Джон Гришэм - The Judge’s List

“We may have a serious problem,” Lacy said.

Cleo frowned, though the wrinkles in her forehead were well hidden by the bangs. “Okay. Let’s have it.”

It was late on Thursday and most of the others were already gone. The door to Cleo’s large office was closed. “I’m expecting a complaint, one filed with an alias, and one that will be difficult to handle. I’m not sure what to do.”

“The judge?”

“Unidentified as of now. Circuit court, ten years on the bench.”

“Are you going to make me beg for the dirt?”

Cleo fancied herself a tough cookie, a no-nonsense lawyer with little time for small talk or bullshit. Just give her the facts, because she could damned sure handle them.

“The alleged wrongdoing is murder.”

The bangs dangled slightly. “By a sitting judge?”

“I just said that.” Lacy was not an abrupt person, but she entered into every conversation with Cleo with her guard up, her tongue ready to fight back, even to strike first.

“Yes you did. When was the alleged murder?”

“Well, there have been several. Alleged. The last was about two years ago, in Florida.”

“Several?”

“Yes, several. The complainant thinks there may be as many as six, over the past two decades.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I didn’t say it was a him. And I don’t know what I believe right now. But, I do believe that she or he is near the point of filing a complaint with this office.”

Cleo stood, much shorter without those heels, and walked to the window behind her desk. From there she had a splendid view of two other state office buildings. She spoke to the glass: “Well, the obvious question is why not go to the police? I’m sure you’ve asked that, right?”

“It is indeed obvious and it was my first question. His or her reply was that the police cannot be trusted, not at this point. No one can be trusted. And it’s obvious that there isn’t enough evidence to prove anything.”

“Then what does he or she have?”

“Some rather compelling coincidental proof. The murders took place over a twenty-year period and in several different states. All are unsolved and quite cold. At some point during the judge’s life, he crossed paths with each of his victims. And, he has his own method of murder. All of the killings are virtually the same.”

“Interesting, to a point. May I ask another obvious question?”

“You’re the boss.”

“Thank you. If these cases are indeed cold, and the local cops have given up, then how in hell are we supposed to determine that one of our judges is the killer?”

“That’s the obvious question, all right. I don’t have an answer.”

“If you ask me, she sounds like a nut, which, I guess, is about par for the course around here.”

“Clients or staff?”

“Complaining parties. We don’t have clients.”

“Right. The law says we have no choice but to investigate the allegations once a complaint is filed. What do you suggest we do?”

Cleo slid into her executive swivel and looked much taller. “I’m not sure what we will do, but I can promise you what we will not do. This office is not equipped to investigate a murder. If she files a complaint, we will have no choice but to refer it to the Florida state police. It’s that simple.”

Lacy gave a fake smile and said, “Sounds good to me. But I doubt if we’ll see the complaint.”

“Let’s hope not.”

The initial strategy was to inform Jeri by email, and try to avoid any possible histrionics. Lacy sent a terse business-like note that read: Margie. After meeting with our director, I am sorry to inform you that the complaint you suggested will not be handled by our office. If it is filed, it will be referred to the state police.

Within seconds her cell phone rang with an unidentified caller. Normally she would have ignored it but she figured it was Jeri, who began pleasantly, “You can’t go to the state police. The statute says it’s up to you to investigate the allegations.”

“Hello, Jeri. So how are you today?”

“Miserable, now, anyway. I can’t believe this. I’m willing to stick my neck out and file a complaint, but the BJC doesn’t have the balls to investigate. You’re willing to just sit by and push papers around your desk while this guy literally gets away with murder and keeps on killing.”

“I thought you didn’t like phones.”

“I don’t. But this one can’t be traced. What am I supposed to do now, Lacy? Pack up twenty years of hard work and go home, pretend like nothing ever happened? Allow my father’s killer to go free? Help me here, Lacy.”

“It’s not my decision, Jeri, I promise.”

“Did you recommend that BJC investigate?”

“There’s nothing to investigate, not until a formal complaint is filed.”

“So why bother if you’re just going to run to the police? I can’t believe this, Lacy. I really thought you had more guts than this. I’m stunned.”

“I’m sorry, Jeri, but there are some cases we’re just not equipped to handle.”

“That’s not what the statute says. The law directs the BJC to assess every complaint that’s filed against any judge. There is absolutely no language that says BJC can dump the complaint on the police until after its assessment. You want me to send you a copy of the statute?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I didn’t make the decision, Jeri. That’s why we have bosses.”

“Okay, I’ll send the statute to your boss. What’s her name? I saw her on the website.”

“Don’t do that. She knows the statutes.”

“Doesn’t sound like it. What am I supposed to do now, Lacy? Just forget about Bannick? I’ve spent the last twenty years.”

“I’m sorry, Jeri.”

“No you’re not. I was planning to drive over Saturday and meet with you in private, lay out everything from the six murders. Give me some guidance here, Lacy.”

“I’m out of town this weekend, Jeri. I’m sorry.”

“How convenient.” After a long pause, she rang off with “Think about this, Lacy. What are you going to do when he kills again? Huh? At some point you and your little BJC become complicit.”

Her line went dead.

With discipline on the wane, Fridays were quiet around the office. Friday afternoons were tomb-like, as the higher-ups left for long lunches and never returned, and the dwindling hourly staff sneaked off as soon as Cleo closed her door. No one really worried, because Sadelle would work until dark and handle any stray phone calls.

Lacy left before lunch with no plans to return. She went home, changed into shorts, threw a few clothes in a bag, hid a key for Rachel, her new neighbor who was also her dog sitter, and just before 1:00 p.m. hopped in the car with her boyfriend and raced away in the general direction of Rosemary Beach, two and a half hours west along the Gulf Coast. The temperature was pushing eighty and there were no clouds anywhere. She had no laptop, no files, no paperwork of any kind, and, as per their agreement, Allie was similarly unarmed. All evidence of his profession was left in his apartment. Only cell phones were permitted.

The obvious goal of the weekend was to get out of town, leave work behind, go play in the sun and work on their tans. The real reason was far more serious. They were both approaching forty and uncertain about their future, either alone or together. They had been a couple for over two years and had passed through the initial phases of the romance — the dating, the sex, the sleepovers, the trips, the introductions to families, the declarations to friends that they were indeed a pair, the unspoken commitment to faithfulness. There was no hint that either wanted to end the relationship; in fact, both seemed content to keep it on course.