Джон Гришэм: The Judge’s List

As she spoke, Darren strolled in alone, disturbed the barista by ordering decaf, waited on it while ignoring the two women, then took it to a table on the other side of the room where he opened a laptop and began what appeared to be some serious work. Without giving the slightest hint, he aimed the laptop’s camera at Lacy’s back and Margie’s face, zoomed in for a close shot, and began filming. He took a video and some still shots.

If Margie noticed him it was not apparent.

She listened intently to Lacy and asked, “How often is a judge removed from office?”

Again, why is this relevant? “Not very often, fortunately. We have jurisdiction over one thousand judges and the vast majority are honest, hardworking professionals. Most of the complaints we see are just not that serious. Disgruntled litigants who didn’t get what they wanted. A lot of divorce cases. A lot of lawyers mad because they lost. We stay busy, but for the most part the conflicts are resolved.”

She made the job sound boring, and, after twelve years, it rather felt that way.

Margie listened carefully, her fingertips tapping the file. She took a deep breath and asked, “The person who files the complaint, is he or she always identified?”

Lacy thought for a second and said, “Eventually, yes. It’s quite rare for the complaining party to remain anonymous.”

“Why?”

“Because the complainant usually knows the facts of the case and needs to testify against the judge. It’s hard to nail a judge when the people he ticked off are afraid to come forward. Are you afraid?”

The very word seemed to frighten her. “Yes, you could say that,” she admitted.

Lacy frowned and appeared bored. “Look, let’s cut to the chase here. How serious is the behavior that you’re talking about?”

Margie closed her eyes and managed to say, “Murder.”

She immediately opened them and glanced around to see if anyone had overheard. There was no one close enough to hear anything except Lacy, who absorbed this with the hard-boiled skepticism she had developed after so many years on the job. She reminded herself again to be patient. When she looked at Margie’s eyes again they were wet.

Lacy leaned in a bit closer and softly asked, “Are you suggesting that one of our sitting judges has committed a murder?”

Margie bit her lip and shook her head. “I know he has.”

“May I ask how you know this?”

“My father was one of his victims.”

Lacy inhaled this and glanced around herself. “Victims? As in more than one?”

“Yes. I believe my father was his second victim. I’m not sure which number, but I’m certain of his guilt.”

“Interesting.”

“That’s an understatement. How many complaints have you had about judges killing people?”

“Well, none.”

“Exactly. In the history of America, how many judges have been convicted of murder while on the bench?”

“I’ve never heard of one.”

“Exactly. Zero. So don’t dismiss this as something ‘interesting.’ ”

“Didn’t mean to offend.”

Across the way, Darren finished his important business and left. Neither woman acknowledged his departure.

Margie said, “No offense taken. I’m not going any further in this coffee bar. I have a lot of information that I would like to share with you and no one else, but not here.”

Lacy had encountered her share of nuts and unbalanced souls with boxes and paper sacks filled with documents that clearly proved that some sleazeball up on the bench was thoroughly corrupt. Almost always, after a few minutes of face-to-face interaction, she could reach her verdict and began making plans to route the complaint to the dismissal drawer. Over the years she had learned to read people, though with many of the wackos that came her way a quick evaluation wasn’t much of a challenge.

Margie, or whoever, was neither a nut nor a wacko, nor an unbalanced soul. She was onto something and she was frightened.

Lacy said, “Okay. Where do we go next?”

“What is next?”

“Look, you contacted me. Do you want to talk or not? I don’t play games and I don’t have time to pry information out of you or any other person who wants to complain about a judge. I waste a lot of time cajoling information out of people who call me in the first place. I go down a dead-end trail once a month. Are you talking or not?”

Margie was crying again and wiping her cheeks. Lacy studied her with as much compassion as possible, but she was also willing to leave the table and never come back.

However, she was intrigued by the idea of murder. Part of her daily grind around BJC was suffering through the mundane and frivolous gripes of unhappy people with small problems and little to lose. A murder by a sitting judge seemed too sensational to believe.

Finally, Margie said, “I have a room at the Ramada on East Gaines. We could meet there after hours. But you have to come alone.”

Lacy nodded as if she’d anticipated this. “With precautions. We have a rule that prohibits me from conducting an initial meeting with a complaining party off premises and alone. I would have to bring another investigator, one of my colleagues.”

“Like Mr. Trope over there?” Margie asked, nodding at Darren’s empty chair.

Lacy slowly turned around to see what in the world she was talking about as she tried desperately to think of a response.

Margie continued, “It’s your website, okay? Smiling faces of all staff.” From her briefcase she removed an 8×10 color photo of herself and slid it across the table. “Here, with best wishes, a current color mug of myself that’s far better than the ones Mr. Trope just stole.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m sure he’s already run my pic through your facial recognition software and he’s found nothing. I’m in nobody’s data bank.”

“What are you talking about?” Margie was dead-on but Lacy was rattled and not ready to come clean.

“Oh, I think you know. You come alone or you’ll never see me again. You’re the most experienced investigator in your office and at this moment your boss is only a temp. You can probably do whatever you want.”

“I wish it were that easy.”

“Let’s call it an after-work drink, that’s all. We’ll meet in the bar and if it goes well we can go upstairs to my room and talk with even more privacy.”

“I cannot go to your room. It’s against our procedures. If a complaint is filed and it becomes necessary to meet in private, then I can do so. Someone has to know where I am, at least initially.”

“Fair enough. What time?”

“How about six?”

“I’ll be in the back corner, right-hand side, and I’ll be alone, same as you. No wires, recorders, secret cameras, no colleagues pretending to drink as they film away. And say hello to Darren. Maybe one day I’ll have the pleasure. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Okay. You can go now.”

As Lacy walked around the block and drifted back to her office, she had to admit that she could not remember ever getting her butt so thoroughly kicked at the first interview.

She slid the color photo across Darren’s desk and said, “Nice work. Busted big-time. She knows our names, ranks, and serial numbers. She gave me this photo and said it was far better than the ones you were taking with your laptop.”

Darren held the photo and said, “Well, she’s right.”

“Any idea who she is?”

“Nope. I’ve run her face through our laundry and got nothing. Which, as you know, means little.”

“Means she has not been arrested in Florida in the past six years. Can you punch it through the FBI?”

“Probably not. They require a reason, and since I know nothing I can’t give them one. Can I ask an obvious question?”