Compromised

by James R. Scarantino

  “You’re ordering me to answer truthfully, not simply say what you and Ms. Thornton want to hear?”

  “You have failed to appear at three depositions and ignored a subpoena. You have not answered interrogatories and have disregarded requests for production. I issued a bench warrant to bring you here for a deposition under my supervision so I can rule on objections on the spot. The whole purpose of the long, extended process you have forced upon this Court is, yes, to get the truth out of you. Word for word.”

  Fager lifted a wrist to shoot his cuff, then caught himself. No starched cotton with onyx links at the end of his jacket sleeves.

  “The truth is”—a hint of smile like he’d just won something—“that you’ve been throwing cases, giving Marcy Thornton favorable rulings not supported by law or evidence, cutting her clients loose, generally debasing and corrupting justice because you enjoy intimate relations with her. Oh hell, why not say it: you and Marcy screw. It’s been going on ever since you two had your law school study group and it’s gotten worse now you’re Chief Judge and think you’re untouchable. Untouchable except by Marcy Thornton and the underage girl she gave you in appreciation for derailing the Cody Geronimo prosecution. A lot of touching going on there.”

  “Your Honor!” Thornton charged the bench, spike heels hammering the floor, short legs scissoring fast to cover the distance from the counsel table.

  “I have this, Ms. Thornton.” Judge Diaz pointed at Fager. “I find you in contempt of court. You will be taken into custody immediately. Bailiff.”

  “What?” Fager lifted his hands, palms up, his collar riding higher on his neck. “Let’s review: you said give us the truth. Ms. Thornton’s question was, what did Lily Montclaire tell me. I objected on grounds of attorney-client privilege. You overruled. I am a disbarred lawyer, you reminded me. That means not a lawyer, which means fifty percent of the requirements for that privilege does not exist. Ms. Thornton then digressed, asked if I had accepted any compensation from Ms. Montclaire, hoping to prove unauthorized practice of law. I said there was no charge, didn’t utter the words pro bono since that sounds like I was providing legal advice but for free. I said we just talked, Ms. Montclaire and I. That brought us to the next question, or rather, the original question. What did Ms. Montclaire tell me? You ordered me to answer truthfully, which I just did. So why hold me in contempt?”

  “Because—” Judge Diaz’s square chin shook. “Because. Because your testimony is willfully false. A further discovery violation, compounding your overall display of disrespect for the rules of civil procedure and this court.”

  “May I say something else?”

  “I’ve heard enough.”

  “Your Honor.” Thornton now at the bench, reaching up, gripping the polished edge, fingers near Diaz’s gavel. The judge not telling her to remove her hand. “We finally have Mr. Fager under oath and talking. We might as well hear it.”

  Diaz straightened her robe, shiny black fabric sliding over her breasts, Thornton thinking, Jesus, she’s not wearing anything under there. Fager could probably see it from his chair, maybe a little more every time Diaz leaned over to lecture him.

  “Mr. Fager, answer the question.”

  “I told Lily Montclaire she should report everything she knows to the police. It doesn’t sound right, wouldn’t you agree, a judge having sex with a lawyer appearing before her, corrupting her office in exchange for a few orgasms, even lots of orgasms. And illegal thrills with a minor? It’s Ms. Montclaire’s duty as a citizen to report all she knows.”

  “That’s it. Bailiff.”

  “One minute, Your Honor. May I?” Marcy Thornton came around to stand in front of Fager, not waiting for a ruling.

  “Were Detectives Denise Aragon and/or Rick Lewis present during your conversation with Ms. Montclaire?”

  “No.” Fager, done pouring out the words, reverting to trained witness mode.

  “FBI Special Agent Tomas Rivera.”

  “What’s the question?”

  “Was he present?”

  “When?”

  “During your conversation with Lily Montclaire?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ve met with him and Detectives Aragon and Lewis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “They were investigating your client’s murder of my wife and over a dozen other women. If you hadn’t obstructed the first investigation years ago, my wife and many of those women would be alive today.”

  “Did you meet with Ms. Montclaire in the offices of any law enforcement authority, state or federal?”

  “No.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “My office. Well, my space.”

  “Your law office on Paseo de Peralta?”

  “I don’t have a law office anymore. It’s just my building, next to yours. That’s where we met.”

  “What more did she tell you?”

  “She started getting into details. Something about handcuffs and teeth. I told her stop, go to the police. Oh, and I told her one thing more.”

  “What was that, Mr. Fager?”

  “That I hope you and Judy Diaz rot in hell and I’ll do all I can to send you there.”

  Thornton jumped at the crashing of Judge Diaz’s gavel.

  “Bailiff!”

  “Right.” Fager leaned back and linked fingers behind his head. “You wanted it word for word.”

  “What’s with Walter?” Judge Diaz asked back in chambers, in a wingback chair, sitting on her feet with her robe partially unzipped, a cross on a chain between her breasts. “He danced a jig shuffling through the door, like he loved wearing cuffs and shackles.”

  “You gave him what he wants,” Thornton said, passing Diaz a cup of tea poured from the judge’s electric kettle. The robe fell open farther when the judge lifted her arm. Thornton had guessed right—Judy was naked under the fake velvet. “We need to figure out exactly what that is.”

  “I wish you hadn’t taken the Geronimo case. I know, defending the man who killed the great Walter Fager’s wife, how could you pass it up? Him your mentor, you the next generation, phoenix from the ashes. Where does this end?”

  “I represented Cody for years. You know that. And you’re right, how could I pass it up? Walter used to brag he taught me everything I know. I don’t hear that anymore.”

  “You taught him something new, for sure. Provoking him to choke you in front of cameras as you laid out your case for him being the murderer instead of Cody Geronimo. Nobody teaches that. But the way you went after him. Everything that made Walt a lawyer to be feared, he’s using it to come after us. Maybe you went too far, admit it.”

  “Don’t worry about Walter.” Thornton sipped her tea, nibbled at a cracker. “He can’t use the Disciplinary Board against us. Not a lawyer, not a client. Sorry, Walt, you’re out of the game. This lawsuit I filed on behalf of the Geronimo estate, it lets us keep tabs on what he’s up to. I’ve got Aragon in deposition later this week, your courtroom again. We’ll find out where they’ve got Lily stashed.”

  “But this time we don’t invite the world to watch, okay? A closed hearing?”

  “I need him back after Aragon, to get into how they coordinated efforts. That’s the key to the suit, so I can reach those deep taxpayer pockets. I have to prove he acted under Aragon’s direction. I prove he’s their agent, Aragon setting things in motion, losing control, Cody getting killed, it’s on her.”

  “Fager didn’t actually kill Geronimo. That was Sam Goff.” Diaz shifted position, untucked her feet, leaned forward to rest her cup on the table next to her chair, one breast almost spilling out of the robe. “The retired detective trying to pin it on Fager, getting revenge for, what was it?”

  “Defending too well the drunk driver who wiped out Goff’s children. Walt did a hell of a job on that case. He w
as something to behold.”

  “A minor factual shortcoming in your claims against him, don’t you think?”

  “Facts not in the record don’t count. Here’s how it’s going to work: You enter a default judgment against Walter for willful discovery violations. He’s blown off my requests for admission. You deem them admitted. That means my story and only my story is what gets in the record. My proposed findings make Aragon vicariously liable for everything everyone else did. You approve my claim for damages. Risk Management settles. We can get this done in six months.”

  “You’re ignoring me,” Diaz said. “Fager’s happy to go to jail. Why?”

  “Walt wanted to vent in open court. He knows a regular deposition can be sealed before anyone sees it. He calls us names behind closed doors, it’s a waste of time. He had an audience today.”

  “You couldn’t help billing this as a big show. That reporter from The New Mexican was in the back. And the blogger who does Santa Fe Sentinel—the rumors about us drew that one in. He’s a vile homophobe.”

  “The Our Lady of Guadalupe shirt, second row from the back?”

  “Get used to reading his stuff. Every Catholic in Santa Fe watches his site. I’m positive courthouse staff have been feeding him dirt. Some of the old timers. I get the looks.”

  Thornton helped herself to hand lotion on the judge’s dressing table, right there in chambers. It was something Diaz had picked up from her, a dressing area off to the side of the mahogany desk. Past the wet bar, but the judge couldn’t show bottles of liquor where she met with lawyers and held settlement talks.

  The door in the dressing table was cracked open. A big bottle in there. Thornton nudged the door open wider. The old male judges would keep bourbon in a desk drawer. You could tell they’d had a taste before the lawyers came back to wrangle about objections away from the jury. The smell would be hanging in the air but no one would say anything. Diaz had a half-gallon bottle of Absolut in here.

  The bottle was nearly empty and Thornton wondered how often the judge was hitting it. This morning she’d come to the bench carrying her own glass of water when the bailiff had a pitcher with ice waiting for her, next to her microphone and gavel.

  In the mirror behind jars and bottles she saw a face doing much better than Judy Diaz’s. Still cute, a tight body she worked at, black silk making her look thin.

  “I need another subpoena,” she said. “For Leon Bronkowski, Fager’s investigator. He’s not talking since he drove his Harley into an underpass. Any failure to answer my questions, I get to argue the facts I want.”

  “Yes, you can argue negative inference.”

  “Mr. Bronkowski, did you and Mr. Fager conspire to kill Cody Geronimo? May the record reflect the witness declines to answer. You later rule the negative inference in my favor, meaning yes, they conspired. Did Mr. Fager shoot Mr. Geronimo and then you attempted to dispose of the gun, but were interrupted when your motorcycle crashed into the highway overpass? May the record reflect the witness declines to answer. Negative inference for me, again. You get the picture. I can tie everything up with one deposition and dump it all on Fager, without any inconvenient true facts getting in the way. Walt’s in jail, so he won’t be shouting objections or yelling at the stenographer to pack up. I’ll have Bronkowski to myself. A helpless lamb staked out for the wolf. That would be me.”

  “Bronkowski? He’s in a coma, isn’t he?”

  “It will be a very short deposition. And I’ll be doing all the talking.”

  Walter Fager stood at the back the courthouse with other men in cuffs and shackles. He still had his business jacket over the mock tee, but his pants lacked a belt. The other men wore baggy prison red with blue plastic slippers over white socks.

  “I miss the old courthouse,” he said to the prisoner next to him, a Black man with hunched shoulders and short neck. “There were bullet holes in the crash doors.”

  “Wild West shit,” the prisoner said. “Shootout at the O.K. Corral.”

  “I was there when it happened,” Fager said, the man now looking at him, his head nested on his collarbone, the shoulders up by his ears. “That was my client with the gun. A child custody case, the last I ever did. I went strictly criminal defense after that. He lost custody and attacked the judge with a knife.”

  “I thought there was guns in this story.”

  “I’m getting to it. His wife’s lawyer blocked him, saw his necktie get sliced off, but knocked the knife out of his hand with his briefcase. My client, Jerry Jaramillo, that was his name, jumped onto the court reporter’s table and pulled a revolver from the back of his pants. He stood up there shooting lights, blasting photos on the wall. The judge ducked behind the bench, the court reporter frozen, big eyes under big hair. Jerry had time to reload, digging one bullet at a time out of his pockets, before deputies arrived. He escaped through the judge’s chambers into the hallway. They shot him in front of the rear door.”

  “He lost custody, huh?”

  “There’s bullet holes behind the witness stand in the Gallup courtroom. That’s another story.”

  “From long ago and far away. Before metal detectors. You can still get a knife in, fuck those machines. I done it.”

  “Me too. Forgot it was in my pocket.”

  “I know you, man.”

  Fager studied the prisoner’s face, trying hard to remember if he’d been on the raw end of one of his plays in court, wondering if a client had killed a gang brother or a family member. Wondering how much length there was in the chain that held him to the man in front.

  “You choked that bitch on the TV. We saw it in the pod. We was all cheerin’ you, get it done. She suppose to be my zealous advocate. Feisty, then your money runs out. Jury screws me, I say to her, ‘What the fuck? You said I’d walk.’ She says back, ‘You didn’t ask where. You’ll walk, round and round a gravel path for the next eight years.’”

  “The other guys screaming—was Marcy Thornton their lawyer?”

  “You want to call her that. We call her ‘the law whore.’ Get it? Law-yore, law whore, like some little brown Mexican sayin’ it through his teeth. We don’t need no stinkin’ law whores.”

  “I’m a lawyer. Was. Maybe there’s something I can help you with, an appeal, a habeas petition.”

  “For an old white dude in a nice jacket, you don’t look sorry ’bout where you gonna lay your head. Maybe you got no appreciation for what’s coming. You won’t find any of your, what you call ’em, your peers waitin’ to discuss the morning Wall Street report. But it’s the dead time that’s the worst, ask me. Watching the clock, waiting for the meal, couple hours yard time, sun on your face, lining up for the shower, getting that done quick. You know it’s a week when the Bible people come. Then you roll it over and start again.”

  “I doubt boredom will be an issue. Now, getting back, when did you retain Marcy Thornton and what were your charges? And tell me every way in which you believe she failed to provide you the representation you deserved.”

  “I got ten to twenty to tell it. How long you got to listen?”

  Four

  “Lily, I’m Special Agent Tomas Rivera.” Black hair fell across his forehead when he bent forward. He extended a hand. Montclaire, seated in the steel chair bolted to the floor, had been hugging herself and unfolded a long arm. “You look cold,” he said.

  “I’m freezing. They’ve kept me in this ice box for hours.”

  “Please, take my jacket. We have some things to discuss after your conversation with Detectives Aragon and Lewis. I’ll sit over here and listen for now.”

  “Lily.” Aragon standing, nearly face to face with Montclaire she was that short. “Give me your phone.”

  “Why? I need it.”

  “We need it more.”

  Montclaire fished a Samsung out of her purse.

  “Turn it on, bring up your texts,�
� Aragon said.

  “I know you need a warrant for that.”

  “Smart girl. We’ll get a warrant. We’ll serve it on you in jail, where you’re waiting trial for aggravated arson, conspiracy, the whole ticket. Oh, snap. Your phone will be confiscated when you’re booked. We could drop by jail for a quick look and not bother you. We wouldn’t want to interrupt your getting acquainted with your new pals for life.”

  “Here.” Montclaire brought up her texts. “What do you want to see?”

  “We don’t have a problem with prostitution in Santa Fe County. The sheriff said so, right in the newspaper. Not like Albuquerque on Central Avenue, the girls beating the streets middle of the day, hoping a car stops so they can get out of the sun. It’s not an open meat market here. That story you told us—rushing around, looking for a girl to fit Thornton’s order, you find Andrea on the cruise. Inside or outside the mall, you’ve been vague on that. You sold her on a four-by-four with grown women, got into Thornton’s Aston, drove across town to the hills where rich people live. We could check video at the mall, have you walk us through it, talk to everyone for a week and come right back here, the same chairs, these same bright lights, to say you’re lying. Save us time. Was it Craigslist or Backpage? Pull up the texts where you traded pics.”

  Montclaire scrolled through her files and showed the phone to Aragon. Lewis leaned in. Rivera rose from his chair to look over their shoulders.

  “That’s me to her. This is the head shot she sent me. I don’t remember how we first hooked up. Craigslist or Backpage. I was checking both.”

  Aragon pulled up a photo on her own phone and compared it to the image on Montclaire’s screen.

  “That’s her,” Aragon said, Montclaire craning to see but Aragon keeping the screen turned away. “Tell me again where Marcy bit her.”

  “On the thigh and the breast, the left.”

  “This was the last time, two days ago?”