Джон Гришэм - The Judge’s List

“What happened to him?”

“Killed himself. They called it an accidental overdose, but it looked suspicious. Saturated with coke. I guess he went out the way he wanted.”

“When was this?”

“Not sure of the exact date, but it was before your time.”

“What happened to the court reporter?”

“Nothing. We protected her identity and no one ever knew. So, yes, it can be done.”

“What about the other two cases?”

“Either Jane or John. Not sure, but I can find them. As I recall, both were dismissed after the initial assessment, so there wasn’t much to the allegations.” Another pause to reload. Then she asked, “What kinda case you got?”

“Murder.”

“Wow, that could be fun. I can’t remember one of those, other than the casino case. Does it have merit?”

“I don’t know. That’s the challenge right now. Trying to determine what might be the truth.”

“An allegation of murder against a sitting judge.”

“Yes. Maybe.”

“I like it. Don’t hesitate to keep me in the loop.”

“Thanks, Sadelle.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Sadelle filled her scarred lungs, put the chair in reverse, and scooted away.

The painter’s name was Lanny Verno. Late on a Friday afternoon the previous October, he was on a ladder in the den of an unfinished home, one of several dozen packed together on an unpaved street in a sprawling new subdivision just outside the city limits of Biloxi. He was touching up the trim at the edge of a twelve-foot ceiling, a gallon bucket of white paint in one hand, a two-inch brush in the other. He was alone; his coworker had already left for the day, the week, and the bar. Lanny glanced at his watch and shook his head. Still working past five on a Friday. A radio in the kitchen played the latest country hits.

He was eager to get to the bar too, for a rowdy night of beer drinking, and he would have already been there but for the promise of a check. His contractor was to deliver one by quitting time, and Lanny was growing irritated as the minutes passed.

The front door was open, but the music drowned out the sound of a truck door closing in the driveway.

A man appeared in the den and greeted him with a friendly hello. “Name’s Butler, county inspector.”

“Come on in,” Verno said with hardly a look. The home was a construction site with steady foot traffic.

“Workin’ mighty late,” Butler drawled.

“Yeah, ready for a beer.”

“Anybody else here?”

“Nope, just me and I’m on the way out.” Verno glanced down again and noticed that the inspector had on disposable shoe covers, a soft blue in color. Odd, he thought for a second. Both hands were covered with matching disposable gloves. The guy must be some kind of germ nut. The right hand held a clipboard.

Butler said, “Remind me where the fuse box is.”

Verno nodded, said, “At the end of the hall.” He dipped his brush into the bucket and kept painting.

Butler left the den, walked down the hall, checked all three bedrooms and the two baths, and hurried to the kitchen. He glanced out the dining room window and saw no one. His pickup was parked in the drive behind what could only be a painter’s truck. He returned to the den and without a word shoved over the ladder. Verno yelled as he tumbled and crashed against the fireplace hearth, his head landing hard on the brick. Stunned, he tried to scramble and get his feet under him, but it was too late.

From his right pants pocket, Butler pulled out an eight-inch steel rod with a twelve-ounce lead ball on the tip. He affectionately called it Leddie. He flicked it like an expert and the telescopic rod doubled, then tripled in length. He karate-kicked Verno in the ribs and heard them crunch. Verno shrieked in pain, and before he could make another sound the lead ball landed squarely at the back of his cranium, shattering it like a raw eggshell. For practical purposes, he was all but dead. If left alone his body would rapidly shut down and his heart would beat slower and slower until the ten-minute mark, when he stopped breathing. But Butler couldn’t wait that long. From his left pants pocket he pulled out a short length of rope — ⅜-inch nylon, double twin-braided, marine grade, bright blue and white in color. Quickly, he wrapped it twice around Verno’s neck, then rammed his knee into the spinal cord between his shoulder blades and yanked both ends of the rope savagely, snapping back his neck until the top vertebrae began popping.

In his final seconds, Verno grunted one last time and tried to move, as if his body instinctively fought to save itself. He was not a small man and in his younger days had been known to brawl, but with a rope cutting into his throat and his skull fractured, his body had lost all strength. The knee in his back kept him pinned while the monster tried to decapitate him. His last thought may have been one of amazement, at the power and strength of the guy with the goofy shoe covers.

Butler learned years ago that the fight belonged to the fittest. In those crucial seconds, strength and quickness were everything. For thirty years he had pumped iron, practiced karate and tae kwon do, not for his health and not to impress women, but for the surprise attacks.

After two minutes of strangulation, Verno went limp. Butler pulled even tighter, then looped the ends together like a veteran sailor and secured the rope in place with a perfect double clove hitch. He stood, careful to avoid the spattered blood, and allowed himself a few seconds to admire his work. The blood bothered him. There was too much of it and he loathed a messy crime scene. His surgical gloves were covered and there were some small flecks on his work khakis. He should have worn black pants. What was he thinking?

Otherwise, he rather admired the scene. The body was facedown, arms and legs at odd angles. Blood was slowly spreading from the corpse and contrasting nicely with the new pine flooring. The white paint had splattered across the hearth and against a wall, even reaching so far as a window. The ladder on its side was a nice touch. At first glance, the next person on the scene might think Verno had taken a bad fall and struck his head. A step closer, though, and the rope would tell another story.

Checklist: perimeter, phone, photo, blood, footprints. He glanced through a window and saw nothing moving in the street. He went to the kitchen and rinsed the gloves on his hands, then wiped everything carefully with a paper towel he crammed into a pocket. He closed the two back doors and locked them. Verno’s phone was on the counter next to his radio. Butler turned down the radio so he could hear and stuck the phone in his rear pocket. He picked up his clipboard and walked to the foyer where he stopped and breathed deeply. Don’t waste a second but never hurry.

He was about to reach for the knob to the front door when he heard the engine of a truck. Then a door slammed. He ducked into the dining room and glanced out the window. “Oh shit.”

It was an oversized Ram truck parked at the curb, with dunwoody custom homes painted on the driver’s door. Its driver was walking across the front yard, holding an envelope. Average height and weight, about fifty years old, with a slight limp. He would enter and immediately see Verno’s body in the den to his left. From that moment on, he would be aware of nothing else.

The killer calmly moved into position, ready with his weapon.

A husky voice called out, “Verno, where are you?” Steps, a pause, then “Lanny, you okay?” He took three steps into the den before the lead ball shattered the back of his skull. He fell hard, almost landing on Verno, and was too stunned, too wounded to look behind him. Butler hit him again and again, each blow splintering his cranium and spraying blood across the room.