Good Intentions

by J. D. Trafford

  “Well . . .” I shook my head. “I don’t have anything more specific.”

  “Did he mention that anybody was threatening him?”

  “No.”

  “In the past few weeks, did he seem distant or afraid?”

  I thought about the last conversation I’d had with Harry. “I don’t think he was acting different. At least, nothing stands out to me.”

  He latched on to my ambiguity. “You don’t think, or you don’t know?”

  “I can’t remember anything specific.” The conversation went in circles. “Maybe there was something, but I don’t think so. He was just Harry. He was a kind man. I was worried about a case and a reporter. Harry was there for me, just like always.”

  He waited for me to elaborate, but nothing more came. Finally he surrendered. “Think more about it, and if you come up with something, then please let me know.” Jarkowski rubbed his large nose. “Anybody else you know that I should talk to?”

  “Harry had some relatives, cousins. I called them last night, just to let them know what had happened. I can give you their names, but I don’t think that they’ll be of much help.” Then I thought about Harry’s best friend. “You should also talk to Marshall Terry.”

  “The businessman?”

  I nodded. “He was pretty shaken up when I told him the news,” I said. “Marsh was probably Harry’s best and oldest friend. I’m not sure how often they got together, but Marsh might know things that I don’t know. They served in Vietnam together.”

  “I’ll follow up with him.” Jarkowski took out a small notebook from his pocket, and then he wrote down the name. “Anybody else?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ll let you know if I can think of more names.”

  “That’s good.” Jarkowski wrote another note to himself. “I appreciate this.” He put the little notebook back in his pocket, and then he took the conversation in a different direction. “Another theory is some sort of robbery gone bad, like a guy comes up to the door, the judge answers, and there’s a confrontation.”

  I was skeptical. Most of the thefts and burglaries I’d prosecuted before becoming a judge were petty shoplifting cases or somebody stealing electronics from friends or relatives. Home break-ins of strangers happened while the owners were at work or on vacation. There was usually some planning. Burglaries of occupied homes were unusual. Knocking on the front door and waiting for the homeowner to answer was incredibly unlikely.

  “Seems like a stretch,” I said.

  “I know,” he agreed. “But we have to follow up.” Jarkowski paused for a moment. “What about money issues? Did Judge Meyer ever complain about getting paid too little, or maybe he liked to gamble?”

  “He certainly never complained about getting paid too little,” I said. “I know he hated gambling. He never even played the lotto, said it was a regressive tax on the working poor.”

  “What about debt?” he asked. “Did he buy things he couldn’t afford? Did he owe people?”

  “He lived a modest life. Harry and Mary Pat were comfortable, but it wasn’t as if they went on elaborate vacations or drove fancy cars.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked. His eyebrow raised. “Some people have told me he had money issues.”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” I said. “If he did, he never told me about them.”

  Jarkowski bit his lip. He rubbed his chin, likely wondering if he should push me further. Eventually, after several facial contortions, he moved on.

  “We should be done processing the house by the afternoon,” he said, “and then you can get inside. If you don’t mind, Judge, it’d be good if you looked around.” He held out his large hands, palms up. It was clear that he needed my help. “You see, there may be things that are important that I don’t understand or know are missing. If you could go through any letters, bills, bank statements . . . See if there’s something DKDK, understood?”

  “Not really. DKDK?”

  “Something that I don’t know that I don’t know. Anything that stands out as odd or weird or doesn’t feel right.” He sat up a little straighter. “We do as much as we can and follow the leads that we are given. I’d know if a flat-screen television was ripped off the wall, but only you know about missing jewelry or something else. You’ll see stuff I don’t see. You know things that I don’t know that I don’t know. DKDK.”

  “So I can go inside the house?”

  “End of the day,” said Jarkowski. “We contract with a company called Specialized Cleaners. They clean things up after a suicide, accident, or other death.”

  “I think that’s one of the worst jobs in the criminal justice system.”

  “Awful,” Jarkowski agreed. “The chemical smell in the house is going to be strong for the next few days.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Thanks again, Judge, for taking the time to talk with me.” He turned and started walking to the door, then stopped. “One more thing,” he said. “You know who Helen Vox is?”

  The question took me by surprise, and I wondered whether this was the real reason he had come to talk with me so early in the morning. “The prosecutor?”

  “So you do know her?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Everybody knows her. She’s been around a long time.”

  “Does child protection work, too, right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She manages the division. Doesn’t come to court much anymore. She might fill in when one of the attorneys is on vacation or sick, but her job is more policy and administration now.”

  “And she was tight with Judge Meyer?”

  “Yes,” I started to answer, but then stopped. “I guess . . . I don’t know what you mean by tight.”

  “Did they socialize?”

  I thought about it. “Maybe . . . I’m not sure.”

  He cocked his head. “Not sure? I thought you and Judge Meyer were close.”

  “We are . . . or were.” I became flustered. “Where is this coming from?”

  “You tell me, Judge.” Jarkowski began to walk away. “You tell me.”

  After Jarkowski left, Karen Fields came into my chambers with a fresh stack of orders for me to sign. “Morning, Judge.” She set the papers in front of me.

  “Good morning, Karen.” I flipped through the documents. I was supposed to read every word, but I gave up that practice within the first week on the job. They were boilerplate orders. Unique information, such as the attorneys’ names and the names of parents or children, was populated by a computer program. Although the people who drafted the rules and statutes likely envisioned something different, those people had never worked in the trenches. They didn’t understand the time pressure. They didn’t know the volume of cases. So, since the rules didn’t specifically require independent thought and detail, none was provided. The statutes merely required a written order, and that’s what they got.

  I picked up my pen and worked through the stack. Then I gave the signed court orders back to Karen.

  “Thanks, Judge,” she said. “I’ll get these filed while you’re in your meeting. Then we have some hearings scheduled later in the morning.”

  “Anything else?”

  Karen shook her head. “No, Judge.” She paused. “Are you doing OK?”

  “I’ll be fine.” I offered her a gentle smile. Karen’s formality was a sharp contrast to her predecessor, and I was still trying to get used to it. The fact that she showed up on time and worked a full day was also a significant change. “Thank you for asking, Karen.”

  As she started to turn away, I thought about Jarkowski. “Karen,” I said, and she stopped. “Do you know Helen Vox?”

  She nodded. “I guess. What about her?”

  “The guy investigating Judge Meyer’s death asked if they were close, Harry and Helen.”

  Karen shifted from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable. “What’d you say?”

  “Nothing.” I shook my head. “The question just caught me off guard, wasn’t sure what I should say.”


  Karen raised her eyebrows, seeming surprised. “Why?”

  “Well”—I paused—“they’ve worked together for years. What else was there?”

  Her face tightened. Karen’s narrow lips sealed closed.

  “What’s going on?”

  She looked at her watch, now in a hurry to take care of the orders in her hand. “I better go get these filed.”

  “Stop,” I said as she started to walk away. “I asked you what’s going on.” I didn’t want it to seem like an interrogation, and so I tried to keep it friendly. “It’s fine. I’m not mad at you . . . I just want to know.”

  She turned around with reluctance. “It’s none of my business, Judge,” she said. “Silly rumors.”

  “Rumors?” I stared at her. She’d been a law clerk for only a month, and Karen was already more plugged in to courthouse gossip than me. “About what?”

  “People talk.” Karen looked away, unable to meet my eye. “I guess I thought you knew they were . . . like . . . together.”

  “Together?”

  Karen nodded. “Like for a long time, twenty years or something.”

  “He’s married.”

  “I know,” Karen said. “But lots of people have affairs.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Part of me wanted to skip the emergency bench meeting and find Helen Vox. I knew, however, that Chief Judge Patrick Karls expected me to be present. The main topics of discussion were Judge Meyer, filling his vacancy, and managing his cases until the governor appointed his replacement. Everybody now expected me to take the lead, even though nobody was too excited about having me around.

  As I walked up the stairs to the meeting, I called Helen. She didn’t answer, which was a good thing, because I didn’t quite know what I was going to say. At the sound of the beep, I kept it simple. “Call me when you get a chance.” I left my cell phone number, exited the stairwell, and turned a corner on my way to the large conference room.

  The court administrator, Nancy Johns, huddled with Chief Judge Karls near the door. Nancy was the power behind the throne, and I wondered what she was whispering in his ear. Johns could make a judge’s life miserable, and without Judge Meyer’s protection, I wondered what she was going to do to me.

  “Judge Thompson, have a minute?” Johns asked as I walked past them into the conference room. She waved me back over. “I’m glad you’re here.” Johns put her hand on my arm. “We’re very sorry for your loss. If there’s anything we can do . . .”

  “Nothing right now,” I said. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, but thank you.”

  Chief Judge Karls nodded. “I’m in shock. My condolences as well.”

  “I appreciate your thoughts and prayers.” It was all I could manage to say, but neither Johns nor Chief Karls seemed to mind. They had provided the requisite moment of sympathy, which had allowed them to politely return to the business of the court. That was the real reason why Johns had called me over.

  “We’ll need to figure out a sustainable plan to cover Judge Meyer’s cases until the governor names a replacement,” Karls said. “We’ll also need to discuss what you’d like to do—”

  “Whether you want to continue in child dependency or not,” Johns chimed in, saving the chief from having to go into details. “From a professional development standpoint, I’m curious whether or not this is the right assignment for you.”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything. It was the first time anybody had ever suggested I rotate off and stop handling cases of child abuse and neglect. It wouldn’t surprise me if Johns knew about Benji Metina and was already trying to do some damage control. She was always planting seeds.

  “There are some other issues that need to be addressed as well,” she said.

  “Other issues?”

  Johns touched my arm again. “Nothing to worry about right now.” Her eyes narrowed. “We’ll talk, maybe next week.” She exchanged a look with Karls, then turned back to me. “Your former law clerk,” she whispered.

  “Billy?” I was confused. “What about him?”

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “OK.” I turned back toward the conference room. “But let me know.” I walked away, figuring the less I pushed the better.

  A few judges milled around the coffee and bagels at the back, and others were already seated. There were four large oak tables arranged in a square. The space felt like a fancy high school cafeteria. The judges had sorted themselves into various factions, each surely thinking they were superior to the others.

  There were the judges with ambition. There were judges just a few years from retirement, waiting for the day they’d be eligible for a full pension. Then there were the academics, the institutionalists, the bleeding hearts, and the lock ’em ups. And last but not least, there were the golfers.

  I didn’t fit into any of the groups, so I made my way toward a neutral corner at the far end of the room, where I could sit by myself. A couple of judges looked up from their iPads, gave me a look of pity, and continued scrolling through their e-mails. Lawyers weren’t known for their interpersonal skills, and judges, due to their isolation on the bench, seemed even more socially stunted.

  The certification of Judge Meyer’s vacancy came first on the agenda. It was a quick overview about process and scheduling concerns. Chief Karls then asked me if I knew anything about the funeral arrangements. It was the first time I had ever been called upon to say anything at a bench meeting.

  I managed to shake my head and stutter out a response. “I’m meeting with the funeral home today. Should have more information to share either this evening or tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.” Chief Karls jotted down a note on his agenda, then looked back up at me. “And does his family want us to robe and process down the aisle?”

  The family would be me. Judge Meyer and Mary Pat had tried but couldn’t have any children. I was as close as they had to a son. Unfortunately, Nikki and I were having the same difficulty starting a family, but we hadn’t given up yet.

  “The procession . . .” I thought about the long tradition of judges attending a memorial service in their black robes. It purportedly started with the death of Queen Mary in 1694. She was credited with creating an independent judiciary. All the judges in England had arrived at her funeral wearing black robes, as a symbol of mourning. Before her funeral, judges wore robes of various colors. Both the black robe and the funeral procession had become a ritual that continued.

  “I assume he would want that.” I looked at the solemn faces around the room. “Judge Meyer loved this bench. He loved his job. So I’ll get the details and make arrangements for us.”

  “We’ll need a room to robe,” croaked one of the judges near retirement.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll make sure there is a space for us to put on our robes and store our things.”

  “Thank you, Jim.” Chief Judge Karls made another note on his agenda, and the meeting moved on to scheduling. Senior judges were going to be hired to assist the bench while everyone waited for Judge Meyer’s replacement, and a heated discussion ensued related to whether the senior judge would handle Judge Meyer’s child dependency cases or whether another judge would be willing to take on the assignment.

  After an hour, it was clear that there were no volunteers to take Judge Meyer’s assignment. Judges wanted to hold criminals accountable or manage large class-action lawsuits. None wanted to terminate parental rights and put kids in foster care.

  For the foreseeable future, it was just going to be me.

  “Hey.” Judge Gary Perillo touched my shoulder as the meeting ended. He was a thin man with large glasses. Perillo resembled a squirrel, and I wondered whether he’d have fewer friends on the bench than me if he weren’t an excellent golfer. “So sorry about your loss. I know you two were close.”

  “Thank you for your thoughts.” That had now become my standard response, and nobody seemed to be asking me for anything more.

  Perillo looke
d around, checking to make sure that we weren’t overheard. “Got a call from that reporter at the Chronicle,” he said. “Just wanted you to know she’s been calling people.”

  “Benji Metina?”

  Judge Perillo’s eyes widened. All judges, including me, had a great fear and suspicion of reporters. Even the Supreme Court of the United States had refused to allow photographs or video recordings of their proceedings, because they were afraid their hearings would be misunderstood.

  “She’s been asking about Harry and his friends, people he hangs out with,” Perillo said. “And she’s been asking about you, like your reputation and how you got appointed to the bench at such a young age.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Nothing really.” Perillo looked around again. “Nothing to tell.” He waited as a few other judges walked past us. He watched them, and, as his head tilted, the curve of his lenses magnified his eyes to the size of tennis balls and then back to normal again. “But something’s up. It doesn’t sound positive.” Perillo took a shallow breath. “I’d just watch yourself. There are folks here who weren’t too happy you got the job, you know?”

  “It’s been a year since the appointment,” I said. “Isn’t it time to let it go?”

  “These people have long memories. They’re patient, and it’s like a sport to them. Everybody assumed it was going to be Nick Green. Some of the judges really like that guy. They had written recommendations for him and everything.” He leaned closer, conspiring. “Personally, I think he’s an arrogant showboat.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Have you called her?”

  I shook my head. “No. I just want it to go away.”

  “Well, it won’t.” Perillo sounded certain, and then he looked away, thinking. “But maybe that’s changed now. Maybe with Harry gone, she’ll back off. Seems like it’d be in bad taste, you think?”

  “Maybe.” I patted Perillo on the shoulder. “Thanks for the heads-up.”