by Marc Cameron
Chief Phillips flicked her hand at the two lavender paisley chairs in front of her desk without looking up, and then chuckled, turning the photographs on her desk so Cutter and Teariki could take a look. Her brunette hair was longer than when he’d first met her, as if the new baby made it too difficult to find time to cut or style. She was about Cutter’s age, freckled, which he found attractive but would never say out loud since she was his boss. He suspected she was the only person in the district who could routinely outshoot him. Her Kentucky accent was pleasant, reminding him of folks he knew from rural Florida. More important, she was a damned good boss.
Where the position of United States Marshal is filled by presidential appointment, changing with the tides of whichever political party is in the White House, the chief deputy is the top career boss in each district, protected from the vagaries of political change by civil service rules. Cutter had worked under several different US Marshals. Most were seasoned law enforcement professionals, but a couple were businessmen who got the gig because of their political connections. Gaining the rank of chief deputy was different. Climbing up the career ladder didn’t make all chiefs perfect—Cutter had worked for some real winners—but at least they knew the culture and had enough contacts at headquarters to provide top cover for the deputies in their respective districts if they wanted to. It was often said (though rarely within earshot of the Marshal) that the gold badge was given; the silver badge was earned.
Jill Phillips had certainly earned her promotion. More leader than manager, she proved to be the type of straight-shooting boss that the A-type souls who were likely to become deputy marshals craved—even if they didn’t care to admit it. If you screwed up, her tune-ups were excruciatingly direct, but done privately and face to face. When you did well, the whole district—and maybe the entire Marshals Service—heard the praise. She was famous throughout the agency for being an incredible mentor, the kind who helped her direct reports become chiefs themselves—which was the last thing Cutter aspired to do. He spent too much time at his desk as it was. Being chained to a chief deputy’s office would be the lowest circle of Hell.
Phillips tapped the eraser of a gray Blackwing 602 pencil against the photograph. “What does this look like to you?”
Lola studied it for a moment and then looked up, frowning as if her time was being wasted. “It looks like some teenage boy drew a dick pic on a dusty tailgate.”
The chief gave a low chuckle. “That is exactly what I said.”
“The problem,” Keen said, “is that this particular dusty tailgate belongs to Judge Markham’s Suburban. His grandkids saw it too, which has him ready to hold everyone in contempt.”
“Okay,” Cutter said, leaning back in his chair. “I doubt a juvenile drawing rises even to the level of criminal mischief.”
“All true enough,” Phillips said. “But I didn’t call you over to discuss lewd artwork. According to my contact in the Central Violations Bureau, there’s a guy with a warrant, living near the village of Stone Cross.”
The Central Violations Bureau, or CVB, was the repository for citations issued by various government entities in national parks or other federal lands. Generally unpaid tickets for offenses against regulations dreamed up by some bureaucrat behind a desk rather than laws set forth by Congress, CVB warrants were not in the bottom of the pile for a deputy’s enforcement priorities. They were in an entirely different pile, in the bottom of a forgotten drawer, under a bunch of other things that no one wanted to do. Ever.
“What’s this CVB warrant for?” Cutter asked.
Phillips gave a conspiratorial wink. “Public urination within three hundred feet of an outhouse in a national park.”
“Guess we really are the action service,” Lola scoffed. “You’re sending us five hundred miles to arrest a guy for peeing in the woods?”
“No,” Phillips said. “I’m sending you five hundred miles to protect a federal judge.”
CHAPTER 7
There was no escaping an edict from the chief, but Cutter tried anyway. “Excuse me, ma’am, but a protective detail because someone drew a penis on the judge’s car?”
“There’s a little more to it than that, Big Iron.” Phillips rarely missed the opportunity to tease him about the fact that he carried his grandfather’s revolver—an anachronism in this era of high-capacity semi-automatic pistols that Cutter thought of as combat Tupperware. The chief envied him, so she teased him.
She nodded to Inspector Keen, giving him the floor.
“Three days ago,” Keen said, “Judge Markham received this letter, postmarked from Bethel.” Keen opened a manila folder and took out a plastic sleeve containing a single sheet of paper. He passed it to Lola, who scanned it, then gave it to Cutter. This was a photocopy, but the original looked to have been handwritten on a sheet torn from a spiral notebook, the frayed edges still attached. Printed in all capitals, the writing was neat and meticulous, as if the author had taken a great amount of time on each individual letter. There were a few misspellings and some kind of stain on the bottom corner, but it was impossible to tell what it was on the copy.
Cutter read it aloud.
TO: THE DISHONORABLE JUDGE MARKHAM.
FINDING: WE WILL MEET ONE DAY. VERY SOON AS A FACT.
JUGMENT: VERY GUIOLTY
SENTENCE: SHALL BE TAKEN AWAY.
NO ONE CAN EVERY FIND YOU. MY HAPPINESS IS TO HOLD YOUR BEATING HEART IN MY HAND.
YOU WILL NEVER SEE ME COMING BUT YOU WILL KNOW JUGMENT.
“Jug-ment,” Lola said, reaching over to tap the misspelled word. “That sounds interesting. Maybe the letter-writer is a porn star with an axe to grind.”
“Yeah,” Keen said. “Because you have to be able to spell to be a threat.”
Lola rolled her eyes. “I’m joking, Scott.”
“Okay,” Cutter said. “We’ll be happy to head to Bethel and arrest whoever you want us to arrest.”
“Nice try,” Phillips said. “We don’t have any suspects.”
“Not yet,” Keen added. “But the way the letter is written suggests someone who had a case before the judge.”
Phillips put a hand flat on her desk and leaned back slightly in her chair. “Our problem is this. Judge Markham is on his way to a Yup’ik village called Stone Cross tomorrow, where he will preside over arbitration in a land dispute. He’ll have to fly to Bethel, where he’ll take a boat or small plane upriver to Stone Cross. He won’t be in Bethel long, but the arbitration in Stone Cross has been in the news for a couple of weeks.”
Keen took the letter and slipped it back in his file.
“How about the Bureau?” Lola asked. “Are they sending anyone out?”
Though the two agencies worked in tandem after a threat to a federal judge, the FBI customarily handled the criminal investigation, while the Marshals Service focused on the protective intelligence that might or might not be used in a prosecution.
“They have the original letter,” Phillips said. “And they’ve already interviewed Markham.”
“The case agent and I are supposed to meet this afternoon to share any intel we each have. I don’t think Markham likes the FBI much. They have a tendency to spin him up.”
“I hate to defend the Feebs,” Lola said, “but spinning up this judge is not all that difficult.”
“Scott already suggested a protective detail,” Phillips said. “But Judge Markham is having none of it.”
“Okay then.” Lola threw up her hands. “I say that’s great news. We can’t protect him if he doesn’t want us to.”
“That’s where you two come in,” Phillips said. “The CVB warrant gives us an excuse to go to Stone Cross.”
Keen spoke next. “Markham seems to think a protective detail would make him appear weak. He’s not a bad guy, really. Just used to everyone telling him yes all the time and laughing at all his jokes.”
“Due respect, Chief,” Cutter said. “But I may not be the right guy for this.”
Phillips
waved off the notion. “Because of that deal with Gayle during the fire alarm? You briefed me about that when it happened. It won’t be a problem.”
Cutter nodded, still sounding unsure. “Okay . . .”
Lola cocked her head. “What deal with Gayle? I never heard about any deal.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Cutter said.
“Exactly,” Phillips said. “Don’t worry about it. I doubt he even remembers.”
Cutter closed his eyes and groaned. J. Anthony Markham didn’t strike him as the type to forget much of anything, least of all a perceived slight in front of his administrative assistant.
“You’ve not had the pleasure of spending a night out in a bush village yet, have you?” Phillips asked.
“I have not,” Cutter said, already thinking through how this was going to play out. He was accustomed to work-arounds. One of the things he’d always loved about the Marshals Service was the unpredictability of coming to work. He’d learned early in his career that he might show up thinking he was going to spend a day hooking and hauling prisoners from jail to court, only to have the chief send him on an assignment to seize a horse ranch, or hunt down a bunch of escaped convicts in the Caribbean after a hurricane blew down their prison.
Phillips slid the single sheet of paper with the CVB warrant across the desk to Lola. It didn’t even rate a warrant file. “I haven’t run this guy yet, but you never know. Make sure you do a workup on him.”
Teariki gave her a dyspeptic thumbs-up and tucked the paper in her pocket.
Cutter’s eyes narrowed and he looked directly at the chief. “So Markham has agreed to let us shadow him so long as we’re there on other business?”
“He doesn’t know yet.” The chief pushed away from her desk and stood. “We’re about to go tell him.”
* * *
The elevator from the US Marshals cellblock exited into the secure hallway on the second floor, allowing deputies to escort prisoners into court through a back door without passing through any public areas. The arrangement gave USMS personnel direct access to judges where other law enforcement agents and employees of the US Attorney’s office were required to make an appointment. Still, judges were notoriously aloof, so few besides the brass and the judicial security inspector ventured into the no-man’s-land of the hall where their paths might cross with anyone in a black robe.
Chief Phillips led the way down the narrow hall, mumbling quietly that she was a nursing mother and this appointment with Markham was cutting into the time when she needed to pump. Cutter had gotten used to the chief’s lack of a filter. There was nothing sneaky about her. No guile, no hidden agenda. She said what was on her mind, making it easy for her subordinates to know where they stood. Like any large government organization, the Marshals had its share of bosses who liked to pit staff against one another, if only to see who was the most loyal. Phillips mentored everyone, even the misfits—which meant even the few who didn’t like her, still trusted her. Grumpy always said that there were damned few people worth emulating. But Cutter was certain his grandfather would have liked Jill Phillips.
“What’s the news on Zeus?” she asked as she walked.
“Not good, I’m afraid,” Cutter said. “Brain swelling. He’s in a drug-induced coma.”
“Dammit!” Phillips made no secret of the fact that she liked animals more than she liked most people. “Keep me posted.”
She paused at the end of the hall beside a varnished wood plaque that read: J. ANTHONY MARKHAM, UNITED STATES DISTRICT JUDGE.
“The action service,” Lola whispered again.
“Remember,” Phillips said. “You signed up for this.” She took a deep breath, then pushed open the door.
The attractive redhead at a desk behind the reception counter brightened visibly when she saw Cutter. “Hi, Arliss,” she said. “Hey, Jill.”
“Hey, Gayle.” Phillips nodded toward the back of the office. “He’s expecting us.”
“I’ll see if he’s ready for you,” Gayle Jackson said. She was Markham’s administrative assistant. Forty-something, with short, Tinkerbell hair, she wore a forest-green wool suit that perfectly accented her porcelain complexion.
Phillips nodded at Jackson’s perfectly manicured nails. “I like.”
Jackson held her hand out for Phillips—and probably for Cutter as well. “It’s called Big Apple.”
“I’ll make a note,” Phillips said, smiling as Jackson disappeared around the corner to Markham’s chambers.
Lola leaned in closer to Cutter and whispered, “That woman is a knockout. I’m surprised she passed the Mrs. Markham test. I heard His Honor’s better half is the jealous type.”
Cutter didn’t respond, though, in truth, he’d been thinking the same thing.
Lola pressed. “You have to tell me about this deal that happened with Gayle.”
Phillips gave her a quiet glare and pantomimed zipping her lips.
The outer chambers were spacious, but sparsely furnished. Other than Gayle Jackson’s desk and two floor-to-ceiling cases full of the tan, red, and black volumes of the North Western Reporter that seemed obligatory for any judge’s office, there was a Fred Machetanz print of a polar bear on the pack ice and a whalebone carving of an Iñupiat Eskimo dancer. To the right of the door, just beyond the counter, two harried law clerks slouched behind their respective computers, looking like something from a modern version of a Dickens novel, surrounded by stacks of folders and yellow legal pads. Their cubby offices were so small that Cutter wondered how they ever got the desks inside.
Jackson came back around the corner. “Go on in,” she said, absent the condescension some got when they worked for powerful people and felt they were powerful too, by extension. She beamed at Cutter, but said nothing.
“Come on, boss,” Lola pleaded. “I gots to know.”
Cutter ignored her.
The trademark bow tie made Judge Markham a difficult man to miss. Today’s tie was gold and navy blue, like something from a New England prep school. A dark blue suit jacket, tailored and surely as expensive as all Cutter’s suits put together, hung on a hanger on a wooden coat-tree behind an expansive oak desk. The sleeves of Markham’s starched white shirt were rolled halfway up his forearms, which were surprisingly well muscled. A set of ebony cufflinks sat in a molded leather tray that looked like it was there expressly for that purpose, suggesting the judge made a habit of rolling up his sleeves at work. If anything, the inner office was even more sparsely furnished than the outer one, the main décor being books, all neatly arranged, even the open ones. There was nothing else on the desk but a yellow legal pad and an open laptop computer.
The judge came around his desk to shake hands with Phillips—a move Grumpy would have approved of—and motioned Teariki and Keen to sit on the couch. The chief and Cutter got the chairs in front of his desk.
If Markham remembered the fire alarm incident, he didn’t mention it.
He leaned back in his leather chair, hands steepled at his chest, looking professorial, while Phillips went over her plan. She explained that the Marshals Service took all threats seriously, and Cutter and Teariki would be in the area should he need assistance.
“That won’t be necessary,” Markham said. “I’m sorry you wasted any time planning this operation.”
Jill Phillips had too much experience with people who actually wanted to kill her to be intimidated by the curt dismissal. “Your Honor,” she said, “I don’t waste time. My deputies are going to Stone Cross when you do. It is our job to protect you, and we will do our job.”
Markham gave a thoughtful nod, pooching out his bottom lip. “I’ve no desire to be obstreperous. That said, I do expect the wishes regarding my privacy to be heeded. I know very well what a protective detail is like, and I do not want to have deputy marshals underfoot while I’m doing my job.”
“Understood, sir,” Phillips said. “This will not be a formal detail. As you are no doubt aware, Stone Cross is a long way from the road sy
stem. They have no armed police force, no ambulance, no hospital, no emergency services should anything go wrong. My deputies will simply be nearby in the event they are needed. They will not be underfoot.”
Markham leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk blotter. “What do you think of this, Deputy Cutter?”
“I agree with Chief Phillips.”
“You would.” Markham gave him a narrow look. “I’ve been on the bench long enough to read people.”
Cutter waited for the rest of it, but Markham seemed to decide against whatever it was he was going to say. Instead, he stood and offered his hand. “Very well,” he said. “I suppose I’ll see you in Stone Cross, then.”
“They’re probably flying out on the same plane you are,” Phillips said.
Markham gave a slow nod, and then sat back down at his desk to resume his reading, glasses perched on the end of his nose. “I see. Not underfoot then?”
* * *
“That wasn’t so bad,” Scott Keen said when they were back in the secure hall, walking toward the Marshals’ elevator.
“You think?” Phillips glanced at Cutter. “You read it the way I did?”
“Yep,” Cutter said. “He’s not putting up much of a fight because he knows I’m not happy about this whole arrangement. I’m thinking he’s going along with it to spite me.”
“If that’s what it takes, Big Iron,” the chief said.
Lola tugged on Cutter’s arm. “Seriously, boss. You gotta tell me about this incident.”
CHAPTER 8
Birdie Pingayak’s chin tattoo sewed her to her past.
In her great-grandmother’s time the indigo lines would have been accomplished with a bone needle and a length of sinew from a bowhead whale. Back then, the ink would have been made from urine mixed with the soot of a seal-oil lamp. Things were different for Birdie. Bone was too porous to sterilize and autoclaves turned sinew to mush. Seal-oil lamps had given way to electricity. And urine . . . well, there were probably better antiseptics out there. Modern methods called for a stainless-steel needle through the skin, pulling a length of sterile floss dipped in commercial tattoo ink.
