Rough Justice

by Lisa Scottoline

  “No thanks.”

  “I could trim that mop on your head.”

  “Gotta run,” Bennie said as she hit the cold air.

  34

  Judge Rudolph pondered the bad news propped up on his elbow next to his snoring wife, reluctant to leave the warmth of his king-size four-poster. The judge had been fast asleep when he got a call from his law clerk telling him that two of Steere’s lawyers were missing or shot and security guards had been murdered. Christ, if it wasn’t one thing it was another. Judge Rudolph knew he had a terrible night ahead and it would begin as soon as his bare toes hit the cold hardwood floor. He had some concern for the lawyers, but he had to keep his focus clear. What about his elevation to the Court?

  “How long, Lord?” Judge Rudolph muttered to himself as he swung his skinny legs out from under the white baffle comforter. His feet chilled on contact with the hardwood floor that Enid refused to cover with anything as plebeian as a rug. He scurried to the bathroom in his boxer shorts and stood shivering on the rag bath mat. It was too cold in this damn house. Enid kept the thermostat at 68 degrees, and his toes were blue half the time. The judge hugged himself to get warm and wiggled his feet on the bath mat. He wasn’t moving off that rug. The tile floor would be ice.

  The judge inched the bath mat over to the toilet with his toes. He’d have to get to chambers and deal with this mess. The snowstorm howled outside the bathroom window. He’d call the sheriff to drive him in. Not even a blizzard would stop him. It would take more than an act of God to keep Harry Calvin Rudolph from the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania.

  The judge lifted the seat up. It would take a minute since that go-round with his prostate. But he was okay, he was fine, he still had a long career ahead. Breathe in, breathe out. Reeeee-lax, like the doctor said. Say it slow, “Reeeee-lax.” Then it came, with his thoughts.

  One lawyer was left: the big blond, Carrier. Legally, the case could go forward as long as one lawyer was alive, assuming the defendant didn’t object. But if Steere filed for a mistrial or a continuance, that would make for a different result. Judge Rudolph didn’t know the law on this point exactly because there was no law on it. How often did the lawyers get knocked off while a jury was out? The judge had told his law clerk to get his ass into chambers and come up with the right answer. Joey, who couldn’t even buy milk.

  Judge Rudolph jumped off the bath mat and scampered back across the chilly parquet to his dressing room, where he landed with both feet on the Oriental rug. His feet were so cold. He slipped into his socks first and was halfway into his suit pants when the telephone rang.

  “Damn!” He hurried into the den to get the phone, holding his pants up with one hand. The last thing the judge needed was Enid awake and bitching. She hated the Steere case. She’d missed their winter vacation to Sanibel because of it, and when Enid didn’t get to play golf she became unbearable. Judge Rudolph scooted down the hall into his den just as the phone rang again. He snatched it from the hook and his suit pants dropped to his ankles when he realized who the caller was. “Mayor Walker,” the judge said, surprised.

  “Cold enough for you, Harry?” the mayor asked. His voice sounded casual, as if he called the judge in the middle of the night all the time.

  “Sure as hell is.” Judge Rudolph wasn’t having any of it. The mayor was a Democrat and the judge a Republican, so the mayor would never back him for the Court. Pennsylvania was one of the few states that still voted for its judiciary, like prize heifers in a county fair, and for that the judge thanked his lucky stars. Except for the Democratic enclave that was Philadelphia, most of the state was conservative and Republican. “Quite a storm.”

  “Blizzard of the century.”

  “At least of the reelection.”

  Both men laughed unpleasantly. Judge Rudolph, standing in a wool pool of suit pants, knew Mayor Walker had pushed Steere’s prosecution. The mayor would like nothing better than a mistrial, which would keep Steere in jail and release his properties. The judge would like nothing better than a verdict, which would ensure him a new robe.

  “I’ll get to the point,” the mayor said. “I gather you’ve heard the news. Someone is killing Elliot Steere’s lawyers.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” The judge hoisted his pants up by their waistband. He’d be damned if he’d discuss the Steere case with the mayor. How would it play out later?

  “I would. Murder, kidnapping. A tragedy, and a catastrophe for the case.”

  “It’s a tragedy for the guards’ families, but it shouldn’t affect this case.” The judge was choosing his words carefully. It was risky to even entertain the call. Judge Rudolph knew only one way to protect himself. He pressed a button beside his phone and the audiotape hidden in his desk drawer clicked noiselessly into operation. “I have no intention of discussing the merits of the Steere case with you,” the judge said as distinctly as possible.

  “I’m not calling to discuss the merits,” the mayor said, equally distinctly. Peter Walker didn’t get to be mayor by being completely obtuse. His own tape recorder had been rolling from the outset. “I called to touch base with you on the procedure with the blizzard. Iron out the logistics. I’ve declared a snow emergency, but I can get the jurors escorted to their homes. When do you anticipate you’ll be dismissing the jury?”

  “There will be no dismissal. The jurors will remain in sequestration and continue their deliberations.”

  “What? I can’t imagine it would be lawful to go forward in these circumstances. One of the associates on the defense team, Mary DiNunzio, is in intensive care and not likely to pull through.”

  “The defendant has a lawyer, a bright young woman,” the judge said. Maybe this was his chance to redeem himself for that “tit” comment. “She’s very competent to handle the trial, as are many of the women who come before me. She works in an all-woman law firm, you know, Rosato and Associates. I have a great respect for that firm. I have no doubt they’ll do everything in their power to protect the defendant’s right to counsel and due process.”

  On the other end of the line, the mayor rolled his eyes. Who was up for election here, the judge or him? Oh. Both. “Lead counsel is missing, too. Marta Richter. How can you proceed without her?”

  “Ms. Richter isn’t missing. My law clerk spoke with her this evening and she was fine.”

  “She may have been kidnapped!”

  “That’s speculation. Ms. Richter’s whereabouts when court is not in session are not my concern. I have no facts which lead me to believe—”

  “You don’t have all the facts, Harry.”

  The judge paused. The mayor could have useful information. “Have the police found evidence of kidnapping?”

  The mayor paused. The judge could have useful information. “Has the defendant filed for a mistrial?”

  Both men went mute while their tape recorders whirred away. A Philadelphia standoff.

  Judge Rudolph cleared his throat after a minute. “I’m extremely uncomfortable with this conversation.”

  “I don’t see why. I’m not asking you anything confidential. Whether a motion for a mistrial has been filed is a matter of public record. The roads are unsafe in this blizzard, and if you’re continuing the deliberations, you’ll need extra police personnel to transport the jurors to the Criminal Justice Center. Advance notice of that will help the city accommodate your needs during this state of emergency.”

  “The case is going forward,” the judge said firmly. Judicially. “If the defendant wants a mistrial he may file a motion through Ms. Carrier or on his own. He may even telephone me if he wishes. My law clerk knows where to reach me at all times. That’s where you got this number, isn’t it?” The judge shook his head. He’d ream Joey out when he got to chambers. Strike two for that boy. “Also, I’ve ordered the jurors to continue their deliberations at their hotel, so I won’t need to transport them to the Criminal Justice Center. I expect this will be our last conversation on this matter.” The judge hung up the ph
one and buckled his suit pants with satisfaction.

  His toes wiggled happily, suddenly warm.

  Across town at City Hall, the mayor threw his telephone at the paneled wall. It fell to the red Oriental carpet in a tangled heap.

  Jen watched it tumble with a grim look on her face. “Told you you should have let me call,” she said.

  35

  Standing on the windswept dune, Marta saw Bogosian’s head snap toward her at the sound of her scream. He must have heard her. He’d come after her.

  She took off, running flat out down the snowy beach. It was pitch black. Marta couldn’t see a thing. Snow blew everywhere and became ocean. Ocean churned everywhere and became sky. Wind pummeled her face and buffeted her ears. Run. Run away. Into the darkness and noise and cold. Run away. Fast as she could. Fast as she had from the station wagon, her mother calling after her. Run away.

  Marta tore down the beach. Her cap flew off. She glanced back and caught sight of the lighted house. Alix was pounding at the French doors. Bogosian must have locked her in. He was coming. Oh God. In a minute he’d be on the beach. He’d shoot at her like before. Only now there’d be no monster snowplow to rescue her. Run away.

  Marta veered toward the water’s edge where the snow was thin. Wind caught her full in the face and chest. She streaked down the beach, splashing in the surf. The waves crashed, the spray frigid at her shoulder. Icy water drenched her coat. Marta couldn’t see where the beach ended and the water began, so she kept running in a straight line away from Steere’s beach house.

  Her breath came in panicked bursts. Her legs ached from running in heavy boots. Her shoulders felt weak under the soggy coat. Marta couldn’t keep up the pace much longer. She spotted a white modern house in the distance. A place to hide.

  She angled away from the water and bolted through the snow for the house. The wind blew off the ocean, propelling her forward. As Marta got closer to the house she scanned it for hiding places. It was too dark to see and she just kept going. Her heart felt like it was about to explode.

  Crack! Crack! Gunshots.

  Marta felt a jolt of terror. Bogosian. The Magnum. Where was he? Marta couldn’t tell where the shots came from. The storm and the sea swallowed the sound. How close was he?

  She was almost at the white house. It was tall, built on stilts. Where could she hide? There was a wraparound deck, but it was too exposed. She ran under the deck, looking wildly around. It was dark under the house. No snow to show her tracks. A wooden door banged in the wind toward the back. An outdoor shower.

  Crack! Another gunshot. Louder. Closer. No time to lose.

  Marta ran to the shower stall and slipped inside. It was dark. She saw nothing. Her fingers fumbled to lock the bolt and she bumped into an inside shelf. She felt for the shelf with jittery fingertips and clambered onto it. What to do? Pray Bogosian didn’t find her? No. She needed a weapon. Then she remembered.

  Christopher’s tools. She yanked the forge hammer out of her pocket. A hammer against a gun? She shook with terror. Her panting was too loud. Her ribs seared with pain. Her pulse wouldn’t quit. She raised the heavy hammer and peeked over the top of the stall in the dark.

  There. Bogosian. A large shadow against the snow, white shirt flapping, lurching down the beach. His gun was drawn. His head was down. He was looking for footprints in the snow. He turned toward the house.

  God, no. Marta’s stomach torqued. He was walking toward the house. Following her tracks. She could see the glint of his gun as he got closer.

  Marta ducked and tried to silence her panting. She found a skinny crack between the boards of the stall and pressed her eye to it. She could see Bogosian, but he couldn’t see her. She told herself she had the advantage and willed herself to believe it. She would surprise him.

  Bogosian lumbered toward the house. He stopped, crouching to touch the snow. Tracing the footprints. He straightened up and followed them directly to the house.

  Marta bit her lip so she wouldn’t scream.

  Bogosian kept coming. His gun was drawn, ready to fire. He was ten feet from the house, then five. Going straight up to the porch. Stopping right where Marta had, in front of the wraparound deck.

  Marta didn’t move, she didn’t breathe. Then she remembered the pritchel. She reached into her pocket and grabbed the spike. What could she do with it? Marta forced herself to think despite her fear. In the movies, they threw things to create a distraction and run. That wouldn’t work. Bogosian would shoot Marta down as she ran.

  Bogosian cocked his head, reminding Marta again of an attack dog. This time it gave her an idea.

  She scratched the pritchel against the wood and gave a soft whimper like a puppy. A little lost dog trapped in the shower stall. The thug was a dog lover, wasn’t he? He’d practically memorized that magazine.

  Bogosian swiveled toward the sound. He aimed his gun at the stall.

  Marta’s heart leapt into her throat. She scratched harder and whimpered more fearfully. It wasn’t hard to fake.

  Bogosian took a step under the house, then another. He was so tall, she could reach him if she could draw him near enough. He had the advantage at a distance. Guns will do that.

  Marta scratched even harder. She whimpered as low as she could, as if she were wounded. Starving. Near death. Three more steps was all she needed to reach him.

  Bogosian took one more step, then the second. Then the third. Striking distance.

  Please, God, help me. Marta raised the forge hammer and brought it down on Bogosian’s head with brute force, driving the iron ball through his crown. His skull cracked like a pavement. Blood gushed from the wound, hot and wet, splattering Marta’s face. She screamed in horror.

  Bogosian’s eyes went round as the moon and they stared at her.

  He was dead as he stood.

  36

  Elliot Steere sat behind the thick bulletproof window in the interview room and watched with masked amusement as Judy Carrier tried to interrogate him. She was a young woman, and her bowl haircut and oversized features made her look like an oversized rag doll. Carrier had been questioning him for almost fifteen minutes and had managed to keep her temper even as she got nowhere. Steere could see from her expression that she was growing angry and desperate. A potentially troublesome combination, even in toys.

  “I want to know what the fuck is going on,” Carrier was saying. She stood behind the chair on her side of the window and gripped the backrest. Steere noticed her right hand was bandaged but didn’t mention it.

  “I am on trial for murder and awaiting a verdict.”

  “You didn’t tell us the truth.”

  “I didn’t tell you anything. You’re a junior associate on my defense. I deal with Marta.”

  “Where is Marta?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who shot Mary?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What does street money have to do with Eb Darning? What do you have to do with Eb Darning?”

  “What’s street money?”

  Judy’s anger bubbled to the surface. “You don’t know what happened to Mary, you don’t know what happened to Marta. You don’t know the ‘driver’ who took Marta to the office and you can’t explain how you knew the traffic light was red. For a man who’s supposed to have all the answers, you don’t know jack shit.”

  Steere brushed smooth a wrinkle in his pants. “If this is what you interrupted me for, I’ll go back to my cell.”

  “Someone’s trying to kill your lawyers. Why do I get the feeling it’s you?”

  “Absurd.”

  “You know what I think? I think you’re a murderer. I think you murdered Eb Darning and I think you hired somebody to kill my best friend.”

  “You’re not talking like my lawyer, Ms. Carrier.” Steere stood up and shook down his pant legs. “I’m going back to my cell. Do not call for me until the jury has returned.”

  “You expect me to go forward as your trial counsel?”

  “
Expect it? I insist on it.”

  “I knew you would.” Judy folded her arms and her blue eyes narrowed. “The last thing you want is a mistrial or a continuance, am I right?”

  “Correct. The jury has the case. My name must be cleared.”

  “And if I don’t want to clear it? If I withdraw from the case?”

  “I’ll oppose. My constitutional—”

  “I figured as much. That’s why I wrote this.” Judy pulled a packet of papers from her inside pocket and pressed them through the slot in the bulletproof window. “It’s handwritten. Not the prettiest motion in the world, but it’ll do the trick.”

  Steere glanced at the papers without touching them. “What is this?”

  “A motion for a mistrial. Considering what’s happened to my co-counsel, I have reason to believe my life is in danger. It’s an emergency motion.”

  Steere tried to suppress his smile. “Since when are your fears legal grounds for a mistrial?”

  “Since now. I’m not too worried about precedent on this one. There’s no law on what happens when someone uses the defense team for target practice. I’m not one for precedent anyway. When you’re right, you’ll win. Case law or no.”

  “Very interesting, but you can’t file a motion without my approval. And I’m not giving my approval to any such motion.”

  “Too bad. I already filed it.”

  Steere paused momentarily. “You didn’t.”

  “Yepper. I left it under the door of the clerk of the court’s office downstairs, timed and dated.” Judy checked her watch. “The motion is filed as of five minutes ago. I’ll serve the D.A. and the judge as soon as I leave here. It’ll be of record in the morning.”

  Steere appraised her anew as they stood tall on either side of the divider.

  “Your only choice is to fire me. Either way, I’m no longer your lawyer and I get my mistrial.” Judy grinned, and Steere noticed the gaps between her teeth.