In the Night of the Heat

by Blair Underwood

“Uncle Em, this is Tennyson Hardwick,” Melanie said. “He was friends with Bumpy back at SoCal. They lived together at Clayton Hall.”

  Despite Melanie’s exaggeration of my status in T.D.’s life, Judge Jackson didn’t move to let me into his home. His dark eyes assessed me, then he glanced over my shoulder, probably to make sure no news vans were lurking, even with a guardhouse at the neighborhood’s gate. The whites of his eyes were anything but, and his face was puffy beneath his eyelids. He looked embattled; he wasn’t used to crying, but tears had forced him to submit for days.

  “You kin to Captain Hardwick?”

  “Yessir. My father. He’s had some struggles, but he’s doing fine.”

  Judge Jackson grunted. “Tennyson like the poet, huh? Charge of the Light Brigade?”

  “‘Into the jaws of Death, into the mouth of Hell, Rode the six hundred.’ But my mother preferred Ulysses.” More for Melanie’s sake than Judge Jackson’s, I recited lines I memorized in high school in my quest to know my mother: “‘We are not now that strength which in old days / Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are. / One equal temper of heroic hearts, / Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will / To strive, to seek, to find…and not to yield.’”

  Melanie stirred beside me, a silent Yes! I hoped to hear that cry aloud later, in her bed. Poetry had been one of my popular extras as an escort. Judge Jackson looked at me with new eyes, intrigued. I’d passed his test. When he let me in, he came as close to a smile as he could.

  The Jackson house was elegant and tranquil, a chapel of mourning. The house had high ceilings, and the winding marble staircase was too fine even for Gone With the Wind’s famed Tara. The living room brimmed with somber arrangements of roses and lilies, scenting the air with false spring, but the colonial-style furniture in the living room was a dour shade, probably like Judge Jackson’s courtroom. I knew that the Aaron Douglas and Henry Ossawa Tanner original paintings on the wall had cost a fortune, but the décor was understated. I figured the Jacksons hadn’t come into money in only one generation; they were comfortable with money. Steeped in it.

  Judge Jackson led us past the tallest floral arrangement in the living room, where T.D. Jackson’s face was framed by new flower buds. BELOVED SON AND FATHER, a ribbon was inscribed. It was a high school photograph, senior year in cap and gown, acne and all. The unlucky parents who outlive their children always remember them most vividly from when they were young.

  Three sets of soles echoed on the marble floor in the walkway. While the sound ricocheted in my head, Judge Jackson said something I didn’t hear.

  “You may have to speak up, Judge Jackson,” I said. “Firearm incident. My ear.”

  Judge Jackson looked back at me, disturbed on my behalf.

  “Don’t worry, Uncle Em,” Melanie said, shining a smile at me. “My firm’s on it.”

  So, I had a lawyer now, and a good one, judging by the address I’d seen on her business card. I just hoped I could afford her—and dollars were the least of my worries. I guess that was my favor. I should have asked for two.

  As we walked across the vast expanse of the house, we came to an open-air chef’s kitchen, where a woman I guessed was T.D.’s mother sat on a tall barstool, staring into her teacup. It felt impolite to gaze at her for more than an instant; her agony was so pronounced on her thin face that she could have been naked. Her hair was hurriedly fixed into an unruly bun, with nearly half of her hair still loose. She wore a slightly frayed sweater that was clearly comfort clothing, designed for indoor use only. T.D. had had his mother’s nose and long forehead.

  Judge Jackson leaned close to her, gentle as a mouse. “Evangeline? This is Tennyson Hardwick. He knew T.D. He’s come to help us.”

  She flinched, then she gave me the blankest stare I’ve ever seen—her brown eyes were a cavern. Tranquilizers, I guessed, and maybe a glass or two of wine. Bad combination. “All right,” she said in a thin voice, sounding resigned.

  Judge Jackson patted his wife’s hand. “Richard Hardwick’s son,” he added.

  A spark of light passed across her empty eyes, a flaming moth on a moonless night. “Richard Hardwick. The Beverly Hills–Hollywood NAACP branch. Such a good speaker! Got everyone so motivated. You look just like him…” Everywhere I went, I was reminded of how I resembled my father in appearance alone.

  Her voice faded as the light in her eyes died. After another fond pat, Judge Jackson motioned for us to follow him.

  “I pray to God she survives this,” he said to Melanie. “I just don’t know.”

  “Aunt Evie’s just like Mom.” Melanie linked their arms. “Like me. She’ll survive.”

  “Hope you’re right,” he said.

  At the other end of the house, double doors led to a large study with paneled wood worthy of the Peninsula. Melanie let us go in alone, waiting outside. She knew what Judge Jackson was going to say. Above the large oak desk, I saw the requisite array of certificates, diplomas, and degrees one would expect from a lawyer and judge, including one photo of Judge Jackson with Bill and Hillary Clinton; another with Barack Obama. Covering his bets.

  The centerpiece was a glass-enclosed case that stretched the length of the room, the shrine to T.D. Jackson. “May I?” I said.

  Judge Jackson nodded eagerly. Of course. He flipped a switch, and the display was bathed in light. It looked professionally mounted; part photo display, part trophy case, part collage of newspaper headlines. T.D. Jackson’s gleaming bronze Heisman Trophy sat on a shelf, the old-school football warrior running with his arm thrust out. I’d never seen a Heisman up close, and I was surprised at its size. It looked like it weighed twenty-five pounds.

  “T.D. gave me that the night he got it,” Judge Jackson said, quickly wiping his eye. “Said it was mine by rights.” No small honor: Few actors would let an Oscar or Emmy out of his sight, although Jimmy Stewart famously gave his Oscar to his father.

  Judge Jackson looked up at me, his face suddenly full of pride. “You know what else? T.D. had his Super Bowl ring engraved to his mother and gave it to her. How about that? That’s the kind of son T.D. was.”

  T.D. Jackson sounded like a hell of a guy.

  The case wasn’t entirely dedicated to T.D.’s career. On the far left side, the lacquered newspaper clippings were from the 1960s, before T.D.’s time. An older photograph showed a Southern California State squad in outdated uniforms, with four black men prominent in the center. Even with his helmet on, I spotted Emory Jackson’s face, nearly fifty years younger.

  “So you played, too?” I said.

  “Not like T.D., but we thought we were doin’ something.”

  The older team had done pretty well, I noticed: Beneath the photo was a single newspaper article, the headline reading SOCAL SPARTANS BOWL BOUND.

  “I know T.D. went to you looking for protection,” Judge Jackson said. He was standing closer behind me that I’d realized.

  I had wondered if that would come up. “Yessir. I couldn’t swing the schedule.”

  “Has your schedule changed?”

  “Actually, it has.”

  “Tell me you give a damn what happened to T.D. Tell me you didn’t forsake him for personal reasons.” Forsake was a strong word, spoken from pursed, angry lips.

  “Judge, I’d take the job if I could go back. I wish I could have prevented it. I never meant to forsake your son.” I’d sounded genuinely sorry, and hadn’t had to fake it.

  Judge Jackson sighed. “All right,” he said.

  In the display case, he pointed out T.D.’s iconic jersey, Number 13, which lay beneath a poster-sized photo of T.D.’s Super Bowl reception for the San Francisco 49ers, the year he was dubbed “The Master of Disaster.” (A tiny placard pointed out that it was the very jersey T.D. had worn that snowy day in Buffalo.) T-shirts, coffee mugs, and water bottles proclaimed his legend. On the far right side of the display, T.D.’s journey to Hollywood was chronicled in one-sheets and publicity shots. None of his movies ever fulfilled the promi
se of Cody’s Dawn, T.D.’s first movie, where he played an injured Gulf War vet with surprising pathos and earned a Golden Globe nomination. But until a couple of years before his divorce—after a ridiculous direct-to-DVD mistake called Space Bowl made it hard to look at him with a straight face—T.D. Jackson had been an industry unto himself in Hollywood.

  Judge Jackson toured me through his display case with more vigor than I could have mustered in his place, but his sigh deflated him. His shoulders shrank before my eyes.

  “All this…” His breath clouded the glass until he dutifully wiped it clean. “A statue, paper, and memories…” He didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to. Death takes everything that counts, that’s all.

  Judge Jackson closed the study’s doors so we would have privacy. I doubted that Evangeline Jackson could hear much of anything, but he took the precaution.

  “This might seem strange to you, son, but I need to search you,” the judge said.

  I spread my legs and raised my arms. “I have a permit, but I don’t carry a gun,” I said.

  “That’s your own business, although you may want to start. I’m not worried about a gun.” He patted me down as methodically as my father might have, with a special emphasis on pockets and creases. He was looking for a tape recorder, I realized. Fireworks whistled in my head.

  Judge Jackson gestured toward a leather recliner, and I sat. He sat across from me, atop his desk, facing me from several inches higher. Elevated, just like in court.

  “You know I’m a sitting federal judge.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Mr. Hardwick, my son’s killer is out there, and I want him found. Because the police don’t give a damn, in the words of Malcolm, I’m left to do it by any means necessary. That’s why this job calls for discretion. Delicacy. My niece believes we can trust you, but I want to hear it from your mouth.”

  “Trust me to…what, sir?”

  “To keep what’s my business my business.”

  Sounded safe enough. “I’m not the chatty type.”

  Judge Jackson studied me for a beat. Then he found a fat envelope on his desk and tossed it to me. It was heavy. “Ten thousand,” Judge Jackson said. “Twenty percent up front. A solid lead gets you another ten. You provide me reasonable evidence that you’ve found the killer, the name makes fifty. Cash.”

  Impolite or not, I had to peek into the envelope just to see the neat stack of new bills, in hundreds and fifties. The scent from the envelope was strong and cloying. I liked that smell.

  Reasonable evidence. That was a much looser standard than one he’d need in court, which, as he knew better than any of us, was Beyond a reasonable doubt.

  “What’s your definition of a ‘solid lead’?” I said.

  “I’ll know it when I hear it.”

  “Does full payment hinge on a successful prosecution?”

  “All I want is a name and evidence.”

  It almost sounded too good to be true. Granted, I didn’t have a badge or a PI license, but that meant I had less to lose for trespassing or illegally taping a conversation. “I appreciate your faith, Judge Hardwick, but I’m way out in the cold. Do you have a lead?”

  He picked up a sheaf of papers, dangling it like bait. “This is probably mostly a load of crap, but it’s a start. It’s a copy of the Robbery-Homicide murder book. You’d know what LAPD knows, as of 3:00 A.M. this morning. If this exchanges hands today and you get caught with it, you’re on your own. And son, mention my name, and I’ll bury you. You do not want to make an enemy of me.”

  My heart thudded. When Serena died, I would have sacrificed a digit to get my hands on the official LAPD murder book. Even with Dad’s connections, the only way I’d gotten a simple incident report was through April. She would be salivating if she saw this…

  But discretion was discretion. Even if she’d been here, I couldn’t have told April. I couldn’t tell Dad. I couldn’t tell anyone.

  “If I may be blunt…” I said. “You’re taking a lot of risks, sir.”

  “Risk is a part of life,” he said, looking annoyed. “Do you know how many of my fellow federal judges have been indicted in a decade? Accused of failing the bench? Four. Why do they do it? For money, usually. For power. For a blow job. For the risk itself. A friend of mine once told me, ‘All you need is a reason.’ Well, I have mine. And I’ll sleep at night just fine.”

  “I hope you trust your LAPD connection.”

  “With my life,” he said. “My source came to me and said LAPD was throwing the case. Sometimes, justice and the law are two separate and distinct entities, Mr. Hardwick.”

  We both knew the truth of that. When I nodded, he went on: “Internally, they call it murder—but to the outside world, it’s a suicide. Without any pressure to find a killer, there’s no incentive to clear up the confusion. That’s where you come in.” Judge Hardwick took a deep breath. “Do you think, Mr. Hardwick, that my son killed himself?” His eyes shimmered.

  “Bullshit. Sir.”

  Judge Hardwick loosed a sour smile. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Surprise me.”

  Judge Hardwick busied himself with decanters and cut-crystal glasses and frosted ice cubes from a hidden minibar. He handed me a glass filled with tea-colored liquid, and poured himself an identical libation. I sipped. Damn. Good bourbon. I wanted to take a doggie bag home to Dad.

  We sipped, sizing each other up. “So,” he said. “Here’s what you’ll have: Certainty. A sense of purpose. The murder book. Access to the crime scene. And, if you want it, access to the body—but the funeral’s on Sunday, so you need to make a decision fast.”

  I had already made my decision, I realized. Maybe I’d decided as soon as I saw Evangeline Jackson in her crippled haze at the kitchen counter. Or while I’d stared at two generations of glory captured inside that display case. Or sooner than that, when I’d seen T.D.’s high school graduation photo.

  No matter what T.D. Jackson had or hadn’t done, his parents deserved an answer. Any parents of a slain child deserved that small comfort.

  I didn’t ask what would happen to the accused if I gave Judge Jackson a name.

  I didn’t want to know.

  NINE

  WHEN WE GOT BACK TO HER CAR, Melanie paused before starting the engine. She settled back in her seat to say something important, her eyes unwavering. “I’m engaged.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. It took me a second to remember why she’d even brought it up. The visit to Judge Jackson’s house had erased my plans to see Melanie Wilde naked. As fine as she was, the fever had passed. Besides, we had just shared an experience much more intimate than sex. “Then I guess you’d better take me home.”

  All I could think about was Chela.

  It was five thirty when I walked through the front door, and Chela had already been home for two hours. I barely greeted Dad in the living room, and Marcela had left for the day. Chela might be on the phone with him right now, I thought as I bounded up the stairs.

  I flung Chela’s door open, forgetting to knock.

  She wasn’t on her phone, or sitting at her computer. She was sitting cross-legged in the center of her bed, combing out her hair. Chela rarely wore her hair loose; I’d forgotten she had so much, with wiry spirals flowing toward her neck. She hid her hair most of the time, but it had been loose in her photos to Internet Guy. The memory made me feel sick to my stomach.

  “Where’s the phone?” I said to her startled, who-me? eyes.

  “Jesus! It’s called knock-ing.” But my face told her to cease the shit flow, so she kept quiet. She knew what I wanted, but dug in her purse and handed me her iPhone.

  “Not that one,” I said. “Where’s the phone he gave you? Put it in my hand right now.”

  A pathetic desperation played across Chela’s face. She knew it was useless to lie, but she couldn’t think of an alternative. “What phone? What are you talking about—”

  I went for her desk drawers first—the desk we�
�d chosen at Staples and I’d put together myself, piece by piece—throwing their contents to the floor. I saw gum wrappers, loose change, and a pack of Marlboro Lights, another broken promise. No surprise there. I had noticed the stink of cigarettes despite her gum and mints more than once, but I chose my battles. A slender flash drive fell out of the second drawer, and I stuck that in my back pocket.

  Chela shrieked as if I’d struck her. “Stop it!” But she was frozen where she sat.

  I yanked out her computer’s power cords, and the screensaver photo of the two of us at Santa Monica pier vanished into blackness. “Where’s the phone, Chela?” I said, lifting the monitor high. When she didn’t answer—staring at me as if she couldn’t quite place who I was—I surprised us both by throwing the monitor to the floor.

  Even with carpeting, the screen cracked in two.

  Chela jumped to her feet, as if she was afraid I would take better aim next time. She did a spin toward the door, but I blocked her and slammed it shut.

  “Stop it!” she screamed. “I’m getting out of here—freak!”

  “Oh, I’m a freak?” I said. The next words tumbled out of my mouth before I could think about what marks they might leave. “That’s a joke, coming from a girl who sends dirty pictures to an old-ass man. Give me the fucking phone!”

  I picked up the computer’s brain next, the CPU, raising it above my head. Chela covered her head with her arms, hunching herself in a ball. I sure as hell would never throw any object at her, much less one that heavy—and I wasn’t going to trash an eight-hundred-dollar computer—but maybe she didn’t know that. Blood infused her face beneath her skin, splotchy and dark.

  “M-my term paper’s on there…” Chela whimpered.

  I didn’t know if she really gave a damn about her term paper or if she was only pretending to, but her sudden tears looked real enough. Chela’s helplessness drained away my anger’s volatility. Most of my rage wasn’t for her. That realization flooded me with shame.

  One of my ears heard Dad calling from downstairs, wondering what was going on.