by Rob Sangster
“Can’t all the states get together and—”
“About the time hell freezes over. Those assholes in Washington have avoided dealing with this for fifty years.”
He knew what Bronkowski did for a living, so he understood exactly what the man was talking about. With an abrupt apology, he walked outside to the wrought iron railing on the terrace to think. A fireworks show was going off in the distance. Smoke trails arched into the sky, spreading apart and bursting into red, green and white blossoms, followed seconds later by a string of staccato pops.
He tried to think about the conversation he’d overheard because it concerned a problem he’d thought about many times. Failure to solve it could throw the American economy into serious recession. God knows, there had been some crackpot schemes proposed. Whoever provided a real solution would be paid any price he demanded. He could be—he should be—that person. He had a gift for seeing what others could not and the guts to take advantage of it.
His efforts to sort through the elements of the problem kept being interrupted by bursts of laughter from the guests. Seeing a nearby door, he escaped from the terrace into the host’s darkened study and settled into a high-back chair.
After a few minutes, the outline and then the details of the solution coalesced with the clarity of an equation drawn on a blackboard. It was incredibly simple.
But despite his desire for total secrecy, he would require help. That’s when the second “ah ha!” hit. The missing piece of his mosaic had a name and needed only to be fitted into place.
There was just one problem. She hated him.
Chapter 4
May 30
7:45 p.m.
IN THE SPLIT second before Jack could reach him, Peck swung the barrel of the Smith & Wesson .45 away from Anita, stuck the muzzle in his own mouth, and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the blast filled the room. Shock filled Peck’s eyes as the back of his skull exploded.
His chair crashed backward. Peck sprawled awkwardly, eyes staring vacantly toward the wicker ceiling fan. A dark stain spread from beneath his head. In the bookcase, which stood a few feet behind the desk, a gluey mess of tissue and blood had splattered the rows of beige and red Pacific Reporter 3rd Series law casebooks.
Jack’s ears rang. Gasping for breath, he struggled to his feet from where he lay across the broad desk. Peck had been too fast.
This was impossible, incomprehensible. Peck had been such a powerful force, he couldn’t have done this to himself, couldn’t be dead. Jack’s impulse was to pull the chair upright and restore his father to his authoritative place. Instead, he backed away.
Behind him, Anita screamed and screamed while beating his back with her fists. “You bastard,” she sobbed. “You could have stopped him.”
He turned to comfort her, but her eyes were wide with shock. She backed out the door, ran down the hall and up the stairs. A moment later, a door slammed.
Was she right? Could he have stopped Peck?
He dropped into the leather chair near the door of the study, sweat cold on his face. His hands trembled. His body was reacting while his mind remained in shock—disconnected, unable to take action. But beneath his horror at Peck’s gruesome act there was an odd detachment, and for a moment he experienced more relief than grief. The son-of-a-bitch was gone. The pressure was off.
Peck had long ago made himself impossible to love. The wedge between them probably started when Jack was five, the day his father said, “Time to stop that ‘Dad’ crap. Call me Peck.” Being a father was only a role he played in public, and even then, only when it suited him. It was something he did because part of his own reputation depended on how well his protégé performed. Peck needed Jack the same way a grand master chess player needs a pawn to move around the board.
Peck had named his only son John Jay Strider and insisted that everyone call him John Jay because he was related to the famous jurist through his mother’s lineage. Peck reminded him from time to time that John Jay had been president of the Continental Congress, author of some of the Federalist Papers, and first Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.
When he was eight, he had rebelled at the affectation and would answer only to “Jack.”
A few weeks before she died, his mother told him bluntly that he should stop teaching at Stanford Law. “You’ve locked yourself in an ivory tower, focused on that damned ‘Supreme Court track.’”
She was referring to the fact that Peck had tried to plan every step of Jack’s life to put him in position to be appointed to the Supreme Court of the United States. He called it “keeping on the Supreme Court track.” Whatever Jack did was met with Peck’s stern admonition to do better. Jack’s instinct had been to push back against his father’s heavy hand but, truth was, striving for excellence suited him fine. In his first year at the university he’d also realized that a career in law sounded good too.
As a Stanford Law student, he graduated first in his class. As a professor of law, he projected an easygoing but confident image, published articles in major legal journals, and was called a rising star on the law school faculty. At the same time, he’d been developing the skills and temperament needed to make a contribution on the Court if he got the opportunity.
Now, with one squeeze of a trigger, Peck had set in motion an irreversible chain of events that could not end well. Jack pulled himself together and dialed 911.
Chapter 5
June 2
2:30 p.m.
JACK WALKED through the unimpressive front door of the San Francisco Hall of Justice and checked the directory for District Attorney Rick Calder’s office number.
He’d been awake half the night trying to figure out why Peck killed himself. Had he been severely depressed? No signs. Could someone be blackmailing him? No, he’d have fought back.
Peck had been such a prominent judge that the same question probably troubled the District Attorney and was the reason Calder had summoned him to come in this afternoon. Maybe Calder thought Jack, as Peck’s son, knew something that would help solve the puzzle. If that was it, he was in for a disappointment.
An assistant showed him into Rick Calder’s corner office. It was orderly, the walls filled with seascapes in cheap frames and photographs of people who could only be his wife and children.
Calder, middle-aged, well-tanned, wearing a starched white shirt, didn’t rise from the chair behind his desk. He looked up and poked horn-rimmed glasses into place. “Thanks for coming in, Mr. Strider.” He gestured to the chair across the desk from him.
“No problem,” Jack said as he sat.
“This is about your father’s death, of course. I knew him, but we didn’t run in the same circles.” Calder slid a file folder aside and put one hand on top of the other. “I have a few questions for you. In the statement you made last night you said that just before the incident you, your father, and Ms. Anita Hudson were watching a KNBC News show that pertained to a vessel known as Pacific Dawn, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you recall that six people were found dead aboard that vessel, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And as soon as that report ended, the judge killed himself?”
“That’s right.” Jack crossed his arms. “Is this going somewhere?”
Calder ignored his question. “After those bodies were discovered, I ordered my people to find out who owns Pacific Dawn.”
“According to the news report, it’s some company in Panama City.”
Calder shook his head. “The KNBC reporter only got as far as that company. My men dug deeper and learned it was a front. They had to pierce two more corporate shells before we identified the real owner.” He stopped, interlaced his fingers, and looked straight at Jack.
“That owner is—” He paused. Jack recognized the sleazy courtroom tr
ick. Calder had set up his little dramatic moment to watch how Jack would react. “—the Honorable H. Peckford Strider.”
The accusation hit Jack like a rock between the eyes. In a blink, Calder had switched from ally to adversary. He froze his features, giving Calder nothing. “That can’t be true.”
“It’s true, all right, and someone in this office—and I’ll find and fire the bastard—tipped off Judge Strider that we knew who the real owner was and that the story about the deaths would break on the KNBC seven o’clock news.” Calder leaned forward. “The fact that the judge watched the show tends to confirm I’m right.”
His implication was clear. Peck had killed himself because he was about to be busted for some connection with those deaths. But there must be a mistake. Even if Peck had owned that ship, he couldn’t possibly be responsible for the deaths.
“Maybe—”
Calder cut him off and changed the subject. “I made certain the ME and the forensics lab took a hard look at whether the cause of Peck Strider’s death was suicide or whether it could have been murder. I also ordered an autopsy.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Of course it was suicide. I saw him pull the trigger. So did his friend, Anita Hudson. Or maybe you think one of us shot him.” He let his face show his scorn.
“We consider all possibilities, Mr. Strider. I don’t have the autopsy report back yet, but the ME concluded yesterday that it was suicide. Right after that, I got a warrant to search your father’s house.”
Jack’s knowledge of constitutional law kicked in. “Wait a damn minute. Since you knew it was suicide, you knew his home wasn’t a crime scene. You had no grounds for a search warrant.”
“Not for your father’s death, but Pacific Dawn was definitely a crime scene. Linking your father to that ship was all it took to get the search warrant and put our team in his house. They brought back a load of files and documents and have been reviewing them. We now know that back when Judge Strider was practicing law, he had a client named Esposito who owned Pacific Dawn. When the client died, your father was the executor for his estate. Instead of selling the vessel, he kept it and took over Esposito’s business of transporting illegal aliens into the U.S.” He thumbed through a stack of papers in front of him and glanced at one. “My men found bank statements showing it was a very profitable business. We’re following the money trail to see who else is involved.” Calder leaned back with a triumphant look. “Any questions?”
Jack’s throat tightened. Illegal aliens? Calder had to be wrong. Peck cared about money, but he cared far more about his image. He’d never cross the line into illegality, never risk a discovery that would ruin him. He bristled at the smug look on Calder’s face.
“Your charges don’t deserve any questions. Your men have made a bad mistake, but that doesn’t matter, because you can’t prosecute a dead man. So this is over.”
“Not even close,” Calder said. “Those young women were cooked to death in that container. I’m going to find every damned person responsible. We’re going to uncover a lot more before this is over. However, I’m not going to release any of this to the media until my Investigative Bureau has finished digging. In the meantime, I want you to agree to a private burial for your father. No visitation. No crowd. No media. I’m not going to allow speeches praising Judge Strider as a paragon of virtue, then have all this leak out to the media. That would make me, and the Mayor, look like idiots. That’s not going to happen.”
Jack was tempted to tell Calder to go to hell, but the last things he wanted were speeches and crowds.
“Agreed.” He stood.
Calder didn’t move. “I’m not finished. Tell me about all bank accounts and safe deposit boxes to which both you and your father had access.”
“I haven’t had a joint bank account with my father since I was thirteen, and never a joint safe deposit box.”
“But he could have set up such a joint account or box without your knowing about it, correct?”
“Theoretically, but he didn’t.” He was certain of that. Peck had been obsessed with the Supreme Court track. No way he’d leave a trail that could implicate his protégé. “Leak anything like that to the media, and I’ll haul you into court.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Calder said, but his thin smile communicated that he’d go for the front page whenever he felt like it. “I can’t prosecute Judge Strider, but I intend to find something that implicates you. When I do, I’ll go for an indictment the same day. Make no mistake. I will get you.” He stood. “Now we’re finished . . . for today.”
“Calder, you slandered my father even though you can’t prosecute him. Now you’re threatening me. I think you have some sort of vendetta going, and you’re way out of bounds. Give me an excuse, and I’ll be coming after you. Any questions?” He clenched his fists, hoping Calder wanted to make a move.
Chapter 6
June 2
5 p.m.
THE FORMER Stanford Law School building had been converted into a warren of small rooms for study and research. As Jack walked inside, he encountered four of his students lugging book bags and daypacks. As soon as they saw him, conversation stopped.
“Professor Strider,” said a dark-haired young woman, “we’re really sorry about your loss.” She looked at her friends. “Listen, we’re heading for beer at The Oasis. Want to come?”
It was the kind of invitation he accepted from time to time, mostly because he liked fielding the thorny legal questions they cooked up to try to stump him. He sharpened their wits and made them laugh when they got stressed out. Because he was so accessible, they thought they had him pegged, but none of them knew what he really wanted in life or how badly he wanted it. They saw only what he wanted them to see.
“Thanks . . . another time.” He turned right and climbed the wide, worn stairs.
His destination was a spacious second-floor office with a sweeping view of the palm-lined drive that connected Palo Alto with the Stanford campus. After Samuel Butler announced years ago that the law school would be moving to new quarters near the center of campus, he’d retired as dean of the school, taken emeritus status, and claimed possession of his cherished office in the old building.
Once in a while during the eight years he’d taught at Stanford Law, Jack had asked Butler to be his sounding board concerning some issue or another. But this time it was Butler who’d left a message inviting him to come to his office. Since the topic was likely to be Peck’s death, he wasn’t looking forward to the meeting.
Through the opaque glass in the door, Jack heard the erratic tapping of the manual Olivetti on which Butler wrote a stream of essays for legal journals. Jack rapped and opened the door.
Butler sat at his roll top desk, spidery hands scrabbling around among handwritten notes and heaps of legal references.
“Good afternoon, Sam.”
“And to you, Jack. I’m looking for one last citation for a law review piece I’m writing.”
The man’s eyesight was dim and his voice a scratchy remnant of the smooth baritone that had held the attention of justices of the Supreme Court on several occasions, but he still loved to shower legal insights on an unruly public.
“No hurry.” Jack let his gaze wander around the room, especially to the paintings that took up most of two walls. Butler loved Paul Gauguin’s work and had admired the artist’s courage in tossing aside a career in a London bank to seek happiness in the South Pacific.
Butler had started with prints, slowly replacing them with expertly painted reproductions. To Jack’s eye, they looked like originals even though he knew there was no chance of that, not on a professor’s salary. Butler did consulting work for a couple of foreign governments and played the market. That would provide enough money for the reproductions.
A painting of two women carrying mangos radiated quality. Since he h
adn’t seen it before, it must be a recently acquired reproduction.
Butler stood up, buttoned his vest, returned the knot in his tie to its proper place and reached out to shake hands. “My condolences, Jack. I saw the article in the Sunday Chronicle yesterday. Very complimentary about Peck’s career.” Butler eased into the venerable leather chair that had supported him through more than forty years of scholarship. “Take that chair across from me. Comfortable? Now, would you like to tell me what happened?”
Hell no, he didn’t want to talk about it. After two days, he was no closer to processing what had happened in his father’s study, but Butler deserved some response.
“It started at the yacht club when I got a call from Peck’s lady friend.” He filled in the details about watching the report on the seven o’clock news and his father’s cryptic comments. “Suddenly, Peck—” He swallowed hard as the horrendous scene washed over him. “—pulled a gun, put the muzzle into his mouth, looked straight at me, and squeezed the trigger.”
Butler frowned. “That was cruel.”
Jack shrugged. “Typical Peck. He had a plan, and my showing up didn’t change it at all.”
“What happened . . . afterwards?”
“Anita started screaming that I could have gotten the gun away from him.”
“Could you have?”
“He was too fast.” He’d thought through those moments often. It was the truth.
“This is a hard time for you,” Butler said.
“It’ll get worse. There’s about to be some very bad publicity about Peck. Not about how he died, but how he lived. He wasn’t the man we thought he was.”
“True for many of us, Jack.” Butler nodded solemnly.
“Maybe, but because Peck was such a prominent alum of this law school, and a big donor, it could make the school look bad.”
