The One-Eyed Judge

by Ponsor, Michael;

  “It’s normal in a way, I guess. It’s out there everywhere, and people—a lot of people, anyway—decide to look at it.”

  “Maybe so, but this stuff they say they found on my computer? I can’t believe I’d ever look at it, no matter how screwed up I was. What I wondered, Elizabeth, was whether you remember seeing any, I don’t know, any disturbing material when you were using the computer, say last March or April? Anything distasteful popping up or left on the screen?”

  “Honestly, no. It would have totally grossed me out. I still can’t forget the picture on the DVD, and I only saw that for, like, three seconds.”

  There was a sudden bumping, and Sid’s cleaner, Jonathan, banged in through the side door. Like Elizabeth, Jonathan knew where the professor’s outdoor key was. He looked a little surprised to see them at the kitchen table.

  Professor Cranmer and Elizabeth spoke in unison. “Hi, Jonathan.”

  “Hi.” Jonathan nodded, avoiding eye contact. “Thought you would be taking another nap, Professor, so I, you know, let myself in. Hope it’s okay.” He came into the room to collect his supplies. The Comet, the toilet bowl scrubber, the bucket, and so forth were stored under the sink.

  Jonathan wasn’t actually deformed, but his movements were always off kilter. He had a very high forehead—it seemed to take up half his face—and, whenever Elizabeth turned toward him, he pursed his lips, as though he found it painful to be looked at. When he heard the saw, Jonathan’s face fell into a more extreme version of this pinched look. He and the handyman did not get along for some reason. Maybe it was just because all the sawdust made his cleaning job harder. As Jonathan headed up the stairs to do the bathrooms, Keith and Mick padded at his heels. They adored him.

  “Yeah. Well, if you think of anything …” Professor Cranmer stood and began carrying the plates to the sink.

  “Absolutely.”

  A few minutes later, as Elizabeth walked out to her car, any concerns she had about Professor Cranmer evaporated in the broiling memory of what she had suffered the evening before. The talk of pornography had been more painful for her than Professor Cranmer could ever have imagined.

  Her catastrophe was so stupidly predictable it was embarrassing. Elizabeth had been out at The Pub, an Amherst institution close to campus, having a beer with some of her girlfriends. Classes were starting in a few days, and it was fun to connect with the early birds and see what they’d been up to over the summer. When she’d gotten up to go to the ladies’ room, another senior, Rachel D’Angelo, someone she only sort of knew, jumped up and followed her from the table. Rachel was an outspoken feminist, and Elizabeth’s flirtiness had always kept a certain distance between them.

  The ladies’ room was empty when they entered, and Rachel immediately said something like, “Wait a second, Libby,” and pulled her cell phone out of her back pocket. Glancing over her shoulder at the door, she said, “You have a right to see this.” Rachel’s face managed to look both apologetic and angry. She pushed a couple buttons and handed the phone over.

  Elizabeth was puzzled at first, but, when she looked down, a scene she immediately recognized flashed onto the screen, and the world stopped. It was her “Hot Summer” video, the one intended for Ryan’s eyes only.

  She saw herself, in her red bra and panties, swaying slowly to some faint music. As she watched, a wave of something Elizabeth still had no word for—something beyond humiliation and betrayal, beyond, but certainly including, rage and heartbreak—poured in a torrent through her. The downpour was so intense it darkened the edges of her vision, as though her brain were trying to shut out what she was seeing.

  On the small, sharply focused screen, Elizabeth watched, despite herself, as she reached around with both hands, unhooked her bra, and playfully tossed it onto a chair. She heard Ryan’s voice growling, “Yeah!,” and then her own voice emerging from the phone, over the music, in a sexy drawl: “Hello there, babe. Remember me?” She was placing her hands on top of her head. The pink vibrator was visible in the background on the nightstand.

  Elizabeth had jammed the phone back into Rachel’s hand, taken three quick steps into an empty stall, slammed the door, and vomited. Later, after she’d cleaned up and Rachel had left, she returned to the stall, sat down on the seat, and began to sob. Never in her life, not even when her father died, had she cried so hard. It took her forty-five minutes to come out of that bathroom.

  Over the past eighteen hours, it was as though whatever had poured through her had congealed into something metallic at the bottom of her stomach—cold and hard and about the size of a golfball. She’d tried to eat some cereal that morning but had thrown up again. It was as though she was weirdly pregnant. She felt it constantly—a clammy, nauseous spot inside her. How could Ryan do this to her?

  She already knew, of course, what his excuse would be. He’d say he only sent the clip to one buddy—probably Ridgeway, his shithead classmate from Choate whom Ryan was always trying to impress—and Ridge, or whoever, had promised not to share it with anyone else. Now, according to Rachel, Elizabeth’s performance was the hottest thing on everyone’s iPhone. The whole campus was checking her out. Whenever anyone looked at her, she never knew if they were secretly smirking.

  It would take Elizabeth a long time to forgive herself for her stupid, stupid trust in Ryan, but someday she would, maybe. She’d loved Ryan, truly loved him, and with all his flaws, she’d been certain he loved her back. The night they took the video, they’d had three shots of Jack Daniels and a joint. He’d started goofing around with this new app. That’s how it always happened. She’d known that, known it and done it anyway—ten minutes of feeling wild and bad, wanting to show off, wanting him not to forget her. But, while she might someday forgive herself, she knew that she would never forgive Ryan, even though, in some screwed-up way, she still loved him. No matter what she accomplished—she could be head of Mass General, she could become secretary of health and human services—that video would always be out there. Her children and her grandchildren might look at it someday. It was in the cloud.

  Maybe she’d have to kill Ryan. As she turned her key in the ignition, Elizabeth flushed warmly at the thought, then paused to pull a tissue out of her purse and dab away tears. She backed out of Professor Cranmer’s driveway and accelerated, passing through the center of town, going faster than necessary. Yes. She remembered the paper she’d done for Professor Lindemann on the Renaissance corpses. If she did murder Ryan, she would definitely think up some slick way to pull it off. He and Ridge were the computer science majors, and they’d had their day. Now it was biochemistry’s turn.

  The landscape opened up as she sped out of the center of Amherst and headed south. She couldn’t report Ryan to the police—what he’d done wasn’t a crime—and she didn’t trust the college’s complicated process for reporting harassment. Something was bound to leak out. The fact was, she’d been drunk and high, and she’d let him take the video. How would that look when she applied to med school?

  She’d handle this herself. Killing Ryan wouldn’t be all that hard, with the right chemicals. She shot around a slow-moving van and got a horn blast from an oncoming car. Come to think of it, she might kill Ridge, too, if she could finagle a way to get them together. Simple justice. More tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, and she scrubbed them away. Yes.

  Even as Elizabeth savored these thoughts, she knew they were silly. For one thing, she couldn’t murder Ryan without risking a huge mess for herself, and she wasn’t about to put her mom and her sisters through that. For another thing, she knew that a tiny corner of herself still hoped that she and Ryan could somehow make it back from this, that this wasn’t really the end.

  By the time she was pulling up the curving drive into Ryan’s condo complex, the storm in her mind had quieted a little. She didn’t know what she was going to do or what she was going to say. Maybe she would wait to confront him, but for what?
There would never be a good time. She wanted to scream and throw things—and she wanted to kill him. What was it one of those Renaissance dramatists had said? “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

  In a parking spot fronting on the sidewalk leading up to Ryan’s door, Elizabeth noticed a very cute girl with dark, curly hair stepping into a powder-blue Mercedes two-seater. The car had orange-and-black New York plates. The Empire State. She watched uneasily as the girl leaned to the side and refreshed her lipstick in the rearview mirror before backing out and pulling away. Elizabeth pressed her hand to her forehead, breathed, and waited for her heart to slow down.

  Over the summer, she and Ryan had enjoyed two long weekends at his family’s place on Martha’s Vineyard. It had been very pretty, very upscale. They’d had some good long runs, including a 10K in Menemsha for charity, but that was all. No visits down to Manhattan. He was way, way too busy at Goldman Sachs, he said.

  Elizabeth’s last shred of hope that the girl in the Mercedes hadn’t been visiting Ryan flew away when he opened the door, shot a glance at the empty spot where the car had been, and said, “Whoa, hi! You’re early.”

  “No, right on time.”

  “What’s up? You don’t look too good.”

  “I’m fine. Maybe getting a cold or something.”

  He gave her a quick kiss. “Man, I’m, like, totally wasted.”

  “Poor thing, I bet you are.” She closed the door behind her, stepped up close, and let her hand slide down toward his crotch. “How’s Big Jocko? Has he missed me?”

  Ryan practically leaped backward.

  “Hey, wow! Right. You want some coffee? Mom bought me a Keurig.”

  Elizabeth felt herself slide into a dead composure, which surprised her and made her feel strangely relieved. There was no need, she realized, to say anything to Ryan right away. She could choose her own time. Maybe she’d just fuck him to death.

  His big, squishy sofa was like a comforting friend, and she flopped down onto it, propping her legs up. “Sure.” She eyed Ryan as he bustled off to the kitchen for the coffee, clearly pleased to have something to do that got him away from her. “I just got back from seeing Professor Cranmer.”

  “Sid the Squid?” Ryan called out.

  “He says they found some—what he called some—ugly stuff on his computer.”

  “Newman’s Own or Gevalia Signature Blend?” Ryan was rattling around, opening and closing cabinets.

  “Whatever.”

  Ryan poked his head out of the kitchen. “Ugly stuff, huh? Probably like the stuff in his hidey-hole the cops missed.” He disappeared back into the kitchen. “They’d love to get their hands on that, I bet.” After an interval of busy clattering, he emerged from the kitchen carrying two mugs. “I wouldn’t mind taking a peek myself.”

  “No way, Ry.” Elizabeth looked down as she took her coffee. “You forgot I don’t take cream.”

  “Shit, no, here. I mixed up the mugs.”

  “I thought you liked it black, too.”

  “Switched over the summer.” He spoke quickly. “Everyone at Goldman takes cream because they coffee it up so much. Better than taking pills like some of them do. Anyway, I got to like it this way.” He took a hasty gulp and put the mug down, licking his lips. “So, Sid’s worried, is he? Too bad. But guess what?” He pointed at her. “I know you like him, Lib, but I can’t shake the idea that he’s into little kids. When I think about that flyer? I mean, there were like ten or twelve titles, all really disgusting. One of them was called ‘Tight Squeeze.’” He took another quick sip of coffee and made a face. “Hard for me to feel much sympathy for the Sidster.”

  Elizabeth sat up on the sofa and swung her feet around onto the floor. Ryan had come with her once to Professor Cranmer’s. He was interested, he said, in the Dodgson material and curious to see the inside of Cranmer’s house. They’d made a point of coming in when Sid was away, of course, and as she recalled now, Ryan had been on his own for a few minutes while she used the bathroom.

  Elizabeth kept her voice level, placing her mug on his glass-top coffee table carefully. “You, um, you said you never saw the flyer, Ry.”

  Ryan looked at her, took another sip of his coffee, and swallowed. “I said I saw it, but I didn’t touch it.” She could see his brain spinning to come up with the words.

  “You told me you never saw it.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t see it, Lib.” An edge came into his voice. “I was careful not to say anything one way or the other about that. I only said I didn’t touch it.”

  This wasn’t true. He’d either said that he hadn’t seen the flyer or he’d managed to deceive her without lying outright. It amounted to the same thing. He’d wanted her to think he hadn’t seen the flyer when he had. Now it was the video, Curlylocks in the Mercedes—who Elizabeth didn’t give a shit about right now—and this lie, whatever it signified. The spot in her stomach twisted as it struck her again, hard, that she’d loved and trusted Ryan far too much. There was no way, almost certainly no way, to go back. If she felt herself starting to cry, she would tell him she had to go to the bathroom.

  Elizabeth slid down into the sofa cushions and held out her arms. “Come here, babe.” As she watched Ryan, her drift toward tears suddenly changed course, and she almost burst out laughing. Was she going crazy? His hopelessly confused expression of anxiety (he was too drained for sex) and relief (she was dropping the flyer issue) collided on his face like opposing waves smacking into each other. Whatever was going on, she could still, sometimes, read him like a book.

  “I don’t know, Lib. I know we’re just getting back together and all, but I’ve got judo in a couple hours, and I’m kind of …”

  “I know you’re tired, Ry. I get that.” She stretched out her hand and twiddled her fingers at him, urging him to come to her. “Believe me, Ryan.” She nodded toward where the Mercedes had been parked. “I totally understand. And, you know, it’s okay. Things happen. Just come over here and hold me. That’s all I’m looking for right now.”

  The waves in Ryan’s face overlapped, swirled, and resolved themselves into an expression of pure relief and liberation.

  “Jesus, Libby,” Ryan said. “I love you so much.” He lay down next to her, and Elizabeth put her head on his shoulder.

  “Ry,” she began.

  “Listen.” Ryan bent back to look into her face. “I want you to know something, something really important. You must have seen this girl I met in New York, Jackie, leaving just now.”

  “It’s okay, I don’t care if …”

  “My parents set me up with her. I, you know, left my car here in Massachusetts, so she drove me up. She lives out on Long Island.” A cloud passed over Ryan’s face. “Everyone’s been pushing me and pushing me about her, my dad especially.”

  “She’s very cute.” Ryan’s dad had told Elizabeth many times how much he liked her, how good he thought she was for Ryan, and how happy he was that Ryan and Elizabeth were together.

  “She is very cute, and she’s rich as shit, but she’s not you, Lib.”

  “You’re sweet, Ry.” She kissed his nose. “You really are.”

  “She’s not you.” Ryan dropped his head and curled up around Elizabeth. “She’s not you, and that’s that.”

  Elizabeth produced a smile for Ryan’s benefit, knowing he couldn’t see it. His love was real, as real as things got for him. She did truly make him happy. Her mistake was in thinking that this feeling of his, so intense in the moment, would keep him from fucking her over. She wasn’t going to bring up the video, not now anyway, and maybe not ever. She wanted that edge. Somehow, she’d get over him, and someday, if she got the chance, she’d even the score. She counted three breaths. She still loved him. Time to change the subject.

  “Let’s talk birthdays.” This was one of their reliably happy topics. Elizabeth’s birthday was just a few we
eks off now, Ryan’s in February, and a big fuss over these events had become a sort of tradition with them. Elizabeth spoke coyly, drawing her finger down his nose. “What I’m wondering, sweetie, is just how you plan to top last year?”

  The previous year, Ryan’s parents had given them two nights in a five-star hotel in Manhattan with tickets to the play of their choice. They’d picked Hamilton. It had cost a fortune.

  Ryan stroked Elizabeth’s hair. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Lib. I’m totally on top of that. What I’m wondering is: What are you cooking up for me, babe? It’s my twenty-first, you know. It has to be volcanic.”

  Elizabeth didn’t have Ryan’s money, so she had to use her brains and imagination to keep up with him. Last year, she’d given him their velvet-covered handcuffs and the vibrator. When he’d opened the box, it had taken him a full thirty seconds to close his mouth.

  She nestled up to Ryan’s ear and whispered. “I’m hard at work on yours too, Ry.” She bit his earlobe lightly. “A friend of mine—someone with designs on you—and I are planning a private performance that I guarantee will blow your socks off.” She tapped his nose, counting out the last three words: “Among. Other. Things.”

  There was no friend, of course, but the false promise of a threesome lit up Ryan’s face. There was no birthday plan, either. Not yet. But there would be.

  16

  Judge Norcross ascended the three stairs to the bench, and his existence fell into order. For the next little while, he’d have only one thing to occupy his mind: United States v. Cranmer, the run-of-the-mill child porn case that had knocked his life sideways.

  The view from the bench offered the usual landscape. To his left, Linda Ames was at counsel table without her client, which was typical. Defendants not in custody rarely appeared for routine status conferences. The opposite was true for defendants who were locked up. For them, a few hours out of jail for any reason—even if it was mostly spent sitting in court—was like a weekend on Cape Cod, a welcome break from a numbing prison routine.