Death, Taxes, and Hot-Pink Leg Warmers

by Diane Kelly

  Trish gestured toward the emergency vehicles with her microphone. “Looks like they’re taking her off in an ambulance now.”

  Oh, God! This was bad. Really bad. It wasn’t unheard of for a judge to be murdered, but I simply couldn’t imagine such a thing happening to the seemingly invincible Judge Trumbull. She’d become a constant in my life, an integral part of my little corner of the United States justice system. It didn’t seem possible that she’d been exposed to a life-threatening bacteria. It didn’t seem possible that she might … die.

  “Looks like the verdict will have to wait at least another day,” Ackerman said.

  The verdict was the least of our worries right now. Perhaps that’s what whoever had sent the powder had intended.

  Across the street, a half-dozen men and women from the hazardous materials team stood on the courthouse steps, suiting up in their special airtight uniforms to inspect and decontaminate the building. Knitter and Clip-On Tie were turned back by Dallas PD at a blockade. Looked like they’d get another day to romp around in the sack. Lucky ducks. As they turned back around, they ran into Hipster and gave him or her the news. His or her mouth opened wide in surprise.

  “You think one of the Tennis Racketeers sent the powder?” Eddie asked.

  I exchanged a look with my partner. “I was wondering the same thing.”

  Ross shrugged. “I suppose it could have been one of them. Who knows? Judge Trumbull handles a lot of high-profile cases against some pretty unsavory people. But given the timing, the fact that the jury would be going into deliberations this morning, yeah, I think maybe it has something to do with our trial.”

  We watched as the hazmat team, now fully suited up, entered the building.

  Ross leaned in, his face pinched with tension. “Until the cops figure out who’s responsible, all of us need to be extra careful. If they’ve targeted the judge, they might come after one of us next.”

  I was growing really tired of being constantly on alert. Having to watch my back 24/7 was not only exhausting but annoying. But I supposed it came with the territory.

  Eddie’s cell phone rang, his wife calling to check on him after seeing Trish’s breaking news report on TV. While Eddie assured the missus he was fine, I dialed up a local florist and ordered a mixed bouquet for the judge.

  “How would you like the card to read?” asked the woman on the other end of the line.

  I had no idea what words would make a proper sentiment for someone who’d been exposed to a potentially lethal bacteria and could, at this very minute, be drawing her last breaths. I decided to go with, “May you be back on the bench making our lives hell very soon.”

  It was the best I could come up with on short notice. And if Trumbull wasn’t dead, it would bring a smile to her face.

  I called the office next and gave Lu an update. She instructed Viola to contact the mailroom and put them on notice. Any suspicious packages or envelopes were to be treated with extreme caution.

  As Eddie and I walked back to the office, my cell phone bleeped with an incoming text. It was from Brett.

  Heard news about anthrax at courthouse. R U ok?

  The Lobo had assigned me to the mortgage-fraud case before Brett and I entered into our trial breakup, so Brett knew I’d be testifying in court. Though his communication violated the no-contact clause of our separation agreement, rules didn’t apply in emergency situations, did they?

  I’m fine, I texted back to Brett. Thanx for asking.

  His concern both warmed my heart and caused it to constrict in pain. He still cared. Hell, I still cared about him, too. I probably always would. But these residual feelings I had for Brett, that special corner of my heart reserved only for him, were small compared to what I felt for Nick.

  My phone bleeped again. This text was from Nick. U all rite?

  Fine, I texted back, though honestly I was anything but.

  Eddie and I returned to the IRS building and rode the elevator up to our offices in silence. I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking. That money was a dirty, awful thing that made people do dirty, awful things.

  I was getting awfully tired of dealing with dirty, awful things.

  Maybe I should put in for a vacation.

  Nick stood from his chair as I stepped into my office across the hall. He came to my door and leaned against the jamb. “Viola told us about the anthrax scare. I was glad to hear you and Eddie hadn’t gone into the courthouse yet.”

  Tears welled up in my eyes as I dropped into my chair. “You know, just because Eddie and I didn’t go into the courthouse doesn’t mean we weren’t affected.”

  Frankly, I was much better at dealing with the physical effects of my cases than the mental effects. Maybe I should consider therapy. I wasn’t sure I could afford two hundred bucks an hour, though. Besides, counseling didn’t seem cost-effective given that I could cheer myself up for half the price with a new pair of boots from the outlet stores.

  Nick came around my desk. “I think someone needs another hug.”

  I put out a hand and pushed him away.

  He grabbed my wrist and pulled me to my feet. “Come here, you.”

  He wrapped his arms around me and I felt my defenses melt once again. I grabbed fistfuls of his shirt in my hands and buried my face in his chest.

  “Two hugs in two days?” Nick rested his chin on my head. “I didn’t realize you were going to be so high maintenance. I may have to rethink this relationship.”

  Though I appreciated his efforts, his attempts to be jovial were wasted on me.

  “What if Judge Trumbull dies?” I said into his sternum, my voice muffled.

  “The bulldog?” Nick said. “That woman won’t go down without a fight. She’s as tough as they come.”

  I hoped Nick was right. All of this was becoming a lot to handle.

  Maybe too much.

  chapter thirty-six

  And the Verdict Is …

  Though the morning had been horrific, Monday afternoon brought good news.

  First, Maddie phoned Christina and agreed to testify against Geils, at least with respect to the meth. She admitted he’d been the one to give her the drug the first night she tried it. She still refused to testify about what went on in the VIP room. I couldn’t fault her. Who would want to admit such a thing when it would become part of the public record?

  “What changed her mind?” I asked Christina.

  “Your moving speech about redemption,” Christina said. “Madelyn says she wants to make up for what she did.”

  “I should get a gold star for this.”

  “I bet I could round up a pair of gold stars for you. You can wear them over your nipples like Ashlynn.”

  The second piece of good news came from Ross O’Donnell. The powdery substance sent to Judge Trumbull had been analyzed and identified as bromine, a common chemical used in various industries to control bacteria and algae in water and an easily obtainable alternative to chlorine for cleaning spas and swimming pools. The judge had gasped when the stuff poured out of the envelope, sucking it into her lungs, exacerbating a case of bronchitis she’d contracted over the weekend. The combination of the foreign substance in her lungs, the bronchitis, and her momentary panic brought on the coughing fit. She’d been given a breathing treatment at the hospital and released. No long-term effects were anticipated. Crime scene technicians had lifted prints from the envelope and were running them through the system, looking for a match. The courthouse had reopened and the trial would resume tomorrow morning.

  The third piece of good news was that Lu had assigned me and Eddie to two big cases, both involving international organized-crime syndicates. We might even be sent to Tokyo and New Delhi to investigate. All the sushi and palak paneer I could eat. Woo-hoo!

  * * *

  Monday night marked another amateur hour at Guys & Dolls. I would not have thought it possible, but the women who performed tonight had even less talent than those from the week before.

&n
bsp; One girl became so dizzy and disoriented spinning around the pole that she lost her balance and stumbled off the edge of the stage, diving headfirst into the happy lap of a pudgy, fiftyish man who’d turned his chair to get a better view.

  Another young woman crouched onstage, her knees out to the side like a frog, giving the men a wide-open view of her crotch. She was performing a pelvic-thrusting popping motion when her G-string snapped and gave way, showing the audience a little more than they’d bargained for and leaving nothing for them to tuck their tips into. Well, I supposed there was still something they could tuck their tips into, but doing so would violate the no-touching rule.

  A third woman came out wearing a cowboy hat and swinging a riding crop. The crack of her whip would have had more erotic impact if not offset by the silly broomstick horse she was riding. What had she been thinking? This girl was Fifty Shades of Ridiculous.

  The professionals took the stage shortly thereafter. I never thought I’d actually be happy to see those girls dance, but anything beats watching a drunken redhead in black leather shorts running her tongue up and down the pole.

  I was in the dressing room taking a break later that evening when Swiss Cheese came in.

  “Victoria,” he called to an overly endowed Anna Nicole Smith lookalike who had joined the club’s ranks only a few days before. “Mr. Geils wants to see you in his office.”

  Victoria applied one final coat of lip gloss and rose from her chair, covering herself with a black satin robe before leaving the room. I had a feeling I knew what Mr. Geils wanted to see her about. He wanted to offer her the opportunity to move up. Or should I say up and down?

  Sure enough, as I returned from my break, Victoria passed me on her way to the VIP room. From the smile on her face, she’d been made a good offer for her services. I wondered if, like Anna Nicole before her, she’d meet and marry a man six decades her senior and spend the next decade embroiled in a court battle for his assets once he kicked the bucket.

  Forty-five minutes later, Victoria brought me her tips. Six hundred dollars for less than an hour’s work and she got to lie down on the job. It would take me a week and a half at this bookkeeping job to earn what she’d made in forty-five minutes. I supposed I could bring in a similar take if not for my flat chest, morals, and self-respect.

  Nah.

  I’d rather have my flat chest, morals, and self-respect.

  At the end of the night, I bade Merle good-bye and headed home. The drug and prostitution case was not yet over, but with any luck tomorrow would mark the end of the mortgage-fraud case. And I’d managed to get through it without firing my gun.

  Hooray!

  * * *

  Tuesday morning everything at the courthouse was business as usual. Attorneys and their clients huddled in hallway corners and engaged in whispered conversations. Sheriff’s deputies led shackled men and women up and down the corridors. Assorted people who’d been summoned for jury duty wandered about, trying to find their way to the correct courtrooms.

  Eddie and I slid into our seats at the counsel table next to Ross and Ackerman. The defendants sat around their tables next to their attorneys. The jurors who had already arrived were in their box, chatting among themselves, occasionally casting a glance at one of the defendants or another. The knitter and Clip-On Tie walked into the courtroom together, both wearing the calm and satisfied looks of people who’d spent all weekend riding each other like they had a free all-day pass on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Lucky ducks. The hipster had changed into another androgynous outfit, another pair of skinny jeans and a fitted long-sleeved black tee with a red guitar pictured on it. I might’ve been mistaken, but I thought I caught a glimpse of one brown eye through the long bangs.

  Crowding the gallery were the media and a large group of homeowners who’d been ripped off by the defendants. Among them sat the Nguyens and Marisol Ortiz, her disabled daughter by her side. I hoped they’d see some justice today. They’d never get their houses back—their homes had since been resold to third parties uninvolved in the scam—but perhaps they’d recoup a portion of their equity and be able to invest it in a new home.

  We rose at the bailiff’s direction as Judge Trumbull entered the courtroom.

  She plunked herself down in her chair and wasted no time getting started. “We lost a day due to yesterday’s shenanigans. Dallas PD has promised me the results of their fingerprint analysis today.”

  She ran her gaze over each of the defendants as if trying to discern whether one or all of them might have had something to do with the anthrax hoax. Hard to tell. They weren’t model citizens by any stretch of the imagination, but it was impossible to know how far a criminal would take things. Some drew the line at stealing people’s money. Others were willing to shatter a kneecap or two but stopped short of taking someone’s life. A few had no qualms about killing, either to eliminate those who stood in their way or to seek revenge on those who’d brought their shady dealings to light.

  If I had to hazard a guess, though, I’d say these guys didn’t have the stomach for violence. They were privileged and pampered men who lived on gated streets, not mean ones. Besides, they’d met playing tennis, not rugby. Tennis was a nonviolent, no-contact sport. That had to say something about their personalities, didn’t it?

  Then again, I’d been wrong before.

  “Let’s get back to work,” Judge Trumbull said, sitting back in her chair. “Anybody have anything to address before we send the jury off to deliberate?”

  The attorneys approached the bench and argued briefly over one word in the jury charge. The judge found in favor of the defense attorneys, the charge was rephrased, and the judge gave the charge and instructions to the jury. They were dismissed to begin their deliberations in a private conference room nearby.

  While we waited for a verdict to be returned, Judge Trumbull held a series of quick hearings. She revoked bail for a man accused of extortion after he’d contacted the victim and threatened to turn him into chum and feed him to sharks in the Gulf of Mexico. She accepted a guilty plea from a man accused of making counterfeit postage stamps, sentencing him to six months in federal prison. She denied a third request for continuance in a trial scheduled to begin later in the week. “Get your act together,” she admonished the attorney, banging her gavel for emphasis.

  The judge’s secretary poked her head in the door and, seeing that the judge was momentarily between matters, stepped up to the bench. The judge listened intently, nodding a couple of times.

  When her secretary left, the judge looked down at the counsel tables. “The only fingerprints on the envelope containing the powder belonged to the mail carrier and the courthouse mailroom staff.”

  In other words, there was no definitive proof that one of the Tennis Racketeers had sent the powder. Whoever had sent the envelope had likely worn gloves. The defense attorneys did their best not to show their relief. Plimpton went so far as to speculate that the powder could have been sent by one of the disgruntled homeowners in an attempt to place false blame on the defendants.

  Yeah, right.

  The homeowners were insulted by this accusation and angry sounds burbled from the gallery behind us.

  While we waited for the jury to return their verdict, I reviewed bank statements relating to one of my smaller cases involving a man who owned a roofing outfit. He’d fudged his income, omitting a significant amount of cash paid to him under the table. At least he was being relatively cooperative, thanks to his attorney who knew his client was up shit creek and better do what he could to appease the IRS.

  While I used a red pencil to circle the cash deposits listed on the bank statements, Eddie reviewed the journal entries entered into the accounting software program for a used-car business called You’ve Got Wheels that appeared to have engaged in some creative accounting.

  While Ackerman logged on to his laptop to read his e-mail, Ross stepped into the hall with his cell phone to check in with his office. The defense attorneys also worked on od
ds and ends of other cases via their laptops and mobile phones. No doubt it would be a prosperous morning for them with all that double billing.

  A mere ninety minutes after the jury had been sent to deliberate, the bailiff returned from checking the jury’s progress to announce the panel had reached a verdict. The courtroom instantly broke out in speculative chatter. There seemed to be no doubt the defendants would be found guilty, but the size of the potential fine and the length of the prison term Judge Trumbull would impose were up for debate.

  The jurors walked back into the courtroom and took their seats. Once everyone was in place, the judge asked the foreman to stand. Hipster rose from his or her seat. Really? The others had elected Hipster to be the foreman? At least now I’d hear Hipster’s voice and be able to determine the juror’s sex.

  Judge Trumbull scooted to the edge of her seat and leaned forward over her bench. The rest of us sat up, too, eager to hear.

  Trumbull kicked things off. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in the case of the United States versus Jeffrey Pachuco, Louis Featherstone, Curtis Carter, and Darren Williams, the first charge is mortgage fraud. How do you find?”

  “Guilty,” Hipster said.

  Hmm. Hard to tell Hipster’s sex from only the one word, especially when it was drowned out by cheering from the homeowners and a simultaneous cry erupting from each of the defendant’s wives. The freshly convicted defendants muttered curses under their breath, while their defense attorneys mustered up the proper expressions of outrage. As for our table, we were all smiles. Neener-neener.

  Trumbull made a note in her file. “As to the second charge, violation of the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. How does the jury find?”

  “Guilty,” Hipster said again.

  Still inconclusive. Hipster was either a woman with a deep, sultry voice or a man with a slightly high-pitched one.

  Amid more cries, curses, and scowls, Trumbull jotted another note. “And for the final charge of tax evasion, how does the jury find?”