by Joel Goldman
“Tonight, eight o’clock, at the ranch.”
Alex nodded as he closed his door. She’d been summoned.
Chapter Six
ALEX’S CLIENTS HAD TAUGHT her a lot about the human capacity for shifting blame, dodging responsibility, and denying guilt. Some were robbers or rapists. Some beat their women and abused their children. Some killed for kicks or because of uncontrollable rage. Some blamed their victims, some said they were entitled, and some said they just didn’t care. Regardless of their crime or their excuse, every explanation came down to the same refrain—mistakes were made, but not by me.
Alex was too harsh a critic of her own actions to take refuge in that sort of self-justification. She owned what she’d done. Dwayne Reed was dead. Nothing to be done about that except hope the nightmares would one day end. As for her deal with the judge, that was another matter altogether.
As she drove to his ranch, she realized that John Atwell’s case had persuaded her that her partnership with the judge was over. She’d done her job for Atwell because of what she owed him as his lawyer, no matter the crimes he’d committed in the past or might commit in the future. There was more than honor in fulfilling her duty; there was power in doing the right thing, power that gave her the strength she needed to move on from Dwayne Reed and the deal she’d made with the judge. It was time to walk away.
She was nervous about telling him. She’d represented enough partners in crime to know what happened when one of them backed out of the deal. The other was rarely satisfied with his future former partner’s vow to keep his mouth shut, often closing it for him—permanently. While she didn’t think Judge West would kill her, she wouldn’t underestimate his reaction. But knowing how good she would feel when she was free of him turned her dread to the joyful anticipation of something wonderful about to happen.
The judge’s ranch was off Little Blue Road near the eastern edge of the city limits, the wooded, hilly acreage far removed from the county courthouse in downtown Kansas City. There was an old house and an older barn that housed half a dozen horses and a pony for his grandchildren to ride. It had the one thing that he valued more than anything else: privacy.
It was dark when Alex arrived, her headlights bouncing off the front porch of the house. Judge West’s wife, Millie, was standing on the porch smoking a cigarette. She flicked it into the yard, turned, and went back in the house as Alex got out of her car, not even a wave to acknowledge her arrival.
It was always the same whenever Alex saw Millie at the ranch. They never exchanged a word, each of them pretending the other didn’t exist. She’d learned Millie’s name only when she found an article in the online archives of the Kansas City Star profiling the judge when he was appointed to the bench twenty-five years ago. The one time she’d asked him why they always met in the barn, never in the house, he said it was because his wife was bat-shit crazy and constantly accused him of having an affair anytime she saw him talking to another woman. He said it without elaboration and Alex never brought the subject up again.
It was a cool evening, and Alex gathered her light jacket around her as she made her way to the barn, the smell of manure hitting her in waves the closer she got. The barn door was open, a string of low-wattage lightbulbs casting weak light down the center of the barn. She stood at the door for a moment, watching the judge shoveling straw and manure from one of the stalls and dumping it into a wheelbarrow, his knee-high rubber boots caked in mud and muck.
“Come on in, or are you afraid of stepping in some shit?” he asked.
Alex glanced at her scuffed Danner boots and laughed. “It’s nothing that won’t wash off.”
West smiled. “Then grab that pitchfork,” he said, pointing to one hung on the wall to the right of the door, “and lend me a hand.”
Alex didn’t mind the work, though he’d never asked her to do it on any of her prior visits, welcoming it after a long day, glad for the chance to loosen her muscles and keep her mind off what she had to tell the judge. She quickly churned up a sweat, removing her jacket and getting into a rhythm as the judge cleaned out the stalls and she layered in fresh straw and bedding. An hour later they were finished and sitting on a wooden bench, each holding a cold bottle of beer.
“After a while,” West said, “you don’t even notice the smell.”
“I’ll take your word for it because I’m not there yet.”
“Well, don’t worry,” he said, patting her knee. “Given enough time, you can get used to just about anything.”
Alex flinched at his touch, pulling away as she set her bottle on the bench. “Why do I think you’re not talking about horseshit?”
“Horseshit or bullshit, it all stinks, and somebody’s got to clean it up. That’s what you and I are doing. These stalls are no different than the people you defend, though my horses are a hell of a lot smarter. Your clients go through life crapping on everyone and everything, and, hell, half the time they get community service or probation. And the ones that go to prison don’t stay there long enough because the fucking prosecutor gave them a sweetheart deal or because the prison is overcrowded. And you know what they do when they get out? They rape, rob, or murder someone else. Over half of them are back behind bars three years after they get out. You know what Missouri’s recidivism rate is? It’s fifty-four point goddamn four percent, third highest in the entire goddamn country.”
Alex had heard the judge’s speech enough times to know it by heart. For him, the statistics were personal insults.
“I know,” Alex said as she stood and faced the judge.
He squinted at her, his head turned slightly to one side as if to get a better view of her.
“You look like someone who’s got more to say, and I don’t think I’m going to like it.”
She took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”
“All right. I’ll clean the stalls on my own from now on.”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about. Kalena Greene offered John Atwell a deal for fifteen years. He told me to take it and I did.”
“You know that I was going to deny your motion.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“And what would have happened after that?”
Alex stiffened and stuck her hands in her jeans pockets, resenting that he was treating her like a schoolgirl. “Kalena would have withdrawn her offer and my client would have been convicted.”
“That’s right. And I would have sentenced him to life on the robbery and a hundred years on the armed criminal action and he would have been off the street forever. You do understand that.”
Alex bristled. “Of course I do.”
The judge rose, his face reddening. “That day you came in my chambers crying about what a bad man Dwayne Reed was, you told me that you’d do whatever it took to get rid of him and all the others like him. So what happened? Did you stay up late last night reading a John Grisham fairy tale and get all excited about the majesty of the law?”
Alex planted her hands on her hips, not backing down. They weren’t in the courtroom, where she had to feign respect.
“Something like that. Anyway, I’m done. From now on, I’m playing all my cases straight. You and I can’t meet like this anymore.”
“For Christ’s sake, Alex! You had the balls to shoot Dwayne Reed to death and now you’re telling me that because you had a conscience fart you’re gonna let John Atwell get off with fifteen years, which isn’t even fifteen because he’ll be eligible for parole in three fucking years!”
They stared at each other, Alex refusing to blink. “Kalena made the offer, I conveyed it, and my client accepted it. End of story. You and I are done.”
“I don’t think so. Wait here,” Judge West said. He lumbered toward his house, went inside, and returned a few minutes later, handing Alex a large manila envelope. “Take a look.”
She slipped her finger under the seal and pulled out a grainy eight-by-ten-inch photograph of her kneeling
next to Dwayne Reed’s body. In the photograph, she was holding his raised arm, the gun in his hand aimed at the ceiling, his finger on the trigger. Her hand was wrapped around his, her trigger finger on top of his.
Alex’s skin burned, her gut twisting, as she glared at the judge.
“Where did you get this?”
“Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that this photograph corroborates the prosecution’s claim that you shot Dwayne Reed in cold blood and then fired his gun to make it look like self-defense. Now, the good news for you is that I acquitted you on the murder charge and double jeopardy prevents you being charged again, in state court, anyway. However, the U.S. attorney might take an interest in charging you with depriving your client of his civil rights. The Justice Department takes that sort of thing so seriously they’re still trying to solve murders of black people in Mississippi back in the 1960s. What do you think they’ll do with a murder of a black man by his white lawyer from last year?”
Alex’s head was buzzing with questions. Where had the photo come from? How had the judge gotten his hands on it? Who could have taken it? There were no answers that made any sense. She swallowed hard, forcing the bile in her throat back into her stomach. If the photo was real, she was dead. If it wasn’t, she was just as dead unless she could prove it was phony. Since she couldn’t accept that it was real, she counterattacked.
“Nothing, because the photo is a fake,” she said through clenched teeth. “I don’t know who Photoshopped it or where you got it or how, but it’s a fake.”
“Are you saying that’s not the way it happened?”
“I’m saying it’s a fake and we both know it.”
She slipped the photograph back into the envelope and threw it on the floor. Judge West bent down and picked it up, grunting with the effort.
“Well, now, that’ll be for the jury to decide if it comes to that. And I don’t know any lawyer whose career can survive two trials for killing the same man, even if she’s acquitted both times.”
Neither did Alex, though she wouldn’t admit it. One of the lessons she’d learned in courtroom combat was to counterpunch when the prosecution thought they had the upper hand. It was the same lesson her mother had taught her when she was a little girl—never let them see you sweat, even if you’re about to pee your pants.
“And I don’t know of any judge who could explain how he tried to sucker the U.S. attorney into a bogus prosecution with a bullshit piece of evidence like this. I thought you were too smart for that, but if you’re not, be my guest. I won’t be bullied and I won’t be blackmailed.”
West grinned. “That’s what I like about you, Alex. You’re always ready for a fight, even if it’s the wrong one, and that’s enough to get most people to back off. But I’m not most people. If and when this photograph lands on the U.S. attorney’s desk, my fingerprints won’t be on it, but yours will be.”
She shook her head, not believing she’d been so easily duped. Her fingerprints would give the photograph more credibility, especially since no one would believe her when she explained how they got there. She eyed the judge and the envelope, measuring the distance between them, arms at her sides, fists balled, and considered whether to try to wrestle the envelope away from him. He was bigger, maybe stronger, but she was younger, faster, and motivated.
West grunted, stepped back, and wrapped his free hand around the pitchfork.
“Tell me you aren’t that stupid, Alex.”
She let out a breath, releasing the tension in her coiled muscles.
“Not tonight. What do you want?”
“I want you to honor our agreement. Now, I’m willing to forget about the Atwell case.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t give me a choice. I’m bound by the plea agreement. And I’m more interested in how you handle your next case, not your last one.”
“I’ve got a stack of cases on my desk. Which one are you talking about?”
“None of them. You’re going to be assigned to a new case tomorrow. Your client has already confessed to a gruesome murder. All you have to do is go through the motions, get the discovery you’re entitled to from the prosecutor, conduct a limited—and I mean limited—investigation so you can say you did, and when the prosecutor offers to let him plead guilty and be sentenced to life without possibility of parole instead of being executed, you will convince him to take that deal. Now, if you do that, why, then, this photograph will go back to where it came from and it will stay there.”
First the judge hit her with the photograph and now he was telling her about her next case. She couldn’t imagine how he knew what it would be. All she wanted was to get out of there.
“My new client, what’s his name?”
“Jared Bell,” Judge West said.
Chapter Seven
ALEX JAMMED HER CAR into reverse, turned around, and fishtailed back down the long drive, putting as much distance as she could, as fast as she could, between Judge West and her. She was so angry, her heart was slamming hard enough against her ribs that she was afraid it would explode or her ribs would shatter.
She’d been angry for much of the last year, though at first she tried to ignore the emotion, cramming her feelings into a dark closet, slamming the door and bracing her back against it. The euphoria that had consumed her after she was acquitted of murdering Dwayne didn’t last. Like any drug, it wore off, and when it did, the door sprang open, leaving her raw inside and quick to lash out. Bonnie took the brunt of her outbursts, giving her time and space, until after a couple of months she’d had enough.
“You’ve got to see someone,” Bonnie told her. “We can’t keep doing this—you exploding and me picking up the pieces.”
“I’m sorry. I’m trying. But,” Alex said, shaking her head, “sometimes . . . I don’t know . . . I just feel . . . Shit, I don’t know what I feel except that I just want to scream, I’m so fucking pissed.”
“About what?”
Alex ran her fingers through her short, dark hair. “About what? Are you kidding? I’m pissed that I got Dwayne Reed acquitted. I’m pissed that he killed all those people. I’m pissed that I killed him, and I’m pissed that I’m glad he’s dead. I’m pissed that everything got so fucked-up and I can’t stop fucking thinking and dreaming about it.” Her eyes filled and she wiped away her tears. “And I’m pissed that I can’t stop crying about it. It makes me feel so damn weak.”
Bonnie wrapped her arms around Alex. “The last thing you are is weak, but that doesn’t mean you’re strong enough to deal with this on your own. Post-traumatic stress is a bitch. Nobody can go through what you did and come out on the other side the same person. So do us both a favor and get some help, or I’ll end up more angry than you.”
Bonnie recommended a psychologist, Dr. Jacob Daniels. Alex saw him for six months. He treated her with a combination of cognitive and exposure therapy, helping her to cope with her anger and guilt, though she couldn’t tell him all the reasons she felt guilty. He taught her to use a type of meditation called mindfulness-based stress reduction, telling her that doing the focused breathing exercises was better than taking drugs.
The therapy had helped. She still had nightmares, but the boiling anger had cooled, except when something or someone like Judge West unleashed it. And while the tension between her and Bonnie had eased, she sensed that something else was bothering Bonnie, but when Alex pressed her, Bonnie just shook her head, reassuring her that everything was fine. They’d been together long enough that any other life seemed impossible. But she worried about Bonnie’s unspoken concerns. Now when she woke during the night, it was as much to make certain Bonnie was still beside her as it was to shake off her nightmares.
Judge West had triggered her entire emotional package as if she’d stepped on a land mine when she walked into his barn. Her pulse was racing, her face was flushed, and she wanted to punch something, if she could just stop shaking. She pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall, the stores closed for t
he night, the lot empty. Cushioning her head on the headrest, she closed her eyes, breathing in and out until she was calm enough to think clearly.
Bonnie had taught her to triage when she found herself in the middle of a shit storm: focus on whatever was causing her the most pain, stop the bleeding, and then move on to the next crisis. Alex combined Bonnie’s medical model with her own, working the facts, taking them as far as they would go, identifying the gaps and digging deeper to fill them in, while resisting the temptation to write a case off as a simple one, because she knew that’s when a gap could swallow her whole.
The photograph was at the top of her critical list. She’d shot Dwayne Reed in the living room of his mother Odyessy Shelburne’s house. Though she’d examined the photograph for only a moment, the setting looked like the crime scene. There was a body on the floor that could have been Reed, but the face was obscured. She was the woman kneeling next to him. That much was certain, and it might be enough to convince anyone else that the photograph was real, but Alex was certain it was a fake—not because it was inaccurate but because she couldn’t imagine who could have taken it. There were only a few possibilities.
Odyessy Shelburne had wanted Alex convicted so badly that she perjured herself on the witness stand. She never would have withheld such damning evidence.
The only other witness to the shooting was Gloria Temple, who was dead. Gloria’s cell phone was loaded with pictures, all of which Alex had seen, and the one Judge West was hammering her with now wasn’t part of Gloria’s collection. If it had been, Alex would be sitting on death row.
Detective Hank Rossi had investigated the shooting, and sending a criminal defense lawyer to prison would have been the high point of his career. If the photo had been out there before her trial, he would have found it, and Patrick Ortiz, the special prosecutor who’d handled the case against her, would have hung her with it.
If she was right about all of that, the alternative that the photo was a fake was still in play.
