by Luanne Rice
She waved as she backed out of the driveway. The Judge waved back.
He had seen many human beings in all stages of life during his years on the bench. He had learned to recognize the acute and subtle signs of desperation, grief, sorrow, and . . . and this was the word that came to mind when he gazed into the lovely unusual gray-blue eyes of Kate Harris . . . hope.
The girl was flowing with hope.
And she'd come to see his son.
“Goddamn it, you picked a lulu of an afternoon to catch up on your shut-eye,” he said, looking up at the ceiling.
The Judge was used to people taking naps. Maeve, for example, would sleep the day away if he'd let her. The Judge himself liked to loosen his tie and put his feet up for an hour now and then. But his son—another story entirely.
John never sat still. Never. The boy was always trying cases, driving kids to some sport or other, seeing clients, interviewing witnesses, plotting trial strategy. John Xavier O'Rourke never sat still long enough to see the color of his eyes.
The Judge, having gazed into them upon John's entry into this world, knew very well that they were light brown, the color of root beer. And he was damned well going to see them right now, if he had to pry them open himself.
She was here.
John had heard her voice. First elated, hearing her ask for him, then paralyzed by it all.
His father had come upstairs; John had lain still, pretending to be asleep. The irony was, drifting off earlier, he had started to dream of her. The eyes that looked straight into his soul . . .
What had she been trying to tell him in the dream? There had been no words, just a sort of understanding John had never experienced in his life.
Kate Harris is here, his father had said.
John knew it, but he couldn't move.
What could he do for her, after all? Dreams were one thing, but life was another.
chapter 20
For the second time in half an hour, creaking up the stairs, the Judge rapped softly, then loudly, on John's bedroom door. Receiving no answer, he finally turned the knob.
Lying on his back, a pillow over his eyes, John pretended to be asleep. The Judge had watched this fellow fake sleep many a time. As a boy, John had put up a constant fight about bedtimes. He always wanted to finish reading a book—or at least a chapter. Or he wanted to stay up till midnight, to see a meteor shower. Or till three, when the hurricane was scheduled to hit. Or four, when Santa was slated to come down their chimney.
“You're not fooling anyone,” the Judge said now.
John didn't reply. His faking days had added up, and he really knew how to look asleep. Of course, the Judge knew, pretending—with John—didn't stop with sleep. He'd been pretending his way through life for quite some time. Pretending to be happy, that everything was “fine,” “okay,” “great.” That last year with Theresa had been the most difficult to watch, but the Judge had no one to blame but himself: He hadn't exactly been a role model for sharing feelings or opening his heart.
“Hey, there—Counselor,” the Judge said to his son, wiggling the bare toes of his right foot.
John rolled over, pillow pulled tighter over his face. As he moved, the pillow slid away, revealing tear tracks in the sun lines around John's eyes, down his cheekbones.
“Leave me alone, Dad,” John whispered.
“She's damn pretty,” the Judge said.
When John didn't reply, the Judge breathed out, exasperated. “I'm talking about Kate Harris. Maybe you should go see what she wants.”
“I know what she wants,” John said dully. “To know about her missing sister. And I can't help her with that.”
“Maybe it's not your job to. The police can help her with her sister. Maybe you can just be her friend. Seems like that's why she came here—she was looking pretty friendly to me.”
“She wants to know—never mind. But my work puts me in conflict with her,” John said.
“Puts you in conflict with half the town, if you're doing your job!” the Judge chuckled. “But that doesn't mean you don't deserve a life and a friend . . .”
“Stop, Dad,” John said, rolling over. He shoved his face into the pillow again, as if he'd suddenly become too exhausted to stay awake. The Judge stared at him for a few long moments, then sighed. Because he knew what his son was going through.
“They have a name for this. Battle fatigue,” he said. “Or burnout—take your pick.”
John didn't answer, didn't even seem to hear, so the Judge went on.
“I used to get it myself. I don't know many lawyers who don't. And how could we not? We're dealing with people's lives, son. It's not just a job where we go home at night and close the door. We have to live with the life-and-death aspect of what we do—and what others do.”
Although John didn't reply, the Judge could see he had his attention: The pillow had slipped slightly, revealing his right ear.
“Before I became a judge,” he said, “I did what you do. Defended people. Some innocent, many not. Once I had a case—you might remember it. Jack Carsey. A man who kidnapped and murdered a girl in town. You saw the forensic photos, and you couldn't sleep for a week.”
“I remember,” John said, his mouth in the pillow.
“Your mother was furious with me. Not just because you were so upset, or even for the fact that people hated me for it . . . but because I was defending a bad man. That's what she said to me, and—I don't know if you can remember your mother's voice . . .”
“I can,” John said.
The Judge nodded. Leila had been an old-fashioned woman; like many in her day, in spite of her brains and talents, she had elected to stay home and be a wife and mother. But when she spoke, her voice had the resonance of Louis Brandeis addressing the court. “She said to me, ‘Patty . . .' ” he coughed, trailing off. “And she was the only person in the world who could get away with calling me ‘Patty.' ”
“I know,” John said, taking the pillow completely away from his face, looking up.
“‘Patty, I want you to stop defending Jack Carsey.' That's what she said.”
“Yeah,” John said. “I heard her.”
“She told me she wanted me to drop the case. Suggested I think about my life—our lives—and evaluate what was important to me. Reminded me of my Catholic upbringing, my sense of right and wrong. Told me—”
“To check your moral compass,” John said.
“Yes,” his father said, hearing Leila's words. “And then she told me—are you ready? She said, ‘Patty—you're helping this man get away with murder.' ”
As the Judge spoke, he saw his son close his eyes. A wave passed over his face, something like seasickness mixed with despair of the soul.
“That ring a bell, son?” the Judge asked.
“It's what we do,” John said. “Teddy says the same thing.”
“What do you say?”
“I tell myself I'm defending an individual's Constitutional rights, that this is what Washington had in mind at Philadelphia . . . I tell myself it was Greg Merrill's right to a fair hearing . . . and that it's his right to counsel now . . .”
“. . . And?” the Judge asked.
“And then I see Amanda Martin's hand. It was so white, Dad. Scratching at the sky . . . as if she was reaching for a lifeline.”
The Judge listened.
“And Kate Harris . . . that woman who came by?” John asked.
“Yes?”
“Her sister Willa's missing. Kate's the woman I met in Fairhaven. The one I breached lawyer-client privilege with.”
“I figured.”
John looked clearly at his father. Although still lying flat on his back, the spark was there in his eyes. “How?”
“She's lovely,” the Judge said mildly. “I'd've breached it for her, too.”
“It's a big thing to do,” John said. “I could be disbarred for it. But the thing is . . .”
“You'd do it again,” the Judge said.
�
�How do you know?”
The Judge sighed. From the bedroom window, looking into the garden, he could just see Leila's sculpture of Lady Justice. There she stood, eyes blindfolded, holding the scales high in her hand. Maeve had a habit of putting birdseed in the scales; sparrows and cardinals set upon them, eating the seed. Although the principle of Justice was one of dignity and grace, the human reality could be quite messy.
“Because you're not made of stone,” the Judge said, staring at the statue. “You have a heart.”
“I have to recuse myself as Merrill's attorney.”
“You think someone else would do a better job? Take on the case pro bono, weather the slings and arrows of friends and neighbors, face the difficult moral questions?”
“I can't speak for them,” John said. “Only for myself.”
“You're serious about this,” the Judge said, feeling stunned. His son was honestly pondering the issue of quitting as Merrill's counsel.
“Yes. I have a meeting scheduled with Dr. Beckwith today, and I'm going to cancel. We're supposed to meet with Merrill, go over Beckwith's findings, come up with a strategy for this mental disorder defense. I can't do it.”
“Because you don't believe in it?”
“Because it makes me sick. Because I don't want to live in Greg Merrill's head anymore.”
The Judge sat down on the bed, by his son's feet. The dog, lying on the floor, circled once and laid his head on the Judge's knee, dirty gold fur sticking to the fine gabardine.
“I've seen this happen before,” the Judge mused. “And, as I said before, experienced it myself. Burnout—that moment of nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, right?”
“Yeah,” John said. “I can't push the pictures of Merrill's crimes out of my mind anymore. I know how he thinks, I know what his fantasies are. . . . I know that Phil Beckwith thinks he's a prize case, a pervert who almost deserves a category all his own. I want to just block the whole thing out.”
“Dive under the covers . . .”
“Or get rip-roaring obliterated.”
“It's why we have so many drunks in our profession. Nothing like a little medicinal single-malt scotch after a long stretch at the courthouse to forget what we're doing. . . . Actually, sounds good,” the Judge said, chuckling. “What do you say?”
“It's the middle of the day,” John replied. But even so, he hiked himself up on his elbow and swung his legs off the bed.
“Better than sleeping,” the Judge said. “Save that till later, for when you're retired.”
The two men went downstairs, into the Judge's den. Brainer followed them, stopping by the tall windows facing the street, looking outside—as if to see if Kate Harris was still there. The Judge caught John looking too, and he hid a smile.
Going to the mahogany sideboard, the Judge removed two heavy crystal glasses and a hand-cut Waterford decanter. Removing the stopper, he smelled the whiskey with close-eyed appreciation.
“Don't need ice with this,” he said, pouring.
“What is it?”
“Twenty-year-old Talisker.”
The Judge handed one glass to his son, and the two men clinked glasses.
“Here's to lawyers,” the Judge said.
John hesitated, but then he drank. So did his father. They drained their glasses as if they were drinking shots. The Judge poured again.
“Careful,” his father said, replacing the stopper. “This is how fine lawyers become alkies.”
“I know,” John said, sipping. “When I was young, and I used to see those soused old guys floating around the courthouse . . . usually Irishmen like Brady and O'Neill . . . I used to have such contempt for them. Red-faced, bloodshot eyes, stinking of booze . . .”
The Judge nodded.
“Now I understand them.”
“How's that, son?”
“It was the profession,” John said, sipping again. “They had their own Merrills to represent . . .”
Again, the Judge nodded, just listening.
“They were too sensitive to handle it. What did Mom used to say about Ireland? That it was ‘a vale of tears.' That Irish lawyers were actually poets who'd gotten locked in the courthouse. . . . She used to say that about you,” John said, raising his eyes to meet his father's.
The Judge nodded, remembering, but his throat was too choked up to respond quite yet, so he topped off his glass. He could still hear Leila's beautiful, gravelly voice, rich with heart, soul, and cigarettes . . .
“She'd probably say it about me now,” her son said.
“That she would.”
“She'd say I'm helping a bad man get away with murder.”
“But you didn't, John. Merrill's on death row. If you succeed in your efforts, the best he can hope for is life without parole. You and the good doctor will see to that. Regardless of what happens, Merrill's away for good.”
“He inspired someone to kill Amanda Martin.”
“I know.”
“And Willa Harris is still missing.”
“I know that, too. I know something else . . .”
“What?”
“Don't go romanticizing the Irish-poet sensitive-lawyer drinking thing. Those guys drank because they wanted to—this cold hard world just gave them an excuse to do it. They caused more damage in their own families than you'll ever know.”
“You know, though?”
The Judge nodded gravely. “Yep. I do.”
“So,” John said, putting his glass down without finishing the scotch, walking over to the window and looking out. “What do I do, Dad?”
“Your job, Johnny. You put one foot in front of the other, and you carry out the mandate set down by James Madison. You represent your client to the best of your ability. You practice ‘principles before personalities' . . .”
“Where'd you hear that?” John asked, as if he liked the saying.
“A.A.,” his father said.
“How do you know what they say in A.A.?” John asked.
The Judge shrugged, and his smile faltered. “Way back when, one of those drunken Irish lawyers around the courthouse was your father. This stuff gets to me, too, Johnny. I was hitting the bottle a little too hard, and your mother dragged me to a few meetings.”
“I never knew.”
“Well, it didn't last. I cleaned up my act. Saw what I was doing to your mother . . . and I'd seen how those other lawyers' drinking wound up hurting their children. Jimmy Brady stood before my bench as often as any kid in this town. Anyway, I learned how to put the principles of law before specific clients, victims, families.”
“Hard to practice.”
“Yes,” the Judge said, staring out at Lady Justice, a starling perched on her head, several juncos pecking at seed in the scales. “But vitally important.”
“Yeah, I know,” John said. He looked at his watch—perhaps gauging whether he had enough time to drive back to Winterham Prison, meet up with his client and the psychiatrist.
Brainer, wanting affection, walked from father to son. The Judge watched John pet the loyal dog's head, catch his fingers in tangles around the neck. Distracted at first, John seemed not to notice. But gradually, working his fingers through the mats, pulling out a briar and some twigs, the Judge watched John shake his head.
“This dog needs a bath,” John said, sounding mystified, frowning as he worked out a burr.
The Judge let the statement hang in the air. John looked to the window, as if a lightbulb had just gone on over his head, as if Kate Harris herself stood on the front porch.
One of the hallmarks of a great trial lawyer is the ability to ask questions with the cutting skill of a surgeon. Don't go where you shouldn't go, or you might kill your case; don't ask any question you don't know the answer to. With that in mind, watching his son extricate dead leaf bits from Brainer's fur, the Judge cleared his throat.
“What,” the Judge asked, his tone stentorian, “are you going to do about it?”
chapter 21
Kate had u
npacked everything and settled into her room at the East Wind Inn. Bonnie stood on a chair, the better to look out the window. She had been so patient, waiting for her walk, but seeing Kate take the leash down from the bureau, she let out a sharp, happy bark.
Pulling on her dark green wool coat and a cream-colored beret, Kate let the Scottie tug her downstairs. Thanksgiving was two days away, and the smell of baking pies filled the inn.
“Apple and pumpkin,” Felicity said as Kate emerged in the front hall. “Hope you'll join us for dinner Thursday.”
“Thanks,” Kate said. “I'm not sure what my plans will be.”
Although what did she think they'd be? She reddened at the thought. Perhaps she'd been harboring hopes of being invited to the O'Rourkes'. She imagined their big table, groaning under turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and creamed onions; a centerpiece of dried flowers picked by Maggie; laughter and conversation.
“Well, when you decide, you're welcome.”
“You're open for dinner to the public that day?”
“No,” Felicity said, shaking her head. “Just family . . . Us, Caleb of course, my brother-in-law Hunt . . . if I can tear them away from their jobs, that is.”
“Hard workers,” Kate said, fighting Bonnie, who was straining at her leash. In the distance she heard the sound of hammering. “Is Caleb still fixing your barn?”
“What?” Felicity asked, tilting her head.
“That sound . . .” Kate said, pausing, so Felicity would hear. “Nails being hammered.” It was far-off, but the sound was metallic and steady. Perhaps Felicity, living here, was so used to it she'd stopped hearing. “Last time I was here . . . remember? Caleb was working on the barn.”
“Oh, yes,” Felicity said, laughing. “The endless project. We're planning to add more guest rooms by next summer, but he's been so busy at work with his father—on things off-property. Well, I don't want to keep you from your walk. Looks like Bonnie's dying to get out there . . . scare up some rabbits, or something. Better get back to my pies.”
