“I figure you like the sound of your own voice. We don’t got time for that. Get up. You’re coming with me.”
Darren stood and stretched, arching his back and extending his arms up above him. The much-abused suit coat fell to the floor, revealing a shirt and tie that were no less wrinkled. His white dress shirt was untucked and hanging loose. His bright blue tie had been tugged down to allow him room to unbutton his collar, and it hung limply across his flat torso.
As far as Deputy Finch was concerned, that tie was a noose in need of tightening.
“Look,” Darren continued, and now Finch could smell the sharp odor of alcohol wafting after the man’s words. “The deal is, if I get pinched in mid-celebration, then you all agree to lodge me for the night. If you’re going to go to all this trouble to get me in here, what’s the point of sending me packing without a good night’s sleep?”
“We ain’t got no deal, boozehound,” Finch snarled, and leaned back from the bars to shout down the corridor. “Open it up!”
The cell door clanged, lurched and retracted. Finch found himself staring at Darren’s impish grin as the man shrugged into his suit coat.
“Turn around and put ’em together,” Finch ordered.
“You’re kidding.”
“Do it.”
“Finch—”
The deputy took a step forward, one of his big hands grabbing hold of Darren by the shoulder and spinning him around in an expert, well-practiced shove.
“You’re in custody ’til I say you ain’t,” he growled, and pulled his handcuffs from their pouch on his belt. He clasped them around Darren’s wrists. Darren’s crooked grin was still in place when Finch turned him around.
“You know she’ll make you take them off. What’s the point?”
“Point is, maybe she’s soft for you. I ain’t. Until she says otherwise, you’re just another jailbird. That’s enough chitchat. You just keep walking, we’ll get along fine, counselor.”
Deputy Finch took hold of Darren’s shoulder and walked the man ahead of him, out of the cell and down the corridor. Finch led him up three flights of stairs and through the sally port, bypassing the out-processing station altogether.
“I’ll need my wallet and keys, you know.”
“I got ’em already. Keep moving.”
And they were outside, in the dark Detroit streets. The jail was a concrete monolith at their backs as Finch guided them past the fenced lot where the county cars were parked. They continued on down the deserted block, Finch’s left hand held firmly on Darren’s shoulder, his right poised just above his holstered sidearm. His gunslinger’s stare scanned as they advanced, lingering on the dark doorways and yawning alleys along the street.
The Wayne County Jail was situated in the thriving area of downtown that everyone referred to as Greektown, though there was very little left of the ethnic presence that had originally earned that area its name. Now Greektown was mostly a hub of restaurants, bars and other small businesses that collectively fed the Greektown Casino. As late as it was, the neon signs were not lit and the locals who thronged the streets by day in hope of selling their wares to out-of-towners had retired. The clap of the two men’s footfalls was all the sound in the world.
“This isn’t the way to the courthouse, Finch.”
“Nope.”
“What’re we doing?”
“Walking. Try doing it without the lip. See how it goes.”
Finch brought them to a stop in front of a red Ford F-350 pickup parked on the curb outside a bakery. It had an extended bed, with doubled tires to support it. Inside the bed was a tree trunk that was halfway through the process of being sawed into sections. A chain saw and a red plastic gasoline can were secured inside with bungee cords pinning them against the side of the bed.
“This doesn’t look like a county vehicle.”
Finch produced a key ring and pushed the button on the remote that unlocked the pickup’s door. Darren climbed in with Finch’s help, and the deputy rounded over to the driver’s side. He leaned over and buckled Darren’s belt before securing his own and starting the behemoth’s engine.
“They don’t give you a car when you’re on bailiff duty. You still get mileage if it’s for official court business, though. I ain’t complaining.”
He pulled out and the big truck growled away, soon carrying them down an empty expressway on-ramp. They merged into the thin collection of semitrucks and late-night drivers. When the sign for westbound I-94 appeared in the truck’s headlights, Finch signaled left and glided over.
Beside him, Darren cleared his throat.
“Something’s happened, then.”
“I guess so.”
“Where’d she tell you to take me?”
“Airport.”
“Is she okay?”
Finch thumbed a stick of gum out of his breast pocket and unwrapped it with one hand, keeping the other on the wheel. He folded it into his mouth and kept his eyes on the road.
“Finch—”
“What do you care, Fletcher? All you do is give Her Honor grief. You’re a walking, talking headache far as I can tell.”
Darren sighed beside him and Finch could practically feel the lawyer’s mocking grin in the darkness. The deputy managed to keep from scowling.
“Gee, you make it sound like we aren’t friends anymore.”
“You think I don’t know you, Fletcher? I was on the street twenty years before I moved over to the courts and Her Honor’s office. I ran thousands of guys like you in and out of lockup. Drunks and screwups? The world ain’t running out of ‘em. Fact is, you’re nothing but a spill I keep getting told to clean up.”
“Huh. That how you see what you do?”
“We ain’t talkin’ about me,” Finch warned.
“Sounded like you were telling me about your career as a janitor.”
“I know if I decide to give you a slap, you won’t much care for it.”
“Who would?”
Beside him in the dark interior of the truck’s cab, Darren Fletcher yawned and rested his head against the passenger-side window. Inwardly, Finch wanted to kick himself. He knew better than to exchange words with the lawyer. Whenever they’d done it in the past, it had gone the same—Darren Fletcher got under his skin, considered it a victory and promptly got bored, leaving Finch to silently chew on the fact that Judge Chelsea Hodgens’s pet cause didn’t care one bit what the deputy thought of him or his habits.
Finch edged the truck up just over the speed limit and kept his eyes on the road for the rest of the drive to Detroit Metropolitan Airport.
* * *
Chelsea Hodgens sipped her cup of coffee and nodded toward the little award plaque Issabella Bright was holding in her hands.
“You’ll get more of those,” the Judge observed. “Don’t store them in your closet or use them as coasters. Hang them in your office for everyone to see. Especially you. When your day goes to shit and you can’t remember why you chose to defend criminals, just look up at the walls. It helps.”
Etched along the metal face of the plaque were the words For Excellence in the Defense of Michigan’s Indigent. Issabella smiled bashfully, the Judge’s words a reminder that she had been holding the award in her hands overly long, like a child waiting for an adult to offer praise. She wedged the placard into the purse that hung from her shoulder.
The two of them were standing in a hangar in the private aircraft area of the Detroit Metropolitan Airport, staring out at the asphalt strip where the small, sleek Cessnas and Gulfstreams would taxi out to the main strip outside the northern terminal. Beyond the taxi strip was a row of half moon—shaped hangars identical to the one in which they waited.
“It does get difficult sometimes,” she agreed.
“What part?”
“Mostly the ‘they’re all actually guilty’ part.”
Judge Hodgens chuckled and shook her head.
“They don’t explain that in law school, do they?”
“Yeah, they skipped that part.”
“I’d have guessed it was the part where your clients don’t take you seriously because you’re young, beautiful and a woman.”
“I do get called a bitch a lot, it’s true.”
“I still do. And I’m a judge, for Pete’s sake. Well, guilty or not, everyone gets their say in court. It’s an honorable calling. Just make sure the awards are where you can see them.”
Judge Hodgens wore a thin black coat that fell to her ankles and seemed sufficient to keep the September chill at bay. Issabella shivered and shifted from foot to foot in a matching blue blouse and knee-length skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a tasteful and elegant series of curls that she’d paid for in a salon that morning. Her usually unadorned cheeks were touched with blush. The blue flats she wore to the office and in court had been replaced with inch-high heels.
“Was the banquet nice?” the Judge asked after a moment or two of silence. She’d already offered her sympathies over Issabella’s not having a coat to keep the chill off her. Though those sympathies did not extend so far as to move the Judge to offer her own coat.
She practically kidnapped me to get me out here. And now we’re standing around waiting. I could have told her to stop by the office so I could get my jacket. Heck, as long as this is taking, I could have gone home and changed and met her here.
“Issabella?”
Give me your coat, woman.
“Issabella?”
“What? Oh. Yes. It was nice...”
Her voice trailed off without finishing, and an unsaid “but” hung there between them until the Judge let out a bark of laughter and shook her head.
“Until Darren ruined everything, you mean.”
Issabella opened her mouth to respond, but just then an improbably large pickup truck rounded the corner from the narrow drive that ran along the front of the line of hangars. Its headlights spilled over them, followed by the low rumble of its engine. The pickup came to a stop on the hangar floor several feet behind the clean white body of the Cessna that filled the hangar’s interior.
Both women watched as Deputy Finch appeared from the cab of the truck and ambled over to the passenger-side door. With an expert’s efficiency, he had his prisoner out and walking ahead of him.
Draped in his heavily wrinkled suit and looking more bedraggled than usual, Darren Fletcher smiled crookedly at Issabella as Finch shoved him forward.
“Kiddo,” the disheveled lawyer called out, “you look fantastic.”
Issabella perched her hands on her hips and she whispered to the Judge, “Yes. Until Darren ruined everything.”
Deputy Finch brought Darren to a halt at what Issabella realized was just over an arm’s length from her. The idea of Darren deciding to spring at either of the two women in front of him was ridiculous. Issabella was his law partner and his lover. And Judge Hodgens was, from what Issabella could tell, something of a patient but disapproving surrogate mother to the trouble-magnet of a lawyer.
But the one thing she knew about Deputy Dan Finch was that he took his office very, very seriously, even when it wasn’t necessarily called for.
Judge Hodgens must have come to a similar conclusion, because she made an offhand gesture at Darren and told the deputy, “Let’s get those off, shall we, Dan?”
Finch pursed his lips like he’d bitten down on something sour, but he unfastened the handcuffs all the same. Darren rubbed at his wrists and, where Finch was tasting something bitter, the lawyer’s crooked grin edged upwards as if he was privately relishing something.
“Why, thank you, Dan,” he said over his shoulder, and the deputy made a show of not looking him in the eye.
“Have I apologized yet?” Darren said to her. He crossed the space between them and, in a smooth gesture, had his abused suit coat off and draped over Issabella’s shoulders.
She arched a critical brow and stared up into his eyes.
“I think so. But people were shouting, and security was dragging you away, so it was hard to tell whether that’s what you were yelling or not. I just kind of assumed.”
He leaned in and kissed her forehead.
“I am sorry. And proud of you and your award. Equal measures of pride and regret, really. They’re vying for dominance.”
“I know.”
“There’s not much of a story, actually.”
“You can tell me later.”
Darren took that as a prompt, and leaned back from her. He sighed and his gaze slid off her, coming to rest on the district court judge at her side.
“This is going to be really weird, is my guess,” he said to her.
“I don’t actually know,” Judge Hodgens replied, and shrugged her shoulders. “What I do know is that a very good friend of mine needs help. And, believe it or not, you’re that help. Well, you and Miss Bright here. I wouldn’t inflict you alone on him. He’s retired, but he once had the power to issue arrest warrants, so your better half will be keeping you in check.”
“A judge in trouble,” he mused. “You’ve aroused my curiosity.”
“Piqued,” Issabella offered. “I think you mean piqued.”
“Do I? Maybe you’re right.”
“And we’ve just illustrated Her Honor’s point.”
“Imagine that.”
Judge Hodgens patiently watched the exchange before continuing.
“Bernard Prosner,” she said.
Issabella could only stare when she heard the name, and Darren’s wry smile drained away.
“Oh, good. You both know his name. Well, then you know he was our state supreme court chief justice until he retired about ten years ago. He was also my Civil Procedure professor. Later, he was my friend.”
Here, she looked at Darren and her expression became quite serious.
“This is important to me,” she said. “I’m asking you for help, Darren. I’m asking you to help him the way you helped me.”
Issabella understood. Judge Hodgens and Darren had both been involved in a terrible case, years ago. A child murderer had gone free. That experience had delivered devastating consequences to both of them. Darren had fallen apart and become a recluse in a little bar, haunted with guilt. Judge Hodgens had retreated to her own home and shut the world out.
Not long ago, Issabella had listened while Judge Hodgens explained to her how Darren had appeared at her door and spent the next month rescuing the Judge from her despair. Darren had nursed her back to health, in private. He’d been a friend to her.
“So this isn’t penance for the drunk tank?” he said. “We’re calling this something else, Chelsea?”
Deputy Finch’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“It’s ‘Judge’ or ‘Your Honor,’ Fletcher. Nothing else.”
Darren ignored the deputy’s admonition and frowned at the black-coated woman peering up at him.
“I guess I’m confused. If Judge Prosner needs criminal defense, he’d already be flying in some sharks from New York or Chicago. Big firms with big budgets.”
“I don’t know what he needs, exactly.”
“And I don’t know what that means, exactly.”
Behind her, Issabella heard a mechanical clacking. She turned and saw that the stairwell hatch on the side of the shiny little plane was lowering itself to the hangar floor. A man appeared in the hatchway. He had a bulky pilot’s headset hanging around his neck, and wore navy blue trousers and a white dress shirt that were both cleanly starched and pressed. His face was handsome, his graying hair trimmed conservatively. Issabella thought he looked like he was straight out of central casting for
the role of “distinguished pilot.”
When he saw her staring at him, the pilot offered a simple nod before disappearing back into the plane’s interior, leaving her to marvel at the winking metallic hull of the ship. As she watched, various lights leapt to life along the length of the plane. Wing flaps shifted up and down with mechanical purring. It was getting ready. The plane was flexing, she realized, getting set for when it would jump up into the sky.
I am going to fly on that plane, she thought with a thrill of anticipation. A private plane! I wonder if there’s a stewardess. I can’t let Darren screw this up. I’m getting on that plane.
“We’d love to help,” she blurted. “Both of us. We’d be happy to get on that plane and help with...”
Darren was staring at her like she’d just sneezed all over him. She didn’t slow down.
“...with whatever this is. So, should we all just board now? Is that how this works? We can board now, right? We don’t need tickets? That’s a stupid question, isn’t it? It’s a private plane. We just get on it and go. Up. We go up.”
Even Deputy Finch had found a grin somewhere in his meager collection of expressions, as all three of the people huddled around her took in her babbling enthusiasm. Judge Hodgens put her hand on Issabella’s shoulder.
“Yes,” she said. “It goes up. And thank you.”
Darren crossed his arms in front of him.
“I still don’t understand what we’re being told to do here. Izzy may want to ride in a private plane really badly—”
“I do. I totally do.”
“—but what’s after that? What does Judge Prosner need, exactly?”
Hodgens shook her head.
“I honestly don’t know. He called me tonight. He has a problem. He called it a ‘very sensitive personal emergency that must be addressed immediately.’ Bernard doesn’t use hyperbole. So whatever it is, it’s bad enough that he reached out to me to get him someone who can be discreet. First, I suggested private investigators, since he wouldn’t tell me any specifics. Bernard doesn’t trust investigators. He says they’re ‘nothing but a pack of Peeping Toms.’ So then I suggested a lawyer. Bernard stresses this is sensitive.”
Isolated Judgment Page 2
