Джон Гришэм - The Judge’s List

Maddy Reese was her most trusted colleague around the office. She had been there for four years and, among the four lawyers, was now second in seniority, far behind Lacy. She tapped on the door as she walked through it and said, “Got a minute?”

The last director had imposed an open-door policy that had led to a freewheeling culture in which privacy was almost impossible and work was routinely interrupted. But he was gone now, and though most office doors were closed, old habits were hard to break.

“Sure,” Lacy said. “What’s up?”

“Cleo wants you to review the Handy matter, thinks we should get involved.”

Cleo was Cleopatra, the secret nickname of the current director, an ambitious woman who had managed to alienate the entire office in a matter of weeks.

“Not Handy again,” Lacy said in frustration.

“Oh yes. Seems he keeps overturning zoning ordinances in favor of a certain developer, who just happens to be a friend of his nephew.”

“This is Florida. That’s not uncommon.”

“Well, the adjoining landowners are upset and they’ve hired lawyers. Another complaint was filed against him last week and things do look rather suspicious. I know how much you love zoning cases.”

“I live for them. Bring me the file and I’ll take a look.”

“Thanks. And Cleo is calling a staff meeting for two this afternoon.”

“I thought we suffered through those on Monday mornings.”

“We do. But Cleo is making her own rules.”

Maddy left without closing the door, and Lacy looked at the screen on her desktop. She scrolled through the usual lineup of emails she could either ignore or postpone, and stopped at one from Jeri Crosby.

Can we talk? I’ll call you. Number is 776-145-0088. Your phone won’t recognize it.

Lacy stared at the email for a long time as she tried to think of ways to avoid a response. She wondered which of the half-dozen cell phones Jeri was using. Hers buzzed and the number appeared.

“Hello, Jeri,” she said as she walked to the door to close it.

“Thanks for yesterday, Lacy, you have no idea what that meant to me. I slept last night for the first time in forever.”

Well, I’m glad you did. Even with Allie’s warm body next to her, she’d had trouble shutting out the events of the day. “That’s nice, Jeri. Yesterday was quite interesting.”

“To say the least. So, what’s up?”

The question threw her as she suddenly realized that her new friend might feel the need to call every day for updates. “What do you mean?”

“Well, what do you think? What’s next?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” she lied. “A day out of the office and I’m still trying to catch up.”

“Sure, and I don’t mean to bother. Forgive me, but I’m so relieved that you’re on the case now. You have no idea how lonely this has been.”

“I’m not sure there is a case, Jeri.”

“Of course there is. Did you look through the files?”

“No, I haven’t got there yet, Jeri. I’m busy with other stuff right now.”

“I see. Look, we need to meet again and cover the other victims. I know it’s a lot for you to digest so soon, but, I dare say nothing on your desk could possibly be as important as Bannick.”

True. Everything in the office paled in comparison to allegations of murder against a judge.

“Jeri, I can’t just drop everything else and open a new case. Any involvement on my part must be approved by the director. Didn’t I explain this?”

“I guess.” Brushing it aside, she continued, “I’m in class today and tomorrow, but what about Saturday? I’ll make the drive over and we can meet somewhere private.”

“I thought about this driving home yesterday, for three hours, and I still don’t see how we have any jurisdiction. We’re just not equipped to investigate a murder, singular or plural.”

“Your friend Hugo Hatch was murdered, in a staged car wreck, and I believe there was another murder in the casino case. Right, Lacy? You were involved in that one up to your ears.” Her tone was becoming aggressive, but there was still a fragility in her voice.

Calmly, Lacy replied, “We talked about that and I explained that there were real detectives in that case, even the FBI.”

“But you made it happen, Lacy. Without you, the crimes would not have been solved.”

“Jeri, what am I supposed to do? Go to Signal Mountain, Tennessee, and Little Rock, Arkansas, and Marathon, Florida, and dig through old police files and somehow find evidence that isn’t there? The police, the pros, couldn’t find it. You’ve been trying for twenty years. There is simply not enough proof.”

“Six dead people, all killed the same identical way, and all six had a connection to Bannick. And you think that’s not enough? Come on, Lacy. You can’t let me down here. I’m at my wit’s end. If you turn your back on me, then where am I supposed to go?”

Anywhere. Just please go away.

Lacy exhaled and told herself to be patient. “I understand, Jeri. Look, I’m busy right now. Let’s talk later.”

If she heard this she didn’t acknowledge it. “I’ve checked around, Lacy. Every state has a different way to deal with judicial complaints, but almost every state allows an aggrieved party to initiate an investigation in some anonymous way. I’m sure it can be done in Florida.”

“Are you willing to sign a complaint?”

“Maybe, but we need to talk some more. It seems possible to do it with an alias or something. Don’t you think?”

“I’m not sure right now, Jeri. Please, let’s talk tomorrow.”

As soon as she managed to end the call, Darren finally arrived with her almond latte, almost an hour after he had left to fetch it. She thanked him, and when it appeared as though he wanted to loiter and share the break, she said she needed to make a call. At noon, she eased from her office, left the building, walked five blocks to meet Allie for lunch.

BJC’s secret weapon was a badly aging woman named Sadelle, a career paralegal who decades earlier had given up on the bar exam. She had once smoked three packs a day, many of them around the office, and had been unable to quit until she was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Suddenly motivated, she had laid down her smokes and made preparations for the end. Seven years later, she was still on the job and working more hours than anyone else. BJC was her life, and she not only knew everything but remembered most of it as well. She was the archive, the search engine, the expert on the many ways judges could screw up their careers.

After the staff meeting, Lacy sent her an email with some questions. Fifteen minutes later, Sadelle rolled into her office in her motorized chair, an oxygen tube attached to her nose. Though her voice was strained, scratchy, at times almost desperate, she nonetheless enjoyed talking, often far too much.

She said, “We’ve done this before. I can think of three cases in the past forty years in which the aggrieved party was too spooked to sign on. Perhaps the biggest one involved a judge down around Tampa who discovered cocaine. He was thoroughly seduced by the drug and it became a real problem. Because of his position he found it difficult to buy the stuff.” She paused for a second to take on oxygen. “Anyway, his problems were solved when a drug dealer appeared in his court on charges. He got friendly with the guy, gave him a light sentence, and eventually got in bed with his pusher, who was in with a major trafficker. With a steady supply guaranteed, the judge really went off the deep end and things deteriorated. He couldn’t do his job, couldn’t sit on the bench for more than fifteen minutes without calling a recess for a quick snort. The lawyers were whispering but, as usual, didn’t want to squeal. A court reporter was watching closely and knew the dirt. She contacted us, terrified, of course, because the gang had some nasty boys. She eventually filed a Jane Doe complaint and we went in with subpoenas, the works. She even funneled documents and we had plenty of proof. We were preparing to bring in the Feds when the judge agreed to step down, so he was never indicted.” Her face contorted as she sucked in more oxygen.