Джон Гришэм: The Judge’s List

In less than ten minutes, Lacy had the name of Ross Bannick.

He was forty-nine, a native of Pensacola, undergrad at the University of Florida, no mention of a wife or family. Scant bio on the judicial district’s website. His photo portrayed a rather handsome guy with dark eyes, strong chin, and lots of salt-and-pepper hair. Lacy found him quite attractive and wondered why he wasn’t married. Maybe he was divorced. She dug some more without getting too deep and found little about Judge Bannick. Evidently, he had managed to avoid controversy during his two-and-a-half terms on the bench. She went to her BJC files and found no complaint filed against him. In Florida, lawyers were expected to submit an annual review of the judges they encountered, anonymously of course. For the past five years, Bannick had received a stellar A+ rating from the bar. The comments were glowing: prompt, punctual, prepared, courteous, professional, witty, compassionate, bright, an “intimidating intellect.” Only two other judges in the Twenty-Second received such high marks.

She kept digging and finally found some dirt. It was a newspaper article from the Pensacola Ledger, dated April 18, 2000. A local lawyer, Ross Bannick, age thirty-five, was seeking his first political office and trying to unseat an old judge in the Twenty-Second. Controversy arose when one of Bannick’s clients, a real estate developer, proposed a water park on some prime property near a Pensacola beach. The park was strongly opposed by seemingly everyone, and in the midst of the lawsuits and related brouhaha it was revealed that lawyer Bannick owned a 10 percent stake in the venture. The facts were not that clear, but it was alleged that he tried to hide his involvement. His opponent seized the moment and ran ads that proved fatal. The election returns, from a later edition of the paper, showed a landslide defeat for Bannick. Though it was impossible to determine with such scant evidence, it looked as though he had done nothing wrong. Nonetheless, he was beaten badly by the incumbent.

Lacy dug some more and found the election coverage from 2004. There was a photo of the old judge, who appeared to be at least ninety, and two stories about his declining health. Bannick ran a slick campaign and the controversy from four years earlier was apparently forgotten. He won his race by a thousand votes. His opponent died three months later.

Lacy realized she was hungry and pulled a leftover quiche out of the fridge. Allie had been gone for three nights and she had not been cooking. She poured more wine and sat at her kitchen table, pecking away. In 2008, Bannick was unopposed for reelection. Sitting circuit judges rarely faced serious opposition in Florida, or any other state for that matter, and he seemed to be set for a long career on the bench.

Her phone pinged and she jumped. Lost in another world, she had even forgotten about the quiche. Caller unknown.

“Got his name yet?” Jeri asked.

Lacy smiled and replied, “It wasn’t difficult. Miami Law, elected in 2004 in the Twenty-Second. That narrowed it down to one.”

“Nice-looking guy, huh?”

“Yes. Why is he not married?”

“Don’t get any ideas.”

“I wasn’t.”

“He has a problem with women, part of his long history.”

Lacy took a deep breath. “Okay. I don’t suppose you’ve met him?”

“Oh no. Wouldn’t go near him. He has security cameras everywhere — his courtroom, office, home.”

“That’s weird.”

“Weird doesn’t touch it.”

“Are you in the car?”

“I’m driving to Pensacola, maybe on to Mobile. I don’t suppose you could meet me tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“Pensacola.”

“That’s three hours from here.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And what would be the purpose of our meeting?”

“I have only one purpose in life, Lacy, and you know what it is.”

“I have a busy day.”

“They’re all busy, aren’t they?”

“Afraid so.”

“Okay. Then please put me on the calendar and let me know when we can meet there.”

“Sure. I’ll take a look.”

There was a long gap in the conversation, so long that Lacy finally asked, “Are you there?”

“Yes. Sorry. I tend to drift. Have you found much online?”

“Some. Several stories about his elections, all from the Ledger. ”

“How about the one from 2000 about the land deal, in bed with the crooked developer, the one that cost him the election?”

“Yes. I’ve read that one.”

“I have all of them in a file, whenever you want to take it.”

“Okay, we’ll see.”

“That reporter was a guy named Danny Cleveland, originally from up north somewhere. He spent about six years with the Ledger, then moved around some. The newspaper in Little Rock, Arkansas, was his last stop.”

“Last stop?”

“Yes. They found him in his apartment. Asphyxiation. Same rope, same unusual knot. Sailors call it the double clove hitch, pretty rare. Another unsolved mystery, another very cold case.”

Lacy struggled to respond and noticed that her left hand was shaking.

“Are you still there?” Jeri asked.

“I think so. When was—”

“Two thousand nine. Not a trace of evidence left behind. Look, Lacy, we’re talking too much on the phone. I prefer face-to-face. Let me know when we can meet again.” She abruptly ended the call.

Her romance with Allie Pacheco was now into its third year and, in her opinion, was stalling. He was thirty-eight years old and, though he denied it, even in therapy, he was still scarred from a terrible first marriage eleven years earlier. It had lasted four miserable months and, mercifully, ended without a pregnancy.

The biggest obstacle to a more serious arrangement was a fact that was becoming more and more obvious: both enjoyed the freedom of living alone. Since high school, Lacy had not lived with a man in the house and she wasn’t keen on having one around. She had loved her father but remembered him as a domineering, chauvinistic sort who treated his wife like a maid. Her mother, always subservient, excused his behavior and whispered over and over, “It’s just his generation.”

It was a lame excuse and one Lacy vowed to never accept. Allie was indeed different. He was kind, thoughtful, funny, and, for the most part, attentive to her. He was also an FBI special agent who these days was spending most of his time in south Florida chasing narco-traffickers. When things were slow, which was rare, he was assigned to counterterrorism. There was even talk of him being transferred. After eight years as a special agent with no shortage of commendations, he was always on the block to be shipped out. At least, in Lacy’s opinion.

He kept a toothbrush and a shaving kit in her spare bathroom, along with some sweats and casual stuff in a closet, enough to sleep over whenever he wanted. She, on the other hand, maintained a presence in his small apartment fifteen minutes away. Pajamas, old sneakers, older jeans, a toothbrush, and some fashion magazines on the coffee table. Neither was the jealous type, but each had quietly marked their territory in the other’s place.

Lacy would have been shocked to learn that Allie slept around. He just wasn’t the type. Nor was she. Their challenge, with his travel and their demanding schedules, was keeping each other satisfied. It was taking more and more effort, and that was because, as a close girlfriend said, “You’re approaching middle age.” Lacy had been appalled at that term and for the next month chased Allie from her condo to his apartment and back, until both were exhausted and called time-out.

He checked in at seven thirty and they chatted for a moment. He was “on surveillance,” whatever that meant, and couldn’t say much. She knew he was somewhere around Miami. They both said “I love you” and rang off.