The video cut away to Chief Karls and Sandy Ballero at a conference table. Behind them were rows of dusty law books, an American flag, and the California state flag.
Chief Karls was, as always, impeccably dressed. No hair was out of place. His collar was crisp and sharp, and his tie was a conservative Harvard red and Yale blue.
“Chief Karls, I know that you are very busy, and I appreciate that you are willing to speak with us.”
Chief Karls nodded his head solemnly. “It is hard, Ms. Ballero, but I wanted to take this opportunity to thank all of the law enforcement officers and first responders who showed such compassion and restraint with this very young man.”
Sandy Ballero nodded. “Are you worried that people are losing faith in the child protection system?”
“Well, I can only speak generally,” Chief Karls confessed, “but we need to support the governor’s task force, and I personally guarantee the full cooperation of our court in providing whatever information or assistance the task force needs and the public needs to feel confident in our system and ensure our children are safe.”
“And what about Judge James Thompson?” Her eyes narrowed. “First there was the death of Gregory Ports, and now you have another child on his caseload at risk and in the news.”
“For several weeks we’ve been in discussion, even before this incident, and Judge Thompson has agreed to a reassignment to the criminal division. Of course he cares very deeply about all the families on his caseload, but Judge Thompson does not want to be a distraction. The focus should be on these very vulnerable children. The focus should not be on the judge making the decisions. He understands that.”
The interview ended. The anchor made a comment about the story being very powerful. Then the news anchor and Sandy Ballero concluded the story by directing viewers to their tip line for any further information about Alameda County’s child protection system or judge misconduct.
I shut down the computer. Augustus was ready for a walk, and so was I. Hearing other people publicly talk about you and what you are or are not doing was surreal. Maybe real politicians or celebrities got used to it, but it was new to me and oddly fascinating. When I had been appointed to be a Superior Court judge, there was a little puff piece on page three of the newspaper’s metro section. There was certainly nothing that warranted television coverage.
Now I wasn’t just in the news, I was the focus of the news. Sitting in my living room, I felt myself becoming a caricature. I wasn’t real, and I had little, if any, control.
Augustus barked, encouraging me to move faster. He wagged his tail as I got his leash, attached it to his collar, and allowed him to lead us out the door. He knew our route by heart.
He sniffed his trees, barked at the poodle on the corner, and gave a quick inspection of items in yards or near the sidewalk that were not in their proper place. About halfway, we turned a corner, and I noticed that there was a dark-blue car about a half block behind us, driving slow.
It looked like an older, boxy, American car, but I couldn’t figure out the make and model from such a distance.
I changed our route. I went right at the next block to see if the car would follow. Augustus looked up at me with a quizzical look, confused by our change in direction. “It’s OK, buddy.” I bent down and patted his head. “Let’s keep going.”
About halfway down the block, I casually looked back to see if the car had followed us, and it had. Augustus and I continued. Sometimes I’d go faster, and then I’d walk more slowly. It didn’t matter—the car remained the same distance away, following.
I cut over to a little neighborhood coffee shop and tied Augustus’s leash to a fence post near the door. When I went inside, I saw a stack of newspapers at the counter. I glanced at the main headline across the top of the Chronicle:
BOY IN FOSTER CARE LEADS POLICE ON HIGHWAY CHASE
Controversial Judge Still Presiding Over Child Protection Cases
The newspaper had obviously gone to press before Channel 3 had aired Sandy Ballero’s exclusive. From what I could tell, there was nothing about my reassignment and no comment from Chief Karls. Benji Metina was probably upset that I hadn’t given her the exclusive regarding my own demise. At my most self-destructive, I toyed for a moment with calling her and apologizing.
I stopped reading when the barista was ready. As I ordered a latte, I looked at the shiny silver espresso machine, which reflected the cars on the street. Eventually the dark-blue car came into view.
It was the same car that had been following Augustus and me, an old Buick Regal. By the time I turned, it had passed, too late to identify the driver.
I waited for the car to return, but it never did. Then my name was called by the barista. I retrieved my drink and walked back outside. Bending over to untie Augustus from the fence, I kept looking for the car, but the Buick Regal was gone.
As Augustus and I walked home, I wondered who would be following me. Since Jarkowski had seemed to know everywhere I’d gone and everything I’d done since Harry’s murder, I suspected that it was a police officer. That seemed to make the most sense, until I saw our front door.
It was wide open.
My heart raced as I walked up the sidewalk toward the house. At the front steps, I stopped. I studied the door—no damage. It didn’t appear kicked open or pried apart. I peeked inside to look for movement. Nothing. No noise, either.
“Anybody home?” I took a tentative step inside. “Hello?”
I hoped that Nikki had found coverage at the hospital and come home early. I walked through the living room to the rolltop desk, looking for a note, but found nothing. It was just as I had left it. The computer, the journals, the papers, my notes—all undisturbed.
“Nikki, you here?” I waited for a response, but it didn’t come.
I looked down the hallway toward the bathroom and bedroom, listening for some movement. I took a step, and then I caught a smell. Maybe I was imagining it, but it smelled like body odor and cheap cologne. Then it disappeared.
My hands were out, balled into fists. My heart pounded. I was ready to hit anything that came at me while Augustus, sensing that something was wrong, trailed behind, alert.
Nobody revealed themselves as I worked carefully through the bathroom and bedrooms. There was nobody behind the doors, in the closets, or hidden behind the shower curtain.
I went back down the hallway to the kitchen. I felt the cool breeze first, and I saw the back door second. Like the front door, it was wide open.
I examined the doorframe. No damage. Nothing broken. I looked around the house a second and third time. All the windows were shut and locked. Nothing was missing.
Maybe I had accidentally left one of the doors unlocked and ajar, but, even at my most distracted, I wouldn’t have left both the front and back doors open.
Somebody had been inside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I called Jarkowski to let him know what happened. He was concerned but skeptical. After I asked repeatedly, Jarkowski assured me that it wasn’t the cops. He didn’t deny that they were watching, but he promised, “We ain’t got no cops following you in a Buick Regal and sneaking into your house.”
I told him about Peter Thill’s behavior and vague Internet threats. Jarkowski thought about it. “Do you know what kind of car he drives?”
“No,” I said. “But you can look it up.”
“I’ll check it out.” He promised to send a marked squad car past my house and through the neighborhood more regularly, and he also suggested that I get more sleep and stop drinking so much.
“Thanks.” I hung up and looked at Augustus. The walk had worn him out, and he was now laying by the couch. “Time to get up, buddy. We got some work to do.”
Augustus and I went to Home Depot, and I bought new locks and a security system. The large kit had everything—cameras, motion detectors, door monitors—all ready to install. The cameras could even live-stream to an app on my phone. The kit was marketed as p
lug and play, but it was a little more complicated than that.
I spent the rest of the day installing and activating the system, which was oddly satisfying and kept my mind occupied. I had never claimed to be handy around the house. My capacity for home improvement projects was often limited to those reliant more on brute force than any discernable skill, such as mowing the lawn, cleaning gutters, and applying a fresh coat of paint when needed. The security kit, however, was just a little more challenging.
I may have been the worst judge in California, but I could read directions and turn a screwdriver.
I heard a noise at the front door, then the doorbell. I looked at my phone, and there was the image of Nikki standing on the front stoop in HD. The security camera I’d installed was working.
Perhaps I should have warned her about changing the locks, but I didn’t want to worry her while she was at work. There was plenty of time to worry.
She knocked and rang the doorbell again. Augustus barked, and I hustled across the living room. “Coming.” I unlocked the front door, and Nikki gave me a look of annoyance. “Is this like a passive-aggressive attempt to get a divorce?”
“Never.” I kissed her on the cheek. “It’s a long story.”
Our favorite Thai place was a hole-in-the-wall about three blocks from our house. Its facade was peeling. The sign on the outside, promising authentic Thai cuisine, was faded. Unless a person had been there before, there was no indication from just passing by that the owners had built a cozy glass addition off the back.
By candlelight, a server hustled from the kitchen to the half dozen tables. After we placed our order, the server came back with a large glass of wine for Nikki. I stuck with just water. After what had happened the night before, I didn’t think I was going to be drinking any more alcohol anytime soon.
While we waited for our food, I told Nikki about what had happened. I told her about the car that seemed to be following Augustus and me during our walk, then coming home to an open and unlocked house.
Nikki was a doctor. She was used to compartmentalizing. Every day she encountered overwhelming situations in the Oakland Medical Center emergency room. Like a judge, her job was to break the situation down, push the emotion aside, and solve the problem. I could tell that was exactly what she was trying to do now, but it was messy. Treating a man having a heart attack or a homeless woman with a knife wound was easier than the crisis in your own house.
“You’re sure you didn’t leave the door unlocked when you left?”
“You sound like Jarkowski,” I said.
“Just checking.” She took a sip of wine. “Do you think we should move?”
“Where?”
She shrugged, and we watched our waitress replace a set of tea lights that had gone out at the table next to ours. “If we’re serious about a family, we’d need more space anyway.”
“But we’re broke.” I didn’t like the idea of moving. It felt a lot like running. “Things should calm down soon.”
“Maybe.” Nikki ran the calculations. “Maybe not. It doesn’t feel like things are calming down.”
Our waitress arrived with plates of cashew chicken for me and green curry for Nikki. When the waitress left, Nikki continued. “We don’t have to buy. We could rent someplace else, maybe closer to Berkeley. I feel like we need a fresh start.”
I thought about what she was asking, and then I thought about starting the trial with Peter Thill next week and everything else that was swirling around me. I stared at my plate, suddenly feeling overwhelmed but unable to put anything into words.
I picked up my fork and started to eat, but, to my surprise, Nikki reached over and took my hand. I looked up at her, and she was on the verge of tears.
I had always been the emotional one in our relationship, impulsive. She was the planner, objective. But now, Nikki was on the verge of unraveling. The cool had melted away.
“I’m scared,” she said. “After last night and this afternoon, I’m scared for you and for me. We’re not doing well.”
I nodded. “I know. But maybe after the trial . . . it might . . . I think it’ll get back to normal.”
“Normal?” Nikki shook her head. “I don’t know what that is.” Nikki took a breath. “I feel like somebody has been watching me, following me.”
“Where?”
“At the hospital.” Nikki stared down at the table. “It’s stupid, because it isn’t real. It’s just a feeling . . . but I need it to go away.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I woke up for work early on Monday. I wanted to get to the courthouse before the crowds, avoid reporters, and minimize the likelihood of awkward conversations with attorneys and court staff. My return needed to be quiet, but Peter Thill wasn’t going to make that easy.
The case was set for trial. Both sides had filed a series of last-minute motions. Bob Finley had filed a motion to dismiss and motions to exclude certain evidence. Sylvia Norgaard had filed motions for me to take judicial notice of thousands of court documents: certified convictions, medical records, video interviews, police reports, and transcripts.
Balancing the trial demands with my new criminal assignment would be difficult. Chief Karls and Nancy Johns decided that it would look dishonest if I didn’t start hearing criminal cases immediately, so I had to spend my morning taking pleas and presiding over pretrial hearings for three dozen misdemeanor theft cases. The public schedule indicated that in the afternoon I would be the criminal signing judge. That meant that I’d be available to sign search warrants, set bail and conditions of release, and review criminal charging documents to ensure there was probable cause.
In the middle, I’d handle the pretrial motion hearing related to the State’s petition to terminate Tanya Neal’s and Peter Thill’s parental rights. My handling of this single hearing did not appear on any public court schedule. Although, if a person knew where to look, they could probably find it.
When I heard Karen arrive, I got up and greeted her. “How are you holding up?”
She put on a brave face. “I’m doing OK.” She put her purse underneath her desk and sat down. “We’ve got a full day today.”
“Are you ready for criminal?”
She smiled. “I think so, Judge.” She turned on her computer. “I’ve got everybody coming in on the pretrial at two o’clock. We’ve got a courtroom on the third floor. I’ll monitor the requests that come through electronically, and I may have to ask you to take a break to review something if it is particularly urgent. I’ll also put a sign on our door to notify any cops who come to get a warrant signed in person.”
“You’re the best,” I said. “Any calls from reporters?”
“Quite a few,” she said, “but Nancy Johns told me to send any inquiries to the media relations guy with State Court Administration. She also wanted you to call her about something else.”
“Did she say what it was?”
“No,” Karen said. “Something personnel related.”
Billy Pratt, I thought. “And the database? How’s that going?”
She hedged. “It’s going. Slowly, but it’s going. I think I’ll get it done soon. The problem is that the data that was downloaded from the system is really raw. There’s a lot of information that we don’t want, and there are also a lot of duplicates.” She took a breath. “But I’m working on it.”
“Good.” I went back to my office, shut the door, and called Nancy Johns. It was a quick conversation. Billy Pratt had settled for $17,000. The agreement was signed, including the confidentiality clause, which hopefully meant one less source for Benji Metina.
The morning criminal hearings were like riding a bike. I’d never handled criminal misdemeanor cases as a judge, but I’d prosecuted thousands of them in my early career at the Alameda County Attorney’s Office. Misdemeanor theft cases, usually some type of shoplifting, weren’t complex and offered few surprises.
I listened as one defendant after another pleaded guilty. I issued a sentence immediatel
y, usually a fine with a little stayed jail time as an incentive for the defendant to stay out of trouble. If they didn’t plead guilty, I sent the case on for another hearing in front of a different judge.
The whole morning calendar took less than two hours. I was stunned at the contrast between the sterility and simplicity of misdemeanors and the mess at the heart of every child protection case.
When I got to the door of my chambers, Benji Metina was waiting for me. “I heard you were back,” she said. “How’s life as a criminal judge?”
I needed to choose my words carefully. “Simpler. Not better or worse, just simpler.”
“Good answer.” She followed me, not asking if it was OK to enter my chambers. “I was surprised to hear that there was going to be a hearing this afternoon with Peter Thill.” Metina shut the door behind her. “I was even more surprised to hear that you were going to be handling it.”
“I am.” I hung up my robe. “Unless Chief Karls asks me not to.” I walked behind my desk and sat down. “It’s part of the transition to criminal. There are just some cases that are too far along to transfer to a different judge, especially since the governor hasn’t appointed a replacement for Judge Meyer yet, and there aren’t a lot of other judges excited about coming over.”
“You know I’m going to write about this,” she said. “It seems like the district isn’t telling the truth.”
“You’re just doing your job.” I wasn’t going to argue about whether what cases I handled or didn’t handle was newsworthy. It was Chief Karls’s idea and decision to change my assignment, and I’d let him explain it.
“I also heard you spent some time down at the police station a couple nights ago.”
That was a kick in the stomach. I tried to keep my expression neutral. “You must have sources everywhere.”
“I do.” She smiled. “Here’s what I was told.” She leaned forward. “You were pulled over, suspected drunk driving, and taken to the station. You were there about two or three hours, and then you were released. There’s no record of your arrest, because I checked. There’s no record that you were ever booked, because I checked. There’s not even a police report.”
Good Intentions Page 16
