Interest of Justice

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  For a minute she just stood there and watched him, recalling the day she had met him three years before.

  They had both been attending their first faculty meeting and ended up sitting right next to each other. Emmet had struck up a conversation about the death penalty once he’d learned that Lara was a district attorney. He had such an analytical mind that she had followed him to his car and ended up in a heated conversation for almost an hour. Back then he had been in a wheelchair, but his ability to talk had as yet to be impaired and he was a ferocious debater. Over the past three years she had sadly witnessed this devastating disease consume him. But never once had she heard a complaint.

  “Ready,” she said, bracing herself in the doorway.

  He hit a button on his wheelchair and it spun around. His glasses were so thick she could barely see his eyes. They were magnified many times over—large milky orbs that seemed to hold all the mystery of the universe. Although they had really never discussed his age, Lara thought Emmet was in his early thirties.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m…ready. Tired…tonight.”

  The longer the day, the more strenuous it became for him to talk. Most of the time he spoke in short, choppy sentences, his eyes drifting here and there uncontrollably. When they were in his lab or his home, however, he used the computer, tapping out rapid-fire messages faster than Lara could read, using a metal-cage type of device that he slipped onto his head, allowing him to use a pen instead of his weakened fingers.

  He already knew about the Henderson case. He knew about all her cases. Lara loved talking to him. Not only was he brilliant and sensitive, completely logical, but he was a great listener. Possibly his disease was partly responsible, yet Lara was certain he would have been a great listener anyway. He not only listened, he weighed each word. She filled him in on the burglary and the officer’s belief that she was in danger.

  “Doesn’t…sound good,” he said. “Stay…with…me.

  “Oh, Emmet,” Lara said, “that’s really sweet of you, but I wouldn’t impose on you like that. Besides, I really think I’ll do what the officer said. You know, lay low for a while, get another place to stay. I’m just going to check into a hotel tonight.” She pushed the chair across the campus parking lot to the Jaguar. At the car door, she opened it and helped Emmet into the passenger seat.

  She shut the door and folded the wheelchair, placing it in the trunk. Once she was behind the wheel and they were on the road, Emmet turned to her again. “That’s…silly. Let…me return a…favor. You’ve…driven me all these months. Stay…with…me, Lara.”

  She sighed. Of all the people she knew, Emmet was without a doubt the nicest. “Just tonight, then,” she said. “Tomorrow I’ll figure something else out.”

  Once they were inside his condominium, Emmet motioned for her to follow him to his office, and he slipped on the metal contraption and started tapping on the computer. Words flashed across the screen. “There’s a place for sale in this development. It’s been on the market for over a year, and they’re now looking to rent. We can call them and see if they’ll allow you to rent it for a few weeks, a month, whatever. It’s furnished…a model.”

  “Great,” Lara said, leaning over the back of his chair. ‘That would be perfect.” Emmet’s complex was only a few blocks from the office, and all she’d have to do is go home and bring over some clothes. “I’m sure this whole thing is nothing anyway. Maybe the burglar didn’t take anything because he was scared off by the alarm.”

  “Better to be safe than sorry,” Emmet typed.

  They said good night and Lara collapsed in the little twin bed in Emmet’s spare bedroom, his huge computer terminal whirring and blinking in the dark a few feet away. He had to have enough equipment in this place, she thought, to launch a rocket. It looked like NASA.

  Tomorrow she’d try to rent the vacant condo. Tonight she was safe—the frail little man in the next room her sentinel. His very presence was reassuring even if he didn’t have the strength to fend off an attacker. At least she wasn’t alone. In minutes she was asleep, the soft tap-tap-tapping of Emmet’s pen on the keyboard like a lullaby as he worked far into the night.

  Chapter 5

  Josh looked up the hill in front of him and sighed, letting his feet slide off the bicycle pedals to the asphalt. Every day he had to ride his ten-speed to school and back. Mornings were the best, because he could coast down the hill, wind whipping his face, and imagine he was on a motorcycle instead of a bike. His father had ridden a motorcycle, a big, roaring 450 Harley. But that didn’t matter, he thought, stepping back onto the pedals and beginning the agonizing climb up the mile-long hill leading to his house. He’d never ride a Harley or any other motorcycle, for that matter. Not as long as his mother was still around. Not since the accident and his father’s death. He’d be lucky if she let him drive a car in two years when he was sixteen and could get his license.

  When he’d gone to the bathroom that morning, the toilet had been filled with blood from the sharp edges of the foil he’d been made to swallow. Crying to his mother wouldn’t solve anything, even if he told her what Sam had made him do last night. She wouldn’t do anything about Sam. All she talked about was how they were going to move away, how their ship had finally come in, or something dumb like that.

  Halfway up the hill, he removed his T-shirt and tied it around his waist. It was already damp with perspiration and he was only halfway home. His mother screamed at him at least once a week because he was so thin. Maybe if she rode six miles a day, two of them up Mount Everest like he did, then she’d be skinny too. Besides, he thought, flexing his muscles by gripping the handlebars and seeing the veins and ridges, he wasn’t skinny anyway, he was cut. That’s what they called it in the gym—when someone’s body fat was so low that skin merely stretched over the interior musculature like a piece of transparent fabric.

  Josh had trekked along to the local health club when his father was alive and watched him work out, bench-pressing twice his body weight, grunting and groaning, jostling and trading jokes with the other men. But they couldn’t afford to belong to a gym anymore. Josh worked out alone in his room every night, lifting again and again the few weights he’d got for Christmas, dreaming of the day he’d be as strong as his father, strong enough to defend himself against any man.

  Even a man like Sam.

  Reaching his block, he froze. Sam’s truck was in the driveway. Glancing back over his shoulder, he thought of coasting back down the hill and maybe hanging out with one of his friends until dinner. He just couldn’t take seeing Sam this early in the day—not with so many hours left, not when he might already be drinking, cursing, and looking for trouble. But Josh knew if he rode down and goofed off until dinner, he’d just have to go back up the killer hill and then he’d be too tired to work out. Better to sneak in through the back door and try to make it to his room before they saw him.

  Quietly opening the side gate, he left the ten-speed leaning against the brick wall of the house, pushed aside the two trash cans, removed the key above the ledge, and entered through the door into the kitchen. It was quiet, still. God, he thought with relief, his eyes surveying the room. This was the biggest mess he’d ever seen. Everything was thrown out in the middle of the floor. They’d either had one of their screaming fights where they hurled anything they could find at each other, or they really were packing to move. Sam probably hadn’t made the payments on the house and they were being evicted. That’s all they needed right now, to be thrown out on the street.

  He hated Sam Perkins. There wasn’t anything in the entire universe he hated more than he hated Sam Perkins. He didn’t care if the whole world blew up in a nuclear explosion as long as Sam Perkins blew up with it. “Pow,” he whispered, seeing it in his mind: old Sam’s body blown to kingdom come.

  He snatched a can of Coke out of the refrigerator and headed to the back of the house. To get to his room he’d have to pass the master bedroom. He prayed the door would be closed. Sam had pr
obably come home early to stick it to his mother. What other reason could there be? He was probably right this minute in there doing disgusting things to his mother in broad daylight. It made Josh want to puke right on the beige carpet and leave it there where Sam would step in it when he came strolling out of the bedroom.

  The door wasn’t closed. It was open.

  Josh glanced inside the bedroom: his lunch rose in his throat and his heart stopped beating. He knew what he was seeing. His mind was screaming, trying to tell him what he knew he was seeing, but he just saw the images without thought or comprehension. Far away someone was screaming—it couldn’t be him, it had to be someone else. There was a clawing, scraping wild animal inside his body, poking at his eyes through his forehead, eating through his stomach, squeezing his heart with huge hands until he knew it was going to burst. Then he heard it. His own voice. Time-delayed.

  “Mom!” the scream rang out and reverberated in the air like an echo, the sound going forward and then returning. He placed his hands over his ears. He didn’t want to hear it. His eyes were frozen on the scene before him, but he didn’t want to hear the awful sound coming from his own mouth.

  Department twenty-seven of the Orange County Superior Court was still in recess, but the clock was ticking. The fifteen-minute mark had passed, and it was now approaching almost twenty minutes since the gavel had come down. A few feet away, the courtroom was packed and noisy, everyone talking at one time, attorneys still rushing in and slamming their files on the table, quickly conferring with their clients, some who they’d never met until that very moment. Phillip walked into Lara’s chambers and stood quietly in front of her large, paper-strewn desk. Her eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t look up. He stood and waited.

  “Yes,” she said finally, removing her glasses and fixing him with her slate gray eyes. “What have you got, Phillip?”

  “I know you’re working on the Adams matter and you asked that I not disturb you. It’s Sergeant Rickerson with the San Clemente Police Department on line one.”

  She didn’t speak. He stood still, hands by his sides. Her eyes returned to the brief in front of her. Long moments passed.

  “I’m sorry, but do you want me to tell him to call back?”

  “Please, no calls,” she mumbled, eyes down, deep in thought. “I only have a few more minutes. No calls.”

  He left. Then a few seconds later, he returned, a grimace on his face. “It’s imperative that he speak with you. He says it’s about your sister.” He paused, waiting for her to look up, his face a mask of concern.

  She set her hands on the desk. The fingers spread and pressed hard into the papers, her back rigid. “Okay, Phillip, I’ll speak to him.’”

  As he hurried for the door, she picked up the receiver. “My secretary said this was about my sister…Ivory Perkins…Is that correct?” Her voice was controlled. No need to panic. It was probably not even about Ivory. Generally it was Sam’s name they mentioned when they called. “Mr. Perkins said to call you regarding this ticket,” they would say. “Mr. Perkins said to contact you regarding this complaint that he’s receiving stolen property.”

  The officer was speaking. She was looking at the second hand on the large wall clock. She was late. A few minutes could equal several arraignments. “I’m sorry, Officer, repeat what you just said.”

  “There’s a problem here. It’s bad. Your sister and her husband have been killed. It looks like a double homicide.”

  “Double homicide?” she repeated, as though she’d never heard of such a thing. “Ivory?” Not Ivory. Sam Perkins, yes. But not her sister.

  “We’re here at the house. Guess her son came home from school and discovered them. Pretty bad scene.” Sergeant Rickerson paused. “He was hysterical when we got here, but he’s calmed down somewhat and we sent him to a neighbor’s house.”

  “I…he…she’s dead.” She stood, holding the phone, her mind blank, her hands sweating profusely. Gripping it with both hands, she stuttered. “When d-did it happen?”

  “Medical examiner won’t have an exact time of death until he does the post. Maybe a few hours ago from the looks of the bodies.”

  She had already started walking around the desk, heading to the door. She suddenly reached the end of the phone cord, dragging the multi-line phone over the top of her desk, knocking over her coffee and several files, which scattered on the carpet. In a state of shock she was going to walk out the door with the phone still in her hand. Finally realizing what she was doing, she dropped it and it crept back across the carpet. Then she turned around and bent over and picked it back up and said in a hoarse voice, “I’m on my way.”

  She didn’t pick up her purse. She didn’t speak to her secretary. She simply walked out of her chambers, still wearing her black robe, and kept walking until she reached the end of the hall, where the security console was set up. She stopped and stood, staring into space.

  “You okay there, Judge Sanderstone?” the black guard said, leaning over the console. “You look real pale.”

  She slipped off her robe and handed it to the guard. “Call Phillip and tell him to have someone bring my car keys to the parking garage and cancel my afternoon session. Hurry,” she yelled, walking fast as he pressed the buzzer on the security doors. “My sister…” She walked through the doors, talking to herself. “My sister’s been murdered.”

  She punched the button and got in the elevator. It was reserved for judges only and led to the underground parking garage. The doors shut. The elevator didn’t move. She fell against the back wall and then screamed: “Ivory! God, no! She can’t be dead. I won’t accept it.” She was screaming and spitting at the same time, her fists clenched into tight balls, the emotionalism an alien and terrifying feeling as it consumed her. Her chest rose up and down, and she knew she was on the verge of hyperventilating.

  The doors opened and Phillip stepped inside, handing her purse to her. “Is there something I can do? Has there been an accident? Do you want me to drive you somewhere?”

  Pushing herself off the wall, she looked down. Tears were streaming down her face. She could feel them.

  “No,” she said. “Just cancel my afternoon session, please. My sister’s been murdered.” She reached over and punched the button for the garage level, flipping Phillip’s hand off the elevator door. For a moment their eyes met.

  “I’m sorry…so sorry. Call me if there’s anything I can do.”

  “What could you do?” she said as the doors closed, his face disappearing an inch at a time. What could anyone do when someone was dead? Breathe life back into them? Make their heart start beating again and their blood circulate?

  Nothing else really mattered.

  She didn’t remember the thirty-minute drive over—the traffic on the freeway, the exit to San Clemente, the steep hill to their house. She was approaching the house. It was real. It was a living nightmare.

  Police cars lined the block, wheels turned to the curb so they wouldn’t roll. One black-and-white, probably the first to arrive, had run up over the curb. She pulled her green Jaguar into someone’s driveway four houses down and left it there, keys in the ignition, engine running, her purse on the seat, and ran the short distance. Several officers had placed a yellow police tape across the front lawn and were standing there, blocking neighbors and kids from entering. The curious were pressing against one anther, trying to see, their faces flushed with excitement. One small child managed to slip his hand out of his mother’s and duck under the yellow tape, jumping up and down in glee on the grass. An officer grabbed him and lifted him back over the tape to the sidewalk.

  Lara didn’t see the tape. She walked right into it and kept walking, her eyes focused on the front door of the small adobe house, nothing else in her line of vision.

  “Hey, you,” a burly voice yelled. “You can’t go in there. Get back.” A large arm reached out and managed to catch the edge of her sleeve.

  She jerked her arm away and glared at him. “My sister,”
she said. She kept walking, flinging the tape aside and stepping over it. “My sister.”

  At the door she was again met with resistance. A uniformed officer placed an arm in front of her, blocking her entrance. “Can’t go in there, lady. This is a crime scene.”

  “My sister,” she said again, trying to push him aside. His eyes got large and he looked behind him and then back to her face.

  “Judge Sanderstone, right?” he said, standing a little straighter, adjusting his gun belt. “Listen, wait here and I’ll get Sergeant Rickerson. He’s in charge here. You don’t want to go in there.”

  She saw the compassion in the man’s eyes. It didn’t help. She stepped in front of him. The tiny house was crawling with people. Some were in uniform, others in suits. A few wore dark pants and white shirts with name tags pinned above the pockets. Those were the ones from the white van that she now remembered seeing parked at the curb with the rear doors open. The van that said the dreadful words on the side: MEDICAL EXAMINER.

  A good-sized man wearing a shiny gray suit with unruly red hair and penetrating eyes, his face scarred from acne, walked up to her through the sea of bodies. He came close, too close. “Sergeant Rickerson…Ted,” he said. He started to extend his hand and then realized it was an inappropriate gesture and dropped it by his side. “We met, but you probably don’t remember. It was when you were still a D.A.”

  “Where is she?” Lara’s eyes blinked rapidly as they searched the room, seeing nothing but bodies, hearing nothing but a cacophony of jumbled words.

  “Look, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go in there.” He flicked his red mustache and leaned ever closer. “Why don’t we step out in the backyard and talk a minute? Let the people do their job.”

  “I have to see her. Please, Sergeant, let me see my sister.” She brushed her hand over her head as though swatting a fly. Too many people were in the small room and not enough air. An officer tried to squeeze past them, and his nightstick became lodged obscenely between her legs, pushing the hem of her skirt up, exposing the top of her panty hose. She didn’t notice.