, chafed face. His demeanor made it plain he had better and far more important things to do. He was clearly doing his friend a favor.

“I already ordered the candied-bacon appetizer,” Hastings said. “I’m on a tight schedule.” He had a soft southern drawl. “Try it. Great stuff.”

She wasn’t late; he’d clearly gotten here early. She looked at the menu. The burger cost twenty-six dollars.

She decided to get right to the point. They could be social afterward. She told him that, in the course of presiding over a sexual harassment case, she happened to come across some internal company documents. These documents revealed that the secret owner of the company was a Russian oligarch named Yuri Protasov. “You know the name?”

“Sure. The Protasov Great Innovations Prize.” That was the rich prize, worth four million dollars a year to the lucky winner, given to a leading “innovator” in science — physics, chemistry, mathematics, or life sciences.

“That’s the one. He’s gone to great lengths to keep his ownership of this company a secret.”

Hastings shrugged. “So?”

“So the financing for his purchase of this company came from a sanctioned Russian bank.”

“Ah.”

“Which I figured you might be interested to hear.”

“Indeed. Do you know which bank?”

“I think it’s called VTB. The VTB bank.”

His eyebrows shot up, but he said nothing. “You know, Protasov is not an SDN.”

“A what ?”

“A Specially Designated National. A blocked person. One of the named individuals you’re not supposed to do business with.” He said it with a slight smile, which surprised Juliana. It seemed to imply it was a rule that no one takes seriously. “Which means he’s okay to do business with. And this company — Wheelz, obviously — is not sanctioned.”

“Okay, but as I said, the money came from a sanctioned Russian bank. Making it an illegal transaction and one that the US Government can shut down.”

“Mrs. Brody... Judge Brody, excuse me — forgive my bluntness, but is it appropriate for you to be doing this inquiry?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’d have to ask a judge.”

He smiled. “I see. Well, the thing is, Judge, we’re not really doing much by the way of enforcement these days.”

“You’re not?”

“No, our enforcement and compliance unit is gone.”

“How do you mean, gone?”

“No one ever got appointed to run it. The position’s been vacant for a few years now. The whole unit — people left, retired early.”

“There’s really no enforcement?”

“There’s self-disclosure. Voluntary compliance. But no... no cops running around arresting people for sanctions violations. Anyway, look.” He sighed. “Okay, he’s a Russian. All this paranoia about Russia — people are tired of it.”

“They are, huh?”

“Enough, already. I wish I could help you, but I don’t have the time or the resources or, to be perfectly plain about it, the inclination. I’m not the type of person to go on a one-man crusade, fighting the bureaucracy.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

She didn’t understand, actually, not really, but saw nothing to be gained by arguing with the man. She thanked Hastings, and when he got up to go back to work, she excused herself to use the bathroom.

As she passed the table next to theirs, her eye was caught by the shoes worn by the businesswoman sitting next to them. They were nothing fancy — a pair of black napa leather round-toe pumps, well worn, the heel neither skinny nor chunky. The soles of the shoes were red and badly scuffed.