by David Lyons
“Trying to quit,” Fitch said.
“Good idea.” Boucher still stood in the doorway. “You know, this is one of the ugliest offices I’ve ever seen. Color makes me want to puke.”
“Makes me want to smoke,” Fitch said. “I don’t like it either and this is Sunday. Let’s get this done so we both can get out of here.” Boucher pulled a wooden chair away from the desk and sat down.
Detective Fitch’s eyes were two black marbles buried beneath a protruding frontal orbit above and puffy purplish sacs below. It was like he was staring out of a cave. A permanent slouch gave him a world-weariness that his sagging face reinforced. This was a man going through the motions of life.
“Did you know the deceased?” Fitch asked.
“I recently met her.” Fitch had asked this question the other night, but Boucher did not object. He described the circumstances, then added, “My girlfriend thought she saw her at my house Friday before I got home, but that’s a guess. It was dark.”
Fitch shook his head. “You only met her the one time?”
“Yes, once.”
“Then she comes back to your place without being invited—”
“Was she shot at my place?”
Fitch drummed his fingers on his desk and looked at Boucher. He shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Someone wanted it to look like a suicide. Gun was in her left hand, but there was no gunshot residue.”
Jock brought the picture back. Standing next to the car, driver’s side, open window. Entry wound left temple. He brought another picture to mind. Meeting Ruth. First handshake. Firm handshake. Eating fried chicken, drumstick in her fingers.
“She was right-handed,” he said.
“You sure about that?”
“I’m sure. I remember shaking hands and we went out to get something to eat the evening I met her. I can picture her eating. She was right-handed.”
Fitch took out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He tapped one out and was about to light it. Boucher glared at him. He put it back.
“That’s a nice house you got,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Not many judges can afford a place like that, even federal judges.”
“Back before I was a state judge I was a trial lawyer. Got lucky with a couple toxic tort cases.”
“So you’re rich?”
“I’m comfortable.”
“Then why the hell are you a federal judge? I know what you guys get paid. Work it out on an hourly basis with the overtime you put in, and you all make as much as a plumber.”
“I believe in our judicial system—”
“Spare me.” Fitch held up his hand. “I’ve worked with more judges than I can count, mostly city and state judges, but I’ve known some feds too. There’s only one reason to be a judge—you like getting your ass kissed. And those who don’t kiss your ass, you can kick theirs, to hell and back. That’s my definition of power, kiss my ass ’cause I can surely kick yours.”
“It sounds like you don’t have a very high opinion of judges.”
“I’ve been a cop for almost thirty years. I’ve known judges good and bad and crooked and straight. No, I don’t have a particularly high regard for judges, but I don’t despise them either. They serve a necessary function, like a traffic light. It’s just the holier-than-thou shit that gets to me. I’m all for proper decorum in the courtroom and all that, but it builds egos that make a lot of them assholes. So I admit I grin a little when one of you gets caught with his dick in his hand.”
“That’s what you think about the murder of that poor woman? A judge caught with his dick in his hand?”
“That was my first thought,” Fitch said, “body in the driveway of a judge’s nice, expensive house. I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair to you.” He let out a long, slow sigh. “I had a nice house too, before Katrina.”
“Where do you live?”
“Past tense. Lived in Chalmette. Don’t live anywhere now. Got a place where I sleep, and I work here.” He sighed a weary sigh. “You got an alibi for Friday night? She was killed about ten-thirty.”
“Like I told you before, I went to hear some zydeco with my girlfriend at a roadhouse on Lake Pontchartrain.”
“Witnesses?”
“Maybe two hundred. I got in a fight.”
Fitch chuckled. “I don’t see any bruises. You win?”
“I had help, infantry and artillery.”
The detective didn’t ask for an explanation, still chuckling. “Federal district judge brawling in a redneck bar. That’s a good one, and I’ve heard judge stories you wouldn’t believe.”
“It was a Cajun bar, not redneck.”
“Yeah, well, choice of venue doesn’t change the cause and effect, from my perspective.” He reached for his cigarettes again, but this time didn’t pull the pack completely out of his shirt. “Listen, I gotta ask you more questions, but this shithole is getting to me too. You want to get out of here?”
“There’s something I do on Sundays,” Jock said. “You’re welcome to come with me and we can talk while I do it.” He explained his one-man salvage missions.
“One request,” Fitch said. “St. Bernard Parish.”
St. Bernard Parish was the only parish completely inundated by Katrina. Of nearly twenty-seven thousand homes, only half a dozen remained habitable after the storm. Six. In addition to the flooding, oil storage tanks burst, covering the area with a foot of black sludge.
“Found my wife’s body a week after the storm,” Fitch said. They were on the outskirts of Chalmette, the St. Bernard Parish seat, heading toward the town called Violet. “She was buried in oil. Don’t know whether she drowned or suffocated, not that it makes much difference. I couldn’t get out of the Quarter, with all that was going on. You ever been married?”
“My wife died of breast cancer,” Jock said. “Five years ago. No kids. She was trying to get pregnant, before . . .”
“Sorry for your loss,” Fitch said.
“Ditto. How about here?” Jock stopped the truck.
The few houses still standing were empty shells. Most lots were empty, nothing rising from the ground. Refuse lined both sides of the street. But for its cracked blacktop, the street might have been nothing more than a bulldozed path through a garbage dump. Stunted trees were the only signs of life. There was no sound other than a breeze teasing something hanging loose somewhere, banging it against a hard surface without rhythm or rhyme. There was no animal life, certainly no humanity: all washed away on fouled floodwaters.
They got out of the vehicle and began picking up objects closest to the road, mostly loose rotten wood and personal effects like the odd shoe, a coffee cup that remained inexplicably intact. The broken toys that spoke of monumental loss they left untouched. The fact that a black man and a seedy-looking white man could load the bed of a pickup without being harassed was further proof that this onetime neighborhood where friendly souls had once congregated was now a wasteland beyond concern or care.
“Federal judge and Eighth District detective picking up trash. Don’t you just wish some wiseass would come by and try to give us some shit about looting?” Fitch said.
When the bed of the pickup was full, Fitch leaned against the side of the truck and reached into his shirt pocket. This time the cigarette was lit. After three puffs, he discarded it, crushed it under the sole of his shoe.
“Okay, Judge. Back to the inquiry. I gotta do my job. Why did the deceased come to you in the first place?”
As they drove back to the French Quarter, after properly disposing of the refuse, Judge Boucher repeated his narration of the chain of events, beginning with Judge Epson’s initial heart attack. Not wanting it to become evidence and thereby losing control of it, he left out telling the detective about the report Ruth Kalin had given him the night before her death. His safe had not been found when the police had searched his house, and he’d been asked no questions that would require him to perjure himself. There were minutes of silence after he fi
nished his account.
Fitch spoke. “I want to take a look at the case file on that lawyer that was shot twenty years ago. Cold cases have always intrigued me.”
“That’s a good place to start,” Boucher said.
When they pulled in front of the police station, Detective Fitch offered a handshake before leaving and sealed the deal. “You’re okay, Judge, sorry about what I said earlier, about judges, I mean.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion. Maybe I can change it.”
CHAPTER 11
IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON MONDAY when Judge Boucher’s assistant brought him the files requested from the Federal Records Center. He thanked her as if this had been a routine request, and she didn’t act as if it were anything unusual, though after working for two federal judges and a magistrate over a period of more than fifteen years, this was a first for her. He asked her to close the door when she left, with instructions that he not be disturbed.
Discovery in law is a fact-finding process prior to trial. Its purpose is to allow parties in a lawsuit to properly prepare, and is based on the proposition that the free exchange of information will lead to the truth. The process is governed by state and federal rules to prevent abuse, and permissible discovery may include material such as written questions requiring sworn answers, oral depositions taken under oath, inspection of items or places that cannot be physically brought to court, and the presentation of documents. It was this final area where Judge Boucher found the elephant under the bed. Bob Palmetto was being forced to turn over trade secrets or go to jail. Never had Judge Boucher seen such obvious flaunting of the rules of discovery. Lawyer Dexter Jessup had put up a good fight, his objections valid and timely, but the files showed he was refused as a matter of course, and he was threatened with contempt of court more than once. The papers the judge held in his hand made a mockery of the justice system. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Sorry to disturb you, Judge, but I’m going home now,” his assistant said. “It’s almost six. I’m going to lock the hall door.”
“Fine. Good night.” He didn’t even look up, but continued turning the pages in front of him. In the silence of his chambers he knew he held proof of judicial wrongdoing in his hands.
“So what?” he said aloud. There was no one to answer, so he muttered his own response. “The judge was bent. The judge is dead. So what?”
He closed the files and locked them in his desk, rose, and left his office, puzzling over the killing of Ruth Kalin. He passed by his assistant’s desk, on which lay a copy of that day’s paper, which she must have bought from a stand in the lobby on her way home and brought back up to the office. The first report of Ruth Kalin’s death had made the Saturday papers. There had been no calls to his unlisted number and he’d just said he could not comment on the matter to the few journalists hanging around his house—it wasn’t like these were strange words coming from a federal judge. It was reported again on Sunday. The story had legs. By the Monday edition, it was number one with a bullet, front page, above the fold. His assistant had left the newspaper on her desk, folded so the leading headline was prominent: “Missing Lawyer Shot in Judge’s Driveway.” Right under this banner was the subheading, “Federal Judge Returns from Barroom Brawl to Find Body.” Red lights blinked on the desk phone indicating incoming calls being answered by the recorder. Good time to be somewhere else, the judge thought as he took the paper and left.
* * *
Judge Boucher reconnoitered his own house. As he expected, the press was gathered and ready for a feeding frenzy out front. He drove away unseen. Where to go? He remembered Fitch’s ashtray: the Old Absinthe House. Corner of Rue Bourbon—could there be a better address for a bar?—and Rue Bienville. It was a port in a storm, with a restaurant upstairs. At this hour there would be few diners. The owner of the restaurant greeted him, the consoling nod of his head saying that he had seen the day’s papers. With Italians, discretion was an art form.
“Good evening, Tony. How about over there?” Boucher pointed to a corner table.
“You need a menu?”
Boucher shook his head. He knew this place well. “Caesar salad with oysters, and veal piccata. Glass of Montepulciano.”
The proprietor returned and uncorked the wine. “On the house,” he said, leaving the bottle.
Boucher finished his meal in solitude, then called for the owner. Tony came over. “Does Detective Fitch come here often?” the judge asked.
“He’s downstairs in the bar now. If you need to go out the back . . .”
“No, no. He’s on my side, I think. Is he by himself?” Tony nodded. “Would you ask him to come up?” Boucher asked.
Fitch was shown to the table moments later.
“I’ve already eaten,” the judge said. “Sorry. Would you like some wine?” Fitch nodded. He raised his glass in a silent toast before sipping.
“You saw the papers, I guess,” Fitch said.
“I did. Body in driveway, barroom brawl; none of this is going to do my judicial reputation much good.”
“Yeah. It almost looks like the press has it out for you.”
“The newspapers are just doing what newspapers do,” Boucher said. “My alibi was printed. Who ever had a barroom brawl as a defense? At least I’m not a suspect, right?”
Fitch sipped. “This is good wine. No. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not a suspect. It’s likely the girl was shot someplace else and driven to your house in her own car. How was your dinner? Food good here? I never came upstairs before. This is nice.” He looked around the room.
Boucher raised his hand again. “Tony, would you bring Detective Fitch a menu?”
“That’s all right. Whatever the judge had is good enough for me.” Fitch looked at Boucher, his elbows on the table, his fingers folded, forming a dome on which he rested his chin. “You know how to get a lifetime federal judicial appointee kicked off the bench?” he asked. “Catch him driving drunk dressed in drag. That’s my favorite. But get him in a bar fight, then find a body at his house, that’s not bad either. It looks like someone wants you to have one of the shortest judicial careers on record.” He was brought his salad. “I love Caesar salad; never had it with oysters before.
“Judge Boucher,” he said, “you got enemies. You’ve been on the bench less than a month and you got enemies. What the hell did you step in, son?”
“Twenty-year-old shit,” Boucher said. “I can’t believe the stink is still so strong. Sorry.”
“Doesn’t bother me. By the way, I looked into Dexter Jessup’s case file.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Maybe.”
“Come on, Detective. What’s your first name anyway? I buy a guy dinner, I should know his first name.”
“It’s Roscoe, but nobody calls me that, and that’s fine with me. Never did like it much.”
“So what should I call you?”
“Fitch. Just Fitch. How about you? I need to call you Judge?”
“If it’s just the two of us, I’d prefer Jock. If we’re in front of others—”
“It’s Judge. I understand.”
“So, what did you find?”
“It was a contact wound. Barrel of the gun was placed right to the back of his head. He had male pattern baldness. Back of his head looked like a bull’s-eye.”
Jock sat in silence. Fitch ate an oyster.
“He’d pulled off the road,” Fitch said. “Motor was still running when the body was found, so it was discovered not long after the shooting. There were contusions on the right knee, so I’m thinking he got out of his car, saw the guy with the gun and tried to get away, slipped, and struck his knee on loose stones on the shoulder.”
“Did he have a flat?”
“No, why?”
“Well, if the motor was running and he didn’t have a flat tire, I wonder why he pulled off the road.”
“Only answer I can come up with is that someone he knew flagged him down. He got
out, saw the gun, and tried to run. Didn’t make it. Anyway, it’s all speculation. It was a half-assed investigation, partly because the crime scene was all fucked up.”
“How?”
“Guy who found the body. He pulled right behind the deceased’s vehicle, then flagged down others. Remember, not everybody had a cell phone in their pocket back then. Anyway, any chance of getting tire tracks from the perp’s car was zero and any other clues were gone or compromised too. The scene had maybe half a dozen cars and people tramping around it before the first patrol car got there, so I’ll cut the guys a little slack.”
“So there was no evidence at the scene.”
“What I’m telling you came from our cold case files. The files just have paperwork and photos. Anyway, physical evidence? Forget it. Our property room was underwater after Katrina. No way anything that old would still be there. Now, if you will let me continue . . .” Fitch took a sip of wine, licking his lips.
“Like I said. Contact wound. Barrel against the bald spot at the back of his head. It left soot. Almost like a tattoo.”
Enjoying himself now, Fitch took a bite of romaine, then forked a thin sliver of Parmesan. Jock gritted his teeth.
“It was a .38 Special, gun was Smith and Wesson Model 10,” Fitch said.
“Without a bullet, how can you know the gun and the caliber?”
“The caliber can be reasonably estimated from an entry wound. There’s a measurable difference between a .22 and a .38. I know it’s a Smith and Wesson Model 10 because of the tattoo. I put the barrel of one against the photo of the wound; perfect fit. Also, it was a Model 10 made between 1961 and the early 1990s.”
“So we think the deceased knew the shooter, and we think the gun was a Model 10, one of which you just happened to have lying around. That’s not much to go on.”
“I’m not finished.”
Fitch was served his entrée, took two bites, then continued.
“The S and W Model 10 Military and Police or M and P revolver was revised in 1961, adding a heavy barrel with a ramped front sight. The Model 10 was used in police departments all over the country, including New Orleans, until the early 1990s, when it was also phased out.”
