Neely Tucker - The Ways of the Dead

The elevator took him to the fourth floor of the other, more powerful courthouse, and he limped down the hallway and turned again to get to Reese’s chambers. The doors were locked, as always, and the receptionist buzzed him in. He said hello and smiled. She ignored him.

He sat down and pretended to look through his notebooks. The phone buzzed, she answered it and said, without looking at him, that he could go in.

Pushing open the huge oak door-what was it with judges and big-ass doors? he’d always wanted to know that-he stepped into Reese’s office.

The judge was seated behind his desk, glowering at him. Next to him, on his left, was his private counsel, Joseph V. Russell. Willow thin, a light gray suit, maybe fifty years old, balding, with the slightly gaunt expression of a man who ran marathons for relaxation. To his right was a legal stiff-good God, the man looked like he had to pay to breathe-in a brown suit and a personality to match.

Sully sat down in the chair across from Reese’s desk, though no one asked him to, crossed his legs, and did not attempt to shake hands. Power play, he thought, the dual lawyers flanking Reese. He returned service by being rude. He rustled in his seat, getting comfortable, thinking that this was going to last less than ten minutes, and might be less than five.

“Judge, thanks for meeting me this afternoon,” he boomed pleasantly. “I’m at work on a story-”

“The judge has advised us as to the nature of your call,” Russell cut in. “You are aware of who I am, I believe, but for the record-we are recording this, Mr. Carter-I am Joseph Russell, of counsel to Judge Reese. Seated on the opposite side of the judge is Brian Cannan, of the Justice Department’s ethics division. He is here as an observer only, to ensure-”

“That Judge Reese does not dictate a quotation to me, have me read it back to him, and then write my editors a note, on court letterhead, saying that he never said what he said and demanding that I be fired for making it up?” Sully said, nodding to Cannan, who did not blink. “Because that’s what happened the last time.”

Russell gave him a patronizing smirk. “Mr. Cannan is here to provide an independent, benchmark observation of this meeting and to see if, at the end of it, he will recommend charges against you.”

“For?”

“Attempting to blackmail a federal judge.”

“And what would I be receiving from this alleged blackmail?”

Russell shrugged his shoulders. “We are not in your business, Mr. Carter, and thus we would have no idea. We are merely taking appropriate precautions.”

Sully felt his temperature rise a notch. He hid this by reaching down to pull a recorder from his backpack and put it on the desk, facing Reese. “Well, that’s lovely. Thanks for your time, Brian. And, Joey, always a pleasure. Always like to help you run up billable hours. I have a recorder here, so I guess we can play dueling banjos. You’ll understand, from my experience with your client, that his word isn’t exactly his bond. Did your recorder pick that up?”

Russell made no response. Sully punched the record button, then gave the date, the location, and the names of the people in the room, and set it on Reese’s desk, facing the judge, while he looked down at his notes.

“Okay. Judge Reese. Noel Pittman. As I mentioned to your secretary, during the course of our reporting on Ms. Pittman’s death, we have come across her diary, which names you as her intimate acquaintance. It sets out the time and date of those liaisons, which was often Saturday mornings at ten fifteen. That corresponds with your daughter’s dance lessons at the Big Apple studios. Also, we have seen Ms. Pittman’s cellphone, which lists your private office number and your cell. She lists you, by name, on her personal contact list. Also, I have talked to two eyewitnesses who have seen you entering or leaving Ms. Pittman’s apartment. One of those sources saw you two embracing at the front entrance, with Ms. Pittman in what is described as bedroom attire. And, also, we are in possession of copies of erotic photographs of Ms. Pittman, taken by an art studio in town, and we have banking records that show you gave her four thousand dollars to pay for the session, plus several hundred more dollars for the film and developing.”

For the first time, he looked up. Reese had the stunned look of a seal at a clubbing party. Russell was biting the inside of his gums but keeping a courtroom face. Cannan suddenly looked like he wanted to be somewhere else.

“And what is the point of these allegations, these alleged sightings?” Russell said.

“I believe the point would be that Ms. Pittman left her part-time job at a popular nightclub out on New York Avenue in the early-morning hours of April 25 of last year. She was never seen again. However, the last phone call made from her cellphone-of which police are not yet aware-was at 10:47 the following morning, to Judge Reese’s private cellphone. The call lasted seven minutes. They talked. Or maybe she talked to Mrs. Reese, which might have been an even more interesting conversation.

“The point would also seem to be that your client spoke to Ms. Pittman eight hours after the rest of the world thought she’d gone missing. And her decomposed corpse was found a few days ago, in an abandoned house at the end of her block, just across the alley from where Sarah was killed. So the question I have is if your client has, at any point in time, informed the police of this information, either after her disappearance or after her body was found.”

The two men did not confer.

Russell said, “We have no comment on these outrageous and defamatory allegations. This is a sinister smear campaign, being unleashed at a time that can only be called grotesque. The judge and his family are grieving the loss of their only child. There was a monumental break in that case in the past few days, which was just announced publicly a few hours ago. The judge has political enemies who are attempting to leak this information in an attempt to stop his ascension to the Supreme Court, no matter his family’s suffering. Even in my long experience in Washington, I’ve never seen anything this base.”

Sully wanted to ask if he’d read anything about Monica Lewinsky and a blue dress, but refrained.

“That’s all interesting, Mr. Russell, but it wasn’t an answer to the question, although I appreciate you speaking so clearly into the microphone. Did Judge Reese meet Noel Pittman at 10:15 on the day she disappeared, as her schedule indicates they were to do, and has he informed the police of his last conversation with her?”

“We are not dignifying it with a response. What are your intentions with this information?”

“To print it.”

“You must know you are on very thin legal ice if you do.”

“Hunh. I’m researching a story about a federal judge and his ties to a college student who was killed and his lack of disclosure about that relationship. The ice seems pretty thick here. The nude photographs were shot just a few weeks before her disappearance. Did the judge and Ms. Pittman discuss those on that last phone call?”

“What, other than your personal bias, makes you believe Ms. Pittman was murdered? There is no homicide investigation into her death,” Russell said. “That young woman’s body was examined, postmortem, and the coroner’s office did not state her cause of death was homicide. That is the sort of irresponsible speculation, Mr. Carter, that puts you and your paper on thin ice.”

Sully felt a tingle in his fingers. He had just overstepped. He had gotten ahead of the facts on the table, and not just the bluffing he was doing about Reese’s paying for the pictures. That was right, and he had known it as soon as Simmons had said the amount. But this was on tape, and the tape showed him saying she was “killed,” which the coroner had not specified. He swore at himself silently.