Good Intentions

by J. D. Trafford

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Then I heard the shot. I knew what it was. It was so loud. It jolted me awake. I was scared, nearly screamed, but I choked it back. I didn’t want anybody to know I was here.”

  She bent over and put her face in her hands, then shook her head back and forth, rocking. “I was frozen. You replay it in your head, thinking of all the things that you could’ve done. Run out and see who did it; get a description of the car or something pulling away. I could’ve done so many things, but instead I just stayed in bed. My heart was pounding out of my chest. I just sat frozen.”

  She took her hands from her face, sat straight up, and turned to me, her eyes desperate for my affirmation. “I’m sorry, Jim, but I didn’t do anything, and that’s the problem.”

  I put my hand on her back, comforting her. “You didn’t call the police?” I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear her explanation.

  “No,” she said. “When I was able to move, I thought about it.” She sighed. “But there was no phone in the room, and my stupid cell phone was in the kitchen, charging.”

  Helen stood and started pacing. “I went out, and I saw Harry on the floor. He wasn’t moving. It was quiet. I turned away from him, and then I went to get my phone but stopped.” She laughed. “I don’t know why. Maybe I’d been a prosecutor too long—afraid of the questions that were going to be asked, embarrassed by all the courthouse rumors being confirmed true, maybe a little concerned about being a suspect. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “In the moment, I decided that I didn’t have any information to share. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t know anything. I just heard a gunshot. That’s it. And so I got dressed and left.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  In re the Honorable James Thompson

  California State Board on Judicial Standards

  Inquiry Transcript, Excerpt

  BOARD MEMBER GREEN: Did you file a report with the California State Board on Judicial Standards related to Judge Meyer’s relationship with an attorney that regularly appeared before him?

  THOMPSON: Harry was dead. I don’t think the board has jurisdiction to punish dead judges.

  BOARD MEMBER GREEN: Are you being flippant with me? Because this is a very serious matter.

  THOMPSON: Is that a rhetorical question?

  [Pause]

  BOARD MEMBER GREEN: So did you file a complaint against Judge Meyer?

  THOMPSON: As the board would know from their own records, the answer to that question is no. I don’t think I have an obligation to do so.

  BOARD MEMBER GREEN: What about the rules of professional responsibility? Did you file a complaint related to Ms. Vox with the State Bar of California?

  THOMPSON: No.

  BOARD MEMBER GREEN: Why not? You were aware of a serious ethical violation, and you didn’t do anything?

  THOMPSON: I was more concerned with the criminal investigation.

  BOARD MEMBER GREEN: Yet, you didn’t immediately contact Detective Jarkowski, either?

  THOMPSON: I did not. I knew that Ms. Vox was going to do it.

  BOARD MEMBER GREEN: How? How did you know?

  THOMPSON: Because I told her, either you call Detective Jarkowski or I will.

  I didn’t like anybody who sat across the table from me. There were two judges and a community member. A complaint had been filed, and they were the ones charged by the Board on Judicial Standards to investigate my conduct.

  The judges were Herschell “Hershey” Feldman from Sacramento and Pamela Nitz from San Francisco. Both of them had left big law firms to join the Superior Court, taking a substantial pay cut in the process. As a result, they considered themselves to be martyrs for justice. Their proclamations of self-sacrifice grated. Nobody had ever given up so much for so little. Talk to them for more than five minutes, and I guarantee that they’ll somehow remind you of all that they’d given up.

  Then there was the community member. Judges did not want a true community member investigating alleged violations of the professional code, and so the Board on Judicial Standards typically selected an attorney. In this case, the board selected Nick Green. He was the current district attorney for Alameda County, which covers Oakland, Berkeley, and the sprawling communities to the south and east of San Francisco. He was also my former boss.

  When I had first started at the prosecutor’s office, straight out of law school, Green had been one of the managers of the criminal division. He was pretty decent. Green oversaw minor criminal cases, and then he personally handled the big stuff. Sometimes he was an asshole, but he was on the side of angels, so his arrogance was forgiven within the office. Then he handled a mother-daughter double murder, and things changed.

  Green got camera time on one of cable television’s real crime shows. He was portrayed as the square-jawed, relentless prosecutor fighting a schlubby and unethical defense attorney. It was great television. Green loved the attention. When the show was done, he didn’t want it to stop. That’s when he turned ambitious.

  Green rose to become the deputy district attorney for all criminal prosecutions, then chief deputy district attorney for the whole county, and then he got elected to the top job. It was all going according to plan, until I ruined it. When I was appointed judge, I had taken his spot on the bench.

  Now Green wanted nothing more than to take me down.

  Judge Feldman and Judge Nitz didn’t have much love for me, either—believing that I hadn’t paid my dues or earned my position—so they were more than happy to allow Green to take the lead and provided support only when needed.

  Green obliged.

  He peered down at me over his half-rimmed glasses. He looked smug, but I knew the glasses weren’t real. I knew this for a fact. Green had started wearing them about seven years ago, back when we were still working together. He wanted to look older and more distinguished for television. When he had accidentally left the glasses in a conference room, I couldn’t resist. I had heard the rumors. I picked them up and put them on, checking—they were fakes.

  The hearing lurched forward. Green pounded on me for another hour. He repeatedly asked the same questions about whether I filed an ethical complaint against Judge Meyer or Helen Vox, but he modified the wording just slightly each time. It grew tiresome after fifteen minutes and painful after twenty.

  Toward the end of this line of questioning, even Judge Feldman looked uncomfortable, and Judge Nitz did nothing to hide her boredom. Her mind appeared to have drifted far away from the proceedings. She didn’t look at me. Instead she fiddled with her diamond Vacheron Constantin watch, a memento from her days gleefully billing California’s largest polluters $600 per hour for her advice on how to avoid state and federal environmental regulations.

  Green’s approach didn’t surprise me. Lawyers had a tendency to go on too long. All of us grew up watching attorneys on television and in the movies. Starting with Jimmy Stewart as Mr. Biegler in Anatomy of a Murder, then Andy Griffith as Matlock, and even Tom Cruise as Lieutenant Daniel Kaffee in A Few Good Men. They had the power to melt witnesses under their clever and powerful questions. In real life, confessions rarely, if ever, happened, but that didn’t stop Green from trying.

  He paused, looking down at his notes. Then he took another run at me. “So even though you have a duty to report Helen Vox under the rules of conduct as both a judge and a lawyer, you did not file such a report?”

  I looked at Judge Feldman, and I thought I detected a slight roll of the eyes and perhaps even some sympathy. Then I looked back at Green. “As stated before”—I paused, trying to remain calm and not patronize—“I believed that the criminal investigation took precedence, and I didn’t want to interfere with it at any point. So I decided to wait, especially since Judge Meyer had passed. Under the circumstances, there was no ongoing ethical violation. You can second-guess that decision now, but that was the decision I made at the time. The rules do not have a specific time requirement. There is no deadline I was under to report her to the attorney licensing board.”
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br />   Green shook his head, feigning disgust with my answer. It was almost convincing, and if there were a jury, I might’ve been concerned. But we were just in a conference room. No audience was present to appreciate Green’s performance.

  He sighed, then bent over and pulled a large brown folder from his briefcase. He set the folder down before him and removed a new stack of documents. “Let’s now talk about the articles by Benji Metina and the death of Gregory Ports.”

  I knew it was coming, but it still upset me. I tried to mask the mixture of my concern, nerves, and anger. “Of course.” I nodded, still deciding whether I was going to be completely honest.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After Harry’s death, the work of the court continued for the rest of the week. His funeral was scheduled for Friday afternoon. Although I had asked for only that afternoon off, Nancy Johns intervened. She hired a retired judge from San Jose to cover both my morning and afternoon calendars. “Nobody wants to come in for a half day,” she had told me. “It’s easier to find somebody to cover a full day.”

  I took her at her word, but in hindsight I wondered whether she knew that the San Francisco Chronicle’s article was going to be published soon. I could see her wanting to keep me away from the court, making it less likely for me to run into Benji Metina.

  In bed that morning, unable to fall back asleep, I felt something wet brush my hand. Then there was a lick. I looked down, and Augustus whimpered at me. I told people he was a purebred mutt, but, as Augustus cocked his furry head and emitted a little yodel, he resembled a large retriever.

  “Want to go on a walk?” I reached out and patted Augustus on the head. “Suppose it’s better than being here.” I pulled back the sheets and got up. In the dark, I fumbled for the closet door, opened it, and turned on the light. On the floor were a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. I changed, turned off the light, and went back over to Nikki.

  She was half-asleep. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m taking Augustus for a walk.”

  Nikki sat up. “Are you OK?”

  I began to answer but stopped myself. “I’ll be OK.” I touched her shoulder, encouraging her not to worry. “Just a lot on my mind. It’s fine.” I knew that I didn’t sound convincing, so I bent over and kissed her forehead. I left, deciding to spare her all the thoughts tumbling through my head.

  Augustus was content to sit by the door as I prepared for our early-morning outing. I eventually found my hat and gloves and located my keys. Augustus wagged his tail as I attached the leash to his collar, and we went outside.

  The sunrise had turned the sky a burnt orange, but it’d be another hour or two before Oakland woke up. Augustus pranced toward a bush, did his morning business, and hopped into the Range Rover for our little adventure.

  I stopped at a coffee shop for a latte and a muffin before driving to Joaquin Miller Park for our walk. As we wound up Skyline Boulevard, Augustus seemed to recognize where we were going and got even more excited.

  “Easy.” I patted his head and parked at the Sequoia Bayview Trailhead.

  A few morning runners were gathered at the picnic tables, stretching. By the time I got Augustus out of the Range Rover, they were gone, and we were alone.

  This part of the park was more urban utilitarian than unspoiled Thoreau. Even as we got farther from the trailhead, we were more likely to see a free-range plastic bag than anything with fur, but it was quiet, and we were alone.

  Augustus pranced along, exhibiting all the traits that people love about dogs. He was oblivious to Harry’s death. He wasn’t concerned with whether parents reengaged with treatment and kids went to school or what fathers were doing after their release from prison. He didn’t mind that my competence was about to be questioned and public humiliation seemed certain. I gave him food and let him chase tennis balls. For him, life was good.

  We walked together a mile farther, toward a dozen lesser used trails that broke off in various directions. I picked my favorite, and Augustus and I zigzagged down a steep slope over to a narrow path that ran along a creek. This path was more natural and provided the isolation that I wanted.

  As Augustus investigated the assorted ferns and thimbleberry, I took in the redwoods. We walked for another half mile, and then a smell took away my breath. It was faint, carried on the breeze, but it hit me hard. It was the same raw odor that had greeted me in Harry’s foyer.

  Stuttered images flashed through my mind: dead on the floor, a pool of blood, a gun, Harry’s hollowed face, a silenced scream, Jarkowski talking to me through the window, the black body bag on the stretcher.

  Since that morning at his house, I had tried to be strong. Much to Nikki’s dismay, I had ignored the shock and kept moving forward, but now everything rushed at me. The smell triggered the memories. I was vulnerable and afraid. I felt sick.

  I looked for a place to throw up, and then I saw the source. Black and gray fur was scattered under a nearby tree. An opossum’s carcass had been ripped open, likely a hawk’s early-morning breakfast. Black flies had already found it, the early stages of rot and decomposition.

  I swallowed, keeping everything down, and kept walking.

  I tried to think of who could be responsible, but nobody came to mind. I tried to think of a reason someone would’ve killed Harry, but I had nothing. Our life together was always me talking and Harry listening. The focus was always on my hopes and my problems, and Harry was the one giving the advice. With shame, I realized that we never really talked about him. His fears and disappointments were always presented in the past, a lesson for me to learn from rather than a revelation of his actual state of mind. Our final conversations were not different. Instead of him talking about Mary Pat or retirement or challenges at work, we discussed me.

  The night before Harry was murdered, we had a brief discussion. Before confirming plans to meet at the Tin Cup, I had told him my secret. He was the only one who knew. It was something that I’d never tell anybody else, not even Nikki.

  The truth was that I had no actual memory of Gregory Ports or his case.

  None.

  Like every Superior Court judge, I had hundreds of cases come before me every week. A judge’s job was to decide and move on. Gregory Ports’s case was no different. It was sad, but every child protection case was sad. What brought Gregory Ports into the system wasn’t special or particularly egregious. Cases like his came and went. The only difference between Gregory Ports and the thousands of other cases churning through the Alameda County Superior Court was that Gregory Ports was dead.

  I had discovered this fact only after receiving an e-mail. Given that it was an invitation to something called a Fatality Review Committee, I had known that it was significant, but I didn’t yet understand its connection to me or anything that I had done.

  There were going to be representatives present from every government unit and agency responsible for child protection. People from both the state and county were going to come, and I was asked whether I would be willing to participate.

  At first I thought it was an honor to be asked. It wasn’t uncommon for judges to be invited to participate on various task forces and advisory committees. I initially figured I was selected because somebody wanted to integrate the new judge into the system. Eventually, though, I suspected that this was not an honor at all.

  “Hey!” I remember shouting at my law clerk at the time, Billy Pratt, from my chambers. “Do you know who . . .” I paused. I looked at the e-mail on my screen, then asked, “Do you know a Gregory Ports?”

  From the other side of the wall, Billy shouted back at me. “Case or attorney or what?” This was before Billy was fired and I’d hired Karen Fields to replace him. I remember the interaction because, for the first time in weeks, Billy was actually at work when I needed him and relatively responsive to my request.

  “I think it’s a case.”

  “OK,” Billy said. From my chambers, I heard his keyboard clack. “Give me a second.”

  W
hile I waited, the uneasy feeling grew. A few minutes later, Billy was in my doorway holding a sheet of paper. “This is the case,” he said. “Looks like you handled it on one of your first days flying solo, Judge.”

  “What happened?”

  Billy scratched his chin as he silently read the case summary, a chronological list of the relevant memoranda and orders filed. He flipped to the end. “Looks like you dismissed it, boss.” His eyes narrowed on the page as he continued reading. “Kid was removed by the previous judge and put in foster care, and then you sent the kid home.”

  I sat on a fallen log by the creek. I set Augustus loose to play in the water and skipped rocks, thinking about how I could figure out who murdered Harry and what I’d do to them. I’d like to say that I trusted the legal system to handle it, but I knew too much.

  Then I thought about the coming media storm and my options. Quitting seemed like an easy solution, especially with Harry no longer available to guide me. A peremptory strike before the newspaper article was published would mute the criticism, but it’d also create more problems. It’d appear to be an admission, and who would hire a disgraced judge? I’d be a pariah in the legal community. Nick Green would never allow me to come back to the Alameda County Attorney’s Office, and no law firm would touch me. Then there were the student loans. Unemployment wouldn’t make them go away; it’d just make them even harder to pay off.

  Confronting Benji Metina was another option. Rather than run from her, I could give her access. Maybe if she saw me handle a few cases competently, her attitude would change. She’d see that there often weren’t any good solutions, only the least bad of several bad alternatives. Talking to her was a risk, and it could make matters even worse.

  I could also gut it out, keep my head low, keep quiet, and go about my work. News cycles change. People will talk about it for a day, and then there’ll be another crisis . . . maybe.

  CHAPTER TWELVE