Twisted Justice

by Diane Capri

  “What do you want?” she said again, emphasizing each word and stressing the last one as she had before.

  Maybe she could have been more disagreeable. I didn’t know her that well. She acted like a spoiled child. Perhaps in her world, people talked to each other like that. In my world, we didn’t.

  Her behavior made me really want to beat the snot out of her, and the feeling surprised me. I’d never been in a physical fight in my life. I realized it was a good thing I didn’t carry a gun. At this moment, I might have been tempted to threaten her with it.

  I pulled up some much needed strength from somewhere, instead, and made myself respond to her churlishness with calm reason. “Robbie, you must want to know who killed your father. That’s what I want, too.” I spoke politely to her, but she wasn’t fazed.

  As rudely as before, she said, “George has been arrested already, in case you’ve forgotten. I’m interested in putting this behind me and going on with my life. And I don’t want you pestering my mother, either.” She stopped for a second and gave me another of her scowls. “Now if there’s nothing else, you’re making me very late.”

  Oh, the hell with it. “Look, Robbie,” I said, more firmly, as I pulled out an antique oak dining chair and sat down, “neither one of us is going anywhere until I get the answers I came for. Now, you can sit down and talk to me for about ten minutes and then I’ll leave. Or you can keep up your routine and we can stay here until all Florida freezes over.”

  Maybe it wasn’t my best moment. But I had very little choice. I had no legal right to press her, and we both knew it. Either I had to motivate her to talk to me, or I’d go away empty handed. George had too much at stake for me to give up so easily.

  She waited several seconds, apparently concluding she’d have to throw me out bodily if she wanted to get rid of me before I was good and ready to go. She sat down, folded her hands on the table, and in what I can only assume was the best manner Dr. Andrews the psychologist could muster for badly behaved patients, she snarled, “What is it you’d like to know?”

  I resisted the urge to slap her, but I had to sit on my hands to do it. My patience was exhausted by the situation and her histrionics. I deliberately asked her something personal. “Tell me about your relationship with your father.”

  She bristled again, raising her hackles, whatever hackles are. “My relationship with my father wasn’t any different when George killed him than it was years ago when you and he were friends, Willa.” Her voice broke just a little, I thought, but I might have imagined it. “He detested me. He had no use for girls or women. You know that.” She started to rise. “Is that it?”

  “Not quite. How did you feel about him?” I watched her closely. She actually started to get a little blinky, like she had some feelings under that armadillo exterior she dressed in Chanel.

  She steadied her chin and returned to her armor of belligerence. “I loved my father because he was my Dad just like any girl loves her daddy. But I didn’t like him very much. I didn’t know him well enough to like him. He saw to that. He wasn’t much of a father, really. Not to me, anyway.”

  Robbie stopped for a few seconds, and then, as if she’d made a decision, she added, “You’d have to ask my brothers how he was to them. I’m sure he loved them very much when we were all younger.”

  She said the words with such bitterness that I involuntarily recoiled. There was something more there, something under the surface that didn’t make sense.

  Her reaction to her father’s misogynistic view of women was understandable maybe, but her comments about his relationship with her brothers was unnecessarily poisonous. “And how about his relationship with your husband? Did they get along?” I almost whispered the question, trying not to antagonize her further.

  Her eyes widened, then she pursed her lips and pressed them together so that hard white lines formed at the corners. “Yes. My husband and my father got along. They got along as well as anyone could.” She paused, then added, “Which is to say they could be in the same room without getting into a fist fight, something George couldn’t manage.”

  Biting my tongue to avoid the sharp retort that bubbled up from somewhere south of civility, I said, “Only one more thing, Robbie. How about your parents? I know for a long time, there was a lot of trouble between them. How was their relationship just before he died?”

  I struggled to sound friendly and sympathetic. From long experience, I knew that I could get more from a hostile witness with sympathy than by badgering.

  Like everything else I’d tried, it didn’t work. Robbie stood up, picked up her purse and turned toward the door. “This interview is over. If you want to sit in my dining room until Chief Hathaway gets here to escort you out, feel free. But if you don’t leave in the next ten seconds, I’m calling the police.”

  And to emphasize her threat, she dug into the bucket bag and pulled out one of the things she kept in there in addition to the kitchen sink her cell phone. She must have bumped her house alarm button in the process because the alarm started its loud, shrill screaming as she dialed 911.

  Unwilling to be intimidated, I continued to sit and look steadily at her while she dialed. When the operator answered, Robbie said, “I’d like to report an intruder in my house. I know her name. Would you like me to tell you on this recorded line?” She looked at me meaningfully.

  I could barely hear her over the noise of the house alarm. But, she’d effectively called my bluff. It wouldn’t be good for me to be named as an intruder in a recorded 911 call by Robbie Andrews when my husband was out on bail after being charged with murdering her father. Those 911 calls are all taped and I’d heard the tapes played back in murder trials. The evidence was always riveting to the jury.

  A siren wailed somewhere in the distance, growing louder. It couldn’t have been dispatched in response to her call, not that quickly.

  The siren’s noise level increased, now combined with the house alarm. I could barely hear myself thinking, She could shoot me and no one would hear the gun go off.

  Even if the siren I’d heard hadn’t been sent in response to Robbie’s call, it could easily be diverted here.

  “Judge Willa Carson is her name,” Robbie said. “I’m afraid of her. Her husband killed General Andrews, my father, last week. Please send a car to my house. Now.”

  I could only hope that the 911 operator couldn’t hear her either. Before Robbie had a chance to repeat what she’d said, I snatched her phone out of her hand and hung up. I handed it back to her and then I left. Slowly.

  Seated in my car, I told myself leaving the house instead of wrestling Robbie to the ground was the wisest thing to do. Otherwise, I might have been arrested for assault. I gripped my hands into balled fists so tightly that my short trimmed nails bit into my palms.

  No wonder her father hated her, I thought rather uncharitably. There’s not much there to like. Nature or nurture, though?

  Robbie hadn’t figured out how to rise above her upbringing and make a success of her life, that much was obvious. No one who is happy with themselves could be so blatantly superficial and so miserable to everyone else.

  On my way home I began to feel sorry for her husband, John Williamson.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Tampa, Florida

  Friday 8:30 p.m.

  January 28, 2000

  BY THE TIME I got home, ran the dogs, spent some time with a Bombay Sapphire and tonic over ice with lemon and a good Partagas, I felt a little more charitable toward Robbie, but not much.

  I logged onto the Internet to check my letter to Ask Dr. Andrews. My letter wasn’t in Robbie’s column for today. She’d responded to a couple of questions about personality conflicts at work (grow up and get along), three problems with teenage rebellion (this, too, shall pass) and a question of infidelity (nobody’s perfect, forgive and forget).

  All were interesting and much more colorful than my newspaper’s Dear Abby column, but seemed irrelevant to George’s case. Since
I still hadn’t figured out a way to use the encrypted service, I logged off.

  Engaged in quiet but heated conversation, George and my brother, Jason, didn’t notice my approach. They were seated in the dining room at George’s place and probably had consumed more than one cocktail each. I was only about an hour late.

  George said, “He shouldn’t have done it. I don’t care what his reasons were. It was not called for. The vote was going the way he wanted it. He was just trying to manipulate the process.” Jason was just as hot. “The whole process is about manipulation, and you know it. Andrews came by Warwick’s office to lobby for a yes vote. I heard he went to every one of the senators on the committee with the same plea. You can’t blame Benson for playing the same game.”

  “But the President was trying to torpedo his own nominee,” George responded.

  “Good evening gentlemen,” I said. Still glaring at each other, Jason stood up and gave me a quick hug and a kiss. George stood, too, held my chair and kissed me briefly. How gallant.

  I pasted a smile on my face and kept my voice very quiet. “Don’t look now, but you are beginning to draw attention from the crowd. I don’t know what you were discussing, but unless you want everyone in the room to witness it, you should keep your voices down.”

  George poured me a glass of wine and Jason steered the conversation to his mother. We all talked affectionately about Kate for a while. After we ordered appetizers, I took advantage of the lull in conversation. “What were you two talking about when I came in?”

  “Just politics. Nothing you’d be interested in,” George said.

  I smiled sweetly. “It sounded interesting to me. Did I hear Jason say that Andrews visited every one of the senators on the judiciary committee the day before he died?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Tampa, Florida

  Friday 9:30 p.m.

  January 28, 2000

  BOTH MEN LOOKED UNCOMFORTABLE, but Jason was the one who answered me. “It’s not something we’re supposed to talk about, now that he’s dead. But what he did is not that unusual. It’s been done before.”

  “I didn’t realize the vote on a Supreme Court nominee was a popularity contest,” I said.

  “It’s not. But it is politics as usual. The senators take the Supreme Court appointments very seriously because of how long the justices serve and the impact they have on the country. No one wants to vote yes on a man they know nothing about,” Jason explained.

  The political process seemed like one big bartering game to me. George was the politico in our family, and I was glad to leave it that way. But it occurred to me that any of the senators Andrews talked to the day before he died could have killed him. Who knows what was said between them? Andrews didn’t seem to be able to get along with anyone. Should I add another one-hundred names to my list of potential murderers?

  I pondered this silently while George and Jason attempted to change the subject to the recent coup attempts in Cuba. When, not whether, Cuba would once again be open for American travel is a constant topic of conversation in Florida.

  Tampa’s cigar business, started and continued by Cuban immigrants, was already in full swing by the time Castro came to power. Still, Tampa’s Cuban community has a lot of emotional attachment to Cuba and many say they are planning to return as soon as they’re allowed to do so. At least to visit family and friends, if not to emigrate permanently.

  Most Floridians believe Cuba will again be a tourist Mecca and hot vacation spot some day. The sentimental motive is a strong one, but many Cuban expats and other businessmen just want to be in on the ground floor of what they think will be a money making operation. Key West has been planning for the increased cruise ship trade for years.

  Reopening Cuba is a hot political topic, too. Senator Warwick and Jason were both very involved in lobbying for change. Jason and George could argue the merits of this issue for hours. But I wasn’t as interested in Cuba as I was in General Andrews.

  When I could get a word in, I asked them what else they’d been discussing when I walked into dinner. The way they looked at each other, I could tell I wasn’t supposed to have overheard this bit of information, which, of course, made it more interesting to me.

  “It’s not something I can discuss, Willa. Strictly cone-of-silence stuff,” Jason said.

  I didn’t buy that for a minute. “You were discussing it with George. If it’s so secret, why does George know about it?”

  George looked up desperately for our waiter and flagged him over. We all ordered dessert and coffee.

  I refused to be distracted. “Look. I’m not going to drop this. If you don’t tell me about it now, I’ll call Sheldon Warwick myself in the morning and ask him.”

  George was the one who responded. He said quietly, but with more firmness than I usually accept from him, “Just leave it alone. Please. Let’s have our coffee in peace.”

  The more they wanted to keep the information from me, the more I felt it was important to my investigation. Which, of course, neither of them knew a thing about. “I’m not going to make a scene. But I am going to find out what’s going on here. After we have our coffee we can go upstairs and talk about it. Or I’ll find out some other way. You two can decide while I go powder my nose.”

  When I got back to the table, our key lime pie had been served. Café con leche for me and the wimpier decaffeinated Colombian for the men. We ate and drank in relative camaraderie, finishing our after dinner liqueur.

  When we’d finished, I resumed my crusade. “Well,” I said, “What’s it to be? The word straight from you two tonight, or I start calling Senate Judiciary Committee members tomorrow?” I rose up to leave the table. As I’d expected, they followed me out of the dining room and up to the flat.

  When we got settled in our den, neither one of them had broached the subject, so I prodded them again. One last time. “What were you two talking about at the dinner table before I came in tonight?”

  Jason fielded my questions. The choice was curious. Jason had more of a professional obligation to keep his secrets than George did because Jason was a senate employee, aide to Warwick and on the Democrats’ side. “You know the confirmation hearings weren’t going well, right?”

  “Well for whom, is the relevant question,” I said.

  Jason ignored my sarcasm. “Senator Warwick was against the Andrews nomination from the start. Like George, Sheldon knew Andrews personally and didn’t think Andy had the judicial temperament necessary for a Supreme Court Judge.”

  George said nothing and I kept silent as well.

  Jason cleared his throat. “Well, Warwick tried to convince President Benson to withdraw the nomination. Warwick knew Andrews was strong willed and opinionated and, even if he had otherwise been qualified, that Andrews could never do the right thing politically to get confirmed.” Jason looked directly at me. “Warwick knew the nomination would be a disaster.”

  “Andrews had been around politics a long time,” George picked up the explanation now. “He’d made a lot of enemies among the people who knew him. No one was looking forward to standing behind the party’s man.”

  Jason fidgeted, rubbing his hands together, as if to warm them, but it was seventy degrees tonight and he had on a tropical weight wool jacket and tie. He wasn’t cold.

  He cleared his throat again. “It was a very real political dilemma for Warwick and all the other Democrats. No one wanted to openly oppose the Presidential choice, but none of them wanted to or could vote for Andrews in good conscience. Warwick, as the chairman of the committee and one of the most senior Democrats on the Hill, was on the spot. The younger guys looked to him to figure out a way to finesse this.”

  George intervened. “And Warwick, for his part, had no intention of losing his seat over this nomination the way Illinois Senator Alan Dixon lost his over the Judge Thomas vote.”

  For the first time, I was confused. “What do you mean? Thomas was confirmed.” My lack of political savvy was a handicap
in this maze of relationships and back room dealing.

  Jason stood, put both hands in his pockets, and paced the room. “Thomas was a controversial nominee. Some people were unhappy with the way the hearings went and the way the vote came down. Politicians paid the price with their jobs. No one wanted to be in that position over Andrews. It was a bad spot for all of them.”

  George said. “They felt it was their leader, President Benson, who put them all on the hot seat. Nobody liked it.”

  “And that’s where George came in,” Jason said. “Warwick gave a statement to the press. He said that the committee had been criticized in recent years for being ‘too supine and deferential’ to the President in the Kennedy and Souter nominations. Warwick said that under his stewardship, the Judiciary Committee would take a more active role. He said there was no presumption in favor of confirmation.

  George picked up the tale. “Benson and Andrews were outraged. It was a plain power play. Warwick said, in effect, that he was the reigning Democrat, not the President. And certainly not Andrews.”

  Jason sat down again, making an apology for his boss. “Washington is all about power. Nobody gives you power. You just take it.”

  I was beginning to see the problem. Warwick, the Democratic senior senator from Florida, was taking on the lame duck Democratic President in his second term. The President couldn’t be re-elected, but the Senator could. In recent years, the political types have felt that control of Congress is more important than control of the Presidency. Longer terms of office and lack of term limits was one of the reasons why.

  I’d thought I wanted to know all of this, but my desire was based mainly on their refusal to tell me about it. So far, I found the explanation a big yawn. And I had other things to worry about.

  “This is all very interesting, in a political science kind of way,” I told them both. “But what does any of it have to do with George?”

  George answered this time for himself. “The Republicans never wanted Andrews. We were shocked when he was selected. We wanted to defeat him and Warwick was willing to help us do that. For once, Warwick and I were both on the same side. Jason works for Warwick. We were discussing the issues.” He said it like a Packers fan would be interested in the 1997 Super Bowl game where the Packers won for the first time in over twenty years.