F. Paul Wilson - Infernal

During his Florida trip, Jack had realized that his father's conservatism was neither political nor ideological.

"Dad was mostly a traditionalist. You know, this is the way we've always done it, so this is the way we should go on doing it. But he was never racist."

"Hey, he retired because of the company's affirmative action policy."

"Yeah. He told me about that. Called it 'profiling.'"

During Jack's last night in Florida he and his father had had a long, rambling, scotch-fueled talk about all sorts of things. Some of it touched on his career as an accountant.

"But that's only half the story. Do you know the hell he caught back in sixty-one for hiring a black guy for his department—the angry calls he got from his fellow employees, calling him a commie and a nigger lover?"

Tom shook his head, his expression confused, surprised. "No, I—"

"He told me he wanted to hire this particular guy because, of all the applicants, he was the best qualified. Dad didn't care what color he was, he wanted the best. So he hired him. The result? The fast track Dad had been on suddenly slowed. That hire cost him promotions and position. I won't say he didn't care, because I sensed he was still a little bitter about it. Then in the nineties things exploded when he was directed to hire a black guy over a white guy. Dad refused because this time the white guy was better qualified. He still wanted the best guy. Dad hadn't changed, but the world had. The former commie nigger-lover was now a right-wing racist bigot. He couldn't take it, and refused to be part of a system that put ability second, so he opted out."

Tom looked hurt, but his tone was angry. "How come he never told me any of this?"

Jack shrugged. He had no answer.

He put his arm around Gia's shoulders and they looked back at the four young men standing around his father's grave with bowed heads and folded hands.

Gia whispered, "I guess that's proof the good a man does isn't always interred with his bones."

Jack, not trusting himself to speak, could only nod.

2

When they reached the cars Tom signaled his wife to roll down the window of their Lexus.

"Terry, would you mind driving Gia and Vicky to the restaurant? You can follow us. Jack and I need to talk."

Gia looked at Jack. He shrugged and nodded. This was news to him.

He held the doors for them—Gia in the front, Vicky in the back—then led Tom to his Crown Vic.

"I've been trying to get you alone for two days now, Jack," he said as he slipped into the passenger seat.

"Yeah?"

"Need to talk to you about something."

"Like?"

"I need your help."

Jack did not know if he wanted to hear this. Hell, he was pretty damn sure he didn't.

"What kind of help?"

"I'm in trouble. I've screwed up my life, Jack. I mean I could give a course in screwing up a life."

"In what way?"

"Every way imaginable. First off, I am, for all intents and purposes, broke. The Skanks have been sucking me dry for years. And you've met Terry. See the way she dresses? She's never seen a pair of shoes she didn't love. Doesn't believe in sales, either. Only shops boutiques. Three wives… can you believe I've been married three times? The triumph of stupidity over experience. And whatever's left behind after they're through with me goes for legal expenses."

The last two words startled Jack.

"Legal expenses? But you're a lawyer… a judge."

"I'm a judge in trouble. Big trouble. The Philadelphia DA is after my ass, but he's got to wait in line, because the state attorney general and the feds, not to mention the state attorney ethics commission, all want a piece of me too. At the very best, I'm looking at disrobement, disbarment, huge fines. If I had some hope, any hope of getting off with only that, I'd be a much happier man. But it appears I won't be that lucky. Things aren't going my way. I'm looking at jail time, Jack."

Dumbfounded, Jack could only stare at his brother. Tom? In the joint?

Finally he found his voice. "Why?"

A harsh, forced laugh. " Why ? I can look back now and say hubris and poor impulse control. But back when I was at the top of my game—what I thought was the top of my game—it was all just a big puppet show and I was one of the string pullers. As for what … you want a list? Got an hour? How about kickbacks and influence peddling? How about indictment for judicial malfeasance and conspiracy?"

"Jesus, Tom."

"I did some shady things when I was in private practice, but it was the stuff most attorneys do. Padding the billable hours was a biggie. Double, triple, even quadruple billing was another. If I had to visit clients, I'd try to set up two or three meetings in the same area on the same day. My clock started running when I started the car, and I'd not only bill each client separately for the same travel time, but along the way I'd be talking to still another on my cell phone. Hell, I sometimes billed twenty-plus hours for an eight-hour workday. And on the side I was playing fast and loose with trust accounts. Had some close calls, but never got caught."

Jack wondered why Tom was telling him all this. Had to have a reason. If he wanted a loan, why didn't he just come out and ask for it?

"The judgeship did me in. Being appointed for life wasn't a good thing for me—at all. If I'd had arrogance and hubris before, I now became positively regal. My biggest risks were errors in rulings, which could be changed by an appellate court; but otherwise I pretty much ruled the roost. I was the lord of my courtroom, a king. In reality I was a petty satrap with a big head."

"I did the usual time-honored gray-zone stuff—you know, using marshals to pick up my dry cleaning, taking trips on city money, beguiling attractive lady lawyers or clerks. And then of course I engaged in the time-honored judicial practice of 'leaning.' It's very easy to shade rulings. I leaned toward my old cronies, and against my old rivals. But I really stepped over the line when I started accepting gifts from parties related to cases I was involved with, and then shading rulings their way."

My brother the crooked judge… jeez.

Part of Jack wanted to shut this off now, but another part, the part in everyone that slows down when passing a car wreck, wanted more.

"Bribes?"

"If you're talking envelopes stuffed with cash, no. At least not at first. No, what I'd get was, say, an all-expense trip for me and the current skank to Bermuda or Grand Cayman or San Juan where I'd collect a fat speaker's fee to address some convention. All done through third and fourth parties, all very circumspect, all ethically questionable but almost impossible to prove."

"Trouble started after my second divorce when I had not one but two skanks with siphons in my jugulars. With alimony and child support payments up the ass, I had to do something. So I started accepting cash. Got to the point where I might as well have had a 'For Sale' sign on the door to my chambers. 'The Finest Judge Money Can Buy!'"

Jack was shaking his head. "Sounds like you were asking for it."

"I was. I was caught in this spiral but I didn't see it. I was into that sovereign mind-set of being a judge, of having the power to decide the fates of people and companies… heady stuff."

Jack said, "Where do the feds come in?"

Tom grimaced. "A tragedy of errors, that. It all goes back to certain trust fund conservancies I was involved with."

"Want to run that by me in English?"

"When there's a large settlement, say from a medical malpractice case where a birth is botched and the kid's going to need special care for the rest of his life, the money—often millions, sometimes tens of millions—is put into a trust fund which is overseen by a conservator. The conservator is an attorney appointed by the judge in the case. In a number of cases that judge was moi . A conservancy is like an annuity. The conservator has legal duties and he's paid out of the fund for the hours he bills. If he works it right, he can bill a lot of hours."