Джон Гришэм - The Judge’s List

“I do, and I can’t imagine it. I can recall, with horror, my con law course.”

“That seems to be the norm. The eighty students, all first year, who were lucky enough to get in, knew that he could be tough. He expected them to be prepared and ready to express themselves.”

Her eyes moistened again as she remembered her father. Lacy smiled and nodded and tried to encourage her.

“Dad loved to lecture, and he also loved the Socratic method of teaching, where he would select a student at random and ask him or her to brief a case for the benefit of the class. If the student made a mistake, or couldn’t hold her ground, then the discussion often became contentious. Over the years I’ve talked to many of his former students, and while all still express admiration, they still shudder at the thought of trying to argue con law with Professor Burke. He was feared, but in the end greatly admired. And every former student was shocked by his murder. Who could possibly want to kill Professor Burke?”

“You’ve talked to former students?”

“Yes. Under the guise of collecting anecdotes about my father for a possible book. I’ve been doing this for years. The book will never be written but it’s a great way to initiate a conversation. Just say you’re working on a book and people start talking. I have at least two dozen photographs sent by his former students. Dad at graduation. Dad drinking a beer at a student softball game. Dad on the bench during moot court. All little slices of college life. They loved him.”

“I’m sure you have a file.”

“Of course. Not here, but I’m happy to show it to you.”

“Maybe later. We were talking about motive.”

“Yes. Well, many years ago I was talking to a lawyer in Orlando who studied under my father, and he told me an interesting story. There was a kid in his class who was rank and file, nothing special. My father called on him in class one day to discuss a case involving the Fourth Amendment, searches and seizures. The kid was prepared but believed something contrary to what my father was saying, and so they had a pretty good row. My father loved it when students became passionate and fought back. But this student made some comments that were a bit extreme and out of line, and he was somewhat cocky in the way he bantered with Professor Burke, who managed to wrap things up with a laugh. The next class, the student probably figured that he was off the hook for a while, and came in unprepared. Dad called on him again. Trying to wing it was an unpardonable sin, and the student flamed out in a big way. Two days later, Professor Burke called on this student for the third time. He was prepared and ready to fight. Back and forth they went as Dad slowly boxed him into a corner. It’s not wise to argue with any professor who’s taught the same material for years, but this guy was arrogant and sure of himself. The knockout punch was a one-liner that destroyed the student’s position and brought down the house. He was humiliated and he totally lost it. He cursed, flung a notebook, snatched his backpack and stomped out of the classroom, the door almost shattering behind him.

“With perfect timing, my father said, ‘I’m not sure he’s cut out for jury trials.’

“The classroom exploded with laughter, so loud the student could not have missed it. He dropped the class and began a counterattack. He complained to the dean and the president. He considered himself a laughingstock and eventually withdrew from the law school. He wrote letters to alumni, politicians, other professors, some really bizarre behavior. He wrote letters to my father. They were remarkably well written but rambling and not really threatening. The last letter was sent from a private mental health facility near Fort Lauderdale and written in longhand on its stationery. In it he claimed to be suffering from a nervous breakdown caused entirely by my father.”

She paused and took a drink of water.

Lacy waited, then said, “That’s it? Motive is a disgruntled law student?”

“Yes, but it’s far more complicated than that.”

“Let’s hope so. What happened to him?”

“He got his head together and finished law school at Miami. Now he’s a judge. Look, I know you’re skeptical, and with good reason, but he is the only possible suspect in the world.”

“Why is it more complicated?”

Jeri took a long look at the files at the end of the table. There were five of them, all an inch thick, each a different color. Lacy followed her gaze, finally caught her drift, and asked, “And those are five more victims of the same killer?”

“If I didn’t think so I wouldn’t be here.”

“I’m sure there is a connection.”

“There are two. One is the method. All six were hit in the head and then asphyxiated with the identical type of nylon rope. Each ligature was grated into the skin of the neck and tied off by the same knot and left behind, sort of like a calling card. And all six had a bad history with our judge.”

“A bad history?”

“He knew them well. And he stalked them for years.”

Lacy caught her breath, swallowed hard, and felt a clutching fear in her stomach. Her mouth was suddenly dry, but she managed to say, “Don’t tell me his name. I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”

There was a long gap in the conversation as both women gazed at the walls. Lacy finally said, “Look, I’ve heard enough for one day. Let me stew on this and I’ll give you a call.”

Jeri smiled and nodded and was suddenly subdued. They swapped phone numbers and said their goodbyes. Lacy hurried through the lobby and couldn’t wait to get in her car.

Her apartment was a chic, ultra-modern unit in a newly renovated warehouse not far from the Florida State campus. She lived alone, at least most of the time, with Frankie, her obnoxious French bulldog. The dog was always waiting at the door, turning flips to urinate in the flower beds, regardless of the hour. Lacy let him outside for a pee, then poured a glass of wine, fell onto the sofa, and stared out the large plate glass window.

It was early March, the days were getting longer but they were still too short. She had grown up in the Midwest and did not miss the cold dark winters with too much snow and too little sunshine. She loved the Panhandle with its mild winters, real seasons, and long warm spring days. In two weeks the clock would change, the days would lengthen, and the college town would get even livelier with backyard cookouts, pool parties, rooftop cocktails, and outdoor dining. And that was for the adults. The students would live in the sun, head for the beach, and work on their tans.

Six murders.

After twelve years of investigating judges, Lacy considered herself immune from shock. She was also calloused and jaded enough to have serious doubts about Jeri’s story, much the same way she doubted every complaint that landed on her desk.

But Jeri Crosby wasn’t lying.

Her theories might be wrong; her hunches off-base; her fears unfounded. But she believed that her father was murdered by a sitting judge.

Lacy had left their meeting at the Ramada with nothing. The one file she opened had been left on the table for Jeri to deal with. Curiosity settled in. She checked her phone and saw two missed calls from Allie Pacheco, her boyfriend. He was out of town and she would chat with him later. She fetched her laptop and began searching.

The Twenty-Second Judicial District encompassed three counties in the far northwest corner of the state. Among the 400,000 or so people who lived in the Twenty-Second were forty-one circuit judges, elected by that same population. In her twelve years at BJC, Lacy could remember only two or three minor cases from the Twenty-Second. Of the forty-one judges, fifteen had been elected in 2004, the year Jeri said her suspect took the bench. Of those fifteen, only one finished law school at the University of Miami.