The Final Judgment

by Richard North Patterson

  The campus was wooded, rolling, nestled in hills. A creek, spanned by a covered bridge, meandered past the spired clock tower, brick Gothic buildings, and a wide green commons surrounded by trees. But the building James Case had lived in, a two-story apartment house outside the town, was a remnant of the Eisenhower years. Even the brick was veneer.

  Daniel Suarez lived on the second floor. She took the stairs, found room 203, and knocked on the door.

  The boy who opened it—he could not have been more than twenty—was tall and slender, with luminous brown eyes and a sensitive, slightly brooding aspect that was somehow quite appealing.

  “You’re Brett’s aunt?” he asked.

  “That’s right. She mentioned you to me.”

  He waved her in. To Caroline, the cinder-block room was reminiscent of other, long-ago rooms at Harvard or Radcliffe: clothes thrown about, stacks of books and magazines, stale cooking smells from the kitchen. Even the posters—the Stones and Led Zeppelin—had not changed much.

  Caroline found herself smiling faintly at a gray-haired Charlie Watts. “Like them?” Daniel asked.

  “Used to,” she said carelessly. “Now I’m more into Sheryl Crow and REM. These days, nostalgia hurts.”

  A glimmer of amusement. “Especially for my dad. He’s a real Deadhead.”

  “Oh, well.” Caroline shrugged. “Anyhow, thanks for seeing me.”

  “Sure. Can I get you anything?”

  “Have a Coke?”

  “I think so.” He went to the kitchen, prowled through the refrigerator, and returned with a cold can of Pepsi.

  “Good enough,” Caroline said.

  She sat in the kitchen. Daniel took a chair across from her, his expression tentative.

  “So you saw Brett here,” she said.

  “Uh-huh.” He nodded toward the next apartment. “With James next door, and her over a lot, sometimes we’d borrow things back and forth—milk, food, whatever. Two or three times we’d end up talking.”

  “What was she like?”

  A cautious nod, as if affirming something to himself. “She was really nice, easy to be around, and seemed squared away. You could talk with her about pretty much anything.”

  “And James?”

  Daniel paused, directed a hooded look at the stained rug in front of him. “Different,” he said at length. “He was smart, too, and pretty talented, I think. But he seemed more into himself than she was.”

  “Who were his friends?”

  A moment’s reflection; whether on the truth, or merely on his answer, Caroline could not tell. “Brett, mostly.” His liquid eyes rose to meet Caroline’s gaze. “Do the cops really think she killed him?”

  “I don’t see how they can, in the end.” She looked at him closely. “I gather they were here.”

  His shrug was more a twitch. “Oh, yeah.”

  “What did they want to know?”

  “A lot of the same things. Who James’s friends were. Whether I knew Brett. What their relationship was like—”

  “And whether he was dealing drugs?”

  “That too.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Did James ever try?”

  “No.” He paused. “About that stuff, I mind my own business.”

  His eyes were steady. But Caroline was morally certain that a thorough search of this apartment would produce a bag of marijuana in the sock drawer, and that Daniel Suarez did not wish to say so.

  Caroline simply looked at him.

  He folded his arms, fidgeting as she tried to hold his gaze. “Why does the drug stuff matter, anyhow?”

  The truth, Caroline knew, might drive him further inward. But there was little choice. “Suppose,” she asked, “he was in trouble over drugs. Stiffed his supplier, somehow.”

  Daniel seemed to consider this. “That,” he said, “I wouldn’t know about.”

  Their eyes locked. The answer was truthful, Caroline was suddenly sure, just as the tacit admission in its phrasing—that James Case was dealing—had been a deliberate signal. Briefly, she considered the notion that, for dramatic effect, James Case had lied to Brett about his vandalized apartment but not about his problem. And then she had the sudden jarring thought that she could read Daniel Suarez far more easily than she could Brett.

  In Caroline’s silence, Daniel leaned forward, an unspoken appeal forming in his eyes. “If I could help Brett,” he said quietly, “I would.”

  The best tack, Caroline decided, was to shame him. In a tone of skepticism, she responded. “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Because I didn’t like the way he treated her. Though I guess she figured she could deal with it.”

  Caroline felt herself tensing with surprise. Casually, she said, “What do you mean?”

  Daniel looked at her hard, and then shrugged. “Maybe Brett didn’t know.”

  “That he mistreated her?” Caroline stopped herself and then, almost against her will, asked, “How could she not know?”

  Daniel folded his hands. So, his brown gaze said, you don’t know, either. “There was this girl from school who used to come here—blond. The only name I got was Megan.”

  “ ‘Here’?”

  “To see James.”

  “Probably a friend.” Caroline paused, affecting a carelessness she did not feel. “How often did she come?”

  “A few times.” Daniel’s voice was soft now. “One morning, she came to my door in James’s T-shirt. To borrow milk.”

  Caroline sat back. It was a moment before she asked, “Did this girl say anything in particular?”

  Daniel’s face was serious. “It was more how she was—wired, smug, a little in my face. Like she wanted someone to know that she was screwing him. Even me.”

  Think, Caroline ordered herself. She paused, phrasing her next inquiry with care. “When the police asked about Brett’s relationship to James,” she said slowly, “what was your answer?”

  Their eyes met; the sense of a silent understanding, suddenly shared, ran through Caroline like a shock.

  “I told them it was fine.” A first, faint smile. “As far as I know, it was.”

  Caroline was pacing her room when the telephone rang.

  She snatched at it. The nasal drone of a secretary announced that the senior senator from California was calling Caroline Masters. There was a click, and then the senator came on the line.

  “Caroline?” Her voice was brisk, professional. “Your office said I could find you here. How are you?”

  Caroline inhaled. “I’ve been better, I’m sorry to say. We have something of a family problem.”

  “That’s what I understand.” A moment’s pause. “Walter Farris called today. To touch base and, I detected, in the hope that I’d underscore his concern. So here I am.”

  Caroline closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, although it did not sound quite apt.

  “Oh, of course.” Pausing, the senator adopted a sympathetic tone. “I’m sure that it must be terrible for you, for all of you. And that you’ll want to do everything appropriate to help your niece.”

  Caroline did not miss the inflection. “I will, naturally. But there’s only so much I can do.”

  “I imagine that’s true. Hopefully, though, this won’t come to anything, and your niece will end up in the clear.” Her voice modulated to the casual. “So when will you be able to come back?”

  Caroline reflected. “Three or four days, I think.”

  “Good.” Another pause. “After all, a number of us have worked very hard for this nomination. No one more than you.”

  “Thank you,” Caroline said. “I appreciate that.”

  “Then see you soon,” the senator said, and got off.

  Twelve

  The next morning, the woman at the front desk called Caroline’s room and announced that Mr. Watts was in the parlor.

  It surprised her: she was not prepared for him. Distractedly, she checked her hair in the mir
ror, then went downstairs.

  He was seated in a wingback chair. When he saw her, he stood, but he did not give her the smile she half expected. His eyes were somber.

  Quietly, she asked, “What is it?”

  He glanced toward the front desk. “Let’s go outside, all right?”

  They went to the porch, sat next to each other on the love seat. Except for a young boy on a bicycle, the street was deserted.

  “You were supposed to be back in Concord,” she said.

  Jackson gave her a sideways look of deep unhappiness. “I should be,” he said. “I wish I were.”

  Caroline felt numb. “Brett,” she said softly.

  “You’ll need to find a lawyer for her, Caroline.” He exhaled. “We’re getting an arrest warrant. As early as this afternoon.”

  “For what?”

  “Murder one.”

  Yesterday, Caroline thought, she had awakened with him. “Something happened,” she said.

  Jackson gave a slow nod. “A new witness contacted the state police yesterday morning. I met with her last night.”

  Caroline felt a premonition. “What did she say?”

  Jackson stood, gazing out at the street. “She claims to be James’s lover. According to her, James asked her to go with him to California.”

  The sentence had an incomplete sound. “And?”

  “Brett was obsessively jealous—obsessed with James, period. She watched his apartment for other women.” He paused, speaking in a monotone. “One night, James brought this woman home. Her story is that Brett got in with a key and found them in bed together. Then threatened to kill them both.”

  Caroline rose from the love seat, stood next to him. “Does that really sound right to you?”

  Jackson still studied the street. “This woman makes a good impression. She’s not an obvious flake.”

  “Then what took her so long?”

  “It hasn’t been that long.” He turned to Caroline. “How eager would you be to become a principal witness in a very public murder trial?”

  Caroline placed her hands on the porch rail. Softly, she said, “I don’t see murder one here. Even if you believe this woman.”

  “If you believe this woman, Caroline, Brett threatened Case well before he was murdered.” He lowered his voice. “It’s one of two things. Either Brett drove him to the lake with an intent to kill or, high on drugs and wine, she hit a flash point of jealousy and slashed his throat without thinking. Which I imagine will be Brett’s lawyer’s argument.”

  Caroline closed her eyes. “What’s this girl’s name?”

  Slowly, Jackson shook his head. “I have to protect her privacy. When Brett’s lawyer wants this woman’s statement, I’ll hand it over at the appropriate time. But not now.”

  Standing straight, Caroline folded her arms, fought back a sense of helplessness. “And bail?”

  Jackson frowned; his voice was a prosecutor’s now, well prepared and matter-of-fact. “I’ll have to oppose it, and I’ll win. In New Hampshire, first-degree murder is virtually nonbailable.”

  Caroline tried to imagine Brett in jail, found her mind resisting the image. “For God’s sake, Jackson, she’s no flight risk.”

  Jackson turned to her. “Really,” he said quietly, “there’s no point in arguing over this. Please accept that I’m sorry.”

  “Is that what you came to say?”

  He looked at her directly. “I came to make arrangements, for Brett to come in on her own. And, however difficult, to tell you in person.”

  “What arrangements?”

  “We won’t arraign Brett until tomorrow afternoon, so that she can have some time with family. As long as a police car follows, I’ll let you bring her to the jail at Connaughton Falls, where people can visit easily. And I’ll try to keep the press away.”

  That, Caroline knew, was as decent as he could make this. “Is that it?”

  For a moment, he simply looked at her. “That’s it.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  Jackson began to leave and then stopped close to her, touching her elbow. She stared down at his hand until it fell to his side.

  “Goodbye, Caroline.” And he walked to his truck and drove away.

  Caroline drove to Masters Hill through a light drizzle, not unlike that on the day of her return.

  Larry was in the library. Without preface, Caroline demanded, “Is Brett here?”

  “She’s out for a walk.” He studied her expression. “Is something wrong?”

  “Go find Betty.”

  He stood, alarmed now. “Should Channing be here?”

  “Just find her, for God’s sake.”

  When Larry returned with her, Betty’s face was pale.

  “What is it, Caroline?”

  “Please, sit down.”

  They did that. Caroline regarded her sister and brother-in-law; they looked diminished, shrunken, in the overstuffed chairs. Larry struggled to maintain calm; Betty’s face was sallow.

  Caroline’s voice was softer now. “There’s no good way to tell you this,” she said. “I just saw Jackson. They’re charging Brett with first-degree murder.”

  Betty’s lips parted, but she made no sound. “Why?” Larry managed.

  “There’s a witness—a woman. Her story is that she was involved with James; that Brett found out; and that she threatened to kill them both.”

  Betty’s hands balled into fists. “That’s ridiculous. Brett would never threaten anyone.” She stopped herself, and Caroline saw the gray eyes move from anger to anxiety. “Who is this woman, Caroline?”

  “I don’t know.” For a moment, Caroline considered asking Larry if he knew a student named Megan, and then did not ask: the risk was too great that Betty—or even Larry—might do something unwise. “Jackson wouldn’t say—”

  “Because she’s a liar.”

  There was something pitiful, Caroline thought, in Betty’s anger. Caroline had seen it before: the look of a mother who has just learned that her child is ensnared in a legal system she cannot control or even comprehend. But always, before, the mother had been a stranger, the child just a client.

  Quietly, Caroline said, “Brett’s lawyer will find out soon enough.”

  Larry, Caroline saw, caught her meaning as she spoke. She watched the dawn of comprehension redden Betty’s face.

  “You won’t help her?” she demanded.

  Caroline forced herself to be calm. “I didn’t think you wanted me to. And I shouldn’t. For Brett’s sake.”

  “For Brett’s sake.” Betty stood, shock and derision mingling in her voice. “Is this what you call selflessness?”

  Caroline folded her arms. “Yes,” she said coolly. “For lack of a term we can agree on.”

  Larry crossed the room and took Betty by the arm. “It’s Caro’s decision. We have to look ahead now.”

  “What I’d suggest,” Caroline said in more even tones, “is someone from in-state, who knows the laws here—written and unwritten. Father will know who’s good.”

  Betty stared at her. “And what will you do for her?”

  “Other than give her lawyer the best advice I can?” Caroline paused, expelling a breath, and finished in a lower voice. “Go home. For everyone’s sake, and for all the reasons I haven’t been part of this family for over twenty years.”

  Caroline watched a range of emotions cross her sister’s face—irresolution, dislike, and then so much fear for Brett that it erased all else. “Betty,” Caroline said softly, “it’s the decent thing for me to do now. That was decided when I decided to leave. No matter what you’ve done, or how I may feel about it.”

  Betty sat back in the chair, heavily and gracelessly, face dull with fear and confusion. Larry rested his hand on her leg. Neither looked up at Caroline.

  “There is one other thing,” Caroline said. “Which, for Brett’s sake, I’d very much like to mention.”

  It took a moment for Larry to raise his head. “Yes?”

 
“My father had a fishing knife—a bone-handled Cahill that he kept in the garage. Where is it?”

  Larry’s face clouded. “What are you saying?”

  “Betty?” Caroline waited for Betty to look up. “Our father says that he gave it to someone. Years ago.”

  Betty’s upward stare was sharp. “What are you saying?”

  “That the question may come up.” Caroline’s tone was neutral. “And that if it does, it would be very much in Brett’s interest if the family memory is consistent. Or, at least, that no one gives a careless answer.”

  Larry’s expression grew hard. “Caroline, I have no answer. I leave Channing’s things alone—”

  “Damn you,” Betty burst out. “You think Brett killed him.”

  Caroline kept her face blank, her voice calm. “I don’t ‘think’ anything. I’m suggesting that you think.”

  Betty’s mouth compressed. “Whatever Father says, Caroline, is true. If that’s your question.”

  Caroline watched her for another moment and then spoke to both of them. “I’ll tell Brett myself—there are things I need to say to her. I’m sure you won’t mind if I wait for her on the porch.”

  Thirteen

  Caroline first saw her as a distant, hooded figure in the drizzle, walking with downcast eyes.

  Caroline paused, glancing at the sky. And then she rose from the porch and went to meet her on the gravel road. Until she was close enough to hear the crunch of Caroline’s footsteps, Brett did not seem to notice her approaching.

  She stopped, watching Caroline’s face, hands thrust in the pockets of her yellow slicker. “What are you doing, Caroline? Trying for pneumonia?” That she did not smile betrayed her anxiety.

  For a long time, Caroline simply looked at her. Quite softly, she said, “Clients lie to lawyers all the time. I should be used to it.”

  Brett gave her a funny, trapped look, equal parts guilt and surprise. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

  “No,” Caroline went on. “I should put you out of your misery. Who, pray tell, is Megan?”

  Brett looked down. Then she stood straighter, facing Caroline, and said, “A woman James was involved with.”