Night Justice

by Diane Capri

  “You know how this goes, Willa. There are five options.” I visualized him holding up his five fingers as he ticked them off, one at a time, starting with his pinky finger and ending with his thumb. “Accident, homicide, suicide, natural causes, and unknown. At the moment, the ME is calling this one ‘unknown.’”

  The comment stung. If the medical examiner couldn’t say for sure how the man died, then his death could still be ruled a homicide. Which was just another way of calling me a killer. Whether they charged me with a crime or not.

  Somehow, I found the presence of mind to ask, “What about the man’s identity? Any luck with that? If we know who he was, maybe we can find out how this happened.”

  “We’ve pulled all the missing-person reports for the last thirty days. We’ll go back further if we need to. I called to tell you that we’ve set up a tip line for people to call in, and we’ll follow any leads we get. This is one case where the legitimate media can help, and they’re trying. Hang on a sec.” Ben mumbled something she couldn’t hear and then came back to say, “Sorry, Willa. I need to go.”

  “Okay, but—” I heard nothing but the dial tone. He’d already gone. I hung up in a daze. My hands trembled as I raised my coffee mug. So many lingering questions.

  The mystery man had been well dressed, well groomed, obviously not a street person. So why didn’t he have ID with him? Technically, it was the crime of vagrancy to walk around without identification. He wasn’t dressed like a vagrant or a lawbreaker of any kind. Quite the opposite.

  And why was he out there alone? Why hadn’t someone come looking for him already? The story had been all over the news since Tuesday night. Surely, someone out there knew who he was.

  Maybe video of the scene at the time, if it existed and if Ben could find it, would show us something useful. At the very least, we’d know how the man had lunged in front of my car. Which wasn’t much. But it was more than we had now.

  I slipped into my robe and made my way to the courtroom. The Stingy Dudes lawyers had taken advantage of my day off to file about a dozen motions each. Most were nothing more than clutter for the record, but both sides were trying desperately to create and preserve appealable issues. They wanted a do-over if they lost the jury trial. The mere suggestion that I might have to try this case twice practically gave me hives.

  We spent the rest of the day hearing and disposing of the motions. By the time we finished, it was too late to bring the jury back in for testimony. I released everyone about four o’clock.

  Back in my chambers, there were no new messages from Chief Hathaway. I flipped on the television to the local all-news station. After half an hour of nonstop local coverage with not a single mention of Tuesday night’s fatal accident, I breathed a bit easier. The legitimate news outlets had moved on, just as I’d expected.

  Unfortunately, the internet had not settled down at all. Judges had become something of a trophy kill for a certain segment of the online population. They looked for judges they didn’t like, cases they didn’t approve of, just about anything they could use to capture eyeballs on their video channels. It was a crazy development, and one I didn’t approve of in the least.

  Not a thing I could do about it, either. I packed up my briefcase with enough work to hold me through the night, said farewell to my staff, and headed out.

  George planned to pick me up at the judges’ private exit where he’d dropped me off this morning, but the citizen journalists were wise to that. They’d gathered around the exit like a human blockade. I hurried through a deafening blast of screeching questions, all of which I ignored, and made it to the Bentley with all my limbs intact. Barely.

  “Those vultures are still hot after my carcass,” I complained, looking through the side window at the noisy mob, holding up their cell phones and their microphones, filming every second. Rinaldo Gaines was out there, wearing the same coat and tie, even in the sweltering sunlight.

  “Did you know that vultures are social creatures?” George said conversationally, after I’d struggled my way into the passenger seat and harrumphed behind the closed door.

  I knew he was only trying to cheer me up, but I glared at him anyway and replied sarcastically, “Do tell.”

  “I looked it up,” he said, a grin on his face. “Turns out vultures roost, feed, and fly in large flocks, which are called a committee, venue, or volt.”

  “You make a comparison to lawyers, and I’m going to smack you with my purse,” I said snidely.

  He laughed as he pulled into traffic, leaving this particular committee of vultures behind. “It gets better.”

  “I’ll bet.” I slumped back into the plush seat and fastened my seatbelt. I sighed. “Okay. Why the ornithology lesson?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows and kept talking. “In flight, a group of vultures is called a kettle. And when they’re feeding together at a carcass, the group is called a wake.”

  “Isn’t that special,” I said sourly, causing him to laugh again. “So when they’re chowing down on my carcass, I’m supposed to do what?”

  He reached over and patted my knee. “The smart thing to do is not to give them a carcass to feed on.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a little too late for that,” I replied, deliberately twisting his meaning. I was in no mood to be Pollyanna about any of this situation. He frowned and said no more. I was instantly sorry for thwarting his good humor, but I was worried. Really worried.

  By the time we made it to Plant Key, his mood had changed, too. Because a smaller flock of vultures was camped out at the entrance to our home. We slowed to pass them, which gave a couple of the dumber ones the chance to bang on George’s car and shout more questions, all the while running their video cameras. He slowed down to a crawl to avoid running over one of them, which was the very last thing we needed.

  What a mess.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Friday, November 11

  6:50 a.m.

  Early the next morning, I sat on our veranda and stared out into the pink and gold sunrise. I liked to go for my run and then have a mug of my favorite Cuban coffee on the veranda while I wrote in my journal. I’d taken up journaling several years ago during a crisis to make sense of all the details swirling around in my head. It was like having a long chat with my subconscious, where all the answers seemed to be stored.

  Journaling had saved my butt more than once since that first time. Maybe it would do so again.

  I reported that gruesome moment when the front of my car collided with a human body. The devastating silence after I skidded to a halt grew to monstrous proportions. Nothing but Greta’s engine and the plink of raindrops against the windows interrupted.

  I wrote down my efforts to administer CPR to the poor man and how I’d thought I felt his pulse. But had I?

  My chest squeezed, and the ever-present knots in my stomach pulled tighter. My day at the office yesterday was productive but seemed unimportant. Managing my packed docket, ticking off the boxes for the Stingy Dudes, dodging the vultures, making no sense of the chaos that had invaded my heart with the dead man.

  One good thing happened when the attorneys on the Stingy Dudes case had asked for additional time before they resumed presenting witnesses. They wanted to regroup in light of the rulings I’d made on their various motions. I was relieved to grant the request and give us all a break. The jury had seemed pleased to have Friday off, too. The case would resume on the following Monday.

  When I finished writing everything down, I closed the journal and sat with my thoughts. Had I killed that man? Where had he come from? Who was he?

  None of these questions were answered by my subconscious today, but writing everything down did reduce ruminating. The facts were right there, in blue and white, if I needed them. I didn’t have to hold them all in my head anymore. Which was a relief.

  I set the journal aside and looked at the clock. Yikes!

  I was due in chambers in less than an hour. Good thing I was fast for a girl—or so George li
ked to tell me. I shook off my mood as best I could and headed for the shower.

  It took me not more than ten minutes to scrub down, rinse off, and blast my pixie-short red hair with the dryer. A light coat of makeup before I donned black jeans and a crisp, white shirt, and then slid my sockless feet into a pair of supple leather Tods. A quick examination of the effect in the mirror was the last step.

  Competent, efficient and steadfast. Not a killer. Not even close.

  “Precisely,” I said before I headed out.

  George waited downstairs to drive me to work. Greta was still impounded, release to the local Mercedes repair shop pending. Mourning the loss of my car seemed silly and insensitive under the circumstances. So I didn’t. But I wanted to.

  I’m from Detroit, where cars are the essence of life itself. A car means independence. And I was feeling the loss of both my car and my freedom. Justifiably so on both counts.

  We headed along Bayshore Boulevard again, both of us quiet and subdued. George wanted me to stay home again today, but I’d flatly refused. I wasn’t sick. I wasn’t injured. There was nothing remotely wrong with me to justify another day off. I knew George was worried, and I appreciated his concern, but action had always helped me cope more than hand-wringing ever did.

  Being a federal judge was more than a job, it was a calling, and one I took very seriously. My colleagues and my staff depended on me to handle my docket well. Litigants, lawyers, and the public expected me to deliver justice effectively, fairly, and promptly. I needed to be there. For them and for me.

  Besides, the Stingy Dudes case wouldn’t last forever, and I still had pre-trial matters to wrap up for several upcoming trials. Waiting around twiddling my thumbs while Ben Hathaway and Tampa PD handled my accident case wouldn’t make time elapse faster, anyway.

  “Are you sure about this, Willa?” George asked one last time as he swerved up to the curb. The large, boxy building’s windows sparkled in the sunlight. “No one would blame you if you took another day off right now.”

  “I’m fine. I’ve got a lot to do. I’m too busy to stay home.” I gave him a quick kiss before sliding out of his Bentley. Before I closed the door, I leaned inside and said, “I’ll call you later.”

  “Be careful, Mighty Mouse.” His expression concerned. “I’m here if you need me.”

  I smiled to reassure us both, shut the door, and strode through the committee of vultures on my way inside. When would they give up? Not until something more salacious came along. Was it wrong to wish for a royal wedding or a popular celebrity’s baby to capture their attention?

  Augustus was seated at his tidy desk. He was dressed to the nines in a gray pinstripe suit with a burgundy-colored tie. He looked up as I entered, and his gaze narrowed.

  “If you’ll forgive me, you look like you haven’t slept in days.” His lilting Jamaican accent followed me into my chambers, where I deposited my briefcase on one of the tasteful cream-upholstered client chairs in front of my desk.

  The last thing I needed was him fluttering around me all day like a mother hen. A handsome man by any standards, Augustus was clean shaven, his dark hair cropped short, his nails buffed to a high sheen and well cared for. “Are you all right, Judge?”

  I waved him inside. “Close the door behind you, please.”

  He did as I asked, then took a seat in a client chair while I waited. Legs crossed, he clasped his hands in his lap, careful to keep the crease in his trousers sharp.

  “Please don’t worry about me, Augustus. I’m getting more than enough of that at home right now from George.” I did my best to look as commanding as possible, but Augustus’s raised brow conveyed skepticism. He didn’t take my power trip seriously. He knew he was indispensable. “We’ve got several pre-trial motions and hearings and—”

  Augustus cut me off. “Chief Judge Richardson called. Several times. He said it’s urgent.”

  I groaned.

  Something akin to sympathy flickered through his brown eyes, and he broke what must have been his self-imposed vow of silence. “How did this happen? How did you not see that man right in front of your car? Why didn’t you stop?”

  “The truth is that I’m not exactly sure.” With a sigh, I sat back. “Everything happened way too fast. One minute I’m driving along, the next he was just there, very close. I had no time to react or stop or anything. It’s almost like…”

  “Like he wanted you to hit him?” Augustus finished helpfully. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone committed suicide by walking into traffic.”

  I nodded. “True.”

  He handed over the pink slip with CJ’s message on it.

  I groaned and dropped my head into my hands. “I really don’t want to talk to CJ this morning.”

  Augustus nodded sympathetically, but he didn’t relent. “He’s been calling for three days. The longer you put him off, the worse he’ll be.”

  He spoke like a friend, not like a subordinate. I cocked my head. Not for the first time, I wondered about him. At the very least, Augustus’s presence in my life was shrouded in mystery.

  He had been thoroughly vetted for the job, of course. He was working his way through college, and he was the nephew of Tampa power broker, Prescott Roberts. Which would have been enough to disqualify him from working for me. The last thing I needed was Prescott Roberts on my butt every minute, privy to whatever happened in my life because he had a mole inside my chambers.

  But on the plus side, Augustus had learned about the vacancy through my mother’s best friend, Kate Austin, and her new husband, Leo Columbo. Kate had practically forced Augustus on me, but even if she’d merely asked, I could refuse her nothing. Kate had been the only mother figure in my life for a long, long time. Simply put, she’d done so much for me that I could never repay. Giving a job to Augustus was no hardship at all. Just the opposite, as it turned out.

  But how did Augustus know Kate? Or Leo, for that matter? These were questions without answers at the moment. I made a mental note to move Augustus and his secrets closer to the top of my to-do list when things calmed down.

  Augustus stood and walked to the door. “I’ll bring you a cup of coffee after you finish your call to Chief Judge Richardson.”

  He walked out, leaving me alone with my pink message slip held between my fingers.

  “What the hell,” I murmured. After a deep, calming breath, I dialed the number. CJ picked up on the second ring. Of course he did. Dammit.

  “I need to see you. In my office,” he said without preamble, as if he had a right to order me around. He didn’t. He held no real power over me at all, and we both knew it. I almost refused, just for the principle of the thing.

  Before I had mustered the right retort, he’d hung up. The little twerp.

  I replaced the receiver and shrugged.

  Maybe a good battle with the great and powerful Oz was the very thing I needed to get me back on track. Then again, most days he was hardly worth the energy it would cost to put him in his place.

  Like a kid headed to the principal’s office, I trudged to the elevators. I rode up one floor and walked out into a fancy wood-paneled room, where a snooty-looking woman of about thirty sat guard outside CJ’s door. She was new on the job, and I didn’t have a clue who she was.

  “He’s expecting you,” she said, her tone clipped. As if CJ’s wishes were the same as orders from God or something. She waved me through.

  The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  When I entered his chambers, he was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk. His desk rested on an elevated platform to make him seem more imposing than he was, but it served to do the opposite. He looked like a good facsimile of a tiny Godfather from up there. Perspective was a funny thing. I stifled a grin.

  He’d always had a rather inflated opinion of his own importance. He believed his title of Chief Justice meant “the boss” instead of “the bureaucrat who controls nothing important and possesses no real power.”

  �
��Willa.” CJ gestured toward one of the wing chairs in front of his desk.

  “Oz,” I replied, towering over him for a moment, just to give him a clear picture of his relative importance from my point of view.

  He frowned and gestured again. “Please take a seat.”

  I made my way over, warily. I shouldn’t have been there. I should’ve been playing phone tag with the guy. My plan was to avoid him at least until the Devil Rays won the World Series in the same year that the Bucs won the Super Bowl and the Lightning won the Stanley Cup. In other words, until the end of time. That was the game. A game, until now, I’d been winning.

  Yet here I was, sitting in front of a man ready to pounce on my misfortune like another vulture chomping my carcass. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was feeding juicy details to the rest of his flock.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Friday, November 11

  9:50 a.m.

  From my seat, Oz up there on his perch, we were eye level. Oz looked the same as always, sixty-five going on ninety. Everything about him screamed staid and old and boring, though it would be stupid to consider him harmless. Prescott Roberts, that Tampa power broker I mentioned, was his brother-in-law.

  In short, CJ was well connected and fairly well preserved—and a major pain in the ass. I was already regretting my temporary lapse in judgment that put me right here, right now.

  He came directly to the point, emphasizing my abject failure, as he saw it. “Willa, not for the first time, your behavior has caused a fair bit of trouble for the court and everyone who works here.”

  “Everyone, Oz? My conduct is causing trouble for the cleaning crew and the parking attendants?” I sneered. “Seriously? Who knew I had such far-reaching influence? I’ve been underestimating myself all this time.”

  He narrowed his eyes and glared as he admonished me, as if I were a recalcitrant child, which just pissed me off. “Vehicular manslaughter is no joke, Willa.”