Good Intentions

by J. D. Trafford

  “Maybe,” I said. “But it creates a perception.”

  He sighed, frustrated that I wasn’t making it easy for him. Then he changed the direction of the conversation. He’d planted the seed, and I was sure he’d return to it later. “I’ve heard that the governor is making an announcement later today.” He rolled his eyes, as most judges do when discussing politicians. “This creates some further issues.”

  “It’ll keep it in the news,” added Johns.

  “Plus,” Chief Karls continued, “Benji Metina isn’t done. Based on the data requests submitted by the newspaper, I don’t think this is going to be a single story, more like a series, one a week, maybe months.”

  “Figured that.” I didn’t mention my conversation with Helen Vox.

  “Nancy has been making calls,” Karls said. “I believe that Metina and the Chronicle want to push back on many of the ideas and reforms that Harry implemented over his tenure. There’s some professor at a little private college that wants to make a name for himself. They’re going to say Judge Meyer advocated for policies that kept kids in dangerous situations. That he was more focused on parents’ rights, as opposed to the well-being of the children. And they’re going to say you’re carrying the torch now that he’s gone.”

  “That’s not true,” I said. “Harry highlighted the trauma experienced by kids in foster care. He was one of the first to research the outcomes of kids removed from their homes. He just wanted more balance. He wanted to ensure that the removal was really necessary.”

  “I know.” Johns leaned in, pretending to agree, although I doubted she had an opinion. “But the argument goes that you were simply following Harry’s lead by putting Gregory Ports back home, and that’s why he died.”

  “Returning him to his mother was the recommendation of both the county and the guardian ad litem.” I felt my anger rise. “I didn’t do anything on my own in that courtroom. We’re all partners. The agency and the guardian ad litem are the ones who were working the case every day, not me. They made the recommendation. You listen to the professionals and make a decision. That’s what judges are supposed to do.”

  “And that’s the other theme of these stories.” Johns looked at Chief Karls for permission to continue, and he consented to her taking the lead. “I really don’t want to be a gossip, but they’re asking questions about how closely Harry was working with county social services and, specifically, Helen Vox. That perhaps”—she searched for a less dramatic way to talk about Judge Meyer’s affair—“perhaps the institutions were not as independent as they should be.”

  “Even if it ends up being nothing,” Chief Karls chimed in, “it just looks bad.”

  I pointed at them. “And, are you two going to defend Harry?”

  They didn’t respond.

  “He’s not even around to defend himself,” I said. “We need to defend him. The county and the district have made tremendous progress under his leadership. You were both at the memorial service yesterday. You heard about his service and recognition.”

  Chief Karls held out his hands, both slowing me down and pushing back on any responsibility for the mess. “It’s out of my control, Jim, and I’m not sure that picking a fight with the media is the right thing to do, anyway.” He looked at me like he was a teacher with an uncooperative student. “It’s a dynamic situation. This is all unfolding, and we don’t have all the facts. I don’t want to make a statement or rush into a fight without all the facts.”

  I stood. “So you’re just going to let Harry’s reputation be ruined?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Chief Karls didn’t like to be challenged.

  “It sure sounded like that was exactly what you said.”

  Johns intervened. “Why don’t we wind down.” She looked at Chief Karls for confirmation, and he nodded his approval. “I know Chief Karls has some other work to do.” She looked at me. “Judge Thompson, why don’t you come down to my office. I can give you the phone number of the court’s director of media relations, and I also need to talk to you about your former law clerk.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Nancy Johns’s office smelled like cigarettes. Even though California had long been smoke-free, a stale odor hung in the background. Johns claimed that it had been absorbed into the walls and carpet, and that multiple attempts to remove the smell had been unsuccessful over the years. The truth was that Johns still smoked a pack a day, and she didn’t always go outside to take a puff.

  “Judge Thompson, please have a seat.” She pointed at a chair in front of her desk, then walked around to the other side and sat down. “May I be honest with you?”

  Whenever somebody asks that, it’s never good. “Sure. You can be honest with me. I’m sure you’ve seen it all.”

  “Maybe not all.” Johns nodded her head slowly. “But certainly enough.” Her eyes narrowed and her face tightened. Johns had worked at the courthouse for over thirty years. She was protective of the institution. She knew its vulnerabilities, and, at the moment, I was its biggest threat. “You’re smart, and odds are that you can survive this. But you have to play it right. You need to listen, and you need to watch yourself.”

  “I think I am.”

  “No, you’re not.” Johns shook her head. “If you were watching yourself, you’d start to build some relationships with your colleagues. Right now you don’t have anybody in your corner. You need to diligently take care of your cases. No more vacation days or long lunches with your wife.” She removed a pack of cigarettes from her desk drawer, daring me to say something. “You’re going to continue to be in the news, but try not to make news, if you know what I mean. Don’t seek it out. Don’t do anything stupid.” She rolled the cigarette between her fingers and tapped it twice on the pack. “And we also have to take care of your former law clerk.”

  “I haven’t heard from him since I let him go.”

  “Well,” she said, “I have.” She opened a folder on her desk. “He’s got a lawyer, and he’s claiming that he was wrongfully fired. The letter states that he should have been given medical leave to address his anxiety, depression, and chemical use.”

  I took the letter. “He never asked for it.”

  “But,” she said, “his lawyer claims that he did.”

  “That’s not true.” I scanned the letter and put it back on the desk. “He never told me anything about that.”

  “Did you suspect it?”

  “Truthfully?” I hesitated. “Of course I suspected it, but I didn’t think it was my place to ask him. I thought that would only create more problems.”

  “You’re right. It’s private. If you had asked, we’d be sued over that and not this.” With disgust, Nancy Johns returned the letter to her folder. “People have seen him with that reporter from the Chronicle. You should be aware of that.”

  “You think he’s talking with her?”

  Nancy Johns’s face hardened. “I know he’s talked with her. Who do you think nicknamed you ‘The Kitten’?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was late that morning when Nikki and I arrived at Harry’s house. The smell of chemical cleaners still lingered inside. Nikki turned on the lights and opened up some living room windows. I let Augustus go out back, then walked through the rest of the rooms, surveying a life cut short, while I pulled back the blinds and opened windows to let more fresh air inside.

  I returned to the living room and looked out the big picture window. Augustus sprinted from one end of the yard to the other. My former law clerk was very much on my mind since talking with Nancy Johns.

  He’d had an unpaid externship with Harry during his last year in law school for school credit. The economy was still in the tank when he graduated, and I felt sorry for him. Judge Meyer gave him a decent recommendation, and Billy Pratt was hired.

  Only today had I learned how big a mistake that was.

  “Want to start with the kitchen?” Nikki asked from behind me.

  I pushed Billy Pratt out of my head. “W
e have to start somewhere.”

  “Exactly.” Nikki gave me a little hug. “Disposing of moldy food will take your mind off things.” She smiled and went out to the Range Rover for some boxes.

  I grabbed an empty garbage bag from underneath the sink and opened the refrigerator. The food was in various stages of rot. The worst had likely turned before Harry died, but the extra week had made things worse. Holding my nose, I removed the lid from a Tupperware container and dumped some green meatloaf in the garbage bag.

  “Here we go.”

  I was taking sacks of garbage and recycling outside when Helen Vox called. She thanked me for speaking at Harry’s funeral and asked about the article. “Are you doing OK?”

  “I think you know the answer to that.” I opened the lid of a large plastic garbage bin at the end of the driveway. “It’s been hard.” I dumped the heavy bags into the bin. “I was called into the principal’s office.”

  “Today?”

  “This morning,” I said. “Chief Karls and Nancy Johns told me the articles are going to continue, just like you said. You and Harry might be the subject of one.”

  “I figured,” Helen said. “I got a call from my boss as well. We’re supposed to meet Monday morning, first thing.” She paused. “Are you home?”

  “No.” I opened a green recycling bin and threw a bag of newspapers and magazines inside. “I’m at Harry’s place, cleaning up.” I walked back toward the house. “It’s been a while since I’ve read the will, but when his wife got sick, Harry had showed it to me.” I paused, momentarily lost in the memory. “I’m in charge of his estate, so I think it’s on me to get things in order.”

  “Need some help?”

  I avoided a direct response. “Nikki is here. She has the day off.”

  Although Helen was one of the few who understood how I felt and what I was going through, it didn’t feel right to have her come to the house again. “Did you call Jarkowski yet?”

  Silence, then Helen told me she hadn’t. “It’s the weekend.”

  “I don’t think that matters.” I got to the front step and opened the door.

  “Tomorrow,” Helen said. “I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  “OK.” I walked inside and paused at the place where he died. A chill ran up my spine. “Either you call him or I will.”

  After dinner, Nikki started on the bathrooms and bedrooms. I went to Harry’s office. Ever since I was a kid, I loved his office, with all its books and mementos from a lifetime of law. Packing up his things would be bittersweet.

  I started with Harry’s files, looking for life insurance policies, tax forms, and bank statements. Jarkowski’s suggestion about money issues had piqued my interest, and, as the executor of Harry’s estate, I needed to get a handle on his finances regardless.

  A small file cabinet sat in the corner. I knew that Harry kept the key to it in his desk’s top drawer. I unlocked the file cabinet and started sifting through the papers.

  In the very front was a folder with Harry’s last will and testament. I removed it and set it aside. Afterward I found copies of his last six tax returns and less important things like canceled checks, old credit card bills, and receipts for various home repairs.

  Whenever I found something relevant, I set it aside for later. The remainder went into a paper sack to be shredded.

  At the back was a plain manila folder. The folder itself was empty, but there was writing on the inside flap. Harry had written down the websites, user logins, and passwords for various online accounts. I wanted to get to a computer and see what they were all about, but I could handle that later, from home.

  After the file cabinet was done, I turned my attention to Harry’s bookshelf. It covered the entire wall and was filled with biographies of Abraham Lincoln, business leadership books, and classic literature.

  A smile came to my face when I saw the row of Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. I had once asked Harry why he had five copies. Harry looked at me with a tinge of pity, because to him the answer to my question was obvious.

  “They aren’t the same book, Jim,” he said. “Each translation from Russian to English is different, and it’s interesting to see how a particular translator interprets the greatest work of fiction ever written.”

  So that was my answer.

  I would keep all the copies of Anna Karenina. I set them on a small table near the door, next to the stack of financial documents and the manila folder with the passwords. Then I finished boxing up the remaining books to be sold or given away.

  I wanted to keep every book, but I didn’t have room in my tiny house. I could bring them to my chambers, but displaying hundreds of books that I hadn’t actually read would be pretentious. It wasn’t who I was. I had grown up a survivor, not an intellectual, and I’d come to terms with that. Learning for pleasure was something that other kids did. For me, I learned to get the job done.

  Nikki knocked on the doorframe. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going.” I stared at the bookshelf, now dusty and devoid of books. “I’m ready to go home.”

  “Me too.”

  I walked around the desk and pointed at the stack of paper on the floor. “Can you grab that stuff? I’ll grab the books.”

  She stepped inside and scooped it all up, including the manila folder. I reached for the stack of Tolstoy, each version of the book nearly a thousand pages. As I slid them off the table, the pile became unwieldy, and the top two editions fell to the floor.

  I jumped back, trying to avoid a broken foot, and a third escaped. As the third book hit the ground, it opened, and some old photographs fell out.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I kissed Nikki good night, and she pulled the covers up to her chin. As I walked to the bedroom door, I heard her roll over to face me. “Sure you don’t want to come to bed?”

  I looked back at her. “Is that a proposition?”

  “No,” she said. “In case you didn’t notice, I had attempted to remove any romantic connotations from that question.” She laughed. “I’m not twenty anymore. I need sleep, and so do you.”

  “Our days of trading sex for sleep are over, huh?”

  “Pretty much.”

  I nodded and turned away. “I want to look at a few things from Harry’s house first, maybe twenty minutes. Then I’ll come to bed.”

  “Promise?”

  She was taking care of me, which I appreciated. “I promise.” I walked out and closed the bedroom door behind me.

  I went to the desk in the corner. Next to the computer was the stack of Anna Karenina translations, the financial documents, and the folder with the passwords. On the very top were the photographs that had fallen from the book: three school photographs and one family photo. From the haircuts and style of clothes, I figured they were about twenty years old. The school photos were the standard educational mug shots: mottled blue background, forced smiles, and a flash that left the color slightly overexposed.

  The first picture was a boy. He was about seven, with brown hair and a gap between his two large front teeth, and he wore a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt. He seemed excited, like he was ready to jump off the stool and run around the room.

  The second picture was of a girl, about eleven. Her hair was flat and a little tangled on the ends. Her eyes were withdrawn and drooped at the edges. She was too young to wear makeup, but even if she did, it wouldn’t have been possible to hide the dark circles under her eyes.

  The third picture was of a teenager. It was hard to tell how old she was. She had large blonde hair, curly, that framed her chubby cheeks. She offered no full smile, just an annoyed smirk. She was already beyond school pictures. It was obvious what she was thinking: Next year, I ain’t showing up for this.

  The last picture had all three of them together on an old couch. The boy on one end. The preteen on the other. In the middle was the eldest, holding a new baby. The ages and style of clothes suggested that the group picture wasn’t taken much before or after the sc
hool photographs. The only difference was the smiles. The smiles were real.

  I turned the photographs over, and there was no writing on the back. No names. No dates. No location. Along the top edge of each photo was a small tear, like they had been tacked onto a bulletin board and ripped down, or something like that.

  I took a final look at the photographs and set them aside; then, I began working through the list of websites and accounts in Harry’s folder. It didn’t take long for me to get bored, and so I went to the Action7 website. Perhaps, deep down, that was what I had been planning to do all along.

  I knew I should have just ignored the circus, but that’s tough to do when you’re in the center ring. I clicked on the video replay of the Gregory Ports story.

  A car advertisement flashed on the screen, promising low interest and no payments until next year for an off-road vehicle that will likely never go off-road. When the advertisement was done, the anchor for the Action7 news team hyped the story. A photo of Gregory Ports appeared, the same photo on the San Francisco Chronicle’s front page. Then came the breathless narration from Action7’s investigative reporter, Charlotte Nichols.

  “Gregory Ports was a boy whose life was cut tragically short. Now serious questions are being asked about the judge who handled the matter and the agency that advocated for his return home.”

  Images of court documents spun across the screen as Nichols built the case against me. Each document had a sentence highlighted, which the reporter read with a cold, clinical voice. Although the sentences were boilerplate, she presented them in a manner that seemed to objectively prove my incompetence. Then the executive director of End Child Abuse California, a nonprofit organization I’d never heard of, condemned my reasoning and judgment.

  The reporter transitioned. “The death of Gregory Ports and Alameda County’s poor track record are very concerning to Governor Lamp, and he’s ready to make California safe for the littlest among us.” A video clip began to roll of the governor standing behind a podium. The head of the California Department of Social Services was by his side, looking serious with big red glasses perched on the end of her nose. Behind the governor were victims of child abuse, foster-care-reform advocates, and state legislators.