Джон Гришэм: The Judge’s List

Jeri said, “I have a small conference room on the first floor. I promise it’s safe and secure. If I try to assault you, you can scream and get away.”

“I’m sure it’s okay.”

Jeri paid for the wine and they left the bar and the atrium and rode the escalator up one flight to the business mezzanine, where Jeri unlocked a small conference room, one of many. On the table were several files.

The women settled on opposite sides of the table, the files within reaching distance and nothing in front of them. No laptops. No legal pads. Both cell phones were still in their purses. Jeri was visibly more relaxed than in the bar, and began with “So, let’s talk off the record, with no notes. None for now anyway. My father, Bryan Burke, retired from Stetson in 1990. He’d taught there for almost thirty years and was a legend, a beloved professor. He and my mother decided to return home to Gaffney, South Carolina, the small town where they grew up. They had lots of family in the area and there’s some land that had been handed down. They built this beautiful little cottage in the woods and planted a garden. My mother’s mother lived on the property and they took care of her. All in all, it was a pleasant retirement. They were set financially, in pretty good health, active in a country church. Dad read a lot, wrote articles for legal magazines, kept up with old friends, made some new ones around town. Then, he was murdered.”

She reached to retrieve a file, a blue one, letter-sized, about an inch thick, same as the others. She slid it across the table as she said, “This is a collection of articles about my father, his career, and his death. Some dug up by hand, some pulled from the Internet, but none of the file is stored online.”

Lacy didn’t open the file.

Jeri continued, “Behind the yellow tab there is a crime scene photo of my father. I’ve seen it several times and prefer not to see it again. Have a look.”

Lacy opened to the tab and frowned at the enlarged color photo. The deceased was lying in some weeds with a small rope around his neck, pulled tightly and cutting into his skin. The rope appeared to be nylon, blue in color, and stained with dried blood. At the back of the neck it was secured with a thick knot.

Lacy closed the file and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s weird. After twenty-two years, you learn to deal with the pain and place it in a box where it tends to stay if you work hard enough. But it’s always easy to drop your guard and allow the memories to come back. Right now I’m okay, Lacy. Right now I’m real good because I’m talking to you and doing something about it. You have no idea how many hours I’ve spent pushing myself to get here. This is so hard, so terrifying.”

“Perhaps if we talked about the crime.”

She took a deep breath. “Sure. Dad liked to take long walks through the woods behind his cottage. Mom often went along but she struggled with arthritis. One lovely spring morning in 1992 he kissed her goodbye, grabbed his walking stick, and headed down the trail. The autopsy revealed death by asphyxiation, but there was also a head wound. It wasn’t hard to speculate that he encountered someone who hit him in the head, knocked him out, then finished him off with the nylon rope. He was dragged off the trail and left in a ravine, where they found him late in the afternoon. The crime scene revealed nothing — no blunt instrument, no shoe or boot prints — the ground was dry. No signs of a struggle, no stray hairs or fabrics left behind. Nothing. The rope has been analyzed by crime labs and gives no clue. There’s a description of it in the file. The cottage isn’t far from town but it’s still somewhat isolated, and there were no witnesses, nothing out of the ordinary. No car or truck with out-of-state tags. No strangers lurking around. There are many different places to park and hide and sneak into the area, then leave without a trace. Nothing has come to the surface in twenty-two years, Lacy. It’s a very cold case. We have accepted the harsh reality that the crime will never be solved.”

“We?”

“Yes, well, but it’s more like a one-cowboy rodeo. My mother died two years after my father. She never recovered and kinda went off the deep end. I have an older brother in California and he hung in for a few years before losing interest. He got tired of the police reporting no progress. We talk occasionally but rarely mention Dad. So, I’m on my own. It’s lonely out here.”

“Sounds awful. It also seems a long way from the crime scene in South Carolina to a courthouse in the Florida Panhandle. What’s the connection?”

“There’s not much, honestly. Just a lot of speculation.”

“You haven’t come this far with nothing but speculation. What about motive?”

“Motive is all I have.”

“Do you plan to share it with me?”

“Hang on, Lacy. You have no idea. I can’t believe I’m sitting here accusing someone of murder, without proof.”

“You’re not accusing anyone, Jeri. You have a potential suspect, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. You tell me his name and I tell no one. Not until you authorize it, okay? Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Now, back to motive.”

“Motive has consumed me since the beginning. I’ve found no one in my father’s world who disliked him. He was an academic who drew a nice salary and saved his money. He never invested in deals or land or anything like that. In fact, he was disdainful of developers and speculators. He had a couple of colleagues, other law professors, who lost money in the stock market and condos and other schemes, and he had little sympathy for them. He had no business interests, no partners, no joint ventures, stuff that generally creates conflict and enemies. He hated debt and paid his bills on time. He was faithful to his wife and family, as far as we knew. If you knew Bryan Burke you would have found it impossible to believe that he would be unfaithful to his wife. He was treated fairly by his employers, Stetson, and admired by his students. Four times in thirty years at Stetson he was voted Outstanding Professor of Law. He routinely passed up a promotion to the dean’s office because he considered teaching the highest calling and he wanted to be in the classroom. He wasn’t perfect, Lacy, but he was pretty damned close to it.”

“I wish I had known him.”

“He was a charming, sweet man with no known enemies. It wasn’t a robbery, because his wallet was in the house and nothing was missing from his body. It certainly wasn’t an accident. So, the police have been baffled from the beginning.”

“But.”

“But. There could be more. It’s a long shot but it’s all I have. I’m thirsty. You?”

Lacy shook her head. Jeri walked to a credenza, poured ice water from a pitcher, and returned to her seat. She took a deep breath and continued. “As I’ve said, my father loved the classroom. He loved to lecture. To him it was a performance, and he was the only actor onstage. He loved being in full command of his surroundings, his material, and, especially, his students. There’s a room on the second floor of the law school that was his domain for decades. There’s a plaque there now and it’s named for him. It’s a mini lecture hall with eighty seats in a half moon, and every performance was sold out. His lectures on constitutional law were captivating, challenging, often funny. He had a great sense of humor. Every student wanted Professor Burke — he hated being called Dr. Burke — for constitutional law, and those who didn’t make the cut often audited the class and sat through his lectures. It was not unusual for visiting professors, deans, alumni, and former students to squeeze in for a seat, often in folding chairs in the rear or down the aisles. The president of the university, himself a lawyer, was a frequent visitor. You get the picture?”